Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing that Geralt noticed was the coffee cups. Not that they were overly subtle. But that did fit in with Jaskier’s sense of humour. No matter how many times Geralt asked him to tone it down, always it crept out in new and yet more creative outlets.

Jaskier, after all, was shameless. He was out with where he stood. To Geralt on the other hand, the rainbow, with its innocent colorful curve, felt like some great flashing sign declaring a part of him that he would rather not let just anybody know about.

His mother, Visenna, did not.

To be fair, they had been estranged since he had quit school and moved out at sixteen. He had toughened up since then. Most people gave him a wide berth these days... Maybe it was all the black leather and silver studs and buckles he wore. Or the unnatural white hair, that, ironically, was natural. It could even be the fact that his face rested in a dangerous-looking scowl, which only deepened when he dropped into thought.

Jaskier was a bit of a living rainbow himself. Or maybe a human chameleon. Today clad in blues of neon and denim, and a shade of purple that Geralt had never in his life seen a man wear. Maybe Jaskier liked standing out.

I should probably ask him...Geralt thought. Maybe...

In his mind, he could not understand why someone would make himself a target like that. Part of the reason that Geralt had hated school was all the comments he had been thrown. Gay Bastard was his least favourite. White Wolf another that irked him; created for his hair. The last person who had called him either had earned a broken nose for that. He had quit school before they had managed to expell him.

There had been a fight that evening, back at their brownstone. Well, his mother had fought; shouting and screaming, telling him what he was throwing away, that he was ruining his life... his ears had still been ringing when he had slammed his way out the front door, the frosted road outside seeming to stretch for miles- frozen veins bleeding away into the night of Novigrad city. He had hesitated on the doorstep, hearing her demand that he ‘come back here at once!’ and had stolen a shaking breath before leaving for good. It had felt strange, breathing the chilled air, rasping like needles of ice in his dry throat. Tears had come, the unholy burning in his chest that was weakness incarnate. Never, after that night, had Geralt allowed himself to cry again. Not once. When he was dry-eyed, he felt stronger.

The city was silent that night, cool wind rasping the nape of Geralt’s neck, tugging at the leather duffel tucked under his arm. Where to go now? Vesemir had always said he was welcome...maybe the old man had known, or had some manner of premonition last summer; about what was still to come. He knew the other boys at the Kaer Morhen ‘Youth Hostel’ ...well, he had spoken to them once or twice when dropping in to see Vesemir. Three strong, feirce-looking youths, all with the same golden cat’s eyes as the old man. Geralt hadn’t asked. Whatever was going on behind the scenes, be it drugs or other such things, he didn’t need to know.

Now he knew the truth.

Coën, Lambert, and Eskel. Yes- those had been their names.

Looking back now, with golden eyes of his own, Geralt found his fear childish in the gleam of hindsight. Vesimir and the boys had become more of a family to him than his own mother had been. Now he had a father and three brothers.

And a sister...

Two years ago, a young girl with ashen blonde hair and eyes like green gemstones had stumbled in, eyes red from tears. He later found out that a couple of drunks had tried to rape her. The fifteen year old had, in desperation, jammed her fingers into the one man’s eyes. It was Geralt who had washed the blood from her nails, and helped her clean off in the big copper bath. She had been shy at first, but now she was able to keep up with the rest of them.

————

“You go through a whole range of faces when you think. Did you know that?”

Geralt looked up with a start to see Jaskier leaning back in his chair, smirking.

The colorful fop then proceeded to silently toast Geralt with his rainbow branded coffee and throw him a wink. “Looks painful...”

“And you think you’re so smart,” said Geralt dryly. “How long did it take you to come up with that?”

“I think at the speed of light,” said Jaskier with ease. He rolled up the sleeves of his violet coat to reveal it had a crimson lining. His feet, clad in electric-blue sneakers, swung casually under the table.

“Bullshit,” said Geralt, tone a pleasant statement of truth. Jaskier laughed, delighting in the foulness of Geralt’s tongue. “Singers are inherently stupid by nature. And you’re a singer, so...” A small, nasty smile split his thin lips.

“You’re a real bastard, Geralt,” said Jaskier, sniggering. “But i’ll allow it.”

“Hmmm.” Geralt forced back the memories that came hand in hand with that word, trying not to let them gain a foothold. Eventually, he succeeded. He shrugged off his black leather jacket, wrangling his hair up into a ponytail. The sun was warmer than he had thought. It was pleasant after two weeks solid rain.

“You know...some color would look great on you...” Jaskier took the lid of his coffee, steam rising in a quaint little curl. “Instead of all the black and silver.”

“We agreed to leave my clothes out of this,” Geralt took a sip and burnt his tongue. “Fuck! That’s hot!”

“You agreed,” said Jaskier with a laugh. “I just nodded.”

Geralt let out a non- commital snarl, gingerly trying the coffee again. He had more luck this time. His tongue stinging from abuse, he scowled. “This is the last time that I let you choose the cafe.”

“You can’t blame me for the heat of the drink, Geralt.”

He grunted. He probably could. Nothing was stopping him. Perhaps he would have, If Jaskier had not lent forwards, chin resting on his hand. He gave Geralt that expectant look- the one reserved for simpletons who had forgotten something gravely important. He hated that look. “What?”

Jaskier grinned, forget-me-not blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “You never RSVP’d.”

“To what?”

Jaskier sighed. “Tsk, tsk, Geralt...really I am offended.”

“You know, it’s times like this when i begin to wonder why i’m friends with you.” Geralt decided to ignore his companion until said companion ceased speaking in riddles. He was disappointed; Jaskier only waited with a cheeky smirk. “Fuck, Jaskier, what is it?”

“The party invitation, you thickheaded sod.” Jaskier started to laugh as Geralt rolled his golden eyes. “Are you coming, or not?”

Geralt heaved a sigh and nodded. “Fine. But you have to promise me something.”

“Anything!” Jaskier grin had annexed the entirety of his boyish face. “Speak and I shall serve!”

“Next time- I get to choose the café.”

“Done.” Jaskier seemed to realise why Geralt had said this, as he brought his coffee to his mouth. He ran a finger over the innocent little rainbow and said, “You know, straight people come here too.”

A sly grin curled over Geralt’s lips. “And you’re about at straight as a circle. Or am I mistaken?”

Jaskier burst into delighted laughter. “Nope. Sounds about right to me.”

Chapter Text

Geralt wasn’t quite sure why he had decided to become Jaskier’s friend. It had sort of just...happened. As most things generally do; with no explanation as to why the new complication had come striding casually into his life- and had then remained there.

It had been a winter’s night, near on a year ago now. The sky dusted with falling flakes of snow, the roads slick with black ice. People had been out doing what they normally did to pass the cold gloom of winter evenings- party and drink. Both done inside, where the fires were warm. Geralt had been out walking the streets, black, silver-studded leather coat flaring about his knees as his heavy steel-capped boots crunched through the thin crust of snow icing the sidewalk. The wind was a butcher’s carving knife- digging into him with a vengeance he was unsure he deserved, golden eyes narrow against the drifting specks of white. Novigrad City had a certain majesty to it in the months of chill. Not that many saw it. Nor appreciated it. It was a raw, cool, cruel beauty- like the stillness of a new corpse- frozen in death.

Or perhaps Geralt was just being morbid.

On that evening, something made him stop. A slight sound perhaps. Or it could even have been a premonition. Witchers were known to get them from time to time...effects of the mutagens they were injected with. The twisting of their DNA. Or so Vesimir believed, anyway.

But be that as it may, that eve Geralt hesitated. And as he stood still, he became aware of the light tread of running feet speeding closer. Regretting leaving his blade behind, he turned, scowling, prepared to employ a more natural means of attack (his fists) and was just in time to behold a young man before said personage ran headlong into his chest. The force drew a grunt of surprise from him, driving him a step back, and his accidental attacker bounced off the larger man, gasping for breath. He had a boyish face, one that was flushed with fear and exertion. A long, maroon-colored peacoat clothed his narrow frame, paired with worn leather boots and long flaring pants the hue of dull gold. It was such a startling display, that Geralt blinked a few times before he finally growled, “What are you playing at?”

The young man ( he was probably the same age as Geralt... if perhaps a bit younger) quailed under the heat of the Witcher’s golden eyes, backing away slightly from the imposing man. “I...i’m really sorry.” Geralt frowned at the tone of anxiety in the voice. Something wasn’t right. “I didn’t see you- really, I never meant to-“

“Oi! Ya’ fruitcake! Come back here!”

In one flinch, Geralt saw the problem. “Am i to understand these men chasing you are of the unaccepting sort?” A nod was his reply.

“I should go-“

It was too late. Geralt saw the two bruisers that came hurrying round the corner, faces red with drink, small eyes stars of malice. He had seen it all before, and he’d be damned if he was going to stand by and let it happen again. “Gentlemen. I suggest you move on.”

Perhaps it was the ice in his tone, but they paused. Only for a moment. Then the larger of the two came forwards, sneering. “Ya’ll wanna help him? Not smart, boy.”

Geralt angled his head, an ugly smile on his face. He took the step that placed him in front of the young man, who was too exhausted to run further. His enhanced hearing could detect the pounding of the victim’s heart, and anger simmered to life in Geralt’s chest. “Call me boy again, I dare you.”

Geralt made people uncomfortable. It was the sense of otherness about him- the witcher serum that coursed in his veins. The inhuman way he moved. It also helped that, even though he was only twenty-seven, he had the height and strong build of a man far beyond his years. Now, the two men glanced at each other, and suddenly the larger took a fast swing at Geralt’s face. It never hit, for the Witcher had caught the offending appendage mid swing, and bent it back with a vicious jerk. The bone broke with a sharp snap, and the man howled.

“Ya’ broke my fuckin’ arm!”

“I’ll break more if you hang around,” spat the white-haired Witcher, golden eyes molten with anger. He lent into the man’s face and, baring his teeth, he hissed, “So fuck off, if you know what’s good for you.”

They needed no persuading after that. Geralt snorted derisively before turning to the young man. His large blue eyes were wide in surprise and shock.

“Should i have hit them?”

“What?” said the young man weakly.

“Did they strike you?”

“Oh. No. I’m fast- they didn’t get the chance.” The young man shivered, tugging his coat tighter about him. “I mean, they would have if they’d...God. I...I can’t thank you enough...” he gave a sheepish smile. “You’re quite scary, you know. Remind me never to make you mad.”

That drew a chuckle from Geralt. “Regardless of what you just saw, i don’t actually have a bad temper.”

“Fooled me.” The young man held out a hand. “Jaskier.”

The Witcher shook it. “Geralt.”

“You have my thanks.” He was as sincere as he could be but Geralt groaned. “What?”

“You’re a bloody singer.” It could be heard in the eloquence of the speech. The honey smooth voice didn’t help either.

“I am.” Jaskier frowned. “Is that a bad thing?”

Geralt laughed. “I suppose not.” If drama and flair were something you liked. “You’re gay, aren’t you? That was why-“

“Yeah. Just because i’m proud of who i am doesn’t mean every Harriet, Joe, and Porky are. Prejudiced shits.” Jaskier flipped the bird down the way the men had fled, now scowling. “Cowards.”

“Says the man that was running...” needled Geralt with a smirk. Jaskier stuck out his tongue and Geralt reciprocated. “You in a hurry?”

“Nooooooo?” Jaskier squinted at him, suspicious. “Why?”

“I was planning to go for a drink. You look like you could do with something.”

“God, that sounds wonderful. Something strong, though.”

“I think we can manage.”

From that moment on, be it unspoken or no, Geralt stood by Jaskier in thick and thin. Friendship was new to him, but it grew on him quickly. And while the singer could be annoying, he was always there for the Witcher- as Geralt was for him. In short- both parties concerned were content with the arrangement.

...on the other hand, nothing lasts forever...

— —

Jaskier knew the friendship code as well as the next person. That being said, he was assuming that this hypothetical ‘next person’ had friends. Which was why he was berating himself on the morning of his party.

“You fucking idiot! Why did you have to go and complicate things?”

He didn’t bother answering himself. He’d never stoop that low. Besides, he really already knew what had done it. A romantic such as himself dreamed of the famed knight in shining armour...he had just never expected to fall for his saviour.

To be honest; he wasn’t even sure if Geralt was like him anyway. Be that gay or deeply in love. Take your pick. But the Code said that falling in love with a friend was a no-no.

So he was well and truly screwed.

“Uhgh, fuuuuuucck it.” Jaskier flopped down onto his bed, emerald shirt undone, and tore a hand through his short hazel hair. He threw an arm over his face and let out a great sigh. Why had this had to happen? It was the fault of that stupid heart of his. Though he had discovered that chiding said organ was fruitless. It refused to change its mind.

So, yep. Screwed.

Not that he’d ever tell Geralt. Just the thought made him wince. He would never do anything to risk loosing his friend. If that meant he would have to suffer in silence...then so be it. He had gotten quite good at it by now; hiding what he felt when the white-haired fiend was around. It was lucky, thank God, that Geralt wasn’t the quickest thinker alive. He could also be rather oblivious. Jaskier thanked his lucky stars and then dragged himself up off the bed, doing up his shirt and draping a silver scarf around his shoulders. It was sunny again- he could see as much through his window.

He slipped on his sandals, scrubbing at his face with a hand as he made his way into the kitchen. Essi Daven (also known as Little Eye), an old friend, would be over later to assist with preparations. (Though he was starting to assume that she was only in it to meet Geralt). The morning stretched out before him. Four solid hours with nothing to do except bemoan his sorry plight.

Essi would probably laugh once she knew. “Really, Jask, you have the uncanny knack for trouble!” she would say.

He would have to be content with grumbling.

He might have had more luck with thoughts of Geralt if it had not been for the woman he’d seen, walking arm in arm with his friend the other week. She’d been a beauty- small and slender, with a nebula of thick, black waves for tresses, and cool, dark violet eyes. There had been a feel of danger about her- the same that Jaskier often felt when he was near Geralt. Her form graceful under a stylish black and white dress. They had been laughing together, her hand on his arm, smiles bright.

And he was happy for them...he was!...just a bit...disappointed.

He’s led up to a remark about her the next time they had met, but Geralt was annoyingly vague. Merely saying that her name was Yennefer, though he called her Yen, and that they had known each other for a very long time.

There was another woman in Geralt’s life too- a certain Triss Marigold. A red-head who loved to dress in the color green. She seemed a delightful young woman- funny and full of smiles- when Geralt had introduced her to Jaskier. She had become another close friend, quickly fitting in with Jaskier’s other close pals.

He startled as his phone rang, the room filling with the sound of Rosewater Murder singing ‘Just give me a chance’. Maybe he was being nostalgic...until his eye caught the caller ID. Then he laughed at the irony that was life.

Geralt

“Helloooooo?” He knew Geralt hated it when he answered the phone like that. Sure enough, he heard a irritated snort. “This is Jaskier his Magnificence speaking.”

“You have no shame,” rumbled Geralt’s deep bass tenor over the line. He sounded exasperated.

“I beg to differ. I have a natural flair! Why would I waste such a gift by letting it fall into disuse?”

“Can you refrain from spouting nonsense for a moment? I had a question to ask you.”

“Ask away!”

“The party- is it your birthday? You never mentioned.”

“Oh.” Jaskier laughed. “No- it’s just a get-together. Why?”

“Just wondering.” Geralt paused, listening to someone yelling in the background. “Excuse me-“ he muttered, before bellowing, “No, Lambert, I did not hide your knives!”

“Ah fuck, Geralt! Who has them then?”

“Well I don’t!”

Jaskier was expiring with laughter when Geralt apologised and bid him goodbye, saying he would see him later.

With a last chuckle, Jaskier set his phone down on the mantle piece, before pouring himself some cold coffee from the kettle. After adding cream and a pinch of sugar, he ditched the scarf and set to work preparing for Essi’s arrival.

It was going to be a long morning...

Chapter Text

"So- are we using the good stuff?”

Jaskier turned to see Essi holding up a bottle of wine, a glint of mischief in her eye. Her long hair was done up in a ponytail, the dark gold curls struggling to escape. As usual, a rogue curl hung down over her one eye- a jewel of rich sapphire.

“Dream on, poppet,” he replied with scorn.

She grinned and replaced the bottle in the wine cabinet. “You’re no fun.”

“Tell you what; one day we can have a party to ourselves and then we can use the good stuff.”

“Deal.”

Jaskier went back to shaking the punch jar, trying to get it all combined. He was unprepared for Essi to suddenly say,

“Soooooooo...”

Instantly on alert, Jaskier pretended not to have heard her. He knew what was coming. It had been hovering between them for the better part of two hours. Though he dreaded the final result, he knew he couldn’t escape it for much longer. So it was with a heavy sigh that he turned to face his friend, the bottle forgotten on the sideboard.

“When do i get to meet Geralt?”

“He said he would be coming.” Jaskier ascended a wobbly old stool to better attach a bunting to the kitchen doorway. “So, when everyone else gets here, i suppose.”

“Does he know?”

“Does he know...? Fuck, NO! Essi! I swear to god- if you say anything to him-"

She was laughing. "Jaskier, relax. I won't."

Relief struck Jaskier like a bolt of rogue lightning. If it had been anyone apart from Essi Daven...he would have been doomed. “Thank you.” His voice came out slightly hoarse.

“Say no more about it.” She fetched another bunting. “I still want to meet him though.”

With that out of the way, it didn’t take much longer before the house was looking exceedingly festive, and Jaskier gave a satisfied nod. “Perfect.”

Essi giggled. “You have glitter on your face, Jask.”

Did he? Damn...the last thing he wanted was to look like a fairy had thrown up on him...he would never hear the end of it. “How bad?”

Essi snagged a damp dishcloth and dabbed at his face. “Not that bad. I mean, it’s pink...but...” She grinned at his scowl. “Calm down, i can fix it.”

It took a moment to persuade the glitter to come away from his skin, but soon the cloth was sparkling with little motes of pink. Essi studied it with curiosity before throwing it into the sink.

Jaskier refrained from complaining that the last thing the dished needed was pink sparkles in the soap. There were more important things to do- like getting the ale keg and wine bottles set up along with the punch. In the end, they decided to turn the kitchen countertop into a home bar. Essi claimed the novelty of bartender, seeing as she shook drinks down at the waterfront tavern. Jaskier didn’t argue. An artist was an artist: no matter their niche.

He cast a glance at the clock and groaned. An hour to go, and they still had so much still to do... Fuck it, he thought in resignation. We need help. “Poppit, we need more people.”

“Oh really?” She sounded sarcastic, stretching up to hang a bunting over the fan.

There was really only one person that Jaskier could think to call- he needed strength to set up the canopy outside in the garden. With a sigh, he rung Geralt.

It rang for nearly five minutes, before the bass rumble came over the phone,

“Hello?”

“Hellllllooooooooo...” Jaskier sighed again. “Um...are you able to come now? Or is it too early?”

A rough chuckle. “What shit did you pull now, Jaskier?”

“Essi and I can’t get it all done in time. We need help. Please?”

“Alright. No need to whine. Give me ten minutes and i’ll be there.”

Jaskier groaned in relief. “Thank you.”

The call disconnected, and he let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. Oh, he had it bad. Ignoring Essi’s eyebrow that was skyrocketing, he merely hit play on his favorite music playlist. Ironically, the first song on was Just Give Me a Chance by Rosewater Murder.

...Geralt’s damn ringtone, on Jaskier's damn phone...

i can see that look in your eyes,

You know i have it too.

Come close to me baby, 

let me show you what to do.

I can hear it in your sigh,

You think i’ll let you down.

Close your eyes and relax,

Wipe away that frown.

I know you can’t really trust me,

Perhaps i can’t trust you.

But your arms around me, darling,

Tell me that you do.

So come closer to me,

We’ll create our own dance.

Skin to skin with the candles lit,

Baby, just give me a chance.

I have thorns like a rose,

You, the heat of a fire.

My petals are flammable,

Our love becoming dire.

Breathe as i breathe,

Kiss me so warm,

Take my love and fear,

And see through this morn.

I know you can’t really trust me,

Perhaps i can’t trust you.

But your arms around me, darling,

Tell me that you do.

So come closer to me,

We’ll create our own dance.

Skin to skin with the candles lit,

Baby, just give me a chance.

It was Essi who bellowed to Jaskier when the doorbell rang. He turned the music down and checked his face in the hall mirror as he scrambled for the door. No glitter. Thank god. He was in such a hurry, that he had to struggle with the latch for what seemed an eternity before the stubborn bastard finally gave and swung open.

Geralt looked the same as ever- clad in black, silver-studded leather and sturdy boots. His white hair was up in a bun, though. That was new. There was laughter in his golden eyes as he saw the panic in Jaskier’s forget-me-not blue ones.

“Running a bit behind schedule, are we?”

Jaskier gave him a rude hand gesture that made him laugh. “Shut up,” he grumbled. “I underestimated how long it would all take...anyone could make that mistake.”

“Perhaps,” conceded Gerlat in his deep rumble. “But I think not.”

“Bastard.” Jaskier led him down the hall and into the living room, where Essi was donning a stylish apron embroidered with the words, I’m no princesses.

“You must be Essi,” said Geralt.

She looked up with a wide smile. It reeked of evil and Jaskier gave her a look of warning. She waved a hand at him, before shaking Geralt’s hand. “And you must be Geralt.”

“I am.”

She looked him up and down then whistled. “I would not wanna run into you on a dark night.”

Jaskier griped silently to himself as he fetched the canopy out from under the umbrellas in the closet. Why had he told Essi the story of how he had met Geralt? What madness had possessed him to provide her with yet more ammunition? He loved Essi with all he had, but sometimes she crossed the line. And when she did, you felt it.

Geralt had come to the same conclusion. “I see Jaskier’s shared the story.” His tone was amused but final. He would not be sharing his version anytime soon. Bless him. Sometimes, the slowness of Geralt was a godsend. Jaskier loved him for it.

...then again...Jaskier was just in love with Geralt, period.

Essi smirked. “I won’t pry.”

Jaskier hauled the canopy’s canvas carrier along behind him, aware that it looked like a body bag. “In my own defence, no crime has been committed,” he insisted as Geralt grinned. “Well, not that i know of.”

“And you see everything,” teased the white-haired devil. “Here- give me that. I’ll go put it up while you two finish up in here.”

“You’re an angel,” said Jaskier fervently.

“Oh, shut up.” Geralt took the canopy from him and shouldered his way out the back door.

Essi coughed. “Damn. I see what the problem is...”

Jaskier ignored her. They had a half-hour. A half hour, before all the guests came. That was hardly any time at all. Rolling up his sleeves, Jaskier got to work, determined to reach his goal, and then get down on a long earned party.

Chapter Text

Geralt was not a people person.

Sure, he could deal with and handle them, but that didn’t mean he wanted to. If it had been anyone else asking about parties, he would have said no. Hang it all- he had been very close to telling Jaskier that he was occupied and couldn’t make it. But the damn hope in the singer’s forget-me-not blue eyes had him agreeing before he’d had a chance to think. Oh well...he was here now- outside by the little crystal-blue pond, watching Jaskier’s koi fish blowing bubbles. The fish was better company than the people.

Faintly, he could recall Jaskier saying that the animal was christened Prince Fillets.

Idiot, thought the witcher, not without affection.

There were times when having such acute hearing was more of a curse than a help.

This was one such time; His head was still ringing from the music and chatter of inside.

And while the fact remained that he was stronger and faster than five grown men together and that is was useful as hell, he had to remember to slow his steps down, and proceed with caution when lifting and moving things. At least Jaskier hadn’t been outside to see him setting up the canopy. There would have been a lot of uncomfortable questions...

Prince Fillets the koi fish silently eyed him as it drifted along in the water. It was bigger than Geralt’s lower arm, speckled black and orange, with dark eyes and long whiskers. They were a symbol of wisdom, if he remembered correctly.

The doors to the house opened and the guests spilled out onto the lawn: one loud, happy shouting mob. Geralt sighed. He had known he couldn’t avoid them all night.

Some had taken to Jaskier’s pool, squeals and calls of laughter and teasing rose into the night air, and Geralt had to hold in a laugh as Jaskier dodged an arm that tried to pull him into the water. The singer fled from the villain and ran smack into the witcher. He bounced off, and would have fallen into the koi pond, had Geralt not seized him and moved him away.

“You’re a walking disaster, Jaskier,” he muttered, smirking as his friend waved his hands.

“I give up,” he huffed. “Though I swear- I’m not trying to run into you all the time.”

“Destiny is a beast,” agreed the witcher. He eyed the shorter man, “though I think you lied to me...”

“Uhmmm...” Jaskier looked nervous. “About what?”

“It is your birthday, isn’t it?”

“Fuck.” Jaskier groaned, a sheepish look creeping over his boyish face. “Yeah, alright. I never tell people because I hate it when they bring presents.”

“I’m not in a habit of bringing gifts.” Geralt laughed at the embarrassed face Jaskier was giving him. "Though I will be taking you out to dinner for your birthday.”

“Oh?” Jaskier peered up at him with suspicion. “When?”

“Sometime this week...” said the witcher mysteriously. “No more questions.” He laughed as Jaskier visibly tried to squash the curiosity on his face. No matter- in about an hour, he would be needling Geralt, trying to hunt up the name of the place. Probably to figure out what the dress code was.

Sure enough- but sooner than expected- Jaskier burst out, “But what should i be wearing?”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Say, smart casual, Jaskier, and leave it at that.”

“Alright,” huffed his friend. “But if I rock up looking like an idiot-“

“-you will have no one to blame save yourself, i know.”

Jaskier frowned. “That was not what I was going to say.”

“Oh?” Geralt was only half-listening. Somewhere in the past ten minutes, a strange feeling of dread had come crawling up his spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. There was a strange chill in the air- one that the witcher couldn’t place. Maybe he was just being paranoid...

Raising his head, Geralt cast his gaze about the crowded garden, his eyes searching for something -anything- that was amiss.

Nothing.

Not yet.

“You okay, Geralt?” Jaskier was watching him with concern, his face full of apprehension. “Should I be worried? You look worried...”

“No. Everything’s...fine.” Geralt spun about quicker than he had meant to, the creeping feeling of danger now growing stronger by the minute. Something was wrong. “Just...fine.”

Jaskier seized him by the arm, voice now a bit fearful. “Geralt, what the fuck is going on?”

That was when the witcher saw her.

...Perhaps he had even seen her before.

Tall, with skin like bone, and long, dark hair. The young woman had eyes black as pitch, her voluptuous lips a curve of cruelty. Her smile, when it came was a menacing zigzag, all jagged teeth that were wholly at odds with her lovely face.

As the great, black feathered wings tore from her back, the guests’ laughter fast became shouts and screams of fear and surprise. Her hands formed into claws of razorblades, her tongue flicking out to lick those full lips. There was hunger in those dark eyes as she beheld the fleeing guests. He should have known: her kind were drawn to crowds- to an easy meal.

“Such a delicious feast, all in one place...” she cooed, her voice like nails scraping down a blackboard.

A harpy.

Damn.

With a quick flick of his wrist, Geralt cast the sign of Aard and his sword shimmered into view- slung across his back. It had lain hidden by the illusion for a situation just like this one. Jaskier was looking from the harpy to the blade, his eyes wild with shock and fear. Geralt ignored him, pulling the cork from a small vial he had procured from his boot and drinking it in one quick swallow.

As always, the serum felt like swallowing poison. It burned down his throat, his ears ringing from the noise as his hearing sharpened to an inhuman pane. Seizing the stunned singer beside him, Geralt shook him.

“Jaskier! Listen to me!”

A shocked choke left the younger man as he beheld the witcher’s eyes. Geralt knew what he would see- black orbs surrounded by sprawling veins of ink.

“Jaskier!” 

“H-huh?”

“You need to go inside- don’t come out whatever you do, do you understand?” He shook the singer again. “Jaskier! Do you understand?”

A nod.

“Good. Go- get inside and stay there.”

Hardly had Geralt finished watching Jaskier vanish into the house, when a great weight bore into him and slammed him to the ground. Her talons were in him- her weight unyielding. A grunt left him as she found his throat, her mouth a grinning wound.

“Ahhhh, Witcher, Witcher,” She singsonged, watching in amusement as he threw all his strength against her. She merely hauled him back with those meathooks embedded in his flesh. A snarl of pain left Geralt as she held him down, her lips brushing his neck. Damn her- if it had been any other position...now he lay atop his blade...unable to reach it. “Now don’t be naughty...i’ll be having plenty of fun with you.” Her tongue followed in the wake if her lips, and Geralt felt a shudder of revulsion wrack his body.

Fuck.

Why does it have to be like this?

On tonight of all nights.

A choke tore from Geralt’s throat as she twisted her claws, drawing him nearer to her, her teeth bared in delight. “I’ve never tasted a Witcher before...” she said. “Are you sweet? Or sour? Or a little in between?”

With a roar, Geralt cast Igni as hard as he could into the monster’s face. The flames did their job, catching in her wings and hair like tinder to a campfire. She leapt away from him, screaming her rage, leaping into the air only to swoop down at him. A comet of death and feathers.

Ignoring the blood soaking his leather clothes, Geralt drew his sword, taking a deep breath to calm himself.

Then he moved.

To a bystander, the white-haired man would have been an elegant, whirling blur. As it was to Jaskier, who was watching from the living room window. Geralt seemed an inhuman fiend - his pale hair stained silver in the moonlight, sword humming a symphony of violence.

It was a dance of death.

Geralt was too fast for the harpy, and she finally shrieked her rage and dove for him. Geralt spun away from her, his silver sword coming up to sheer her feathers away from her wing.

The monster crashed into the grass, sprang onto her feet, and slashed at him with those talons- stained red with his blood. They met silver with a screech and the harpy recoiled, her teeth a snarl of loathing.

“Witcher!” she screamed. “Witcher! You are a dead man!”

“Then come and get me,” said Geralt in reply, baring his teeth.

He dodged her attack, slamming her away with a foot, his blade carving a slice into her flesh. She hissed, ignoring the black ichor soaking her shirt, and leapt- her claws outstretched.

It was the last move that she ever made.

Geralt brought his sword up in a movement quicker than a falling star, the silver a gleam in the night, and the harpy fell onto the blade and then onto the ground, her life spilling away onto the soft grass, chest a gaping wound.

Geralt let out a soft sigh, sheathing his sword. Pain pounded in time with his heart. Blood a steady drip, drip onto the floor. The ticking of a death-watch.

Vesimir was right, as usual... he thought. They will always need us...they will always need witchers to protect them...

“Geralt?”

He was sitting down. When had he sat down? Why was he feeling so tired? Had he really lost so much blood?

“Geralt! Hey!”

A face. I know that face... "Jaskier?”

“Oh, God, that’s a lot of blood. Geralt, you need to stay awake, okay? Look- talk, sing, just fucking do something! What the fuck was that just now?”

Geralt was aware of his friend laying him down, inspecting the wounds left by the harpy’s talons. “I’m a witcher, Jaskier.” It was out before he could stop himself. He had needed to tell him. He trusted Jaskier. And if he couldn't...then friendship was a sham.

“A... a what?”

“We...we keep things like...her...from bothering people like...you.”

“What do you mean ‘people like me’?”

“...Ordinary people,” slurred Geralt, feeling as though he was loosing control of his body.

“So...you do this shit for a living?” said Jaskier weakly.

Geralt gave a weak nod. “Hmmm.”

“Fuck.” Jaskier sounded panicked. “Can you stand? I have bandages in the house- but i can’t carry you, you’re too heavy.”

Geralt frowned. Jaskier’s voice seemed to come from far away, fading in and out like a ghostly breeze. “I...what?”

“Can you stand?"

"Y...yes. I think so."

Geralt was unsure exactly when he had passed out.

He came back to himself lying curled up on a sofa in the living room, thick, white bandages bound tightly about his middle like snakes. Drawing breath was agony as his wounds moved under their covers, and a growl of reluctant pain left the witcher.

Damn. This was the last thing I needed...

It took him a moment of cursing before he conceded that he was unable to sit up. The spinning room certainly aided this deduction. He let out a groan, and suddenly, Jaskier was there.

He looked ruffled, but there was relief painted all over his face as he drew up a chair to the sofa. "You okay?" he asked anxiously, peering into Geralt's eyes. "You look okay."

Geralt let out a huff of laughter. "I'll be fine. Thanks to you. Most people would have just left me there."

"Well..." Jaskier frowned at that. "I'm not most people."

Geralt smiled, a soft curve of the mouth. "Thank you." Not having the strength to lift his head, he squinted at the clock hanging on the far side of the decorated room. "How long was i out?" Guilt nestled in his chest as he took in the drooping buntings and absence of people. "I'm sorry that had to happen...ruining the party."

Jaskier waved a hand, serious now. "Please. I'd rather you save me from that...thing than worry over a party. You were unconscious for about an hour. Not long."

"Hmmm."

Suddenly Jaskier's slender hand was on his, his fingers shaking. "God...you...you were laying so still, Geralt. I really thought at one moment...i thought I'd lost you..."

"Jaskier..." Geralt struggled up onto an elbow, gritting his teeth against the pain. "You won't loose me. I don't plan to go anywhere."

A shaky laugh left the younger man. "That's a relief."

"Glad to hear that i mean so much to you," said Geralt wryly.

Jaskier grinned. "You have no idea how much i value my friends, do you?"

Geralt bit his lip. He shouldn't.

He really, really, shouldn't.

But perhaps it was the weight of what had just struck them that night. Perhaps it was the pain of trying to hide a side of him that always managed to hurt.

Maybe he was just done hiding.

Damn it. What's the worst that could happen?

Hesitant, Geralt lent forward and laid a chaste kiss on Jaskier's lips.

And that was when he knew.

Jaskier didn't pull away. His breath warm, he deepened the kiss until they both broke away, breathing hard.

For a while, there was only silence. Then Geralt raised his head,

"You won't loose me..." he said, voice hoarse with something even he couldn't place. "Because somewhere along the road...I think i've fallen for you. Maybe it was always you..." He hesitated a moment. "There really never was a choice for me, I think. Destiny...chose you it seems."

Jaskier swallowed, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Same over here." He let out a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh. "God. That feels good to get off my chest."

"Why did you never say anything?"

"I was scared you'd hate me," admitted the singer.

Geralt squeezed his hand, a small huff of amusement leaving him. "I don't think i could ever hate you, Jaskier."

Chapter Text

"Checkmate. Again.”

“Fuck,” growled the witcher, lying back on the sofa, rubbing his face. “Damn you, you cheat.”

“How can a body cheat at chess?" demanded Jaskier. “I think you’re just a sore looser.”

“I am not.”

“Ohhh, I think you are.”

Jaskier laughed at the look of exasperation on Geralt’s face. He was giddy with delight and drunk on the memory of the kiss they had shared. His heart raced now, just thinking of it. None of his wildest imaginings could ever have come close to the feeling of certainty he had been overcome with. It was, would be, and always had been Geralt. Never was there any doubting destiny on that matter. It seemed that the white-haired bastard had found that out too.

After Geralt’s heartfelt confession, Jaskier had drawn the coffee table over to the sofa and then followed with his favourite armchair. The poor little table had then been heaped with a great bounty of various boardgames.

They had never gotten past the chess set.

Four games and counting...and four-nil to yours truly...

Geralt shook his head. “I give up. What’s next?”

“Ice cream,” said Jaskier, in a tone that brooked no argument. “Chocolate or Cherry? Take your pick.”

“You eat Cherry flavoured ice cream?” Geralt looked disgusted.

“I’m partial to Saffron and Apple, but it was sold out. Pick one.”

“I’ll pass, thank you.”

Jaskier folded his arms. “Pick one.”

“Bloody hell, Jaskier,” said Geralt, sounding amused. “Chocolate then. But I don’t want any.”

“You don’t get a choice in the matter. Pick a game while I get the sugar.”

A Witcher...mused Jaskier as he struggled to get the ice cream tubs out of the freezer whilst preventing a frozen lasagna from delivering a killing blow to his head. A hunter of monsters that normal folk didn’t even know existed. God, that was a lot to get his head around. And yet, the sword had seemed so natural in Geralt’s hand. The silver studded leather made more sense now. As did the golden eyes that shone in the darkness.

Jaskier entered the living room laden with ice cream and spoons, to find Geralt shuffling a deck of cards. He had put his shirt back on, but Jaskier could still see the bandages around his middle from where the black garment rode up. No new blood on them. That was good.

“Here.” Jaskier tossed the chocolate one to Geralt before digging into the cherry. His friend chuckled, expertly halving the deck and shuffling it again. Jaskier knew a good card player when he saw one.

Damn. He was doomed.

“You pay cards a lot?”

“Sometimes Lambert plays against me.” Geralt split the deck in four. “You know King and Castle?”

“Yup. I stink at it though.”

Geralt smirked. “I was counting on that.”

They played slowly at first, but after Geralt had taken the first six campaigns for himself, Jaskier began to fight back. It fast became a heated struggle, and Jaskier soon discovered, to his delight, that he was nowhere near as bad as he had thought.

“Kingdom of Swords.” He laid the set down, hoping he had finally managed to claim a campaign for himself.

“Not bad,” said Geralt around the spoon sticking out of his mouth. A little frown line had formed between his dark eyebrows. “But it so happens that I have the prince of thieves here...”

“Ugh.” Jaskier groaned as Geralt laid the card down, thereby nullifying the singer’s whole set. “Damn you.”

Geralt smirked. Before setting down the last of his hand.

Empire of Roses.

“Fuck!”

The witcher roared with laughter as Jaskier, grumbling, turned to his ice cream. “You can’t be good at everything, Jaskier.”

“You’ve trumped me seven damn times!”

“How many times did you beat me at chess?”

Jaskier had to concede that was fair. But he wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet. “Rematch.”

“As you wish.”

The cards were shuffled and dealt. The campaign started slow, though quick became a furious battle of fire and brimstone. Twice, Geralt had victory within his grasp, and twice Jaskier foiled him with various thieves and robbers.

At last, however, Jaskier put down his set, the Realm of Spears. It had taken him the better part of an hour to collect them all. He knew that only an Empire of Towers could beat his hand. He was feeling pretty smug, trying not to laugh at the surprise on Geralt’s face. “I think this one is mine.”

“Oh?” Geralt gave him an indulgent smile before setting down his hand.

“Oh my God, Geralt!” exploded Jaskier. “You’re fucking impossible!”

Not only did the white-haired devil have the Empire of Towers; he had a bloody Alliance! The Royal cards from the Kingdom of Swords lay alongside the entire set of Towers

“Give up?”

Jaskier nodded, laughing at the absurdity of it. “I do.” He noticed the wince as Geralt shifted on the pillows. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. You’ve done a good job with the bandages, i must say.”

“First aid classes. They were mandatory at my school.”

Geralt nodded, then groaned as Jaskier drew another box from the heap. “Oh no. Not this one...Ciri always picks it back home.”

“Ciri?” Jaskier had never heard the name before. Geralt didn’t often speak of his surrogate family. He wasn’t a big sharer.

“My sister,” was all Geralt said.

“Ahhh, a fellow StormLords fan. I like her already.”

Jaskier set out the game as Geralt sifted through the playing pieces. To Jaskier’s surprise, he chose the Silver Pearl as his flag ship. When he asked why, the witcher grinned.

“I always use it when I play against Filavandrel.” He gingerly erected his tower on the board in Shipwreck Bay. Interesting choice of base... “Always annoys him, because it’s the elven ship.”

Jaskier paused in his building of his own tower. He preferred to have it by the Port of Pebbles. It was closer to trade and the harbour. “Why would that annoy him?”

“Elves are touchy.”

Jaskier stared at Geralt. “Elves? As in small, pointy ears, and Christmas hats with bells?”

Geralt laughed. “Ha! No. I’ll introduce you to him one day. If he agrees- he’s not fond of humans.”

“And you’re...not human...”

“No.”

Jaskier shuffled the cards before dealing out seven to each of them. “May the best man win.”

"Jaskier, can you do something for me?"

The singer looked up from his coffee, instantly picking up on the slur in Geralt's voice. Concerned, he shifted his chair over and felt at the witcher's brow. It was dry, but Geralt seemed to be struggling to keep those golden eyes open. "Of course."

"My phone broke when I was fighting the Harpy..."

Ohhh, his voice was definitely throwing in the towel. It was hoarse in place of husky now. Geralt shook his head as though he were trying to stay awake. "If I give you the number...could you make a call for me?"

Jaskier fished his phone up off the heap of discarded games. "Sure. Who am I calling."

A small smile curled the corner of Geralt's mouth. "Another witcher."

"Ah. I'm assuming i'm supposed to tell him what happened?"

"Yes."

"Number?"

The phone rang for a while, the ringtone drumming into Jaskier's ear. He chanced a look at Geralt, but the witcher was curled on the sofa, seemingly asleep. Good. He needed rest. He'd lost a lot of blood.

The line was picked up.

"Hello? Who's this?"

"Hi. Are you Vesemir of Kaer Morhen?"

Silence. Then suspicion. "I am. What do you want?"

"Geralt told me to call you."

"What?" Now the voice sounded concerned. "Who...what's going on?"

"I'm Jaskier-"

"Ah." Amusement. "The singer. Go on."

"Geralt was over here at a party...and, well...he faught something he's calling a harpy."

Vesimir's voice transformed into a bladed whip. "Was he seen?"

"As in seen doing Witcher stuff? No. Only by me, and I swear, I won't say anything."

"Is he alright?"

"He lost quite a bit of blood, but yes. He's sleeping now."

A sigh. "Good. Thank you for not leaving him."

"It's nothing. I stand by my friends."

"Geralt doesn't have many friends, Jaskier. Including you he has four of them."

Am i still a friend though? As he hung up on the call, Jaskier's mind spun back to the kiss. The fire that had been in it. Geralt didn't seem to want to be friends any more...and the thought brought a rush of warmth to the singer.

I guess that means Geralt is gay...god, that makes the coffee cups even funnier!

Jaskier had to hold in a laugh, gently brushing a lock of white hair back off the sleeping witcher's brow. His hand lingered, thumb brushing Geralt's cheek.

"Wha're you doing?" mumbled the witcher without opening his eyes.

"Go to sleep," said the singer, biting his lip to hold back a smile. "I spoke to Vesemir. All is fine."

"Hmmmm..." rumbled Geralt softly, as Jaskier brushed a kiss to his cheek.

Jaskier let out a soft laugh. "Go to sleep, witcher."

It was then that a line of lyrics came to him. Realising that this night held no sleep for yours truly, Jaskier picked himself up off the chair and wondered down the hall to his music room. As he tuned his guitar he sang softly,

"Toss a coin to your Witcher...

oh, valley of plenty...valley of plenty,

...oh, oh, oh..."

It was to be one of the greatest hits of that year, but of course, Jaskier didn't know that. And as he played and wrote, plucking gently on the strings, the witcher dreamed, mouth curled into a smile as he heard the music in a faint, far off place.

Chapter Text

Geralt was beginning to think that ‘smart casual’ wasn’t a word in Jaskier’s inner vocabulary.

He was sitting in his car, idling on the curb outside the singer’s house, mulling over the fiasco of four days ago. Finally healed, he had a new lot of scars that curled about his middle, and a deep loathing of harpies.

Geralt would never have thought himself a mean person...but watching Jaskier hover in his doorway, peering down the road- clearly searching for him- was an amusing sight. Perhaps he had thought that the witcher was walking to fetch him?

He held in a laugh and felt a small, fond smile tug at his lips. Jaskier had style, he had to admit. Dressed in worn boots over a pastel purple pair of jeans. A long, flaring overcoat of teal, decorated with golden embroidery hung over a white button-up shirt.

Geralt looked much the same as usual, in black jeans, boots and his silver-studded leather jacket. The only colors in his scheme were his golden eyes, and the blood-red scarf wound once about his neck.

Feeling he had tortured Jaskier enough, he wound down his window. “Oi!”

Jaskier deflated with relief. Then became indignant as he hurried over. “You bastard! You’ve been here the whole time?”

Geralt laughed. “It’s hardly my fault if you didn’t see the car.”

Jaskier huffed, lent through the window to give Geralt a quick kiss, and slid in on the passenger’s side. “And you’re early. Damn you.”

“Happy belated birthday,” replied the witcher.

Jaskier struggled with his seatbelt, his face scrunched with concentration. “Thanks.” He got it in, and instantly rounded on Geralt. “Where are we going?”

The witcher ignored him, pulling away from the curb and cruising into the tangle of Novigrad’s streets. The glow of the street lamps lit up the velvet evening, and he dilated his pupils to allow for better sight. The streets were busy, now that school had ended for the year. Families going out for dinners, to last minute parties. Graduation speeches...

Jaskier was humming to himself when Geralt heard the tell-tale buzzing.

Shit.

“Jaskier, can you grab my phone?”

The singer cast an eyes about. “Where is it?”

“Back seat.”

Jaskier leant back to snatch the vibrating device, and Geralt caught a sudden scent of lemon verbena. Trust Jaskier to use such exotic soaps. The singer slid back into his seat, and answered the call. Before Geralt could protest, Jaskier had held the phone out against Geralt’s ear. Silently praising the younger man’s ingenuity, the witcher rumbled,

“Hello?”

“Geralt? Hey- look someone’s hassling for your table. It’s standing here empty, and the words reserved don’t really seem to mean anything to them.”

“I’m five minutes away, Fil. Can’t you keep them off for that?”

“I’ll try. But a bit of speeding would help, Witcher.”

“This place has style,” said Jaskier, contentedly sipping at his wine.

Geralt smiled. The Black Rose was artfully furnished with a hodgepodge of comfortable chairs and couches. The walls were detailed with wooden paneling, the fireplaces crackling merrily. The sound of chatter hummed in the air as couples made mundane conversation with one another. Normal people with normal lives.

Geralt could hardly remember what that felt like.

“I thought you’d like it.” Geralt smirked, satisfied with himself. In the past four days, he had been forced to take it slowly, but that hadn’t stopped him from visiting Jaskier to help him de-party his house. Among the buntings and glitter, Geralt had finally asked Jaskier if they could give being together a try.

He really shouldn’t have worried.

“Earth to Geralt.”

He looked up. “What?”

Jaskier grinned. “Were you daydreaming?”

“No.” Geralt drew deep on his mug of ale. “I was debating introducing you to Fil.”

“Your elf friend?”

“Mmm hmm.”

Jaskier instantly craned his neck, peering around the room. “Why would he be here?”

“He works here.” Geralt curled a strand of his white hair around a finger, thinking. “I mentioned you to him. He wants to meet you.”

Jaskier looked embarrassed. “Exactly what did you say about me?”

“He knows how I felt- how I feel.” Geralt scanned the menu. “You hungry yet?”

“Yeah,” said Jaskier. He had a light blush on his cheeks. “Um. I’ll have the pasta.”

Geralt ambled over to the bar, casting a glance back over his shoulder to see Jaskier watching him, a hand under his chin, an expression of contentment on his boyish face. A wave of warmth settled in Geralt’s heart.

His love had been returned.

That in itself was a miracle for a person like him.

Witchers tended to repel humans. It was their sense of otherness. The slightly inhuman air of their movements. The deep baritone of their voices.

“Geralt.”

He turned, smiling. “Fil.”

Filavandrel looked like any other human, with his pale skin and ragged blonde hair. A purple bandanna was bound about his ears to hide the spearlike points that Geralt knew they tapered to. His black pants and white polo shirt were immaculate as always when on a shift. Geralt wasn’t fooled though. Thanks to his enhanced eyesight, he could see the shadows under the elf’s eyes. See the slight tremble in those slender hands.

When Filavandrel had reached ten, his mother and his father had at long last begun to bring him along on their travels. One year, deep in the city of Kaedwen, the little elf had contacted a rare gutter disease. Fatalities were high for children who fell ill, and when he had pulled through there had been only joy and gratitude in his family. It was only later that his underlying problem came to the surface. The disease had triggered a rare blood disorder which had slumbered dormant in Filavandrel’s body for years. It came on with devastating force. The elf was unable to exert himself without flooding his lungs with blood, thereby loosing the ability to breathe. Filavandrel had confided in Geralt one day, telling him that the attacks felt as though they were setting him aflame from within. He had been in and out of The Chapter’s secret hospital ever since that day.

It had been last year when they had finally told him the worst of it.

He had three years left to live.

“I think the singer is in love with you,” teased the elf now, voice slightly hoarse. “I’ve only ever seen that dreamy look on one other person before.” He gave Geralt a suggestive look.

The witcher scowled. “Keep going like that and I'll forget to introduce you.”

Filavandrel waved a hand. “As you wish, m’lord.”

Geralt crooked a finger at him. “Come on then.”

Jaskier looked up as the two of them approached the table, his gaze darting between them before it finally landed on Filavandrel. His gaze cleared with understanding, and he rose to his feet. “Filavandrel, I assume?”

“You assume correct,” replied the elf with a small laugh. “You must be Jaskier. Geralt had a lot to say about you.”

“Oh?”

Geralt snorted. “A lot to say about your annoying qualities, yes.”

Jaskier huffed. “Those are my best parts!”

Geralt made his way back to the bar, planning on resuming the order. It was then that he saw the man.

Unremarkable, the man was. Average height, nondescript hair that seemed more grey than blonde. There was nothing about him that should have drawn attention.

But he drew Geralt’s.

It was the cruel curl of his mouth, the familiar gleam in those dark eyes. The man caught Geralt’s eye as he made for the door, and one lid closed in a mocking wink.

The witcher found the air hard to come by until the man was out the doors and gone. A chill that had nothing to do with cold ran up his spine.

Fuck. Why is he back?

Jaskier prided himself on being an observant person. But he wasn’t nosy. Which was why he didn’t ask Filavandrel what his ailment was.

When Geralt had departed to order the food, the elf had given Jaskier an apologetic smile. “It really is good to meet you, Jaskier, but would it bother you if we were to sit down, perhaps?”

“Not at all!”

He could see the shaking in the slender fingers. The paleness of his face. He had something, that was for sure. Block it out, Jaskier...prying is for old, nosy women...

“So, how long have you known Geralt?”

Filavandrel rested his chin on his hands, seemingly thinking. “About the same length as Yennefer and Triss, I think. I have never been friends with time.” A flash of sorrow seared in his eyes, but vanished before Jaskier could form a guess as to why.

“Soooooooo...” How to ask this one... Jaskier bit his lip. “Ummmmm.”

“I know he’s a witcher,” said Filavandrel softly. “If that is perchance the thing bothering you?”

“Yeah. It is.” Jaskier sat back in relief, casting his gaze about to spy the white-haired man.

Geralt was standing near the bar, a perturbed look on his face. Something seemed to be bothering him. Jaskier would have gone over to ask what was the matter, but the witcher shook himself and moved to the bar counter.

“He looks happy,” said Filavandrel, jolting the singer out of his concern.

“Does he?” Jaskier felt his cheeks growing warm.

Filavandrel stole a sip from out of Geralt’s abandoned ale mug. “Geralt, usually, doesn’t smile. He’s always been to serious. His mother messed him up pretty bad. His father did too.”

Jaskeir checked that Geralt was still at the bar, before he leant in. This was the chance he’d been waiting for. “Why?”

“She was a real controlling woman. Daddy was a drunkard who liked hitting things. Geralt moved out when he was fifteen. Says he’s never been back since.”

Jaskier fought to keep the anger off his face. No wonder Geralt hates opening up to people... "And then he went to...?”

“Kaer Morhen.” Filavandrel had a sip more ale, rubbing his throat as though swallowing pained him. “Vesemir is the head of the witchers of Novigrad. He took Geralt in like a son.” The elf broke down coughing into his hand. Once he’d gotten his breath back, he spied the look of concern he was being given. A smile graced his face. “I contacted a blood disorder as a child. “

“Oh. I’m so sorry- I didn’t mean to-“

“It’s quite alright, assured Filavandrel. “Everyone asks.”

It was only later, lying alone in bed; feeling full of happiness, good food, love and laughter, that Jaskier realised that he had forgotten to ask Geralt what had disturbed him so.

It was a big mistake.

One he would regret with all his heart.

Always.

Chapter Text

Before:

His ribs singing arias of pain, Geralt coughed and spat blood up onto the pavement. He knew the drill by now- the less you moved, the faster they became board. Soon they would move on to new prey, leaving him bruised, but breathing.

The irony was that he could take them on- and probably beat most of them too. Which was no doubt why Brehen had come up behind with the pole.

Cowards.

Geralt narrowed his blue eyes and held back the sounds of pain that were fighting to claw out of his throat. The blows had abated, but they still hemmed him in. He made no move- remaining curled on the cold concrete, his head pounding from the blow that had felled him.

Don’t react. Don’t react.

“Tired, White Wolf?”

Geralt bared his teeth. “You think you’re so brave, Brehen,” he rasped, unable to remain silent in the face of danger. “Five against one is hardly a number for anyone. Let alone a coward.”

That earned him a boot to the gut. Geralt gritted his teeth and weathered it grimly, as a sailor in a storm. Be on your damn way! he thought in anger. Curses bubbled up on his tongue, but he held them in. While they could not compare to the blows his father sometimes threw, he saw no sense in provoking them. Don’t tempt fate- that sort of thing.

So much for an ordinary day at school. Why were the teachers never around when you needed them?

Brehen’s next blow struck the fallen boy’s spine, and for a long moment, Geralt could not find enough air to draw into his lungs. The pain made every breath a struggle, his mouth contorting into a grimace.

Fuck. Fifteen years old and beaten like a helpless puppy. This had gone far enough.

“Fuck off!” snarled Geralt, temper finally snapping. In a flash, he leapt back onto his feet, white-hair flying, and struck Brehen square in the nose.

A satisfying crunch sounded and Brehen staggered back, clutching at his face. Rage kindled in his murky green eyes. “You bastard!”

“Touch me again, and I’ll show you bastard.”

The two of them faced off, Brehen’s friends in an unsure circle about them. Geralt knew his eyes would be ice-blue flames by now. He had had enough. Enough of Brehen, and enough of this shambles they called a school. He was done with people mocking him for what he did and who he fell for.

Damn them.

Damn them all.

Now:

Geralt often wondered how Ciri always knew when something was bothering him. It was uncanny. As though she were some manner of mutant bloodhound.

All he would have to do, was begin to sink into gloom, or start awake from a bad dream, and she would be there- sitting on the edge of his bed.

Like now.

Geralt lay still for a moment, body aching with phantom pain- the recollections of a dark memory. His room was dark- the fire in the grate burned down to glowing embers, tiny flames dancing in the shadows of the night. His pupils narrowed, and the room slowly came into better focus. The wooden walls- turned a smooth grey by the moonlight leaking through the large window, the thick black rug on the floor. The worn sofa by the window. His swords hanging crossed over the fireplace.

The shadowy figure of Ciri perched on the foot of his bed.

Geralt spared her a glance, raising his head off his pillow. It was a cold night, the snow falling thickly outside on the streets. Novigrad was perpetually icy. Anything you left outside was coated in a layer of glittering frost come morning. As such, he remained under his blankets where it was snug.

“Ciri, go t’ sleep...” he growled, letting his head fall back into the warmth if the pillow.

“I just came to see if you were okay,” she said in return, a small smile curling her lip. “How was it?”

“H’was what?” mumbled Geralt sleepily. He was pleasantly toasty, and the sight of the falling snow only added to his contentment.

Ciri laughed with glee. “Your date, Geralt! How was your date?”

“Fine,” he rumbled. “...all w’ fine.”

“You’re such a boring bugger when you’re sleepy,” she groaned. “I want details, Geralt!”

“Well...you’re not going to get them. Not now. M’ sleeping. Go away.”

“Awww...look who’s snug abed...”

Geralt let out a groan as Lambert’s weight sprawled over his legs. His fellow witcher had devilish mischief in his gold eyes, his brown curls a nebulous cloud about his head, beard scuffed. From the static of a pillow no doubt.

The main problem was that If Lambert was here, then Geralt would never get back to bed.

Damn.

“Does “I’m sleeping” mean anything to you two?”

“Correction: you were sleeping.” Lambert poked Geralt’s ribs and the white-haired witcher snarled. “Don’t be so cranky. We didn’t wake you. Fuck, you woke yourself.”

Ciri giggled.

Geralt let out a groan. “What a pair you two are...demons- the both of you.” He tugged his covers over his head like he used to when he was ten. Perhaps ignoring them would help. Then again...he doubted it somehow.

Lambert proved this by yanking the warm covers away off Geralt, who proceeded to land a solid smack to the bastard’s head with his pillow.

Lambert took the blow before he lunged. He had Geralt pinned within a matter of minutes, the white-haired witcher’s arm twisted up behind his back. Geralt let out a muffled growl from under the older witcher, but struggling was pointless. “Fuck, Lambert, let me go!”

“Ciri seems to want something from you,” teased Lambert, ignoring the struggles going on under him. “How was your date, anyway?”

“None...of your...business...” gasped Geralt, a sense of old panic gripping him as he strained against Lambert. He knew the other witcher was only playing, as they often did when they sparred, but he was feeling the familiar fear that came with being held so firm.

God. Please just let him stop.

“Ah, damn you, Geralt.” Lambert released him, yawning. “You’re no fun when you’re half asleep.”

They could hear him grumbling to himself as he wandered out into the hall, on his way to his room no doubt. Ciri fetched the blankets and hopped in beside Geralt, her slender body pressed close to his.

“So, you won’t tell me anything?” she whispered, peering up at him with pleading in her emerald eyes. “Not one little thing?”

Geralt sighed at the tenacity of his sister. Whilst they shared no blood, she was more family than his mother had ever been. The other witchers too. “I took Jaskier out to The Black Rose. He dresses like a peacock, but I think you’d like him...” Geralt slid an arm around Ciri and she laid her ash-blonde head on his shoulder.

“Go on...”

“It was his birthday four days ago. Since I ruined it by fighting the harpy, It was the least thing I could do. Someone nearly took our table. Without even asking a waiter.”

“Rude,” sniffed Ciri, no doubt miffed on his behalf.

“Filavandrel kept it for us though, so all went fine.” Geralt yawned. “Introduced Jaskier t' him...they seemed to get along...”

“Fil’s like that.”

Geralt heard the tone of sorrow in her voice, but said nothing. It was common knowledge at Kaer Morhen that Ciri harboured deep feelings for Filavandrel. Never had she acted on them. Maybe she was scared of being hurt when he finally died. Still...if the elf could return her feelings, surely three years was better than none?

Not that it was his place to suggest it.

But he had almost missed a chance with Jaskier...hesitation was the enemy here. Hesitation and caution.

Hoping that he would get to keep his head, Geralt ventured, “Ciri...”

“Yeah?”

He narrowed his pupils so he could see all the panes of her face in the dim moonlight. The dying embers of the fire helped little. “How come you’ve never told Fil that you like him?”

She was silent, and Geralt was sure that she was going to ignore him when suddenly she sprang to her feet and fled the room.

Fuck. Now you’ve done it, you idiot...

He heaved a sigh and settled back, no longer the tiniest bit sleepy. Damn. Jaskier was right...I am thick sometimes...

Then, quite suddenly, she was back. Falling down onto the bed, her phone clutched in her hand. He could see the blue sparkle-covered case peering out between her fingers. She had that stubborn look on her face. “Fuck it. It’s two weeks until Christmas,” she said determinedly, though Geralt could see her hands shaking. She was nervous. “I’ll be damned- I’ve been hiding it long enough.”

“Ciri...what’s the time?” Geralt knew that no one would be awake still if it was too late. Especially not on a snowy eve like tonight. Fires, mulled wine, and warm beds would be all the rage on this night.

“Quarter past ten.” She prodded him with a grin. “You go to sleep too early, brother.”

“Mmmph.”

She pressed call, the phone set on speaker. When he gave her a questioning look, she flushed- embarrassed. “I don’t want to do it alone.”

Fair enough.

The call was picked up.

“Hello?” Filavandrel sounded awake, but his voice was hoarse.

Ciri must have heard it too, because she instantly said, “Fil, are you alright?”

“Ciri.” The elf’s tone changed from weary to warm. “I’m fine. The cold just bothers my chest. Only a cough, nothing to worry about.”

“Oh. Good.” She bit her lip. Geralt watched as she hesitated. Finally, he caught her attention and mouthed ‘breathe.’ She nodded.

“Fil, I have something to ask you...”

“Of course,” said the elf, now serious. “Ask away.”

“I...”

For a long moment, Geralt thought that Ciri would loose her nerve and hang up. But she surprised him the very next moment as the words came spilling out of her like a long awaited flood.

“I...I really like you, Fil. I always have. And I know that you don’t get close to people because of the blood disorder thing, but I...I would really love to try and be with you. You see... I don’t care if you’re sick! I just want you... and I guess that I probably should have asked if you liked me before I said all this...” she trailed off, her eyes closed in despair. “Damn,” she muttered. “You foolish woman. Should have asked him first. Shit. Shit."

“Ciri?” Filavandrel sounded quiet. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah. I am.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “God. I’m so sorry. I just needed to tell you...but I shouldn’t have.”

“Why ever not? Ciri, I like you too.”

Geralt sat bolt upright, a smile pulling at his lips. The shock and delight in Ciri’s eyes made him want to cheer. But he held his tongue. Let her have her moment.

“Really?” she whispered, knuckled white on the phone.

“Really.” Filavandrel sounded amused. “I normally refrain from asking people out. The whole courting death thing tends to put them off.”

“Not me, Fil. Never me,” she swore fiercely. “Can I take you out for breakfast? For coffee or something?”

“I’d like that, Ciri. I’d like that very much.”

She hung up, her cheeks glowing. Geralt pulled her into a hug, smiling into her hair.

“There, now that wasn’t so bad, hmmm?”

She let out a happy sigh. He wondered if thinking of Jaskier made him sigh the same way. He hoped not. Geralt wasn’t too big on wearing his heart on his sleeve.

“I’m happy for you, Ciri, I really am... but i’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Why?” She looked started.

Geralt lay back in his warm pillow, and closed his eyes.

“Because, I need my damn sleep.”

Chapter Text

"Can I ask a possibly insensitive question?" yelled Jaskier over the rushing of the wind, as the black motorbike sped along the narrow, winding road that led up the hill.

“By all means!” Geralt shouted back, not taking his eyes off the street in front of him. "And better than anyone else I know!"

“Why the fuck aren’t we wearing helmets?"

Geralt’s laugh was torn away by the flailing air currents. The singer was clinging to his back with the tenacity of superglue, head buried in the witcher’s shoulder. “I don’t have any helmets!"

“How very like you..." moaned Jaskier. “Gods. I never wanted to die this young!"

“Try pleading to some different gods then, Jask!”

“Blasphemy...” joked the singer. Then his head jerked up. “That’s the first time you’ve called me that!"

“What?"

“Jask!"

“Should I not have?"

“No," Jaskier nuzzled into the witcher’s neck. “I’ve been waiting for you to do it."

Geralt affectionately bumped Jaskier’s head with his, heart warmed. A small twinge of guilt however, still needled in his chest...he still hadn’t told Vesemir. He knew he should, but could not bring himself to. For he knew what the old witcher would do. Knew what he would say...and perhaps Geralt was being selfish, but...the words stuck in his throat every time he meant to say them.

Let me have this happiness a little while longer... then I’ll tell him...

They were flying along the Bronhill Forest Road- a narrow, serpentine stretch of paved gravel that wound deep into the forests outside Novigrad. They had been on Geralt’s bike for the better part of the morning, the day a blaze of blue skies and clouds that reminded Geralt of candy floss. Since the night of Jaskier’s surprise dinner, they had taken it in turns to surprise one another with outings. Three days ago, Jaskier had dragged the witcher down to a music festival on the docks by the lake. Too many people and far too much loud noise, but Geralt had weathered it grimly. The look of delight in Jaskier’s eyes had been enough for him.

Now, it was his turn. Hence the outing on his bike. Jaskier had a map rolled and tucked under his arm, but after having nearly lost it to the wind seven times in the first ten minutes of the trip, he had given up. Lashed securely to the back of the black motorbike was the basket that Jaskier had brought with him. On second thoughts, Geralt was probably going to regret delegating the lunch duties to Jaskier...but it was too late now. At least the singer had never forced something truly foul on the witcher.

Well...then again...the caviar at the festival had been disgusting...

Jaskier clung tighter to Geralt as they sped over a bridge that had clearly seen better days. Far down below, the River Yurga snarled, flowing in a white torrent over rapids and boulders. “How much further?" he called.

“Ten minutes, maximum!" Geralt shouted back.

Jaskier let out a yell of shock as Geralt turned, skidding onto a gravel path nearly overgrown by brambles and Hollyhocks. Pebbles shot up all around them, the tires crunching and skidding. Jaskier’s knuckles were white as he linked his hands about Geralt’s waist. The witcher could hear him repeating faint f-bombs in something almost resembling prayer. It made him want to laugh.

Finally, the dusty track came to an end. Ringed in by trees, the small clearing was silent apart from distant calls of birdsong. Geralt thought he could pick out the sweet tunes of a nightingale. Not that he really knew much when it came to birds.

He roared with laughter as Jaskier sprang off the bike, and bent to press his hands to the dirt. A sigh left the singer, pebbles rolling in his fingers. “Never again,” he swore fervently. “Fuck, never again.”

“We still have to get back,” said Geralt with some amusement. “Or are you going to walk ten miles on your own?”

Jaskier brushed his clothes off. “Damn you, witcher...” he grumbled.

It was a pleasantly mild day for a Novigrad winter, but Jaskier was looking like a reincarnation of summer in his pastel-purple polo shirt, splashed all over with leaves and bright violet flowers. This, paired with black leggings and shoes the same color as his shirt, made Geralt wonder just how large his boyfriend’s closet was. Never, had he seen Jaskier wear the same outfit more than once. Maybe he just had a knack for swapping and changing things so no one noticed?

Geralt was dressed in his usual black, but it had grown too warm for his jacket.

While unloading the vittles from the bike, he felt Jaskier’s hand on his muscled bare arm. Concern was in the singer’s voice.

“Geralt, what...when did you get these?”

Confused, the witcher glanced down at the pale fingers, resting on the map of scars crossing his skin. He was so used to them by now that it took him a moment to realise what Jaskier meant. “Oh. Occupational hazards,” he said with a smile.

He remembered his first wound from a monster. A rogue Kikimora down in the old flour factory. A slash along his chest. The burning pain of the healing elexir being poured over it by Vesemir. Witchers didn’t have time for pain. Wounds were rubbed and then you were back on your feet.

“Jask, I’m okay, really. They’re just old scratches.” Geralt gently took the slender hand in his calloused one. The look of concern smoothed out a little on the singer’s face.

“Your chest looked the same,” muttered Jaskier, flushing. “When I bound the harpy wounds...just pale scars everywhere.”

“Hey...” Geralt drew the singer into a tight embrace, resting his chin on the head of hazel waves. “Seriously, Jask, I’m fine.”

A grin. “Alright, alright.” Jaskier glanced about as the witcher led him towards a gap in the trees. He groaned. “Oh, Gods, now where are we going?”

“Not far,” promised the witcher.

“Annnnndddd that's what he said this morning, ladies and gentlemen...” was the grumble to be heard from behind.

“You’re such a drama queen.” Geralt could hear at least one bottle of something (presumably wine) sloshing around in the basket.

“Well excuse me!” huffed the younger man, puffing along by his side. “I’ve been sitting on my arse all morning, certain I was going to die from either a pounding heart, or a stupid accident that could have been avoided if you owned a pair of helmets. Forgive me for being slightly verbal.”

“You’re forgiven,” rumbled the witcher.

“Good. And one more thing— Oh my Gods...”

They had reached their destination.

Having left the trees at last, Geralt and Jaskier were standing on a narrow expanse of smooth grey rock, the granite warm from the sun above. The bite in the air was colder here, nearer to the crystal clear stream that bubbled along past the stone. Hardly two metres from them, the water rushed in a gleaming arc from the cliff, spray turning the air iridescent with broken rainbows. The waterfall and stream were surrounded on both banks by flowering shrubs and trees, the blossoms a kaleidoscope of colors.

“Oh,” repeated Jaskier softly.

“I come here when I need time alone,” admitted Geralt. “When things get hard...or when old memories are bothering me.” It was easier somehow, telling Jaskier these things. Things that he usually only told Ciri, or Yennefer. Things he only shared with people that he trusted. Or loved. But for him, those things were often one and the same.

Jaskier nodded. “Thank...” He swallowed. “Thank you for bringing me here. You letting me in to your life...it means a lot.”

“It’s not like life’s given me a bounty of friends,” remarked Geralt dryly.

Before he knew it, Jaskier’s deft hands were knotted in his shirt, and his mouth was on Geralt’s. The singer’s breath was warm, tasting of almond and strawberry, (Exotic toothpaste, no doubt) and Geralt had to hold in a moan as his knees threatened to give way under him. This feeling was intoxicating. Stronger than any potion he had ever taken in his life. Gods, he was drunk on Jaskier.

It was the singer who gave out first, and his weight overbalanced Geralt and brought him down atop the younger man.

“Fuck,” said Jaskier with his usual eloquence. “Sorry.”

Geralt chuckled, before drawing Jaskier close and kissing him again.

Tangled together on the warm stone, they gave no thought to time, nor anything save each other. Finally, though, breath ragged from little air, they broke apart. Jaskier dug into the basket and withdrew a multitude of cardboard boxes that turned out to hold sandwiches, cake and fresh green salads. Geralt’s inner worry about the fare was dispelled. Jaskier had good taste. And not only had he brought wine, but a smaller flask of ale.

“I’ve never seen you drink anything else,” he said, handing it to Geralt. “Do you? Ever have other things, I mean?”

“The odd whiskey,” said Geralt. “Sometimes mead. And beer- but only if Lambert insists. I’m not that big a fan of it.”

Jaskier snorted and drank straight from the wine bottle. “Beer is disgusting. Essi likes it though, so sometimes I have to go along with it.”

“She knew, didn’t she.”

Jaskier knew what Geralt meant it seemed, because he gave a sheepish smile. “Erm...yeah. She did. Kept saying that she’d tell you.”

Geralt smiled. “Fil said the same thing. Only he had no idea what you looked like, so I think I was safe.”

“I liked him,” said Jaskier. “Filavandrel.”

Geralt said nothing for a while, drinking from the flask in silence. A leaf drifted past in the water and he plucked it out. It was beginning to decay, the fine tracery of veins in its walls of orange showing through like an x-rayed skeleton as he held it up to the light. “He has two years left to live.”

“Oh.” Jaskier scrubbed a hand over his face. “Oh. Oh gods, I...I’m so sorry...”

“Don’t be. Fil’s fine with it. He’s always taken things in his stride.” Geralt gave a sad smile. “Sometimes fate doesn’t give you a choice.”

“What was it you said the other day, at the party?” Jaskier squinted, trying to remember no doubt. “Destiny is a...beast, was it?”

“Yes.”

A gentle breeze whistled over them, and Jaskier seemed to struggle with himself. Geralt opened his mouth to ask, but the singer blurted,

“Okay, look- you don’t need to answer this at all...it’s probably insensitive...but Filavandrel said that your parents were shitty ones. I never knew.”

Geralt felt the familiar weight settle down upon his heart. But perhaps it would help to confide in another. After all, Jaskier cared. That in itself helped ease the burden of memory.

“My mother didn’t like things to happen without her consent.” Geralt let out a sigh as her angled face came to mind. Those sharp green eyes, and that tangle of red hair. “I...wasn’t a model son...not for lack of trying. But she could never quite bring herself to be proud of me. She kept at me though. Said that if she was going to have me around, then I’d damn well have to turn out as something worthwhile...”

Jaskier looked like he was biting back anger. “And your father?”

Geralt shrugged. “Drunkard. I only ever saw him at night anyway. Became good at dodging fists...I suppose I have him to thank for my reflexes.” He smiled ruefully. “I don’t miss them. I haven’t even been back that way to see if they’re still there.”

“They didn’t deserve you.”

Geralt looked long at the singer, his golden eyes warm in the sunlight, before he finally let out a huff of laughter. “I’m not quite sure that I deserve you, Jask.”

The singer crossed his arms and smirked. “Well, tough, witcher. ‘Cause you’re stuck with me now.”

Chapter Text

“I still can’t believe that you pulled me into this...”

Jaskier grinned up at the sullen witcher. “And I can’t believe that you’re still complaining!” He bumped a black leather and silver-stud covered shoulder. “It’s Christmas, Geralt. Smile.”

A huff was all he got in return. That was alright. He could deal with it. For the moment, he ignored his boyfriend as he swept the music room like a tame hurricane, gathering guitar picks, spare strings, an abandoned scarf embroidered with stars, and his guitar itself- safely shut in it’s case. “So...how are we getting there?”

“The bike.” Geralt looked serious, his mouth a hard line. Golden eyes tracked the look of dismay on the singer’s face and then he burst out laughing. “Relax,” he said with a grin. “I borrowed the car. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, you bastard,” muttered Jaskier, scowling.

Unfortunately, Jaskier could never hold a frown for long when Geralt was involved. Not only that, but it was a rare beautiful morning. Novigrad in winter tended to be gloomy and miserable, with black ice coating all surfaces outside- making sure that you ended up slipping on at least one thing every few minutes.

But this morning, though icy cold, was clear skied and light. A pale golden glow streaming from the sun way up high overhead. It made the singer feel alive. Sunshine, snow and music- what more could a body want?

His eyes strayed to the old cuckoo clock hanging over his piano.

Damn . It was nearing eleven. Nearly time to go.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Jaskier slapped his hand to his forehead. Where was his mind at today? Honestly. “Here!” He tossed a knot of red and white at the witcher. “Wear this!”

Geralt allowed the candy cane striped scarf to unfurl. He snorted. “Absolutely not.”

“Geeeerrrrraaalllttttt,” whined Jaskier. “It’s Christmas! Put on the damn scarf!”

The witcher rolled his eyes. “No.”

Jaskier stomped up to him and snatched the scarf from a calloused hand. “Hold still you.” He slung the festive garment about Geralt’s neck and fussed with the knot. Finally he stood back, a smug smirk on his face, hands on his hips. “There.”

A long-suffering sigh left the witcher, before a smile broke over his face. “You’re ridiculous, Jask.”

He gave a dramatic bow before springing back up, laden with all his musical needs. “Okay! Let’s go!”

Jaskier drew in a big lungful of chill air as he stepped outside his house. It was like a scene from a wonderland- carpets of glistening snow blanketed the sidewalk, the houses down along the road twinkling with a rainbow of little lights. Pine trees in all the gardens were festooned with large shiny baubles, even tinsel in some cases. The good cheer of Christmas was almost tangible in the air as a playful little breeze tugged at Jaskier’s hair.

Today was going to be a good day. He could feel it.

And a busy one.

Not only did he have a performance to give in the annual Christmas Concert, but Geralt had informed him yesterday that he was invited to Yennefer’s Christmas night party. And that he could bring Essi along with him.

“Where’s this concert of yours again?” Geralt had somehow managed to get his hands on Jaskier’s guitar case and was loading it into the back seat. It was only now that the singer got a good look at the vehicle. Sleek, black, chrome plating.

“This isn’t your car is it?”

Geralt laughed. The sound always sent a shudder up Jaskier’s spine- the deep, rich rumble. “No. It’s Lambert’s.”

“But...the bike is yours?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck. Guess I’ll have to get used to it then...”

Another laugh, this time muffled as the witcher got into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

Jaskier slid into the shotgun seat, doing up his seatbelt as Geralt disengaged the handbrake. As they drove off down the road, the witcher going slower that usual because of the black ice, Jaskier realised that he still needed some details.

“Err...are you bringing me back after the concert? Or am I walking?”

Geralt spared him a glance as he drew to a stop at some traffic lights. “I can drop you if you want. But if you want to walk...”

“No! No I do not want to walk.” Jaskier settled back in his seat. Perhaps now was the time to prepare. “Oh- um, if I stop talking to you, I’m not trying to be rude or anything...”

“You’re just saving your voice, I know.” Geralt pulled away from the lights, before swinging off down a road that lead to the park.

The pine trees drooped slightly under their blankets of snow, the lake frozen to an icy mirror of frosted glass. Winter perfection. Jaskier’s breath clouded about him as he drew a lung full of chill air.

He could see the great soundstage erected by the waterfront, it’s steel bones wound all about with christmas lights. The familiar bubbling of nerves and excitement rose up within him. It always preceded a performance.

Of course the moment couldn’t last forever.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” grumbled Geralt, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Jaskier shouldered his guitar case. He was all prepared for winter; clad in a cashmere sweater patterned with blue and silver snowflakes, flaring pants of deep indigo scattered with golden embroidery, high cowboy-style boots, and an elegant flaring coat of white.

Geralt had said this morning that the singer looked like walking christmas...

As usual, the witcher wore black, silver-studded leather. The only difference was the candy cane scarf about his neck. And his shirt...

“Who gave you that?” asked Jaskier with a laugh of delight.

“Hmmm?” Geralt looked confused for a moment, then sighed. “Ah. That would be Ciri.”

On his black sweater were drawn the words “I know what you’re thinking...and you should be ashamed of yourself” in flowing silver script.

“I cannot wait to meet your sister tonight,” said Jaskier with a grin.

Geralt sighed. He looked gloomy at the thought. “I’ll just keep hoping that she can’t make it then.”

“Scared we gang up on you?” teased the singer.

“Oh- I know you will.” Geralt barked a laugh, face relaxing into a smile. “We’ll see later, I suppose. Where are we going?”

“Well, I'm going backstage...” Jaskier hoisted his guitar case higher up onto his back. “You can go join the others.” He pointed to the crowd mingling at the base of the soundstage. Geralt winced.

“I’d prefer to keep my distance...”

“Riiiggghhtt...witcher ears.” Jaskier bit his lip. “Shit- sorry I dragged you along. I forgot...”

Geralt waved a hand. “I’ll be fine. Go- go do your thing. I’ll be there.”

Jaskier leaned up for a quick kiss, the witcher’s mouth warm on his. His heart gave a great wrench as he pulled away, already missing the contact. “Can we...y’know...get some coffee before we drive back?”

A mischievous twinkle sparked to life in those golden eyes. Sometimes the witcher was truly on the ball. “I don’t see why not.”

Jaskier threw a wave and a grin as he went careening down the snow-glazed path towards his musical christmas morning. Never did this season squander it’s magic.

...He almost loved it more than Geralt.

Why did doing the right thing always feel so wrong?

Lambert knew what he had to do. He stood there, half in the heavy oak doorframe, the heat of the fireplace at his back. He knew of the pain he was about to cause his younger brother. But it had to be done. For all their sakes.

"Vesemir," he said softly, rapping on the wall.

The old, white-haired witcher looked up from a mortar and pestle, no doubt busy grinding herbs to make more healing potions. He was shorter than most of the younger witchers, but had a stern stature about him that made him seem larger than he truly was.

"Lambert?" Vesemir frowned. He could tell, Lambert knew. He always knew when something was wrong.

Always.

"There's something you should know." Lambert forced his voice to remain soft. It wouldn't help for everyone else to overhear. "It's about Geralt. He's put us all in danger..."

“See the stars sparkle, oh so bright.

“Gleaming silver jewels in the depths of night.

“The wind a-singing a song, one of joy and good cheer.

“It’s that time of year again,

“Christmas is here. 

“Got the sun on my face, I haven’t a care.

“With this feeling inside, we can go anywhere.

“All merry and festive, all filled with good cheer.

“I’m just driving alone, down Candy Cane Road.

.

“Trees tangled with lights, in a rainbow glow.

“Scarves and rosy-red cheeks, wild laughter in the snow.

“I can see your reluctant smile, reflected in your eyes.

In a multitude of snowflakes,

Winter’s hold on you.

.

“With you beside me, I haven’t a care.

“With your hand in mine, we can go anywhere.

“Your eyes are a-gleaming with rare good cheer.

“You and I alone, here on Candy Cane Road.

“You and I alone, driving Candy Cane Road. 

.

“Oh, oh, here alone,

“On Candy Cane Road.”

.

Jaskier’s voice faded away into the brisk morning air. He drew a deep breath, trying to keep back his grin at the applause that thundered over the echoes from his still ringing guitar. Sweeping a hand before him, he sank into a dramatic bow. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen! Merry Christmas to you all!”

Voices in the crowd all chorused the same sentiment back at him, and Jaskier made his way to the back of the soundstage, pushing through the curtains, his guitar slung from his back.

The last thing he expected to find was Geralt standing beside the stage manager, a small smile on his face as he listened to the man’s idle chatter.

“Heelloooo?” Jaskier dragged his guitar case over to the two men and set about securing the instrument. “Have you been back here this whole time?”

“It’s not so loud back here. Heinrich was kind enough to let me hide behind the crates.” Geralt was giving Jaskier a searching look. “Did you write that?”

“What?”

“The song?”

“Oh. Yes.” Jaskier picked up his guitar case, buttoning up his coat with his spare hand. “Everyone who’s singing today wrote their own stuff.”

“Hmmmm,” rumbled the witcher. “You don’t sound so bad, Jask.”

“Why thank you!” Jaskier seized Geralt’s hand and tugged. “Can we go get coffee now? I’m freezing.”

“Yes, you demanding bard.”

“Singer.”

“Same thing.”

“It is not!"

They bickered all the way back to the car. It was only as Geralt was drawing into a parking spot beside the café that Jaskier sobered up. He squashed the grin trying madly to escape, and said casually, “Soooooooooooo...you’re okay now with this place’s design options?”

Geralt looked confused, then groaned. “Fuck, Jaskier.”

“Mwahaha!” The singer sprang from the car as the witcher tried to grab him. He danced a taunting jig on the sidewalk, ice crunching under his boots. “Admit it, Geralt! It’s rather funny.”

A snort was his only answer.

And so there they found themselves, back where they had started this crazy journey- outside at a table with the rainbow-print coffee cups.

All it took was one moment of eye contact and they burst out laughing.

“Fuck,” gasped the witcher, trying to speak over his amusement. “Destiny really is a beast!”

Jaskier was doubled over, his stomach aching from laughter. “Touché, Geralt," he wheezed through giggles. "Touché."

“What if she hates me?”

Geralt gave Jaskier an amused look. “Don’t give her an excuse to hate you.”

“You do realise this is me you’re talking to, right?” Jaskier eyed the raven-black door with some trepidation. “I seem to have an inborn talent for pissing people off. Haven’t quite figured out how to shut it off. Yet.”

"Well, they say there's no time like the present," said the witcher with a grin, before he rung the doorbell twice.

It was Triss who opened the door, her red curls frizzy from the cold. Her green jumper was slightly too big, and had Christmas trees embroidered all over it. She looked exceedingly festive this evening.

“Geralt!” She jumped for a hug, her arms barely reaching his broad shoulders. The witcher laughed and swung her around. She soon disentangled and seized the singer. “Hey, Jaskier.”

“Hey, Triss.”

“You’re the last people to arrive,” she said, holding the door open so they could duck inside. It was cosy and snug within, all Yennefer’s fireplaces going with dancing flames. Jaskier remembered Geralt mentioning that she hated the cold.

Triss led them down a long, wood panelled hall, and into a tasteful living room. Brick and wood walls; It was full of various worn looking leather couches and armchairs, the large, stone hearth snapping with a blazing fire. The kitchen counter was bedecked with a range of bottles and glasses, bowls of what must be snacks, and even a few boxes of games.

Though it didn’t take Jaskier long to notice that he had walked right into the middle of one.

Ciri was miming something in the centre of the room, bare feet silent on the red carpet. Jaskier couldn’t decide if she was hot-footing or climbing a ladder.

Neither could the two women by the counter, it seemed. One was Essi- she flung a wave at Jaskier before returning to her studying of Geralt’s sister.

The other was Yennefer. A petite beauty with a storm of raven hair, and cool violet eyes. She wore a black wool gown, a blanket slung over her shoulders.

“Cold, Yen?” Geralt gave her a tender hug, and she smiled faintly.

“Winter is the bane of my existence, Geralt. You know that.”

“Ladder?” Jaskier asked Ciri and she flung up her hands.

“Yes! Thank you! This lot is useless!"

A soft chuckle from the one couch drew the singer’s attention to the final member of the party.

Filavandrel lay under a thick knitted blanket, the pale hand atop the covers with two IV needles deep in his skin. His other arm pillowed his head that rested on a fat cushion, and Jaskier thought he could see a heart-monitor wire snaking in under his sweater. It was the ears though, that made the singer pause.

Slender, pointed arches spearing out from under the straw-colored hair.

Filavandrel gave him a tired smile. “Hello, Jaskier.”

“Hey.” The singer edged closer. “You okay?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” said the elf. Ciri slid to his side and took his slightly trembling hand in her own. She actually looked a lot like Geralt, despite not sharing the same blood. She looked the singer up and down.

“So you’re Jaskier.”

“At your service,” he said with a bow and a grin.

“I told you he was ridiculous,” whispered Filavandrel to Ciri.

“You what? Now hang on just a minute-"

Filavandrel burst out laughing, the hoarse rasp of it infectious. To his own amusement, Jaskier found himself joining in.

“If you really are so dramatic, you should do fine at charades,” said Ciri, handing him the dice and the cards. She gave him a grin, emerald eyes twinkling. “Show us what you’ve got.”

And that was how the entertainment progressed for over an hour. Everyone save Geralt and Filavandrel taking turns to attempt miming the most ridiculous things Jaskier had ever imagined. And seriously, who would be able to mime a cabbage? You’d have to be a shapeshifter to do most of these things.

Not that Jaskier was about to question the sanity of the game. He’s never been one to understand why people liked games that required contortion. He preferred one that relied on brain power and skill. Even cards were better than Charades...but he sighed inwardly, steeled himself, and went to work to depict a chicken.

Geralt laughed himself hoarse as he watched the escapades of his boyfriend, a rare red flush rising on the witcher’s cheeks from his exertions. “Fuck, Jask,” he gasped. “Chickens don’t move like that.”

“Fuck the chickens,” grumbled Jaskier to an uproar of laughter.

It was near eleven when Geralt finally shouldered his way through the heavy oaken doors of Kaer Morhen. The wind had come up, driving a thick veil of snow before it, and he had been forced to park the car inside the old garage, to prevent any unwanted freezing. Jaskier’s candy cane scarf had been left with its owner at Yens, and the witcher wondered what Jaskier would say to him when he noticed.

A small laugh escaped the white-haired witcher as he shook snow from his hair. The heat of Kaer Morhen’s fireplaces made the snowflakes vanish into little curls of mystical smoke.

He made his way up the small flight of black-marble stairs into the wooden entry hall, boots scuffing on the stone floor under him.

Kaer Morhen, the Novigrad Witcher’s Keep, had a rather old fashioned feel to it, with the rough cut stone, and unvarnished wood panels. Normally, coming back after a long day, Geralt felt himself relax.

That was hard when Vesemir was standing, beckoning at you with a cool look in his eyes.

“Geralt,” said the old witcher, from the door to the training room. “Come with me.”

“Why?” Geralt felt the telltale shudder along his arms that warned of danger. To his frustration, his wolf’s head medallion lay still under his shirt. What was going on?

“We need to talk.” Vesemir’s face was stone, but behind it shone a glimmer of what might even be anger. “About you and that singer.”

Chapter Text

"We can’t withstand much more of this! They’ve already taken Echel! If they take you, it’s all over!”

Isengrim Faoiltiarna spared the elf beside him a look before dragging him away, a chunk of rubble crashing down where they had been seconds ago. The sound of gunfire was sharp in the winter air. The leader of the Scoia’tael movement had tied his brown, wavy hair away from his face, displaying the hideous diagonal scar that slashed across his face, speckled with dirt and blood.

“If we retreat now-“

“If we retreat now, then we loose weeks of progress,” said Isengrim, ducking as a rogue bullet pinged off the stone near his head. “You see it too, Coinneach, we cannot.”

Coinneach Dá Reo tore a hand through his pale hair. A curse in Elder leaving his lips.

How long had it been now? Years? The human police force persecuting them for what they were. Elves had been caught and strung up here in Sodden City for their amusement. Until one day, one of them had snapped.

The Iron Wolf, he called himself.

Elves joined him to form a resistance, one dedicated to keeping one another alive. To keeping the humans off their backs. The war had been raging now for near on a year. The elves grimly holding their own.

“Besides, they don’t know my name.” Isengrim hauled a wounded elf up onto his shoulder, not caring as blood stained his neck.

“They know your scar, Isengrim,” said Coinneach, before rising to return fire over the fallen brickwork. A shout of pain declared that he had hit someone. But so had they.

Isengrim said nothing as Coinneach tore a strip from a heap of dusty fabric lying spilled across the ground, binding it tight about his arm. The blood seeped through almost instantly.

“Ysgarthiad!” spat the elf, leaning hard against the stone, the color already draining from his face.

(Shit!)

Isengrim laid the wounded elf back down and came to Coinneach’s side. The elf had slid down the brickwork, struggling to fight the glaze forming in his eyes.

“Enn ess het?” Isengrim brushed a hand over the sodden bandage, and Coinneach caught his hand, stilling it. His head fell back with a groan.

(What is it?)

“An stráede nare’e,” rasped the fallen elf, struggling to get back onto his feet. Blood was running in a river of gore down his arm, pooling on the gravel and dust at their feet.

(An artery wound)

“Hold fast, Coinneach,” Isengrim ducked more bullets, before returning fire over the stone with a vengeance. Several screams rang in his ears as he crouched back down beside his comrade. Coinneach had given up his struggles to regain his feet, and his breath had fast become a struggle. Isengrim could feel his chest heaving as he placed a hand on the fallen elf’s shirt.

“Aé did neén strasse aep marw a’taeghane...” choked Coinneach, his face paler than bone as he was slowly bled dry.

(I did not wish to die today)

“No one does, my friend,” said Isengrim softly, hating the helplessness crawling on his skin. “Rest. All you need...is rest.”

He watched as Coinneach’s eyes slid closed, was the breath in his chest stilled. As the blood continued to drip from the slightly curled hand.

Isengrim let his head fall onto his chest. Anger shaking his body in tremors that rolled like a stormy sea.

One day.

One day, he would bring an end to this.

One day the elves would once again look upon their hometown of Xin’trea.

“Damn you, elf!"

Echel Traighlethan let out a cough thick with blood as the steel rod struck his side once again.

His wrists were torn, blood wending it’s slow way down his arms, chained above his head. He was kneeling, head bowed as he fought to endure the pain in silence. The humans could never quite understand the loyalty the elves had for their leader. Why they never broke and gave him up.

Nor would they ever, Echel assumed. After all, loyalty was an elven thing.

The next strike caught him across the back, slamming into his spine with such force, that a gasp escaped him- emptying his lungs of air.

The captain in charge of his ‘interrogation’ crouched before him, taking his jaw in her hands. She raised his face to meet hers, a cold smile on her thin lips. “You won’t even tell us your name?”

Echel struggled to catch his breath, her fingers digging into his skin. He said nothing. He had taken an oath, after all. Never would he betray those he called brothers-in-arms.

She shook him a little, eyes narrowing dangerously. “The pain can get a whole lot worse, elf.”

It was not a threat, but a promise. He knew. Echel steeled himself as she gave the man a nod.

Thrice, in rapid succession, the rod struck his back. Unable to help it, Echel felt the cries of pain leaving him- his body screaming for him to stop this agony.

The blows only came harder and as Echel felt himself nearing blacking out, he felt something give out in his spine.

The agony drew a scream from his aching chest, body struggling as the man seized him to hold him still. Hard fingers stabbed at his back, sending shudders down his skin.

“We have a break,” said the rough voice.

Echel did not need that told to him. He could feel nothing- his legs were numb. His back on fire. Despair choked him as he realised that he would die here. Nothing to mark his end, no one to grieve for his passing. A chill gripped his heart. The end drew nearer and nearer. He knew.

The captain paced before him, her energy a storm of frustration now. “Where is the Iron Wolf? Damn you, elf, tell us!"

Echel spat blood at her feet, unsure if he was still alive. Could a body feel this much pain and live? He didn’t know.

The iron rod came again, striking his back, just below his neck. Echel was thrown forwards against his chains, blood now running from his nose. Gods, he wished it would end.

Not much longer.

“Esseath e’vinn te tearth,” he rasped.

(You are wasting your time)

The woman snarled. So she could understand Elder speech, could she? That was uncommon...

Echel weathered the pain that followed, knowing the end would come at long last.

He fought to remain strong, knowing that he had done his part.

That he had stood firm, never a thought of betrayal in his mind.

The resistance would continue for a while longer.

Isengrim Faoiltiarna was safe.

For now.

Chapter Text

Essi’s mouth always grew impossibly wide when she yawned. Jaskier often wondered if she was part Venus flytrap. “I think I am heading for home.” She rose to her feet with a languid stretch, such as one a cat would make. “Jask, do you want a lift?”    

Jaskier gazed up sleepily from Yennefer's exceedingly comfy armchair. The thought of moving made him want to whine, but he scrubbed a hand over his face and manfully gave it a go.

He was half out of the chair when Yennefer said, “You can stay, if you want. All of you- there’s enough bedding. Those two were already not planning to leave.” She gestured elegantly to Ciri, who was sat on a couch with Filavandrel’s head in her lap, fingers gently teasing through his hair. The elf seemed to be deeply asleep.

Essi let out a deep groan of thanks. “You’re an angel, Yennefer... you really don’t mind?”

“Not at all.”

“Hang on-,” Jaskier said slowly, feeling like his mind was stretched thin from fatigue. “How come Geralt didn’t stay?” Damn, he was so screwed. It had only been a hour and a half, and already he missed the witcher like he would miss a limb. It would have been ridiculous had he not felt that he needed said limb to feel whole.

Yennefer smiled. “Geralt’s a really shy kind of person. He doesn’t like intruding on anyone. He never stays over.”

Geralt- shy?

Now Jaskier had heard it all. Though, come to think of it, maybe the silences that came from the white-haired witcher weren’t thickheadedness. But rather tongue tying shyness?

God.

Whoops. 

I think I owe Geralt an apology...

And then the final blow:

Fuck. I really am an insensitive bastard.

“I don’t need to have ‘the talk’ with you, do I, Jaskier?”

He looked up sleepily. “Huh?” What was Yennefer referring to? What talk could possibly-

Oh.

OH.

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask you the same thing,” said Ciri from the sofa. “Fil has too, actually.”

“As have I,” added Triss.

Well, thought Jaskier. Thank god that the elf was asleep. He’d rather not have an attack from four sides. Three parties was quite enough for him at present, thank you very much.

“That’s funny,” mused Essi now, a devilish look in her large blue eyes. “Because I’ve been meaning to have a chat with Geralt about the same thing...”

“Essi,” groaned Jaskier, his cheeks coloring like a new rosebud. Sometimes she was just too much. Though said times were few, he’d admit, you knew when they had arrived.

“What?” She looked unfazed. “Geralt seems like a great guy, but I still have to do my duty.”

“Well said,” approved Triss, toasting her with a wineglass. Her red hair had become even more wild from the static blankets. It made her resemble a small tornado. Or perhaps one of those other things...what was it...firenados.

Yes, that was it.

Jaskier summoned all the remaining strength left to him and sat up, meeting Yennefer’s gaze with his own. “You can have ‘the talk’ with me if you want, but I don’t think it’s necessary. I’d never hurt Geralt.”

“Good.” She lay back and drew a nest of blankets up over her small form. “That’s settled then.”

Triss nodded her agreement. Ciri was still watching him curiously.

“Can I ask a possibly intrusive question, Jaskier?”

He shrugged nestling back into his warm knot of blankets. “Sure.” What was the worst she could do?

“Have you and Geralt kissed? He never tells me anything- he’s shit with details.”

Yennefer laughed. “True.”

The only sound of agreement from Triss was a soft snore. All Jaskier could see of her was that bush of red hair peeking out from under a thick duvet. Her feet, clad in penguin socks, were sticking out the other end, propped up on the couch’s armrest. He had to hold in a laugh at that.

Thinking it over, Jaskier decided that as intrusive questions went, it wasn’t that bad. Take what you can get, that sort of thing. So he nodded. “Yes. We have.”

Ciri giggled. “I’ve never seen my brother blush before, you know. Or smile that much. Unless he’s with us, I mean. He really likes you.”

A warm feeling, not unlike downing a mug of hot chocolate, grew in Jaskier. Now he was blushing. He knew- his ears felt warm. That was a telltale sign of the pink flush taking over his cheeks.

Huffing, he lay back down, a happy smile curling his lips.

"Do you realise what kind of danger you have put us in?”

Geralt said nothing as Vesemir turned to face him. He had been brought to the black-marble training room, the door bolted behind him. It made the wish to run shiver up his spine. Geralt hated being trapped inside places. He had had enough of that thanks to his father. It was hard, even now, to keep his hands from shaking as Vesemir turned that cold look on him for the first time.

Geralt hadn’t told his fellow witchers the full extent of what he had suffered at his parents’ hands. He didn’t think he’d ever tell anyone. This was why. He hated that people could cow him just by exploiting his weakness.

“Jaskier’s promised not to say anything to anyone,” he said, voice hoarse from worry.

“You know full well that we can’t trust humans,” snapped Vesemir. “Gods, they forget promises in the blink of an eye.”

Geralt flinched at the whip in the head witcher’s tone. Not all humans were bad...just because Vesemir had his grievances didn’t mean that they all did.

“Vesemir...”

“That’s enough!” snarled the old witcher.

Geralt fought it, he really tried, but the anger in those golden eyes... the rage in the curl of the lip...had him lowering his head and holding his tongue. Inwardly he seethed, berating himself for being so weak. No wonder your father walked all over you, sneered a little voice at the back of his mind. You can’t stand up to anyone.

Vesemir noticed all this, and yet, to Geralt’s shock, he continued to press his advantage. Something ugly and barbed coiled around his heart at that. A snarl of wire, twisting pain.

“You will stop seeing this singer, White Wolf.” The head witcher’s tone was hard and final. The sheer fury and command in it drove Geralt stumbling against the wall, not even trying to fight back. Vesemir advanced, and Geralt shuddered; trying to block out the phantom pain that flickered over his body everywhere that he had a scar from his father’s ministrations.

“Lambert!” shouted Vesemir, and in an instant the witcher was there. His bearded face closed off and unreadable.

Geralt saw it in his eyes, however. He had always been good at picking details from people. The betrayal stung, but he kept the pain to himself, snarling as his ‘brother’ edged closer to him.

“Stay away from me,” he spat.

Hurt flashed in Lambert’s eyes, but he halted, hands raised placatingly. “Geralt...”

Coën was the next into the training room, powerful arms lifting the wooden bar with ease to bolt the door again.

“Is it done?” Vesemir asked.

Coën nodded. He looked displeased over something, but said naught of it.

“Is what done?” demanded Geralt, breath spiking as the three of them exchanged a look loaded with things he didn’t want to even imagine. His pulse, normally four times slower than that of a human, picked up it’s pace. His pupils slit like a cat’s, a low rumbling growl starting in his throat.

“I called on the Chapter,” said Vesemir flatly. “Asking them to perform a memory wipe.”

Geralt seemed unable to get enough air into his lungs. Surely...surely, he had heard Vesemir wrong? He tried to back away, but Lambert and Coën suddenly had him by the arms, holding him as he struggled. “Gods, Vesemir, No! Please!”

No match for his older brothers’ strength, Geralt was forced to his knees, voice breaking as he pleaded to the old, white-haired witcher. Vesemir’s mouth was a thin line, eyes hard. He was as unmoving as the walls around them.

Shock had Geralt kneeling submissively in stunned silence. Voices faded to a blur. His breath coming in great shuddering heaves, almost like sobs.

What had made him think that he could have something like everyone else? That he could love and be loved in return. Destiny was showing him his hand now, fuck it. He had dared to want for something, and now he was to loose it again.

To loose Jask...the thought tore him up like knives. Not until this moment did he truly realise just how far he had fallen for the singer.

“Just relax, Geralt,” said Lambert softly. “It’ll all be over in a while.”

Then all Geralt could see was red. A mist that gathered on the edge of his vision, blurring his pounding heart and thrumming blood into a snarl of pure rage.

He tore himself free from his brothers, casting Aard deftly. His sword shimmered into sight, slung across his back, and it sung from its sheath just in time to knock Coën’s pole away from its intended trajectory: his head. Geralt spun back tightly on himself, weight poised on his right leg. He relaxed into a stillness that spoke of death, sword never wavering as he waited. Golden eyes blades of anger.

“Geralt,” said Vesemir, a warning deep in his tone. He halted Lambert with a hand on his arm. “Don’t do this. Be reasonable.”

“Fuck. You.” Geralt’s voice was a low rumbling thunderstorm. He bared his teeth, the slightly sharper canines catching the light.

Lambert whipped his arm forwards, a sharp hissing singing through the air. Geralt stumbled back with a cry as a burning pain erupted across his face, the knife carving a gash from the corner of his mouth to his hairline.

Half-blinded by the blood, his head spinning, Geralt heaved the bar from across the door and bolted out into the corridor. His face burned like hell, nausea rising like a vice in his throat.

His own brother.

Lambert had flung the knife.

He charged into his room, slamming and bolting the door behind him. His enhanced hearing could tell that they weren’t far behind.

Fuck.

Geralt pressed a shaking hand to his mouth, trying to choke off a sob. His chest heaved, eyes burning.

Not now.

Never again.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

His body shook, wracked by silent fits of sorrow.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Geralt hefted his steel sword off its hook by the fireplace, slinging it over his shoulders. With both blades a comforting weight between his shoulder blades, he hefted the small hardwood chest from his shelf. Inside, the vials clinked and rattled, whispering arcane secrets. He slid the chest into a leather bag, along with his phone, clothes and some other small things.

Then he broke the window.

When Jaskier ambled up to his front door on the following morning, the last thing he expected to see was Geralt’s bike parked in his driveway.

He also had not thought to find the witcher asleep under the baby willow tree that grew by the door.

Geralt’s white hair was tangled, pale face crusted with blood from a gash across the left of his face. He lay there- shivering in the snow, his black, silver-studded leather clothes rumpled and creased. Like he had been for a late-night tumble in a laundromat.

Anxiety made Jaskier’s breath short as he hurried to the prone form, dropping down beside it. “Geralt? Hey!” He shook him, hard. “Fuck, what happened to you? Geralt!"

A groan. Golden eyes fluttering open, confusion turning into a slow, bleary realisation. Geralt’s throat contracted as he swallowed, seemingly with some difficulty. His voice, when he at last managed to speak, was hoarse and raw. “...Jask?”

Jaskier’s slender fingers gingerly probed the slash on the witcher’s face. It would scar, but it wasn’t dangerously deep. He let out a soft sigh of relief. “You okay?”

“M’fine.” Geralt tried to sit up, but fell against Jaskier. His body was shaking in earnest now. “Just...cold.”

“Shit.” Jaskier stood, heaving on the larger man. “Okay, Geralt, I can’t do this without help. Get up. Come on.”

Soon enough, the witcher was standing, leaning heavily against the singer. Jaskier unlocked his front door, heaving his boyfriend inside. The witcher’s leather bag and swords went on the dining table with a clatter, and said witcher in question went on the sofa.

Again.

Geralt really was making a habit of this. 

“What happened?” asked Jaskier as he gathered a small flask of alcohol, a clean dishcloth, a small first aid kit, and a bowl of hot water. He struggled to keep his voice calm, but seeing Geralt in this state made him want to hit something.

Geralt squinted at him. “Hmm?”

“What happened?” Jaskier wet the dishcloth and gently pressed it to the bloody side of Geralt’s face. The witcher let out a weak hiss, but lay still. “You look like a butcher’s been at you with a fucking carving knife.”

“He w’sn’t pleased...” mumbled Geralt, wincing as the singer worked the wet fabric over his wound, coaxing the blood away from his chilled skin. “Got 'nto a fight...”

“With who?” demanded Jaskier, shocked.

“Vesemir,” said Geralt, mouth twisting into a tortured line. “He wanted me to leave you.”

“Oh.”

It came out small and hurt. Didn’t the witchers trust him? He never gave away people’s secrets. He shook himself as Geralt spoke again. His voice was growing clearer.

“Vesemir just doesn’t trust humans. Ciri, Eskel and I do.”

Jaskier set the cloth aside now, peering at the wound. It was neat save for the part bisecting Geralt’s pale grey eyebrow. “This might need a few stitches...” He gently cupped the witcher’s face with a hand, before letting a steady trickle of the alcohol run into the wound.

“Fuck!” coughed Geralt, teeth bared as the liquid no doubt burnt its way into his skin.

”Sorry!” Jaskier pressed a kiss to his boyfriend’s brow, then popped the lid of the medical kit and withdrew a roll of surgical thread and a small curved needle.

“You trust me to do this?”

Geralt gave a nod. “Hmm.”

“Oooookkkaaaayyyy then.”

Taking it slowly, Jaskier deftly set to work closing the gash. Thanking the gods that it had missed carving out Geralt’s eye. It took seven stitches in all. Three in his cheek, and four through his eyebrow.

Then Jaskier stirred up some coffee with cream and whiskey. Geralt made no complaints, just drank the scalding brew, hands shaking on the mug. Jaskier said nothing. He knew that Geralt would talk in his own time. He sank down beside the witcher, watching the snow idly falling outside. It was a grey morning- dreary after the cheer of yesterday’s Christmas festivities.

“They were going to erase my mind.”

Jaskier spun at the low rumble that he loved so well, shock and horror on his face. “Please tell me you’re joking. Erase it of what?"

“You.”

Jaskier spluttered, a flush appearing on his cheeks. Now he really wanted to hit something. “Hang on- you got home last night to that bombshell?”

“Hmm,” agreed Geralt, leaning back against the sofa. “They tried to stop me...”

“What did you do?”

“Broke a window.”

Jaskier laughed, pulling Geralt into a hug. “Fuck, witcher... remind me never to mess with you.”

“I don’t mind you messing with me,” mumbled Geralt into Jaskier’s coat.

The singer ran a hand through the tangled white hair, smiling. God, he was hopelessly in love with this man.

“Love you too,” said the witcher, startling the singer.

“How...what the fuck?” Jaskier pulled back, squinting at Geralt. The golden eyes looked back, confused. “Can you read minds?”

“No.” Geralt looked baffled.

“So how...what...?”

“Guessed,” said the witcher smugly. “Was I right?”

“Hmm.” Jaskier hugged him again, grinning.

“Use your words, Jaskier.”

“Oh, shut up.”

A comfortable silence fell over them, and Jaskier tugged the knit blanket up over their forms. Novigrad winters were nasty. Especially in the weeks following Christmas. The singer let his mind wander, then frowned. “Geralt...what now? You can’t think I’m going to let you run off to sleep under a bridge.”

“Who said anything about a bridge, Jask?” Geralt looked amused. “Look, I’ll be fine. I’ll find a place-“

“You most certainly will not,” said Jaskier in a tone of blatant finality. “You’re staying here. With me. No arguments.”

Geralt chuckled, his voice back to its rich rumble. “Jask...”

“No arguments.”

“Dimeritium doesn’t work on witchers!” insisted Schirrú. The half-elf’s large green and gold veined eyes were full of derision, his dark hair tied back out of his face.

“Try not to believe all that you read, Schirrú.” Rience trailed his fingers along the steel bars, etching arcane symbols into the steel. A glowing net of eerie flame. The sorcerer’s clean-shaven face was creased in an unsettling half-smile.

“Witcher signs aren’t like your spells,” snapped Schirrú, though the half-elf flinched as the sorcerer snapped his fingers at him.

“Cool your tongue, varh*." The sorcerer waited, no doubt wanting to see if Schirrú still wanted to fight.

The half-breed remained silent.

Brehen watched them bicker, saying nothing. It mattered not what they thought. Only that the plan came together when the time was right. A faint smile curled the man’s lips.

His time was near.

The White Wolf had left Kaer Morhen.

There was no one to protect him now.

Chapter Text

The cold mornings of Novigrad truly became a source of glum depression as they dragged on. The bone-shaking chill, the sly black ice on the roads- always there to trip you up. The dead grey that seemed to haunt the sky as the night bled in during the hours of twilight. The city was a graveyard given form. The buildings great stolid headstones looming from the silent murk.

Inside Jaskier's one-story home, it was another world. One of color and laughter, warmth and love. The living room was Geralt's favorite; with its creamy walls, thick woolen rugs, and small, cheery fireplace. There was a sense of timeless youth about the place. The thought that despair and broken things had never dared set foot within.

Until now, that is.

Geralt was aware of all his jagged, broken pieces. The papercuts on his bruised soul. There were times when he wondered what Jaskier was doing with a mess like him. Sure, the witcher hid it well...but he had the feeling that Jaskier saw right through his walls. That the singer cared. Truly cared.

Jaskier never prodded. And as the days became weeks, they settled into each other's company with a newfound bond. It was not just the love between them; there was trust and understandings there too.

Jaskier shared a bit of his childhood with Geralt, telling tales of the farm he had been raised on outside Redania. How he and his family had fled the war when he was ten. He said that his parents had returned after- homesick for the place if their birth. When the singer had expressed his wish to remain in Novigrad, they had helped him buy the house, wishing him the best of luck.

Geralt had felt a bit wistful, seeing the affection in his boyfriend's eyes when he mentioned his parents.

The witcher, in turn, broached the subject of his past torments- abridging it liberally. It was enough to put both himself and Jaskier in tears. Those evenings, they lay curled together on the large couch under blankets, Jaskier holding him as Geralt fought the choking sobs threatening to tear him apart; Watching the snow fall past, outside the round windows.

Geralt found that he enjoyed listening to Jaskier composing and strumming his guitar, despite not being much of a musical person. Though he was quick to tease when the songs turned romantic.

Jaskier's usual response to the jibes was to tell the witcher to piss off.

"I'm thinking of writing a ballad..." mused Jaskier one afternoon, head tucked under the witcher's chin. They were watching a fantasy show; something with dragons and swords, the fire in the hearth a stark contrast to the raging blizzard outside.

Geralt frowned, turning to look down at the singer. The forget-me-not blue eyes were thoughtful. "About what?"

"No idea." Jaskier licked the chocolate from his fingers, pulling the duvet up from where it had slipped off them. "Something sprawling and dramatic."

"Hmm," grunted the white-haired witcher. There was always cause for some concern when the songwriting bug took the singer. He had a good voice, yes. But some if his past lyrics had been atrocious. "Why the sudden urge for a ballad?"

"I'm still angry with your fellow witchers, and I need to do something with it."

Geralt smiled a little. The gash in his face had healed, leaving a thick silver scar. The warmth of Jaskier's care sat purring in his chest. What would he do without this man? The idea was enough to make him feel bleak.

"Winter is coming!" intoned Jaskier in a mysterious voice along with the character on screen; before he turned the TV down, procuring a sheet of wrinkled ivory paper from thin air, and a sparkly pencil stubbled with teeth marks. "Help?"

Geralt snorted. "Bad idea. I can't sing, and my writing is shit."

Jaskier rolled his eyes, before nibbling on the pencil. The witcher's arm was about his shoulders, the warmth of the singer making Geralt feel comfortably sleepy. He made an effort to stay awake, reading the verse as Jaskier wrote.

Its been a long time travelling, on a road that leads to nowhere.

With hopes and dreams that always rot.

Sometimes it takes a prison cell, the tricks and tales that traitors tell...

To help you see that freedom is all you've got.

If I had to do it over, I'd do it all again.

The wind don't cower to powerful men.

So, lock me up and sock me up and throw away the key.

Go fuck yourself you whoreson, 'cause you're through fucking with me.

It was the only time that Geralt had heard the song as clearly as Jaskier. The singer held out the pencil, apparently aware of it; eyes full of warmth, understanding...even anger on Geralt's part. The witcher pointed the writing implement at Jaskier, rumbling voice low. "If you ever tell anyone I helped with this..."

"Never," swore Jaskier with an indulgent smile. "It's our secret."

You learn they more you live, they say,

Don't settle for your lot.

Opinions are like arseholes, which everybody's got.

"Why do you need this?" asked Geralt later, listening to Jaskier trying out chords on his guitar. "The new song, I mean."

"I'm performing at The Angel's Well tomorrow night," said the singer, tightening a tuning peg with a set of worn old pliers. "You...you're welcome to come along, you know."

The heat was going to make his heart combust one day, Geralt knew. Flashes of his gravestone reading "died of love," clattered about in his mind.

How much love and warmth could a body take? "You sure you want me there?"

"Oh, you foolish witcher," said Jaskier softly, coming to stand before Geralt. His narrow arms curled around the larger man, mouth finding Geralt's for a smouldering kiss. His voice, when it came was a soft whisper against the white-haired witcher's lips:

"I'll always want you."

"No."

"Geralt-"

Geralt scowled. The past hour had been running along the same rail of conversation. Back and forth and then all over again. He still remained stubborn. "No."

"Geeeerrrraaaalllltttt!" whined the singer, doing a dramatic sprawl back onto his bed, flinging his arms wide. The heap of clothing flung at the rug. "I refuse to take my underdressed boyfriend out to my gig until he surrenders!"

"You'll miss your gig then," rumbled the witcher, contemplating the ridiculousness of his situation. "I didn't ask you to go find me a costume."

"It's not a costume." Jaskier closed his eyes with a huff. Geralt wondered if he was perhaps counting to ten silently. It was a deeply endearing thought. "Look...The Angel's Well is a bit...fancy...they have a dress code."

Geralt sighed. He was getting that damn look of "please?" from the singer's large eyes. "Fuck, Jaskier," he grunted. "Fine. Give it here."

"Thank you!" cheered the younger man, springing off the bed. He shoved the witcher into the bathroom grinning like a maniac. "Don't take too long! You wasted time arguing!"

"Bullshit," said Geralt with a snort, before closing the door in the singer's face. He heard the feet leap back, a yelp accompanying the hasty retreat.

"Geralt! Just fucking break my nose, why don't you!"

Chuckling, the white-haired witcher shrugged of his silver-studded jacket, before getting down to business.

Jaskier had style, he had to admit. Not that he'd ever tell the fop that. He would never let it go. But the black button-up polo shirt, decorated in subtle golden embroidery at the sleeves and neck, was actually rather comfortable. This was matched with black trousers that had gold-dusted hems. The coat set to complete the ensemble was a dark, dusky grey, sewn of a soft, supple leather. The inside was lined with a thin layer of snug sheep's wool. Stylish yet rugged.

Well...Jaskier was never getting the coat back if Geralt had anything to say about it. He found an unused hairbrush and set to work on his white hair, teasing out the tangles until it lay in soft waves down his back.

Seeing as the shirt left his scarred arms bare to the chill, Geralt shrugged the coat on, knowing it was probably going to be far to hot in the bar anyhow. It reached his knees, flaring as he drew the door open to leave the bathroom. Damn Jaskier and his sense of drama.

"Well now!" said the singer. "That wasn't so bad, was...shit."

Geralt watched Jaskier's face go pink, eyes wide as he looked the witcher up and down. "Fuck."

"I think your vocabulary shrank." Geralt raised an eyebrow. "You alright?"

"Yeah..." Jaskier rubbed the bridge of his nose with those slender fingers. "It's just...you look great. I'm glad I got to see you out of witcher clothes at least once."

"You're not looking so bad yourself," muttered the witcher, suddenly feeling rather...shy.

Jaskier flushed as red as his jacket: A deep crimson, the leather patterned to look like golden-edged dragon scales. It was fine craftsmanship, the witcher admitted to himself. The singer's shirt was a dusty gold, his pants flaring black; feet clad in those worn brown leather boots. "Thanks."

"Hmm."

They watched each other for a moment, before Jaskier blurted. "I- um...I think I owe you an apology..." He itched at the nape of his neck, wincing at whatever he was gearing to say.

"Forget it." Geralt knew what was coming. Sometimes reading people was a big help. He tried to hold back his smile, golden eyes full of mirth. "Most people make the same mistake."

"Oh?" Jaskier peered at the taller man. "You know nothing of what I was going to say."

Geralt took the step that placed him chest to chest with Jaskier. "You wanted to apologize," he rumbled, "for thinking my shyness was general stupidity."

"Fuck," breathed Jaskier. "You really are good at that."

Geralt rested his brow against that of the younger man, smiling as Jaskier's arms looped about his neck. Their breath mingled, the warmth making the witcher dizzy; almost as though Jaskier was a potent wine. They kissed softly, the move tender and full of care. A small spark on the dreary winter's night. Geralt couldn't help the low groan that escaped his throat as Jaskier deepened the kiss, backing him up against the baby-blue painted wall. He felt Jaskier's hands knotting in his hair, drawing him closer, and Geralt let him; hopelessly lost in the taste and scent of the singer.

The strength of his legs was beginning to come into question when Jaskier broke away with a ragged breath, mouth still hovering by Geralt's. "Stay with me," he murmured, a plea in his voice.

"I am staying with you," gasped the witcher in confusion, distracted as the singer pressed another desperate, burning kiss to his lips.

"I meant in here. With me. Tonight."

Geralt felt himself weakening, the thought of waking to Jaskier's head pillowed on his shoulder, the slender man curled by his side...

"Jask..."

"Please," whispered the singer, fingers running down Geralt's neck. The witcher shuddered, the heat in his chest pounding in time to his heart. He swallowed the ache in his throat, nodding.

"Alright." His voice broke, and he drew Jaskier into a tight embrace, still hardly able to believe that this wonderful man had chosen him. "Alright."

"Her current is pulling you closer,

A charge in the hot, humid night.

The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool,

Better stay out of sight.

I'm weak my love, and I am wanting,

If this is the path I must trudge.

I'll welcome my sentence, give to you my penance,

Garrotter, Jury, and Judge.

"But the story is this:

She'll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss, ooh-oh.

But the story is this:

She'll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss, ooh-oh.

But the story is this:

She'll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss, ooh-oh.

But the story is this:

She'll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss, ooh-oh.

The story is this:

She'll destroy with her sweet kiss..."

"What happened to your rowdy ballad?" Geralt teased as Jaskier knocked back a tall glass of apple juice. The Angel's Well was chock-full of people, the elegant tables all taken up by clamouring patrons. It had style, with its varnished wood railings and floors. The old-style cobblestone walls hung with paintings and banners. Much to Geralt's surprise, even with fireplaces roaring, it was nowhere near hot enough to take his coat off- which was fine by him.

"I'm waiting for them to all get drunk," replied Jaskier, raising his voice over the hubbub. He grinned. "They'll want something rude later on. A good vent does wonders for the soul."

Geralt laughed into his ale, coughing a bit as it went the wrong way. They were leaning on the bar over in a corner, observing the diners and drinkers at their exploits. The singer was leaning against the witcher, one of Geralt's arms slung about his shoulders.

"Somehow, you always manage to top your last performance, Jaskier." The bartender had come up to them, silently. She was a slender, elegant woman. Her long hair wavy and thick- a hue of dark auburn. Geralt took in her large, sky-blue eyes; fluid, dancer-like walk, and fluttering fingers. An elf. He could tell, though, that Jaskier had no idea.

"Hey, Enid."

Enid embraced him, before turning to look up at Geralt. "A witcher? Well, Jaskier, you are full of surprises. I'm assuming he knows what you are?" she asked Geralt, who nodded. "You must be Geralt then. You might know my one friend, Filavandrel."

"Yes. I've known him a long time." Geralt studied her. Memory clicked, like a clock racing to finish an hour. Filavandrel had mentioned this elf maid. "Francesca Findabar."

She laughed. "I'm impressed, White Wolf." She gave Jaskier a suggestive look before darting back to the bar, scooping up glasses on her way.

Jaskier huffed. "She's an elf, isn't she? Can't think of any other explanation for Filavandrel having his foot in it."

"She is." Geralt glanced at the room. "They're calling for music- you should probably go."

Jaskier's new ballad, lovingly dubbed 'Whoreson Prison Blues' was an instant crowd pleaser. Even Geralt felt a little smile quirking his lip at the lyrics. The passion Jaskier put into his singing was like a net- ensnaring you with his talent and dedication. He got the crowd singing along, had them laughing, waving beer mugs and toasting. It was quite the performance.

Geralt told him as much as they trudged home under lurid yellow streetlights, boots crunching the black ice underfoot. It had glazed the footpaths, and more than once Geralt had to catch Jaskier as the singer's feet went skidding out from under him. The streets were silent, the stars faint points of silver overhead in the velvet night. It felt like the bones of Novigrad City were on display for just the two of them. A private exhibition of silence and cold. Their breaths clouded the air before their faces, cheeks stinging from the chill of the night air.

"Sometimes I miss summer," said Jaskier, hands shoved inside his pockets. The singer's tousled hazel locks were specked with scattered snowflakes, the white powder beginning to float down from the gloom of clouds overhead- racing to block out the stars.

Geralt huffed in reply as they trudged up the driveway to Jaskier's front door. They had barely made it inside and closed the door when Jaskier's mouth was on Geralt's; his kiss deep and full of urgency.

A deep growl rumbled in the witcher's chest, sending a visible shiver over the singer's skin. Jaskier broke off, darting a glance into Geralt's golden eyes.

"You're still okay with this?" he asked.

Geralt brushed a kiss to Jaskier's nose, his body smouldering with the feeling of being so close to this caring young man. He really was in out of his depth.

That didn't change the fact that he needed Jaskier the way a body needs air.

"Yes," he murmured. "For you, Jask, it's always yes."

"Good." Jaskier kissed the witcher until he gasped for air, unwilling to pull away. He still wasn't quite sure afterwards how they had managed to find their way to Jaskier's room. When at last they had, the singer toppled Geralt with a leg behind his knees. The witcher ended up with the younger man under him, slender hands running up his back to fist in his hair. Geralt kissed his way down the pale column of Jaskier's throat and the singer's breath hitched, hands tightening almost painfully in the white hair.

"Fuck, Geralt."

The witcher let out a low chuckle against the singer's collarbone, before his mouth was found once again by Jaskier.

Outside, the snow continued to fall in a veil of winter gloom. The chill couldn't hurt them now. Neither of them could feel it; their hearts warm with love.

The spark of two souls meant to meet...

...of destiny playing the cards.

Chapter Text

Two months later,

Spring

"... the president of Sodden has finally called for a ceasefire. All elves within the city are free to leave, should that be their wish. The Iron Wolf has been given three days to vacate the grounds of Sodden and its surrounds, his return being on pain of death. Police Chief Raelin Snow says that he will be barred from all cities under the Union of The Red Flags- including Redania, Sodden, Skellige, and Kaedwen.

In other news, the Monarchy of Redania has issued a new edict in trade-"

Filavandrel turned the TV off, his face lined with tiredness. "There you have it," he said hoarsely. "The Iron Wolf nearly beat the humans...now they're backing off to lick their wounds."

"True." Geralt heaved a sigh, leaning back on the couch, one arm behind his head. "They've always been cowards, though. Those little shits of Sodden most of all."

Jaskier looked up from his seat on the edge of his coffee table, a pen in hand. They were all congregated in Jaskier's living room, planning a long overdue road trip. Essi and Triss continued scribbling on the gigantic map, unaware of his infidelity. "I didn't know you've been to Sodden, Geralt."

Geralt shrugged, discomfort crawling up his spine. "My father had a job in Sodden...before we moved here. I was nine." He knew he sounded flat and short of temper, but speaking of his parents always made him feel so.

Yennefer gave him a sympathetic look from her electric violet eyes. She knew. Yennefer knew most things when it came to the witcher. Geralt trusted her with his life. She knew how he had suffered at the hands of his father. Of the abuse he had taken from his mother. She knew things he would never tell anyone else...ever.

...though maybe he could tell Jaskier...

"We'll want to avoid Sodden, I think..." said Triss, carving a solid line on the map with her sparkly blue pen. "The N-9 takes us right past it. And straight down the cost to Xin'trea. Should be about...hmm...seven hours' drive? Maybe six, if Geralt's the one driving."

"Are you implying I speed, Triss?" rumbled the witcher, golden eyes glinting with amusement. Perhaps he did...a little.

"You do. Sometimes." She grinned at him before going back to her scouting.

"I've never been to Xin'trea," said Jaskier. Geralt could sense the excitement radiating off him. "What's it like?"

"Old." Yennefer tugged at the sleeves of her cashmere knit sweater, plucking a thread loose. She tilted her head, a wistful smile on her face. "Old, and lovely."

"Does Istredd know we're coming?" asked Geralt carefully. He could never keep track of Yennefer and Istredd's on again/off again relationship. For all he knew, they'd had a fight again and weren't speaking to each other.

Again.

The raven-haired sorceress nodded; and that was all he got. The witcher let it drop. It wasn't any of his business after all.

Ciri entered from the direction of the kitchen, gulping down a mug of hot chocolate. She sank down beside Geralt, her lithe body warm- scent so achingly familiar. It reminded him of Kaer Morhen. Of the wooden halls... the wolf's head banners draped in the upper halls. The warmth of the fires. How they had all laughed, playing cards and drinking together as the snow fell outside.

The sense of belonging.

He missed them; Vesemir and his brothers. It was a painful snarl of wire tangled about his heart.

His second family to have been broken.

To betray him.

He really had shitty luck.

Most of the time, he could force the goddamn thoughts from his head. Could ignore the blatant pit torn open in his heart. Could keep the puzzle pieces better aligned. He could pretend to be alright...and almost make himself believe it.

That he was okay.

Normal.

Fucking far cry from normal.

The familiar burn of weakness seared in his throat, and Geralt clenched his jaw, fighting with all his strength.

No.

Not now.

Please, not now.

Usually he did so well keeping this all back. Locking it away so he could enjoy his life. He should have known that scars like his never faded. He should have known better.

He lowered his head, his white hair falling like a veil to cover his face. Anger at his sorrow contorted his face, the sobs struggling to tear free from their cage.

Fuck it.

NO.

He drew a shuddering breath, shoulder tense; trembling from the strain. Ciri said nothing, only slid an arm about them- pressing her cheek to his chest.

When Ciri had first met Geralt, she had been more than a little afraid of him.

Justly so. After all...it was a dark winter's night...she had just escaped being raped, and her skinny fingers were covered in blood.

She wondered if the fucker still had his eyes, or if she had managed to ruin them. She hoped that she'd got them. Popped the damn blinkers like two swollen grapes.

Stumbling into Vesemir outside the looming black marble of Kaer Morhen, she had recoiled at first from the old man. Not because of his golden eyes, but simply because he was a man. He was a man and she was a young woman.

His kindness had helped.

He had helped her inside- hands warm and gentle on her shoulders- to warm dancing fireplaces and wood paneled walls. The swords and sigils hung on the hooks in the sitting room had not really bothered her.

It had been the young man standing by the hearth.

Tall, muscular, with a rough, handsome face and unreadable eyes of molten gold- just like Vesemir, his hair white like bone.

Her heart had given a little lurch within her chest. Shrinking back into the kindly older man, breath ragged. Her body ached. Her fingers were gummy with drying blood, her face scratched- arms mottled with bruises.

Then the younger man's face had softened into concern, and he stepped forward in time to catch her as her legs finally gave way underneath her. Effortlessly, he swung her up into his arms, holding her as carefully as one would his own sister. "Are you alright?"

His voice had made her start; a deep, bass rumble, the sound vibrating in her bones. It was almost soothing. Ciri laid her hand on his broad chest, feeling a slow but powerful heart striking a gong behind his ribs. It was peculiar, how much slower than hers it was.

"I think I'm okay now..." she had mumbled.

He had smiled faintly, glancing at the older man who nodded.

"Take her upstairs, Geralt. Help her get clean and warm. I'll get Eskel to sort dinner."

The young man, Geralt, had shouldered the door open, holding her snug against his chest. He was clad all in black, with his muscular arms bare. They were covered by pale scars- a map of hardship. It had made Ciri wonder what had given him them. She felt the fear return, seeping under her skin.

Geralt seemed to notice. "You're safe here." His rumbling voice was soft, as were his eyes. "No one will hurt you. I promise."

And from then on, she was their sister. No questions asked.

She had a family.

Brothers.

A father.

A home.

A life.

At first, Geralt had come across as kind, but stony. Distant. Only animated when he was doing his job as a witcher. It took her quite some time before she dared to try and break through the ice to what she had been sure was lying hidden beneath. She couldn't believe him to be an emotionless man. And though she never saw them; she knew they were there.

And how right she had been.

Geralt may throw up a corse-humoured, hard-faced front...but in truth the witcher was achingly shy, big-hearted, and full of laughter.

...and sadness.

Geralt tried to hide it, but he was a mess. Sometimes, the front was all that was keeping him together. He never cried- or if he did, Ciri had never seen him do so. But she saw the damaged, jagged pieces floating in his molten gold eyes. Heard it on those rare days where his low, rich voice shook and broke.

All thanks to his fucking parents.

So all she could do was wrap an arm about her sweet, hurt brother and whisper in his ear.

"I'm here."

And then Jaskier was there too. Thank the gods for the singer. Truly, Ciri didn't know what had happened for the stars to align so fucking perfectly, but they had. And here he was. The kind young man who accepted her brother for all that he was, broken puzzles and all.

He crouched by the witcher's knee, forget-me-not blue eyes full of concern. He said nothing, just laid his hand on Geralt's knee and squeezed gently. The witcher's calloused fingers laced with them, Geralt's head falling against Ciri's shoulder, his breath warm on her collar.

Triss and Yennefer spoke to each other about the road trip, not looking to the huddle; giving them space, and for that, Ciri was grateful.

Her emerald eyes strayed to Filavandrel, lying on the sofa by the window. The elf had fallen into slumber, the hand speared by IV needles dangling down the side of the couch to brush the thick carpet. His narrow lips were slightly parted, eyes under-ringed by shadows. The wire for the heart-monitor snaked out from under the collar of his shirt. Both it and the IV needles connected to the portable electronic box tucked away behind the couch.

A fist grasped viciously at Ciri's heart, her chest aching.

Another bad day.

It was fucking unfair, but she'd be damned if she was going to waste a single moment of it. Filavandrel was hers, and she was his.

End of story.

Geralt heaved a deep breath, his body finally stilling. She gave him a moment to put himself back together, rising to cross to Filavandrel's couch. Gently, she took his hanging arm and laid it across his chest. It wouldn't do for him to accidentally tear the needles from his skin. The elf let out a faint murmur, head lolling to the side. He snuffled before stilling again. Ciri bent to place a kiss to his forehead, smiling to herself.

"There!" said Triss proudly, turning the map so they could all see. Geralt squinted at the hard blue pen lines, tracking them with his eyes. He gave a slow nod.

"Where do we get the car?" The witcher stood, stretching. Fishing his grey leather coat up from the couch's armrest, he shrugged it on. It was the one Jaskier had given him, dusky dark, with a wool lining. The singer had good taste, Ciri had to admit.

"My cousin's lending me his van," said Triss, rubbing her hands together in glee. "Voila! We have transport."

"I think..." began Yennefer.

"Therefore I am," quipped Geralt.

She gave him a disparaging look, trying to hide her smile. "We should start on our way come next week. The weather's still mild...but Xin'trea has the spring festival in two weeks time...I'd hate to miss that."

"Is there singing at the festival?" Jaskier hopped up onto the couch, face alight with excitement.

"Plenty. Bring a guitar, bard."

"Singer." He glanced at Geralt. The white-haired witcher was heading for the door. "Going somewhere?"

"Just need some air." Geralt smiled softly. "I'll be fine."

It took Geralt all of five minutes before he knew for certain that he was being followed.

His silver wolf's head medallion hummed softly against his neck, skin prickling with the feel of unwelcome eyes. Though when he turned, there was no one there.

A witcher's premonitions were seldom wrong, he knew. They had all got the lecture from Vesemir on never to ignore it. It was that shiver of danger...a breath of foreboding. The slight cant to the world that set everything on the finest edge.

That bend in reality that screamed watch your back!

Geralt felt his hackles rise, the skin of his arms prickling with a strange current of nervous energy. His medallion hummed again, vibrating against his chest.

Why the fuck had he decided to go walking now?

It was the late hour of gloaming- the strange time between light and dark. That some called twilight. A hour when the streets of Novigrad sprawled empty like a network of diseased veins. Even in spring, the air was humming with the bite of frost. Winter was a stubborn bastard at this point in the year. Almost like a drowner, if Geralt had to admit- it sunk in its claws and refused to let go.

Now, the white-haired witcher quickened his stride, turning off down the street that would help him veer back toward Jaskier's house. Perhaps his senses were playing tricks on him...his premonition an old, broken record playing the same verse- unable to move on.

There was a young man waiting at the corner of the next street. Slender, long hair pulled back from his face, his large green and gold eyes giving him away as a half-elf. Geralt slowed; he seemed to be darting quick nervous glances about him. Mouth set in a rictus of what might be fear. There was a sticky graze on his cheek, a faint tracery of a bruise just beginning to darken beneath his eye.

He jumped when the witcher halted beside him, flinching away. Geralt felt his medallion still, the humming leaving his nerves. Slowly, he spread his hands, trying to show he was not a threat.

"Are you alright?" he rumbled softly.

He really should stop making a habit of this. He was no knight in shining armor. No savior on a noble white steed.

The half-elf shrank away, glancing anxiously back in the direction Geralt had come. "I...I'm fine. I think...I think I lost them."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. No...I think...I think I'll be alright now. Thank you."

Geralt wanted to nod. But it was then that his medallion set up such a powerful shudder that all he could do was spin back on his heel and dive out of the way as a vortex of blue energy struck the stones, right where he had been standing a moment ago.

Geralt was up on his feet again faster than he had ever moved in his life. Without glancing back, he tore away down the nearest road, pupils widening in the dimming lights.

He barely made it to the end of the block before his legs were ripped out from underneath him. Geralt fell, brought down seven houses away from the safety of Jaskier's- striking the cobbles hard, skinning his palms. Instinctively his free hand raised, forming the sign of Igni, but a blow to his temple had him shouting in pain- the world splitting off into numerous fractals, each a smaller fragment than the last.

"Fuck!"

When the spinning kaleidoscope finally righted itself, and Geralt felt the cold bite of steel on his wrists; held firm behind him, he knew.

He knew who had come to finish his hunt.

Brehen had never been one to leave a victim alone for long. He finished what he started.

Fear ripped into Geralt's chest, his throat contracting painfully as he swallowed. Two held him down; the half-elf and a clean shaven man with long dark hair and a cruel face. A sorcerer... Geralt's medallion told him as much. It was trembling, same as his body.

Brehen was kneeling by the downed witcher's head, crooked mouth a smile that could slice steel. How well Geralt remembered those dark, soul-eating eyes. The hair a strange blonde- more grey than gold. The cruel set to his face...the hard fingers that could cause so much pain.

It was those fingers now that clapped the sodden cloth over the witcher's nose and mouth, other hand twisting in the white hair.

"Hello, Geralt," said the man softly. His mouth was thin and pale, just like the rest of him. "I had wondered when I would be seeing you again." He only smiled wider at the desperate choke that left Geralt, as the witcher tried to jerk away from the chloroform seeping into his airway. He tightened his grip. "Just relax, White Wolf..." Brehen's smile was cold and cruel, his hands digging like claws into Geralt's face- hard enough to tease blood from the crescent moon gouges.

Geralt let out a weak snarl as he felt his consciousness begin to spiral away into darkness, body jerking in vain as the drug clouded his lungs. He couldn't breathe! The fingers pinning the sodden cloth to his face were rods of iron- the sickly sweet scent clogging his throat. Geralt thrashed weakly, knowing that if he gave up now, it was all over...but his body was debating to respond. He could feel the fog drifting serenely through his limbs, an unwelcome grasp of phantom chains.

And through it all, the faraway tug of Brehen's calloused hand stroking through his hair, a sick reflection of a soothing touch. Bile struck the back of Geralt's throat, ringing with the sour taste. But he couldn't fight anymore. He could hardly breathe past the sweet poison gagging his lungs.

The world was spinning slowly away, growing fainter as his heart thundered in his ears. Was this what dying felt like?

The last thing the witcher heard was Brehen's voice, softened into a sneer.

"Relax..."

Chapter Text

Day One:

It began when Geralt never came home from his walk.  

Jaskier had woken up to a chorus of chaffinches twittering a early sonnet in the tree outside his window, to realise that Geralt wasn’t lying beside him with his soft snoring. A chill stole over Jaskier’s arms that he attributed to the crisp spring morning, though in his deepest heart he was uneasy. Perhaps Geralt had stayed overnight with one of the others? Perhaps he was still out wandering.   

The witcher had done that once or twice before.

It could be that.

Probably.

Though after a few gut-clenching bites of apple for breakfast and a heap of anxious phone calls to everyone he knew, Jaskier was forced to concede that something was gravely wrong. He called Geralt, trying to keep his voice calm as he muttered to himself. “Come on. Come on. Fucking pick up, Geralt!”

His only response:

“This is Geralt. Please leave your name and number and I’ll try and get back to you when I have time.”

The beep and Jaskier blurted a string of words that he could hardly attest to making any logical sense. He hoped feverishly that the witcher would hear the panic in his tone and at least have the decency to call back once he got the voice message.

“Fuck. Fuck!” he shouted, raking a hand through his hair, messing it up even more than it had been before his administrations. Biting his lip, Jaskier sat down hard on the kitchen counter, trying to calm his mind and think rationally. Had Geralt said that he was going anywhere?

No. Only that he had needed some air.

Could his parents have done something?

No. Jaskier knew from Geralt’s tone that they had well and truly washed their hands of their white-haired son.

...the other Witchers?

Shit. He didn’t have Ciri’s number. He scrolled through his contacts, searching for Triss’s when he received a incoming text. The sharp ping! made him jump, and only a exceedingly tight grip prevented his involuntary reaction from flinging his phone out the window to join the Chaffinches.

Filavandrel: Geralt’s not with Ciri or at Kaer Morhen. I asked.

“Gods...” Jaskier felt like he couldn’t breathe properly. He knew that, as a witcher, Geralt could most likely handle himself. But he had left all his potions and both swords behind- hung on and stacked under the coat rack in the corner by the door.

Jaskier: You’re sure?

Filavandrel: Yes. Have you tried calling him?

Jaskier: Straight to voicemail.

Filavandrel: Yennefer and Triss?

Jaskier: No one’s seen him, Fil.

Filavandrel: Fuck.

Fuck, indeed. Jaskier paced his kitchen, still in his carmine colored pyjamas. He peered out the window, half expecting to find that Geralt’s bike was gone from the driveway. Which was stupid, because he remembered now that the witcher had (with some urging) agreed to park it in Jaskier’s small garage.

Filavandrel: Are all Geralt’s things still at your house?

Jaskier: Nothing’s missing. He went out for a walk and never came home.

Filavandrel: Sorry. I was asleep last night, so I didn’t know. Remember?

Jaskier: I remember. 

Jaskier: Do...do you think he ran away?

(Filavandrel Is Typing) ...

Filavandrel: No. I...I don’t think so.

Jaskier suddenly had a horrible vision of blood and silver, and a pale face lying slack on the roadside. He swallowed hard past the growing knot in his throat. Could...? 

He had to ask. Right now, anything was important. Anything was a possibility.

Jaskier: Fil...exactly how unstable is Geralt. Psychologically?

Filavandrel: He’s not mentally unstable, If that’s what you mean. He just gets caught in spirals on occasion. Sometimes he has flashbacks or nightmares of when he was younger.

Jaskier: Has...anything bad ever happened during one of there spirals?

Filavandrel: ...

Filavandrel: Are you trying to ask me if Geralt has tried to commit suicide before?

“Fuck it.” Jaskier didn’t want to know if he was on the right track, but he had to. His vision blurred with tears, lungs aching from holding back a sob.

Jaskier: Yes.

Filavandrel: No. Never. Geralt might be a bit broken, Jaskier, but he’s not that damaged. I promise.

Jaskier let out a trembling gasp, sinking down onto the kitchen tiles. His hands were shaking so hard that he nearly dropped the phone. “Thank the fucking gods.” Geralt would never...shit, he couldn’t even think it.

Jaskier: Thank you.

A second ping. An invite to a group on ChaosNet. While the singer did occasionally use the app to message employers for details of gigs, Jaskier didn’t have any friends on said app. A little wary of who was messaging him, he answered with a wary,

Julian: Hello?

Yennefer: Um...who the fuck is Julian?

Julian: Jaskier. 

Yennefer: Have you heard from Geralt yet?

Julian: No. Yennefer, I’m really worried. This isn’t like Geralt. Not what i’ve seen so far anyway. 

Marigold: we’re all worried, Jaskier. I’ve just been on a call with Vesemir. He hasn’t seen Geralt since the night he left Kaer Morhen.

Cirilla: Eskel and I even went to check if the city watch has seen him. Nothing. He’s still in Novigrad.

Filavandrel: I wouldn’t take the city watch seriously, me minne. They are more corrupt than a cancer tumour. 

Marigold: Thank you for THAT image, Fil.

Julian: What do we do?

Yennefer: I say wait. Maybe Geralt really is just getting some headspace? Give it five days- including this one. Then we do something.

Day Two:

Jaskier spent the whole day perched on a chair by the front window, hoping to finally look up and see his witcher striding up the drive towards the door.

The sun came out in a banner of radiant gold- just like Geralt's eyes. The birds were rehearsing tomorrow's dawn chorus with such vigour, that the singer could hardly take the cheery hubbub.

He sat there, alone.

He sat there until the sun expired in a blazing halo of pastel color between the grey slabs of Novigrad's buildings. Until the light had once again gone to it's grave behind the stolid tombstones.

Nothing.

Day Three:

A light veil of spring rain fell that day. Glazing the window and turning the world outside to a dewed wonderland.

On a different day, Jaskier might have been tempted to compose a sonnet about the beauty outside.

But not today.

All he could do was to hold in his tears as the sun died again that evening...

...leaving no sign of Geralt.

Day Four:

Cotton candy clouds. The air full of the dancing forms of swallows, flitting through the air. Their sweet song stung Jaskier's ears, his slender knuckles white about his coffee cup.

All day, he waited.

No Geralt.

Day Five:

"Hi, Geralt...It's Jask. I don't know why I'm calling. I guess I really just needed to hear your voice, and your voicemail is as close as I can get...

"Look, I'm not sure where you've gone...or why. I get that it might just be because you need space. I know you're hurting. (Sniffs) A lot of the time...and I'm here for you, I hope you know that. We all are.

"I just...oh, god...(chokes off a sob) Geralt, please come home. We can figure this out, I know we can...please.

"I love you. No matter what."

No one came that day.

Day Six:

Julian: Time's up.

Marigold: I agree.

Yennefer: I'm going to speak to the Chapter. Perhaps we can trace him.

Cirilla: Fil and I are going to go speak with the elves- they see more in this city than anyone else.

Julian: I'm make some rounds too.

Day Seven:

(10:20am)

Yennefer: I'm going to the Police.

--

(5:45pm)

Yennefer: Novigrad Police Department has issued a Missing Persons case. They're looking for Geralt.

Marigold: We'll find him, Jaskier.

Julian: ...I hope so.

Chapter Text

Day Three

Geralt awoke like a sleeper going through drug withdrawal.

His mouth was dry, throat aching. His tongue tasted like chalk, and it seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. The nausea came when he tried valiantly to force open his eyes. They felt like two great dark bruises, throbbing painfully as he gave up with a groan. The floor was cool under his cheek, and for a long moment Geralt focused on just his breathing. Trying to bring himself to, to stop his heart thundering like a wild racehorse.

Cold steel at his wrist brought back the memories of before, and with it came the fear. He had really thought that he had managed to escape Brehen for good. That the fucker had given up on him.

He should have known better.

A soft grunt of pain left the witcher as he tried to raise his pounding head and all too soon there were footsteps ringing like dull bells through his brain.

“Welcome back, Geralt.”

Brehen came slowly into focus, standing over him.

The man’s eyes were full of a self-satisfied mirth. Eyes like a pit viper surveying its next meal. In one fluid movement, the man sank to crouch right by Geralt’s burning shoulder. His wrists were held firm in the small of his back, and the faint pounding in his temples let him know that the shackles were forged of dimeritium. As were the bars he could see looming in crooked lines behind the hazy form of his captor.

Geralt had no energy left for anything save a weak snarl as Brehen tangled a hand in his white hair. The man smiled, tilting his head like a curious bird. “Now, now, Geralt. That’s no way to treat your host, is it?”

“Fuck you,” rasped the witcher, voice grating from a throat like sandpaper. He coughed, the sickly ghost of the chloroform haunting his senses. “If you want to kill me, then be a man and do it to my face.”

“Who said anything about killing?” Brehen slid a finger under Geralt’s chin to tilt his head back. “No. You know enough about me, White Wolf, to know that I don’t kill. At least... not all at once.”

The world was spinning again, and Geralt had to squeeze his eyes shut against a wave of nausea. He might have been shivering, he couldn’t tell. Was it the fault of the dimeritium, or just fear?

He could hardly hope for a rescue. No one knew where he was. Fuck, even he had no clue. No, this was the end of the road. Unless he could somehow escape on his own.

Brehen straightened, face pleasant- his eyes contemplating some grievous thing that Geralt really didn’t want to know.

The blow, when it came, was delivered by Brehen’s steel capped boot- driven hard enough into Geralt’s chest, that he felt a rib crack.

The witcher’s body jerked, his neck arching, a strangled shout of “Fuck!” leaving his throat. Blood hit his tongue, salty and warm and he knew he had bitten it on impact. Breathing hard through his nose, Geralt fought the groan knotting his throat.

He would not beg.

Nor give the fucking sadist any pleasure if he could help it.

“Nothing else?” Brehen shrugged off his coat, cracking his knuckles. “Oh well. We’ll have to see if we can’t change that...”

Geralt let his head fall against the floor with a cough, wincing as his rib throbbed in time to his slow heart. Despair was seeping in now. The cold, terrifying realisation that no one was coming. No rescue was on its way. No cavalry to charge in and snatch him away.

Nothing.

He really had met his match.

Chapter Text

Jaskier didn’t remember much of the second week.   

He was caught in a strange hell, where time was twisted in ever new, peculiar ways. A place where days felt like minutes and seconds dragged on for hours. His heart was a cluster of aching splinters in his chest, lungs bruised from crying himself to sleep; from crying himself awake; sometimes from simply just crying.  

And life felt strange without Geralt.

He hadn’t quite realised just how deeply the witcher had integrated himself into his life. How rolling over at dawn, only to see the bloody light spilling over the empty side of the bed like a herald of doom, made him realise just how lonely he was.

He didn’t think Geralt had run away. Nor that his parents had come after him.

Jaskier wasn’t sure what to think anymore.

He tried not to do it, if he was being honest. Thinking only brought fears rattling to the forefront of his mind, filling his ears with the sound of knucklebones.

Gods, he hadn’t played a game of Knucklebones since he was ten...

Sitting here, throat sore from trying to hold back a sob, Jaskier was forced to face the fact that this was the start of a new week of hell.

Week three.

NCPD were doing their best, he was sure, but it was as if Geralt had just been plucked off the sphere as she so casually spun. A line erased without error from a slate containing the wrong equation. No one had seen him. No one had heard anything. There were no suspects. Not even Geralt’s parents. Though, Jaksier could have told them that much.

He’s seen Geralt’s mother from a distance during the questioning. A tall, admittedly beautiful woman with eyes like green barbed wire. Her face had soured when her son’s name was mentioned, and then Jaskier couldn’t make himself look at her any more. Geralt’s father hadn’t even shown up.

Probably for the best too... Jaskier still seethed over what little Geralt had told him about the man.

They all took turns searching. Yennefer checked all Geralt’s hiding places, from the light tower to the archway. Ciri pried at Vesemir for if he’s maybe seen Geralt around. Filavandrel ran his network of friends- elves who saw everything. Triss went to the Chapter with a last ditch plea for a summoning spell to call Geralt to them.

Even Essi tried to help- checking in with old collage friends who were scattered though out the city.

They came home with their hands so empty that it felt as though they were made of stone.

What was Jaskier supposed to do? Give up? No way was that going to happen.  He would keep going. For Geralt.

And if they never found him...

That wasn’t a thought he wanted to follow.

“ This is Geralt. Please leave your name and number and I’ll try and get back to you when I have time.”

“Hi Geralt... it’s... well, it’s me. Again.

I don’t know why I’m doing this- you obviously can’t hear me or you would have picked up my calls. I just... (muffled sob) FUCK, Geralt, I need to know you’re safe. I can’t... I can’t do this. Every night my stupid brain gives me another idea of what might have happened to you, and I can’t take it anymore!

Geralt, Dear Heart, I need to hear your voice. Please, PLEASE, pick up the phone.

(Silence)

(Cough. Sniff)

Okay. That was stupid of me... STUPID, JASKIER! He can’t hear you, you fucking idiot!

Sorry. Gods, I am so SO sorry Geralt.

Wherever you are, just promise me you’ll hang in there- we’ll find you, I swear.

I love you.”

“There’s a break in my soul like a pipeline,

Come crashing in like a landmine,

Keep telling me that I’ll be just fine,

Be just fine, be just fine...

“But I’m strong; hard like a wall of stone,

Feel the blood pounding beside my bones,

Can you hear my heart? Hear it moan,

Hear it moan...

“I’m proud of who I am, no matter what they say,

Take the box back; not gonna fit in it, no not today,

Not taking advice, just gonna do it my way,

My way, yeah, my way.

“Can’t cut me to pieces, your knives have no sharp edges,

Keep running from you, trapped in a maze of hedges,

Wanna cross out your name, cross it out from the ledger.

From the ledger.

“In blood red ink.

“My lifeblood’s going to fill in the lines,

I’ll pretend that I just can’t read the signs,

Nothing here can force me, nor make me define,

Myself.

No

“This book of yours, this book of souls,

Is torn up with venom, torn up with holes,

You’ve run all dry, nothing to call your own

No, no, no.

“So take back your curses, all your anger, deceit,

All the rage, nothing’s going to make ends meet,

Own it all, even though it’s no mean feat.

Take your responsibility.”

Jaskier stilled, the void behind his eyes far more comforting that the glow of purple light he knew was going to lance into him the moment he opened them again.

Sweat beaded on his face, dewing his faintly trembling lip. He was shaking, hands clammy on the microphone.

Why the fuck had he agreed to this gig?

The love of his entire, miserable life was missing and here he was, singing to a rowdy crowd in a packed nightclub.

It was only then that he became aware of the silence.

It was almost worse than noise- all heavy and full of things that made Jaskier want to run headfirst into a wall.

Then there was a deafening cheer.

He dared a glance, not sure why he felt quite so sick. The crowd was a wave of lurid colors, shouting and clapping.

For him.

Once upon a time, he would have been elated at the fact.

Now all he could remember was how Geralt’s eyes had shone like golden candles when Jaskier had performed. How the witcher had rolled his eyes at the lyrics but cheered him on anyway.

Jaskier ground his ringed fingers tight against his lips to hold in a sob. Boney knuckles bruising against his fair skin.

“That was beautiful,” said his drummer. She was staring at him in awe. Starstruck. Jaskier gave her a weak smile. “Did you write that?”

“Yeah.” He detached his guitar from the amp, trying to back away with a speed that could not be called rude, but still look like he was in a hurry. “Uh... yeah.”

“Fucking gorgeous,” said the man at the keyboard.

“Thanks,” managed Jaskier, and then he fled.

He had to break his escape outside the club, leaning heavily on his knees, shaking with a blend of tears and anger. That song was for Geralt, wherever he was. It had been special. A way for him to unburden himself and still keep it vague enough so that no one would guess what was amiss.

Fuck. He was tired.

A sob caught in his throat like a fish in a net. It struggled, and he forced it back.

Just as well, because a figure was ambling towards him, red coat long and trimmed with fur.

He wasn’t a remarkable man, even in the haze of the streetlights. He had long blonde hair, hanging in soft waves, eyes the color of faded moss. About Jaskier’s height, if a bit taller, his face open and rather endearing.

“Look, I really don’t mean to be rude,” said Jaskier with a small sigh. He straightened, hand tightening on his guitar case straps. “But I’m tired as fuck and need to get home.”

“Oh, not to worry, this will only take a moment,” said the man, and his voice was smooth and slightly wry. “It’s just that we heard you sing, and my boss... well, she asked me to give you this.”

The card he held out was elegant and cut from such a dark red that it was almost black. Embossed with elegant golden script it said, Eilhart Records/+92 400 500 129/ Where dreams come true.

Jaskier’s hand shook a little as he ran a finger over the glimmer. This... this was what he had been working towards, ever since that day in collage when he had sung that ballad that had earned him an honour.

And now it was happening and ...

... he couldn’t bring himself to care. Fuck, who could take this seriously when out there someone you loved with all your heart was in trouble?

That wasn’t this man’s fault though, so Jaskier forced himself to smile and say, “Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”

The man grinned, and it lit up his face. He had a rather nice face, kind and open. The kind of face Jaskier would like as a friend, if he were in the space to make new ones.

“When you do, just ask for me. Name’s Radovid.”

“I will.”

Jaskier tucked the card into his jacket pocket and promptly put it out of his mind as he began to slog his way home.

The end of the week found Jaskier on the floor of his bedroom, a thick blanket about his shaking shoulders and a bottle of wine half-empty on the rug beside him. His mouth felt thick, drugged with the heady flavour of grapes.

Salty grapes.

Why the fuck were they salty?

A brush of fingers to his cheeks gave him the answer. He was crying. Again.

Hands shaking, Jaskier swallowed and chose a number on the screen of his phone.

It rang, then,

“ This is Geralt. Please leave your name and number and I’ll try and get back to you when I have time.”

“Hey, Geralt.” He bit his lip, trying to hold in his tears. “‘S me again. I’m just calling because I don’t know what to do. NCPD is looking for you. I’m looking. Triss and Yen are looking. Ciri. Fil. Even Essi.

Maybe you’re a ghost now. ‘N that’s why we can’t...

No. Shit. Fuck, Jaskier, why the fuck would you say that- ignore that. No ghosts. Don’t be dead, Geralt. You hear me? Don’t you DARE be dead!

Please.”

And somewhere silent, out of sight and mind, Brehen looked up from his place crouching beside the prone, white-haired witcher, fingers stilling on his blade as he studied his handiwork. 

And he smiled.