Jaskier looks up from his notebook, eyeing the Witcher watching over his ward and her practise. Heās 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 ā another witness in case Geralt pushes her over the edge and she snaps.
Ciri doesnāt bother hiding the sharp huff of breath that escapes her. āWhat now?ā 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. Sheās a terror; headstrong and by no means the weak, pampered princess some Witchers would have thought her to be.
Sheās certainly Calantheās granddaughter.
Geraltās lips thin. āToo slow. You need to be quicker than that if you want to keep your head.ā 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 princessā 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. Sheās a princess ā Calantheās 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 Geraltās corrections.
Jaskierās voice barely makes it over the howl of wind. āYouāre too tough with her,ā he murmurs, setting his quillās tip back on to his page, scribbling a line he had written last night out completely. āBe gentler.ā
Geralt doesnāt even look to him. Keeping his gaze solely fixed on the girl, he watches her take up position in front of a mannequin again. āNo one was ever gentle with me,ā he grunts, lifting his chin as she lashes out with a strike, hitting the mannequinās shoulder, before quickly reposting so she can lunge for its abdomen.
He barely stops his eyes from rolling. āYes, but she isnāt you, is she?ā Jaskier asks. āShe doesnāt have the same mutations as you. Sheās just an ordinary human.ā
Geraltās jaw clenches. āNothing about her is ordinary.ā
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 thereās something about her that is otherworldly. Sheās a Source. Vesemir got the first tremors of magic off of her; not that Jaskier can tell. Sheās promised to go great things, but not now. Something is brewing beyond the reach of Kaer Morhen ā something that can wait while she prepares, getting ready to protect herself and others.
And sheās taking to it all rather quickly. Eskel takes her for magic lessons, although he still doesnāt 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 magicās worst corners and tempers. Lambert agreed, with the pressure of Vesemirās stare during one dinner, that he would teach her how to fight ā something Geralt has joined in on. Both of them have different styles. One is more fluid than the other. Itās good for her to find her own style of fighting.
Vesemir lets her read; escaping from the others and huddling in the old manās 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 thereās Jaskier. Heās 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, sheāll seek him out and spend an hour or two, or a night, with him.
And heās well aware of how infuriating Witchers can be.
Geralt bristles. Ciriās foot skids on the frosted ground, but sheās quick to catch herself before lunging forward, landing another strike on the mannequin. āGood.ā His voice is as clipped as it tends to be when heās instructing her, but Jaskier notes the slight warmth running through it. The Witcher clears his throat. āGood. Again.ā
Jaskier quirks an eyebrow. He doesnāt 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, doesnāt 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 sheāll 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. āGo inside,ā 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 doesnāt seem to bother him anymore. Geraltās gaze softens as he looks to his bard. āYouāll freeze out here. Weāll be another hour or so.ā
Gods help that girl.
Jaskier sighs. āAlright,ā 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 bardās 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. āI need you alive,ā Geralt murmurs, brushing his thumb over Jaskierās reddened and flushed knuckles. āYouāre no use to me frozen.ā
The bard offers him a soft smile. āWell then, darling,ā he murmurs, āwrap it up here and join me inside. Iām never warmer than when you are by my side in front of our hearth, or in our bed.ā
Thereās a sharp gag. āCan you two give it a break?ā Ciri winces, wooden sword dropped to her side and a frown knitting her brows together.
Geralt glowers. āDonāt lose your focus in a fight,ā he warns.
Ciri glowers right back at him, setting a hand on to her hip. āYes; because straw-stuffed mannequins are very dangerous. Itās a wonder I havenāt lost my head.ā
āCiriāā
Jaskier leaves them. Heās cold and theyāre going to be snipping and growling at each other and he could do without it. But as he turns, when the princess is lashing back at the Witcher just as well as he is to her, a smirk curls along his lip.
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is it possible for someone who hasn't been diagnosed with ADHD as a child to go through their developmental years sort of building their own ways to deal? like i can concentrate just fine, but i have to have a really specific environment and focus REAL HARD on focusing, rather than the thing i'm meant to focus on š the more posts i read about ADHD the more i look back on my life and go "...i think my doc and i need to have a chat..."
bruv sure probably
neurotypicals can focus without needing a super specific environment
āWouldnāt you just love to punch him in the face?ā
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 Lambertās 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 horsesā 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 Pankratzās 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. āTighten up that rein, Blake,ā 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. Sheās always been his favourite mount. If he could afford it, sheād 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, Alfredās name is on the papers of every single horse here.
His voice cracks across the barn. āOne more circuit,ā he calls out, arms folding in front of his chest, āand then head out where you need to be.ā
Geralt thanks every god he can remember the name of that Lambertās 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 heās 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.
Alfredās eyes donāt 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 Pankratzās 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 elseās knowledge. He has, but heās 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 itās 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 Pankratzās gardens. Alfredās wife isnāt 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 husbandās 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 manās 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. āItās not you, buddy,ā he sighs, patting the gelding on the neck. āSheās just a stubborn cow.ā
Geralt bites his tongue just as Roachās ears flatten back. The only person allowed on her back is him; decreed by both her and Geraltās 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 wasnāt 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 ā 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 itās 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. āThe trust fund is back.ā
Geralt follows Lambertās 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 Jaskierās sole mission in life seems to be giving Geralt as many grey hairs as possible, but the quiet that followed was deafening.
Lambert chuckles. āMiss him, did you?ā he asks, squinting at Geraltās face. āA hint of emotion almost showed just there.ā
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 Nielsā side, pressing him forward as Lambert shakes in laughter.
His grip tightens on Roachās 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.
Chatter quietens when he steps back into the barn, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat and skin cooling the second the barnās AC blasts him with cold air. Geralt arches an eyebrow at the sight of Eskel and CoĆ«n huddled against Scorpionās stable, the stallion more interested in his haynet to the other corner of his stall, rather than the gossiping riders at his door.
Eskelās lips thin. Whatever he had been saying is kept tightly behind them. CoĆ«n, though, regards Geralt for a moment as he passes, ushering Roach into her stable across the aisle. Roach spits out her own bit, shaking out the arenaās dust and grime from her mane as she pads over to her water trough. Just as Geralt sets his hands to the girth of her saddle, he can feel a pair of eyes falling on to him. āSo,ā CoĆ«n lilts, threading his arms through the stallās grid and offering Geralt a small smile. āI see that the kid is home.ā
Geraltās lip threatens to lift. āHeās not a kid,ā he grunts, undoing the last of the buckles keeping Roachās tack on her. The moment he strips her saddle off, she does a full-bodied shake. Heāll wash her later, when sheās cooled off by herself and gotten something to drink.
He turns to CoĆ«n, the man wearing the same curled smirk on his lips as Lambert. āHeās a year younger than you,ā Geralt says stiffly, setting Roachās saddle on the stall door and threading her bridle over it. If he keeps his eyes on the ground, or making sure that Roachās trough is refilling with water when she drinks, maybe CoĆ«n will go away.
But itās not looking likely. āAre you going up to him?ā
Geralt sighs. āWhy?ā
āBecause you two were very close last summer,ā CoĆ«n says, albeit a bit more subdued. Music is playing softly overhead, with someone having conquered the speakers and plugged in their phone instead. And the neighing of horses further down the aisle and people chattering among themselves wonāt let CoĆ«nās words be heard by any curious ears, but he appreciates the manās attempt to keep it to themselves. CoĆ«n lifts a shoulder. āI thought you might want to, I donāt knowāā
Eskel bats him away. Even through the murmur of conversation and horses kicking at their stall doors further down the barn, they can always make out the tell-tale footfalls of Alfred Pankratz. āBellegarde!ā
Even despite the mid-summer heat worming into the barn, despite the AC being blasted overhead, a chill threatens to shake through Geralt at the bellowing of his name down the aisle. CoĆ«n and Eskel break away, scampering back to their own horsesā stalls to gather their tack and go anywhere else.
Even Roach flashes him an apologetic look as he takes a steadying breath before stepping out of the stall. Geralt gathers Roachās things, threading them over his arm, just before he is faced with Alfred Pankratz. āThere you are, Bellegarde,ā he quips. Spotting the tack on his arm, he waves a hand at it. āLeave that for someone else. Here, let Rhodes handle that. Rhodes! Rhodes, where are youāā Alfred spots Eskel in Scorpionās stall. He snaps his fingers. āRhodes, see that this is put way. Bellegarde, come with me.ā
Geralt shoots Eskel a soft look before he follows Alfred. A walk towards the gallows if ever he saw one. He keeps his hands by his sides, fingers fidgeting as he wonders why Alfred would ever try to root him out during the day. Near competitions, Alfred will be glued to his side. Ever-watching eyes will only be on him, making sure that both he and Roach are ready for the event.
But now, he thinks back on the last few days and weeks, and he canāt imagine what Alfred could want with himā
Oh.
Geralt blinks at the sight of a familiar grey gelding pawing at the ground, bridled and saddled, and reins threaded over Jaskierās arm as he fixes his gloves. Geraltās breath threatens to catch in his throat. His tongue starts to thicken in his mouth, with any words he could say fading away.
Alfred sets a firm hand on to his shoulder. āNow, Bellegarde,ā he says stiffly, āmy son will be home for the summer and needs a steady hand to get him back into training.ā
For all the fear in saying the wrong thing to Alfred Pankratz, his son doesnāt hold the same feeling. Jaskier sighs, something loud and exhaustive. āI donāt need help,ā he mutters, reaching up to pull his geldingās stirrups down. āI can work by myself.ā
Alfredās lip tightens. āNonsense, boy. How are you going to correct your form if no one is watching you?ā He nudges Geralt forward. āIf weāre to get you competition ready, you canāt be slouchingāā
An argument as old as time, ever since Jaskier was a baby and was put on to a horseās back by his grandfather. A kinder man, for all that Geralt can remember of him. Pity his son turned out to be such an assholeā
Jaskier is already leading his gelding over to the nearby block, ignoring whatever feely pours from his fatherās lips. Geralt is getting almost as good as the other man for ignoring it. Jaskierās gelding, Pegasus, stands attentively while his rider hops up on to him, settling comfortably on to his back. The last gift to him before his grandfather passed away; a tiny black foal that turned whiter and whiter with every year. A foal that didnāt look like it would ever make anything of itself, but Geralt watched the hours Jaskier put in, and Pegasus can jump and event just as well as the best of them.
Jaskier just doesnāt want to compete.
Alfred grunts. āGo with him,ā he waves Geralt away, catching the bridge of his nose before storming back to the barn. Geralt stands there for a moment, fingers fidgeting by his side, before he takes a measured breath and trails after Jaskier.
Pegasus brings them to the arena, and the second heās inside, Jaskier nudges his heels to his side, and breaks him into a steady trot. Geralt stays by the fence, knowing when heās not welcomed somewhere but if Alfred Pankratz seems him anywhere else, heāll be murdered. So he stays, arms resting on the fence as he watches Jaskier send Pegasus down the lines of the arena, turning to do his circles.
And Alfred does have a point. Jaskierās back has gotten soft, and his shoulders stoop inwards ever so slightly. But his leg and hands are good, as are his silent commands to Pegasus to slow back into a collected walk, or break forward into a canter. As Jaskier comes back from his circuit of the arena, he brings Pegasus from a collected and neat canter into a squared halt. The sand and dust plume away from him as he glowers down at Geralt. āI donāt need you here,ā he says stiffly. āSo go away.ā
Geralt holds his glare. āYou know your father will have my head if I leaveāā
Jaskierās lips thin. He gathers his reins, bowing Pegasusā neck and setting his heels to the geldingās side. He says nothing else, but nudges the horse into a canter away. Geralt watches him go. His fingers curl into the wood of the fence, picking at the paint starting to crack and flake away.
Heāll have a summer of this, whatever this is. And even if this is the first day of Jaskier being back, he already fucking hates it. The tightness in the corner of Jaskierās lips, the glare threatening to glint in his eye when he rides past Geralt again, how stiff and square his shoulders are.
Geraltās tongue sours. A whole summer, and itās just starting.
Roach nudges her head into his armpit, almost knocking him off of his feet as he combs through the last of her mane just behind her ears. He huffs a quiet laugh, reaching under to scratch her chin. Sheās quiet this morning, barely awake when he stepped into the barn and switched on the main lights. Heāll always be the first one here. He might hate the man who owns the property, but heāll give every minute of his time for the horses.
With everyone else feed and watered, all thatās left to do is to groom Roach. And while she turns back to munch on her hay and oats, he takes this last free moment to untangle the worst knots in her mane. What she does in her sleep to make it so unkempt, he really has no idea. āIf you canāt look after your hair, girlie, then weāre just going to have to shave it down,ā he murmurs, smiling when her ears flatten back. āYouāll be like one of those proper polo poniesāā
She lifts a leg to kick back at him, but heās known her long enough to know her tricks. Geralt steps out of the way and sets a hand on to her flank. āCow,ā he lightly scolds, running his eyes over her. Brushed and clean, with her hooves picked and shoes inspected. More and more riders and grooms arrived as the morning rolled on. He offered a small smile to Eskel as he passed, leaving a neatly packed bagel and oat bar in a paper bag for him at Roachās stable door. Alfred tends to keep riders he likes, and Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert have been here for a few years. CoĆ«n joined them later, with Alfred having spotted him at a past event and held out an opportunity to change stables. Alfred isnāt only good at collecting horses, it seems.
He isnāt due to tack Roach up and be at the indoor arena for another hour, so he collects his bagged breakfast and roots through it. Eskel is his only reminder to feed himself, with how much time and energy he puts into looking after the horses in his care. Gods forbid if Eskel was ever gone. He would starve within the week.
The barnās office originally belonged to Alfred. Enough of his trophies and ribbons adorn the walls. But within the last few years, heās moved his business into the house. If any of his investors have to come into the barn, heāll use the space; but for now, itās just a glorified staff lunchroom. Lambert is already inside, shovelling the last of his own Eskel-baked bagel into his face while watching some show on his phone.
Before he can step inside, his ears prick at the sound of a car pulling into the courtyard. He looks out on to the cobbles, to a gleaming black Porsche parking beside Alfredās. The man who steps out is young, maybe the same age as Geralt, with warm olive skin and perfectly quaffed black hair. A neatly trimmed and kept beard frames his face. Geraltās brows knit together.
One of the grooms wanders over, presumably asking if the man is looking for anyone in particular. Just behind them, Geralt notices, Jaskier hurries down the cobblestone path leading towards the mansion house. Geraltās tongue thickens in his mouth at the sight of him. Hair wet and freshly washed, glinting against the harsh sunlight. A pale blue tee cropped short, revealing his lean abdomen and waist, and denim shorts that hitch high on his hips.
Jaskier waves the groom away before threading his arm through the manās, smiling at him as he leads them towards the house.
Geralt watches them go, lunch long forgotten about until a firm hand lands on his shoulder. āLet it go,ā CoĆ«n murmurs behind him. He squeezes Geraltās shoulder before slipping away, trying to draw him into the office. Geralt wordlessly follows, not that interested in his breakfast anymore.
Lambert looks up from his phone, brows knitting together as he sees Geralt pad by him. But a quick shake of CoĆ«nās head silences any question that could be perched on the manās tongue.
Donāt look. Donāt look.
And he canāt help it. Alfredās voice fades away as he watches from the middle of the sand arena. Heās dressed down for the day; a crisp white button-up shirt and slacks, instead of his usual suit. Sunglasses shield his eyes, but Geralt knows that theyāre as intense and peering as always.
Geralt canāt help it. As Roach canters neatly around the edge of the arena, he glances up at the house. And his stomach twists at the sight he sees. Two bodies lounging by the pool to the back of the Pankratzās house. One familiar frame belongs to Jaskier; shirtless, but with tight and high shorts ridden up along his thighs. Wading into the pool is the man from earlier, and Geralt tries to force his eyes back on to Roach, happily cantering around the length of the arena while his blood starts to warm.
Lambert is on the other side of the arena, turning on the diagonal to approach a jump. Alfred stays behind, arms crossed in front of him as he watches Lambertās gelding take sure strides towards the jump, but leaps early. Even though heās on the other side of the arena, Geralt can hear Lambert grumbling under his breath from here. āDonāt let him run off on you like that, Blake!ā Alfred calls.
The jump is still standing though, and thatās really all that matters in a timed event. But āI know, you fucking prick,ā is all Geralt hears from the other man as he travels passed him. Roachās ears prick, spotting the jump and wanting to join the others in approaching it. Geralt reaches down, scratching the peak of her withers. āSoon, baby girl, in a minute,ā he murmurs, still intent on working on their flatwork for now.
He tries not to look. He keeps count of Roachās sure strides in his head, but he does look. Eyes wander up towards the house, to Jaskier stretched out on a sunbed, lounging in the stifling summer heat, while the other man does his laps of the pool.
Geraltās jaw flexes.
āBellegarde!ā Alfred calls, clicking his fingers. Geraltās hold on Roachās reins tighten. āTake the next diagonal to the jump. Youāre next.ā
If heās looking for the jump then he wonāt be looking up at the house. Fine. Roachās ears are pricked and she bows her head, collecting her own canter as they round the corner and stretch down the diagonal. She pulls against him for a moment before settling into a rhythm as the jump comes into view. Iāve never steered you wrong, baby girl, he says to himself, before doing a mental count of their strides.
1
2
3
4ā
Roach lifts herself up, popping easily over the jump. All Geralt has to do is lift himself high enough out of the saddle to let her back bend and arch into it. When they land, he gathers her up again and pushes her to the other corner before turning.
Behind him, thereās a sharp clap of hands. āThere you go!ā Alfred calls. āNow, thatās how you take a turn. Got it?ā
Thereās a murmur of agreement from the other riders, and Geraltās face warms. Gods he hates it. He hates being used as an example. Lambert can give him shit about being Alfred Pankratzās favourite because heās known the man since they were spotty and gangly teenagers. But itās the looks from everyone else he hates.
Roach snorts underneath him. Alfred continues to hold court with most of the riders on the far side of the arena, all letting their horses roll back into steady walks before halting. Geralt lets Roach do the same, and the mare throws back her head, wanting to jump again. He reaches up to scratch behind her ears.
Lambert sidles up beside him, avoiding Alfredās ire. He reaches out to nudge Geraltās elbow, before nodding up at the house. āSo whatās going on there?ā he asks lowly, making no attempt to be secret in where heās looking. Lambert all but stands up in his stirrups, craning his neck to look at the back of the Pankratzās house.
Geralt rolls his eyes. āHow the fuck should I know?ā
Lambert is quiet for a moment. āWell, good morning to you too, sunshine,ā he whistles lowly. āWhat happened between you two that you became such a grump all of a sudden?ā
Geralt bites at his tongue. āI donāt know,ā he grunts.
His house isnāt too far away from the yard; no more than a thirty-minute drive. Alfred likes to keep his employees as close to the facility as he can. Some of the grooms live on-site, while Lambert took up the manās offer of a small bungalow built near the farm, rented out and lived-in with Eskel.
Geraltās house is the same; something that almost resembles a cabin as it sits further out than the others, near where the trees start to gather and thicken. Itās quieter out here, although living in the countryside is quiet anyway. With the main hum of traffic gone for the night, itās dark and calm, and Geralt sighs as he sits down with a tumbler of whiskey caught in his hand.
He tries not to drink on working days, knowing that one will lead to another, and his following morning will be tampered with. He sets the glass on to the table beside him, slouching further into the plush leather couch while scrolling aimlessly through the TV channels.
The rest of the house is dark and quiet, with it being only him. Eskel and Lambert both offered to get a bigger place. If they pooled their gold together, they could have asked for a place for the three of them. CoĆ«n wanted in on the deal too, and no one saw any issue with it. But Geralt likes being this far out, he likes the quiet and the calm and the shelter away from prying eyes. The further away from Pankratzās estate he can be, the better.
Just as heās settling, warmth starting to ease the last bit of tension from his upper back and shoulders, his phone buzzes. Geralt takes a measured breath. It isnāt odd for him to get a call during the night from one of the overnight grooms to tell him that Roach or any other horses he rides for are causing mischief. He fishes his phone out of his sweatpants pocket, frowning at the number and name scrawled across the screen.
JASKIER
His thumb hovers over the screen for a moment as he regards the time. Itās not terribly late. Jaskier has called him in the middle of the night in the time beforeā
Geralt scrunches his eyelids, taking a moment to breathe. He swipes ANSWER before anything in his brain can tell him otherwise.
He sets the phone to his ear. āJaskier?ā he breathes.
The voice that floods the other line isnāt Jaskierās. It doesnāt belong to anyone Geralt knows. And he frowns. āGeralt? Is this Geralt? Sorry, uh, Iām Jaskierās friend and he has you as his emergency contactāā
His blood chills. Before he can catch up with his own body, heās up from the couch and heading towards the front door. āWhatās wrong?ā
The man at the other end of the line sucks in a shaking breath. āWe, uh, fuck. We were just hanging out and he, um. Youāre not going to tell anyone are you?āā
Fuck this. āDid he take too much?ā Geralt bites, gathering his keys and jacket from the rack beside the door. He stuffs his feet into his old worn boots, before doing a quick check on the house to make sure everything is off before he leaves.
The man swallows thickly. āUh, shit, yeah. My guy is good though, I promise. I didnāt know that anything would be wrong with it, and I donāt know how many Jaskierāā
He fucking hates trust fund kids. Geralt snarls. āListen,ā he barks down the phone, leaving his house and sliding into his car. āTurn him on his side and wait for me. Iāll be there in twenty minutes.ā Heās absolutely going to break a few speed limits, but fuck it. The man on the other end of the line bumbles a sure before Geralt hands up, tossing his phone on to the passenger seat and setting shaking hands on to the steering wheel. Fuck Jask, he thinks, sticking the keys in the ignition and pulling away from his house. What are you doing?
A flustered looking man meets him at the door, worrying his thumbnail between his teeth. āI didnāt know who else to call,ā he babbles, following Geralt as he brushes past and stalks into the cabin. āDefinitely not his dad. Gods, could you imagine? I mean, I guess I could have because this is an emergency. By the gods, he isnāt going to die is he?āā
Geralt doesnāt even look over his shoulder. He runs his eyes throughout the cabin; an expansive space made from stone and wood, like the main house, but suitably Jaskierās. Even though he has his own room in the main house, most of his time is spent out here, away from prying patriarchal eyes. And itās for this exact reasonā
He crosses the main room of the cabin within strides, heading for the stretch of floor Jaskier is pooled on. Heās on his side ā thank the fucking gods ā with a small pool of spit dribbling out of his mouth. Geralt clicks his tongue. He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it on to the couch and setting his hands on to Jaskier. He feels the manās forehead. Warm, but not overly so. His other hand settles on Jaskierās chest, feeling his heart hammer in his chest, but not wanting to burst out of his chest, and his lungs fill with deep breaths.
Not the worst state heās found the man in, but it still makes Geraltās hands shake. He turns to Jaskierās head, watching the manās face intently. His eyes are open, dazed and looking straight ahead. āJaskier. Can you hear me?ā Geralt murmurs, pushing the manās hair back from his face.
Jaskier hums. Something barely audible, but he nods afterwards. Good. Geralt wets his lip. āHow much did you take?ā He taps Jaskierās face until the manās eyes open again. Itās a struggle to keep them open. āHow much weed did you take, Jaskier?ā
The words take a while to reach him. Jaskierās normally bright blue eyes are almost swallowed entirely by pupils. Jaskierās lips crack open, words perched on his tongue. But he swallows thickly. Geralt frowns. He looks up, searching for the other man. He isnāt too far away, lingering just behind the couch. The question sits with him instead. āUh, not much,ā he offers, gesturing to the coffee table behind Geralt, ātwo blunts. We had some edibles too, but I donāt know if he took too many orāā
He doesnāt even have the ability to tell the guy to shut up. He turns back to Jaskier, carding his fingers through the manās hair and watching him slowly begin to realise whoās in front of him. Jaskierās brows knit together, a soft frown that barely settles on to his face. āGeralt,ā he murmurs, blearily reaching out and curling his fingers on Geraltās arm. āWha, why are youāā
The man behind the couch pipes up. āDo we have to call someone else? Like, paramedics orāā
āāNo,ā Geralt mutters, slipping his arms under Jaskierās shoulders and knees before hoisting him into his arms. Gods, heās light. Lighter than he was beforeā
He winces, shaking the thoughts and memories out of his head. Jaskier slumps against him, arms hanging like dead weights, but Geralt watches his chest lift and fall. Good. āHe just needs to sleep,ā he murmurs, feet already taking him towards Jaskierās room.
The man left behind continues to pace and wring his hands, but heās forgotten about the moment Geralt steps into Jaskierās bedroom. Itās one of two, but this one is more like the man himself. His guitar is perched near his desk; a mess of notebooks and papers and books. More scattered clothes lie on the floor and on the back of chairs than in his wardrobe.
Geraltās chest tightens. He pads over to the bed, gently setting Jaskier down and making sure the man stays on his side. He cards his fingers through Jaskierās hair again, pushing it out of his face. Jaskierās eyes crack open again. It takes a moment, but Jaskier reaches out again, blearily trying to catch Geraltās hand in his.
Geraltās tongue swells in his mouth. He lets Jaskier catch his hand, curling their fingers together in a loose hold. His skin is warm and familiar, and Geraltās heart aches. When Jaskier speaks, itās low and murmured and half-lost to the pillow heās shoving his face into. āStay,ā he mumbles.
Someone should stay with him. Just in case he throws up in the middle of the night, or has some sort of hallucinationā
Geralt squeezes Jaskierās hand. āSure,ā he rumbles, keeping his voice low. A small smile threatens to curl the corner of Jaskierās lip, but sleep takes him under before it can form. Geralt lingers for a moment, kneeling at Jaskierās bedside, feeling the manās grip on his hand loosen and loosen until Geralt can pull away. He does one last quick check on Jaskier before he stalks away. The cabin is bigger than his own house, but itās nothing like the mansion next door. He would have gotten lost in that mansion if it werenāt for Jaskier.
He stalks back to the living room, eyeing the box of weed and filter papers and plastic bags scattered on the table. The man responsible for it wrings his hands together. āTake that shit and get out,ā Geralt snarls, the corner of his lip threatening to lift. The man blinks at him before he scampers forward, gathering everything and heading for the door. Before he can step outside, heās stopped by a firm hand catching his wrist. Geralt leans close, making sure every word he says is clear and understood. āYou donāt mention a word of this to anyone. Not to your friends. Not to Jaskierās parents. Not to anyone. Understood?ā
The manās mouth gapes as he struggles to find words. He nods instead, swallowing thickly. Geraltās grip on him loosens before the man scampers away. Geralt huffs, closing and locking the door. The cabin has always been a mess. He doesnāt need to pick up Jaskierās jacket or shoes or the many, many cartons of take-out food and drink cans littering the table. He leaves his jacket behind as he pads back to the manās room, shutting off lights as he goes.
Jaskierās room is still. The man is stretched out in his bed, slumped to the side and almost falling over. One arm hangs heavily over the side of the bed, fingers grazing the wooden floors below him. But the soft breaths and the gentle lift and falls of his chest, Geralt knows that the man is asleep. Heāll stay sleeping, gods be good, for the rest of the night.
Geraltās lips thin. He goes to the bathroom, collecting a towel to set on the floor beside Jaskier, just in case he does get sick during the night. At least neither of them will have a mess to clean up off of the floor. The room is so quiet, and he hates it. Jaskier always makes noise. Mindless chatter that used to burrow into Geraltās ears and prod at his brain. He misses it. In the quietness left behind, he misses Jaskierās voice and all of the useless shit he used to talk to him about.
His chest tightens.
Jaskier shuffles in bed, whining softly and burying his face into his pillow. Geraltās fingers fidget by his side, not quite knowing where would be a good place for him to keep his watch. He pads over to Jaskierās desk, moving any clothes that had been draped and tossed over the back of the chair on to the pile already gathered on the floor. He takes a seat, huffing at the press of wood into his back.
Itāll be for a few hours. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, tapping out a quick message to Eskel.
Geralt [00:34] ā Could you look after Roach in the morning for me? Going to be late.
Eskel [00:38] ā Sure thing. Are you okay?
Geralt [00:39] ā Iām fine.
And itās left at that. Geralt puts his phone away, letting the soft glow of one lamp perched on Jaskierās desk light the room. Jaskier doesnāt move much in his sleep, but sighs heavily every so often. Geralt shifts his seat, trying his best to get as comfortable as he can and crossing his arms over his chest. His watch is going to be a long one, and one that he doesnāt mind at all.
Jaskier sleeps, barely twitching, but Geralt listens to him breathe. Soft breaths against his pillows, followed by gentle snores. Familiar sounds that have Geraltās chest tightening and tightening, until he worries that he wonāt be able to breathe. Sleep wonāt come easily for him, he knows that. But he sits back into the chair, sighing as he closes his eyes, trying to chase it down all the same.
Itās a wordless morning. Geralt rubs at his eyes, wincing at the harsh morning light stretching into the cabin. With the summer months starting to settle in, the nights are short and the days are long. Just as the moon slinks away, itās reappearing again only a moment later. His stomach rumbles and every muscle in his shoulder and upper back groans and protests him trying to sit up from the chair.
He winces as he works out a bad crick in his neck, trying to roll his head and stretch the lines there, but a shuffling sound from the bed catches his attention. He watches Jaskier slowly claw back at consciousness, climbing up and up until he musters just enough energy to lift his head from his pillow and bury it into the crook of his arm instead. Another deep sigh leaves him before he tries again, looking around his side of the room and frowning.
Jaskierās voice is nothing more than a harsh rasp. āWhat happened?ā he murmurs.
āYou had too many edibles,ā Geralt replies lowly, regarding the other man for a moment. Jaskier rubs at his face, wincing at the sun too. Even with the curtains pulled, sunlight streams in from the higher windows, the ones near the tall vaulted ceilings.
Geralt can feel his blood starting to warm. His words are measured and slow, taking their time to crawl out of his mouth. āWho was that guy?ā he asks calmly. At Jaskierās slightly puzzled expression, Geralt continues on. āThe guy who was here last night. Who was he?ā
Jaskier glowers at him. The haze that had clouded his eyes is long gone, revealing the bright blue that Geralt remembers, but something vile and spiteful sits in them now. āWhy do you care?ā
Geralt clicks his tongue. āJaskier.ā
Thereās a bit of a struggle to detangle himself from his sheets, but Jaskier manages. He sets his bare feet on to the floor, taking a moment to rub at his face and think. āI donāt know, uh, Chireadan,ā Jaskier winces, āyeah, Chireadan.ā
Geralt levels him with a look. āYou donāt even know his name.ā
Jaskierās head snaps, eyes glaring at him. āHis name is Chireadan, Geralt,ā he bites. āThere you go. A perfectly good name.ā
Geralt holds his stare. āWhere did you meet him?ā
āFucking, gods alive, why do you care?ā
āI care when you overdose on some powerful shit with a guy you barely know,ā Geralt bites back, the arch of his lip threatening to lift. Ā
Jaskier snorts sharply. āOverdose, I had two blunts andāā
āāAnd when I got here, you were spaced out and beyond words.ā Geralt doesnāt yell. He growls and snaps at people, but he doesnāt yell. And his voice is climbing in volume now, dangerously close to baring his throat raw. āWhat if something happened, hmm? If you had choked on your own vomit because you were too fucking spaced out to roll on to your side? What if that guy ā Chireadan ā took advantage of youā?ā
āJust fucking stop, Geralt,ā Jaskier snarls, standing up and teetering slightly on his feet. Gods alive, heās like a newborn colt finding his first steps in the world. He has to catch the end post of his bed as he shuffles past Geralt, making a straight line for the cabinās main room. Without as much as another word or look at Geralt.
Fuck this. āWhatās your problem?ā Geralt snaps, stalking after Jaskier. āThe last time you and I spoke, it was a year ago; and then it was fucking radio silent after that. What happened? No texts while you were in Oxenfurt. Nothing about you coming home for the summer. When I tried talking to you last week you damn near bit my head off. And now this? What the fuck is wrong with youā?ā
āāBecause you kissed someone else!ā Jaskier roars back at him, eyes steely, but reddened with unshed tears. Jaskierās throat bobs as he swallows thickly. āYou fucking prick! I saw you! You and Yennefer, making out in that fucking bar downtown!ā
The words cut at his skin and the silence left behind is deafening. Jaskierās breath shakes as it leaves him, as he winces when he catches up with his words. Geraltās throat bobs. āJask,ā he rasps.
āDonāt ever call me that again,ā Jaskier growls, voice low and trembling. He rubs at his face, skin starting to redden and blotch. āGet out.ā
Geraltās brows knit together. His feet are rooted to the ground below him.
Jaskier winces. āGet out!ā he roars, turning and stalking to the kitchen. With the open-plan of the cabin, he doesnāt get out of Geraltās eye line. And thatās the worst part. Geralt watches him catch the sharp edge of the granite kitchen counter, taking a sharp inhale as he roots around for a glass.
Something tells him to move. A quiet voice that fights through all the others telling him valid reasons to stay, to keep an eye on Jaskier and make sure heās alright.
Go.
Geralt swallows. His tongue sits heavily in his mouth as he swallows, almost choking as his throat bobs and clenches. He wanders towards the couch, collecting his jacket, before heading to the door. He spares Jaskier one last look. The manās knuckles are white as he hangs on to the granite, keeping his legs underneath himself as he breathes.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
REVENGE [Explicit]
Aiden straightens as the man looks between the two of them. āWho, who are you?ā he rasps, gripping his walking stick that bit tighter. He teeters on both legs, swaying from side to side slightly.
Lambertās breathing comes that bit heavier. Aiden can hear his heart picking up beats. āDonāt recognise me?ā he rumbles. Even though heās behind the Witcher, Aiden knows that the man is under the scrutiny of Lambert glaring at him. Thereās a sharp, huffed laugh. āI know I look different now. Itās the eyes, isnāt it?ā
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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 Jaskierās mind was still groggy and addled from a night spent drinking and lounging in another studentās 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.
āTis a Fearful Thing to love what death can touch.
And Jaskier still wishes that he had thought of it. Itās a line that has stayed with him throughout the years that have trudged by. Heās generous with his love ā heās loved a lot of people in all different capacities. Heās loved some for a night, others for years. And then thereās Geralt; luring the kind of love out of him that hurts his heart when heās with the Witcher and hurts when he isnāt; 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 Witcherās 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 isnāt 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 Jaskierās 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 heās not a fool ā no matter how many times Geralt tells him that he is. He knows what a Witcherās life is like.
Heās in Oxenfurt when it happens. When word reaches him about the extent of Geraltās 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 heās worked with for the spring, quietly slips out of the room, gently clicking the door shut behind her. Jaskierās 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 canāt get the Brokilon Forest quick enough.
Listen, he knows. He knows that Geralt is a Witcher. Heās 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 itās quiet and heās 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 thereās 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. EithnÄ 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. EithnÄ 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, Jaskierās 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.
EithnÄ stays away, regarding the two of them with an unreadable expression. āHe came to us screaming,ā she says levelly. āIāve never known a Witcher to be in so much pain.ā
Jaskierās chest tightens. He flattens a hand along Geraltās 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 thereās too many of them to hold back. He twitches underneath Jaskierās touch. āHush, my darling,ā he whispers, āIām here. Youāre alright. Youāre safe.ā
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.
āThe waters of our forest arenāt kind to a Witcherās mind,ā EithnÄ says, her words managing to break through the rush of blood through Jaskierās ears. āBut they will heal what they can. Once heās awake, you may go.ā
Heās always been careful with how dryads phrase things. Itās 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 wouldnāt notice a thing. On that front, he can thank EithnÄ that yes, the waters of her forest healed what they could.
But heās 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 heās 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 Nennekeās temple, she gifted him glass vials and clay pots of all sorts of things; oils and salves to seep through the Witcherās skin and try and work out the worst of the pain, should it flare up. With all the years that have drifted past, theyāve both learned what can set the pain off. Sometimes itās random. Sometimes theyāll 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.
Jaskierās ears twitch at the sound of metal clattering to the ground. He pauses, his quillās tip hovering over the page. Blots of ink fall, staining the paper, but he doesnāt care at all. The house is quiet, just for a moment, before Jaskier hears it. A grunt and a rumbling curse underneath the Witcherās 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.
Jaskierās office is upstairs, alongside his and Geraltās bedroom, a guestās room, and the Witcherās own study. Jaskier doesnāt have to think about where the Witcher could be ā 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 doesnāt bother with knocking on the wooden portal of the door. From how pinched the Witcherās face is, how heās curled in one himself and his weight is pressed down on one side, he knows exactly whatās 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. āCome here,ā he says, walking to the Witcher with one hand outstretched to set on his back.
Geralt canāt help the small flinch that darts through him, trying to get away from Jaskierās touch. Some self-preservation that had been embedded into the Witcherās bones; something Jaskier still canāt unravel even after decades spent together. He doesnāt think any badly of Geralt for it. He can only imagine the pain that scorches through him.
Geraltās arm is bent at the elbow, curled in and nestled against his chest. Itās 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. Geraltās knee fairs that bit better, though itās still not great. Even though he canāt 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 Geraltās back. The muscle underneath his palm is taught and tight. āGeralt, my love,ā he murmurs, ācome with me. Weāll get you sorted.ā
If he had more time, he might have moved them to their room. He could have peeled Geraltās loose shirt off and discarded his boots and breeches and lain him down on their bed, and set about his work there. But Geraltās 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 wolfās bite.
The desk is nearby, just a few short shuffling steps away. Jaskier nods to the chair. He doesnāt 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 wonāt touch him just yet, not until heās relaxed somewhat. But with the ripple of pains tensing and straining through him, he isnāt 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. Nennekeās last gift to them before they dug roots into the estate. Everything they will ever need for Geraltās pains is in here, alongside Nennekeās 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 portalās call away, itās handy. And though sheāll always have an air of being put out by the requests, asking her to halt whatever it is that sheās doing and go and fetch something for them, sheāll always do it.
When Jaskier steps back into the study, heās 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.
Jaskierās voice is nothing more than a gentle murmur. āHere,ā 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 wasnāt doing such a wonderful job of bracing his own elbow to himself, he would reach out, curl an arm around Jaskierās waist, and hold him close.
Jaskier arches an eyebrow at him, probably reading everything on the Witcherās face. āLetās get this off, hmm?ā 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. Itās forgotten about as soon as itās out of sight.
Jaskier will deal with Geraltās knee later. His elbow seems to be giving him the worst trouble. Nothing needs to be said. Sometimes theyāll talk ā 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 heāll need to work first. Geraltās 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 Geraltās shoulder. Theyāve 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 Geraltās 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 Geraltās nose. They sour the roof of Jaskierās 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 Geraltās 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. Itās just the two of them here. If he wanted to show how cracked and vulnerable heās become, he would. But the Witcher is a stubborn old bastard and will insist everything is absolutely fine.
Jaskier sets one hand to Geraltās shoulder while his other catches his forearm, just underneath the point of his elbow. His muscles there are so tight already, trembling in Jaskierās palm. He levels his breathing with Geraltās, trying his best to ease the worst of the tension out of him. āIām going to move it now,ā he mumbles, āalright?ā
Geraltās jaw tightens. He nods.
Itās slow, and he doesnāt stretch Geraltās arm further than it needs to go. But he needs it away from the Witcherās chest to massage the pain out. Geraltās breath hitches as Jaskier stretches his arm towards him. Geraltās other hand, resting on the lacquered surface of his desk, curls into a white-knuckled fist.
Jaskierās 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 doesnāt help, but he can already feel it warming underneath his palm. Heāll massage as much as he can out of Geraltās arm before he brings him to bed.
When heās pulled the arm away from Geraltās chest, Jaskierās hands move. One catches the back of Geraltās 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 ā 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 Geraltās eye. āIām sorry,ā he breathes, like he always does whenever heās about to touch the Witcherās elbow. Itās painful and the sounds that wring out of Geraltās 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. Geraltās 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 Witcherās brows are pinched together. He hates this. He hates this so much.
Another apology mumbles out of him. Itās entirely lost on Geralt ā 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.
Jaskierās 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 Nennekeās tower. The priestess, normally so brash and brave with her words and quips with them both, only encouraged him to keep going. He canāt 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 Geraltās forearm. Heāll have to look at the Witcherās knee at some point. Glancing down at it, he notes how Geralt hasnāt 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 Geraltās arm, Jaskier digs the heels of his hands into the muscle, working out the last irritating bit of tension.
Geraltās 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 heāll deal with them when he can.
Jaskier hums. āThatās most of it,ā 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 Geraltās chest. Before Jaskier can glance down, one good arm coils around his waist, drawing him close. Geraltās head falls forward, his forehead pressed against the middle of Jaskierās chest.
āSilly man,ā the bard admonishes, a small smile tilting the corner of his lip. He bends down, pressing a kiss to the crown of Geraltās head. He lingers, scenting the faint scent of himself on the Witcher. Itās 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 estateās trails on walks or in their own home, shoulders brush and fingers hook together.
His chest tightens. One last kiss is pressed to Geraltās 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 thatās it. Heāll have to take a trip down to the gardens where he can gather more herbs.
He pats Geraltās good shoulder. āCome on,ā he says, āoff to bed with you. For an hour, at least.ā
Geralt peers up at him. The look the bard levels him with makes his point stand firm. Iām 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. Ā
When heās 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 Geraltās good arm over his shoulder, bracing Geraltās weight on him. āLetās go,ā he mumbles, guiding his Witcher back to their room. Itās 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 wasnāt going to be much help around the estate anyway with his pain flaring up. And even then, heās 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 Jaskierās shirt with his good hand. He tugs the bard over. āStay,ā he mumbles, pulling Jaskier until heās gathered against Geralt again.
Jaskier huffs a short laugh, curling his arms around Geraltās neck. Heās mindful of the manās shoulder, giving it as wide of a berth as he can while heās ensnared. Geralt hugs him to him for a short, quiet moment, letting their breathing and heartbeat match. The quieter moments are Jaskierās 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 Geraltās stories about the constellations, stories he remembered Vesemir telling him when he was a boy. But heāll 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 Witcherās stretched out leg catches his eye. āDo you want me to see to your leg?ā Jaskier mumbles into Geraltās hair, kissing where he can.
āElbow was worse,ā Geralt grunts. Sleep starts to tug at him, luring him further down. Heās growing heavy in Jaskierās 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 Geraltās arm. Geralt lets him work, keeping his gaze on the rafters above them.
And Jaskier knows whatās swirling around in that head of his.
Before it can fester, Jaskier cuts in. āYou were injured,ā he says lowly, mindful of the way sleep seems to be stalking in from the shadows, ready to pounce. āA terrible thing happened to you. But your life isnāt over.ā
Whispers brush the shell of his ear.
I feel useless.
I canāt do anything anymore.
Whatās 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 couldnāt 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 couldnāt stand aside and let Geraltās own mind rip him apart. And while heās 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. āThank you,ā he mumbles, his eyelids slipping closed. Itās a struggle to try and open them again, but before he can, Jaskier leans over and pecks a kiss to his forehead.
āGet some rest,ā he mumbles against Geraltās skin, palming a gentle hand over Geraltās chest. Within seconds, the Witcher is gone ā lured under by sleep. Itās 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. Heāll get B.B to see to the last of the upkeeps before the winds grow too harsh. Too many nights spent in Kaer Morhenās 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.
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 itās paid accommodation to weather out the harsh winters in. And Oxenfurt is familiar.
Not that he hasnāt thought of going to wherever it is Geralt goes. And Geralt hasnāt not thought of extending an invitation. Vesemir has made it abundantly clear; if their guests can behave themselves throughout the winter, and wonāt 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 CoĆ«n defer to Vesemir, acknowledging that theyāre guests and heās the head of the keep, as is the order of things, and the winters go by without anyone killing each other. And thatās all the elder wolf can hope for, it seems.
The invitation sits on his tongue every year. He knows Jaskier knows of the keep. Heās 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 canāt 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 thatās 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 whatās left behind is his family, and heāll go wherever they are.
Theyāre 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, itās only one season. Itās strange that he goes the rest of the three without him.
And this seems to be much worse. Itās quiet on the road; with only his own thoughts and Roachās 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 mareās neck. And the mare learned to not kick out at Jaskierās 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 heāll fly away again. A secure income and a warm place to hunker down throughout a potentially harsh winter, Geralt canāt blame the lark at all for going to roost.
Itās just the familiar groan of loneliness left behind is awful, and he hates how it makes itself known at night, when heās slipping into an innās bed and the empty space on the other side seem to stretch on for leagues. Itās cold and Geralt always wakes with his arm stretched across, reaching out for someone who isnāt there. And thatās 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 townās tavern. Geralt glances up from his breakfast, regarding the lad for a moment as he fumbles through a knapsack of letters and parcels. āGeralt of Rivia,ā 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 isnāt how it works. Heās 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. Oxenfurtās 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. Canāt wait to see you again. ā Songbird
Geraltās chest clenches. He canāt stand from his table and run out of the inn fast enough.
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He doesnāt 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 Jaskierās favourite things. Itās a side of the Witcher that only he sees; when theyāre curled in a bed together, or gathered around a campfire, and itās 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 didnāt know why it tumbled out of his lips one night, when Jaskier dozed beside him and Geralt threaded his fingers through the manās 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 Geraltās 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 merchantās 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 heāll pick them up, watching how they glint in the midday sun, heāll set them back and part the merchant with a small grateful smile.
A few of those gems have ended up in Geraltās pocket. He doesnāt 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 didnāt seem keen to part with them. So they take up a permanent residence in one of the smaller pockets of Geraltās 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, heāll make it to the inn before Jaskier. And he doesnāt think he could cope with having to sit in a tavernās 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 Roachās side and continues on.
But the smaller towns are kinder. Theyāre 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. Itās a quiet and still walk in through the townās main street, and most of the shops are already beginning to board up their windows and draw their stands in for the night. An innās 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 ā 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. āWait here,ā 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 heāll need to brew again, purses of gold that he keeps away from his person just in case of brigands. He fishes out the gems. Theyāre tiny things, just enough to gather in the palm of his hand.
He pats Roachās neck one last time. āIāll only be a second.ā
Roach huffs, but waits.
-----------
He doesnāt know what it is, but all merchants tend to look the same. Regardless of whether theyāre 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 doesnāt look that much different.
The man inside blinks as soon as Geralt steps inside. āWitcher,ā 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. āItās alright,ā he murmurs, looking around the shop. Itās 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 heās 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. āWhat can I do for you, Master Witcher?ā
Geralt holds out his hand, showing the gems gathered on his palm. āI was wondering if you could do anything with these?ā
Even in the fading light of day, the orange strands of evening sunlight that stretch into the merchantās 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. āAh, yes,ā the merchant muses, āamethyst, amber, emerald, garnet. You must be very well travelled, Witcher. Some of these gems are hard to come by in these parts.ā
Geralt hums. āI travel for work,ā he explains simply. āIāve been everywhere.ā
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. āWhat would you like me to do with them, Master Witcher?ā
Geralt lifts a shoulder. āThatās up to you,ā he says. āI donāt have any experience in jewellery or fineries.ā
And he tries not to bristle at the way the merchantās eyes drift over every part of him for a moment. Worn and scarred armour, dried blood flecking his skin. He doesnāt even seem like one of the merchantās patrons.
The merchantās lips thin. He hums and turns his eyes back on the gems. āI could make something beautiful of these gems, absolutely,ā he considers. āBut it would cost gold and time, Witcher. Do you have anywhere you need to be in the coming days?ā
Heās 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 ā something heās 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 townās wooden barriers.
Stableboys linger around the yard and donāt even blink twice at him setting some gold into their palms. He hops down from Roach and takes his bags off of her before sheās 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. Itās familiar. This meets him every time he comes to greet Jaskier and begin their wanderings together. But itās been longer than usual and heās 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. Geraltās 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 heās tackled into a hug. His arms hover in the air for a moment. The closeness Jaskier insists on having with him isnāt something he was ever used to. But heās warming to it.
As his arms slowly coil around and gather his bard to him, Geralt buries his nose into the hollow of Jaskierās 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 Geraltās 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. Geraltās lungs can fill again as he breathes Jaskier in, and a deep rumble purrs out of his chest at the feeling of the bardās hands settling on to his back, slowly rubbing at the plains of muscle there.
He isnāt sure how long he spends holding on to Jaskier, but eventually the bard tries to slip away. Geraltās arms tighten. A light breathless laugh shakes through Jaskier. āCome on,ā he murmurs, setting his hands on to Geraltās elbows, āIāve got us a room.ā
Heās 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 bardās 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. Heās 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 Geraltās hand, but doesnāt move to pull away. āNow,ā he says primly, āIām sure you have stories to tell me, darling, but I insist on bathing you first. The road hasnāt been kind to you.ā
Because you havenāt 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, Jaskierās nimble fingers set on the many belts and buckles of his armour. Itās 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 heās 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. Heāll 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. āAre you going to stand there all night,ā he laughs breathlessly, setting a hand on to his hip, āor are you coming over?ā
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 Geraltās hand.
Thereās a moment between them where nothing is said. And Jaskier tilts his head, eyes searching for Geraltās 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 arenāt 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. āItās, uh...Itās for you.ā
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 Geraltās stomach churns. Gods alive, what if he doesnāt 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 Jaskierās 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 donāt 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. āThis...ā he stammers, glancing over to Geralt. āGods, Geralt, how much did this cost, Iāitās beautiful.ā
Geralt can feel a flush warming his cheeks. āYou, um,ā he rasps, clearing his throat again. āYou liked the jewels. In the markets we visited. But you never bought them, and I, I donāt know, I guessed that I would get them for you but, uh, I didnāt know how to present them.ā
He nods to one of the gems. āThe, uh, the lapis is from Toussaint,ā he manages to get out, because if he talks about the gems and focuses on the gems and the gems alone, he wonāt have to look at Jaskier staring at him. The lapis was the most expensive, but itās the most beautiful. āThe topaz is from that visiting spice market in Redania.ā All things that caught Jaskierās eye, but he had to leave behind. And now itās 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 bardās gaze. Jaskier stares at him, mouth and eyes wide, and for a terrifying moment, he doesnāt say anything. Geraltās throat bobs. Maybe this is too much. Maybe he doesnāt like it. He doesnāt even mourn the loss of the gold spent on it, but the way he could potentially have soured things between them.
And then Jaskierās 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 Jaskierās cheek. His own is nestled into the bardās 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 doesnāt 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 bardās lips. āThis,ā he laughs breathlessly, āgods alive, Geralt, this is beautiful. Thank you. I, gods, how did you even think of something like this?ā
He honestly doesnāt know. Jaskier is a worryingly big part of his life now and he needed it immortalised somehow. If, if, the bard didnāt 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 itās a struggle to break apart from them. Eventually, one of Jaskierās hands settles on the centre of his chest. His smile hasnāt even budged. āThank you,ā he murmurs.
Geralt hums. Itās 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 Jaskierās, enough of a physical touch to widen the bardās smile.
He doesnāt want to pull away. He has Jaskier back now, and heāll bundle the bard off to Kaer Morhen with him for the winter, and spend the following seasons after that traversing the path with him. And the thought of all of that settles into the core of his chest and blooms warmth through him; undoing all the stresses of the past seasons, unwinding tension better than any bath or sleep ever could.
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 Jaskierās good ideas, but thatās nothing but slander on the Witcherās part. Jaskier has a lot of good ideas, and this may be his best one yet.
He isnāt 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 itās 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 isnāt insane.
Heās chuffed. A smile hasnāt 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. Itās 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. āGo to sleep, little lark,ā Geralt murmurs, eyes still closed and breathing beginning to deepen and thin. Jaskier canāt see Geraltās face, but he imagines itās 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 heās teetering on the edge of wakefulness and sleep.
Heās 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 donāt even believe exists anymore, no one will come to bother them.
Geraltās arm is strung across him, holding his waist hostage as he has Jaskier gathered close while he dozes by the bardās side. Just beyond Geralt is Lambert, lying on his back, like Jaskier, but with his shoulder and side pressed against Geraltās back.
Geralt explained it to him once; the need for them to bundle together, to make sure that theyāre well and alive and here. And if Jaskier finds himself at the epicentre of it all, then heāll 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 Jaskierās shoulders and his leg strewn across the bardās wonāt move any time soon.
Heās 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 isnāt even a need for the blankets or furs of the bed. Witchers run warm, it seems; when theyāre 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. Heās 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. Heās going to have this for the whole season. His smile only grows.
If Geralt can feel it, he doesnāt say anything. His arm tightens around Jaskierās waist as he moves slightly closer; a warm line along Jaskierās 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 Jaskierās thigh. āI can hear you thinking, pigeon,ā Lambert grumbles, turning over on to his side. Over Geraltās shoulder, Jaskier spots one golden eye trying to glare at him through the heavy sleep fog that is lapping over them. āShut the fuck up.ā
Geralt kicks back, aiming for Lambertās shin. āStop talking,ā 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 Geraltās face as he can; his own limbs are lost to the entanglement heās in, but he manages to brush the back of his knuckles against Geraltās 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 Eskelās forehead and watching with delight as the manās brows knit together and his nose wrinkles. His hold on Jaskier tightens and he burrows close, setting his nose against Jaskierās bare shoulder and breathing in a lungful of scent. The moment that he does, his frown slips away and he falls back to sleep.
Theyāve all seemed to have had quite a year. Hunts and contracts and run-ins with Destiny, Jaskier canāt blame them for filling their stomachs with as much of Vesemirās 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. Jaskierās 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 Geraltās room, his wolves dozing and snoozing around him and keeping him safe and held. And heāll 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, itās a struggle to keep his eyes open. Heās just about to fall under when Geralt shuffles next to him, breathing out a long and languid sigh against Jaskierās neck. When he speaks, itās nothing more than a rumble that comes from the centre of his chest. āAre you still cold?ā
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 Jaskierās honour, getting Lambert in the shin.
Jaskier reaches up, carding his fingers through Lambertās hair first, soothing the wolfās 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 Jaskierās 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 heās surrounded by Witchers with enhanced hearing. āIām much warmer now. Thank you, darling.ā
Geralt knew exactly what he was doing. They all did. And still, Jaskier managed to lure three wolves into his bed. Itās 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 donāt 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 bardās scent, letting it coat and settle on the roof of his mouth and lure him back to sleep. āGlad to be of service,ā he murmurs, drifting off.
Jaskier beams at the ceiling, his smile unmovable as he feels each of his wolves slowly sink further into sleep, knowing that they feel safe with him to let their guards down. He revels in it.