Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Why are we still going to Murivel?”

Jaskier asks as they’re crossing the river, and Geralt is glad to have the distraction from Roach’s skittishness. Even when there’s a bridge to cross, she’s not a fan of going over water. Axii can only do so much.

“You’ll need supplies for Kaer Morhen,” Geralt answers, steering them around a wagon in the middle of the bridge with a broken wheel.

“Don’t you usually get supplies in Ard Carraigh?”

“I do, and we’ll stop there as well,” Geralt agrees. “But your favorite luthier is in Murivel, right?” He wonders for a moment if he’s gotten it wrong – he tries to keep track of Jaskier’s ramblings, he does. It’s just difficult to keep track of all of the different names and places that he jumbles together as if they’re mere days from one another when they’re on opposite sides of the Continent.

When he glances to the side, Jaskier is looking up at him with a softness in his eyes that squeezes Geralt’s heart. It’s not an altogether unfamiliar feeling, but it is slightly uncomfortable, so Geralt looks away. That expression on the bard’s face is answer enough, he supposes.

“She is,” Jaskier finally answers. “What supplies will we need?”

Geralt waves a hand and waits to answer until they’ve finally crossed the bridge and are approaching the gates of Murivel. He dismounts from Roach and pretends he doesn’t see when Jaskier feeds her some sugar cubes. “I’ll worry about supplies for surviving the winter. Just make sure you have what you’ll need to live at Kaer Morhen until the snow clears.”

“Alright,” Jaskier agrees with an easy nod. “Will we be staying for the night?”

“Yes.” Geralt gestures toward the inn just inside the gates, and the stable next to it. “I’ll get a room.”

Jaskier smiles, and Geralt can tell he wants to reach over, to hug him, but he refrains. Geralt is grateful for the restraint, though it’s more because of the public setting than anything else.

Despite what the bard may think, Geralt stopped being bothered by his affection for its own sake a long time ago.

“I’ll meet you, then,” he says, and gestures to the city at large. “I have some errands to run before the sun is gone, since I assume we’ll be leaving early tomorrow?”

“You assume correctly, bard,” Geralt says. “Go on.”

He watches, for a moment, as Jaskier’s colorful form disappears into the usual crowd that mills around towns at midmorning, then turns toward the inn. He has a few things he needs to do, himself, so it would be best to get their board settled as quickly as possible.

Geralt has finished with his errands, as well as his dinner and the usual weapon maintenance by the time Jaskier returns to the inn. The sun has been set for nearly two hours.

He wasn’t exactly worried, but he was slightly concerned. Jaskier is known to get into all kinds of trouble when left to his own devices, after all.

But Jaskier returns unscathed, if a little flushed and clearly tipsy. “I believe I have what I’ll need,” he says, and sets a new bag down alongside his lute. Geralt can only guess at what might be in it; oils and such to care for the lute over the winter, definitely, but what else could be making it bulge like that is lost on him. He supposes if he needs to know, Jaskier will tell him.

“And you had the coin for all of that?” Geralt asks, though it’s hardly any of his business. Jaskier didn’t use his coin for it.

Jaskier nods, and starts stripping out of his finery, a little clumsily. “I got – oh,” he trips over his own hosiery and giggles, and Geralt finds it endearing despite himself, “a very good deal.”

Geralt snorts because he knows what that means. Jaskier either threatened it out of someone with the dagger he’s just tossed onto the bed, or he made up the difference with his talents in bed. Judging by his state of intoxication, it’s likely the latter, though Geralt supposes he could have gotten the drinks after, to celebrate. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s seen it.

He finds he’s staring at the bard, and he has no idea what his expression might be revealing, so he looks away.

“I see you did some shopping of your own,” Jaskier continues, gesturing over to Geralt’s own new bag.

“I did,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate. Jaskier will probably go through the bag himself at some point, so there’s not much reason to discuss it. Surprisingly, he doesn’t do it immediately. Instead, he collapses down onto the bed, narrowly missing his own dagger – Geralt rolls his eyes and moves it for him – and sprawling wide.

“We are sharing this bed, you know,” Geralt points out.

Jaskier chuckles. He sounds sleepy, now, and Geralt knows he’s got about a minute, maybe a minute and a half before the bard is out cold until sunlight hits his face in the morning. He rolls his eyes again. “Yes, I figured as much,” the bard drawls. “Move me as you see fit, Witcher, you’re strong enough for it.”

Geralt can’t help himself with a third eyeroll, and even though Jaskier has already dropped off into his usual drunken coma, mutters, “Annoying bard,” before doing just that.

They reach Ard Carraigh just after the first snow. It’s bitterly cold this far north, and they’ve hardly seen another living person since Murivel; they’ve been camping, despite the cold, to save coin for supplies.

Jaskier has been surprisingly accommodating about it. Though that probably has a lot to do with his rather intelligent purchases in Murivel, one of which is an enchanted cloak that repels water. Even Geralt is a little jealous of it, alongside being both delighted and a little shocked at the bard’s foresight.

When they reach the city, it’s almost overwhelming. There’s a market going on, likely the last proper one before spring. Geralt is glad that they made it in time. Getting supplies is much easier when everyone selling is gathered in the square all at once.

“Okay, so what do we need?” Jaskier asks as soon as Roach has been stabled. They won’t be staying the night, but there’s no reason to try and lead her through the market, and she could use the rest and pampering before the hike up the mountains.

“Let me worry about it, Jaskier,” Geralt says, for probably the fifth time since they could see Ard Carraigh on the horizon.

“No,” Jaskier replies, petulant. Geralt really didn’t expect anything different. He rolls his eyes.

“Fine.” He surrenders. No point in arguing now that they’re here; no time to waste, and all of that. Jaskier probably has a more specific, flowery phrase that would fit better. Geralt doesn’t ask. “The most important is some kind of wagon. Something to carry everything we need, but small enough for Roach to pull it up the mountains.”

“Makes sense,” Jaskier nods. “What else?”

Geralt goes over the list with him. It’s something he has memorized at this point, after decades of stopping in the city to stock up. Jaskier nods along and agrees verbally at some points, but for the most part doesn’t add to or criticize Geralt’s list. Apparently, he’s aware of how much he doesn’t know. For once in his life.

“Well, we’ll want the wagon first,” Jaskier decides, and Geralt doesn’t contradict him because he’s not wrong. “I suppose you know where to go?”

Geralt nods. “I do.”

“Well, how about this,” Jaskier looks up at him with those blue eyes wide and begging, as if Geralt wasn’t already going to listen to his suggestion willingly. Geralt carefully schools his expression – he’s not sure which would be worse, right now, laughing at the bard or letting himself smile like the complete sap he’s become – and nods for Jaskier to continue. “We’ll split up. The salted meats and preserves should be easy enough for me to carry myself, and once you have the wagon, we can move on to the rest.”

Geralt considers for a moment. “Yes, that’ll work.” He gives Jaskier some money.

Jaskier beams, and Geralt has to ignore that squeezing sensation in his chest once more. It’s getting more common. The bard is clearly restraining himself from a hug, again, but he does bump pointedly into Geralt’s side before he darts off. Geralt watches him for a moment, mostly for his own comfort, then turns to go find the woodworker.

As he approaches, he sees a familiar figure, and he can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. When he sees that familiar figure is speaking to another, even more familiar figure, the grin widens. He quiets his steps and cuts around, so that he’ll come up behind them. Neither seem to notice.

He grabs Eskel around the shoulders and pulls him back, laughing at the indignant sound the other Witcher makes and catching his arm before he can reach for a weapon. Lambert, for his part, scowls until he realizes it’s Geralt, then laughs along with him at Eskel’s continued squawking. Geralt only lets go when Eskel lands a good elbow to his gut, too close to the almost-healed bruising from Brenna.

“Seems we all had the same idea,” Lambert says, once Eskel has recovered his breath and he’s received his own form of almost-unwelcome physical greeting from Geralt, which was a vicious rubbing of his scalp and a headlock.

“We always do,” Eskel says, “though not usually at the same time. Where’s Roach?” He tips his head to the side, where Scorpion is standing next to a chestnut gelding. The gelding is probably Lambert’s, then.

“Stabled for now.” Geralt points back toward the stable.

“You spoil your horses, Geralt,” Lambert mutters.

Geralt snorts. “And my horses live for it, Lambert,” he retorts. “How many horses have you been through since last winter, hm?”

Lambert answers that with a glare, which is all Geralt needs. He grins and shoves the other Witcher, standing firm when Lambert tries to shove him back.

Eskel rolls his eyes at the exchange. “Alright, alright,” he says. “Come on, we’ll all need wagons.”

They’re all standing together, catching up as they wait for the woodworker to double check the wheels of their wagons, when Jaskier finds them.

Geralt notices him first, and automatically checks for anything different or wrong; Jaskier looks fine, and Geralt feels a certain tension leave his shoulders. The bard is carrying a sort of rucksack over his shoulder and casually flipping his dagger in his hand as he walks. Geralt’s eyes narrow.

“Eskel, Lambert,” he interrupts their debate on the best way to take down a wyvern – in his opinion they’re both wrong, but that doesn’t matter – and gestures toward Jaskier. “This is – ”

“Jaskier,” Eskel says, voice booming and cheerful, at the same time that Lambert hisses, “You’re bringing the bard to Kaer Morhen?”

Geralt turns away from Jaskier to look at his brothers. Eskel doesn’t pay him any mind, striding forward to greet Jaskier like an old friend – what the fuck? – but Lambert is glaring at him, when he’s not glancing over to Jaskier like he’s expecting to be attacked.

“What?” he asks, sort of just to the world at large. He doesn’t get an answer.

“Calm down, Lambert, I’ve no reason to use my dagger on you, yet,” Jaskier teases, and Geralt turns to look at him incredulously instead. Eskel has taken the rucksack from Jaskier’s back, and Jaskier is leaning casually into his side; Eskel looks quietly pleased about that.

Geralt’s never seen Eskel this comfortable with anyone except himself. It’s almost like an out-of-body experience to witness it. Instead of any of the dozens of questions clamoring for space in his head, what tumbles out of Geralt’s mouth is, “What were you using your dagger for?”

Jaskier grins at him. “I got quite the deal on these,” he says brightly, jerking a thumb toward the rucksack Eskel is holding.

Geralt resists the urge to rub at his temples, but only barely. “Jaskier, please do not get us in trouble here. I – we have to stop here every year.”

Jaskier just waves a hand dismissively. “I didn’t do anything that terrible, Geralt, calm down. Anyway, did you succeed in getting a wagon? Or did you three just bicker about monsters for an entire half hour?”

“We’re just waiting for – ” Lambert starts to explain. He’s interrupted by the woodworker shouting, “Finished, Witchers!” He scowls and opens his mouth again, but Geralt stops him with a shove to his shoulder.

“Don’t,” Geralt warns him. “Not here.”

Lambert looks as if he might still say something, but stops in his tracks when Jaskier says, in a falsely sweet voice, “Mind yourself, Lambert.”

Both he and Geralt turn to look at the bard, Geralt in confusion and Lambert in – is that unease?

“What?” Geralt asks, again. Luckily, he’s not really expecting an answer, because he still doesn’t get one.

Lambert fidgets uncomfortably for a second, but finally just nods, and Jaskier beams at him, like he does when he’s proud. Usually when he’s proud of Geralt  for asking for help or expressing his emotions, and – oh, suddenly this is starting to make a little sense.

He’s still going to be asking Jaskier – and his brothers – quite a few questions, later, but the puzzle is beginning to come together in his head. He thinks that maybe, he should feel jealous that he’s not the only Witcher Jaskier seems to have – well, adopted, he thinks is the best word. But he searches his emotions and finds that he’s just…not. He’s not quite sure what he’s feeling, if he’s honest, but he can tell that jealousy doesn’t have anything to do with it. He frowns to himself and files that away to examine later.

Probably with Jaskier’s help.

His frown deepens.

“Geralt?” It’s Eskel who speaks. Jaskier and Lambert have gone back over to the woodworker, probably to do their own inspections on the wagons. When Geralt looks up, Eskel is standing close, a crease in his brow that speaks to worry.

“I’m fine,” Geralt says, and it’s not exactly a lie. It’s also not exactly the truth. He’ll definitely need Jaskier’s help puzzling through this, then.

“Are you sure?” Eskel murmurs, stepping even closer. His voice is so low that no one except maybe Lambert can hear it, besides Geralt, and he’s earnestly trying to keep eye contact. “I know he’s – your bard. He just – ”

Ah. Geralt understands Eskel’s concern, now. “He’s his own person,” Geralt corrects. Eskel’s eyes widen, just a bit, and Geralt wonders why that’s a shock. Another thing to discuss later, he thinks. “It’s fine, Eskel. We’ll discuss it when we reach the keep.”

Eskel looks unconvinced, but he nods. He claps a hand against Geralt’s back and then steps away, just in time for Lambert and Jaskier to come back to them, both smiling, though Lambert’s looks a little forced, still.

“Everything’s good,” Jaskier declares. “I assume we’ll be travelling together from here on, then?”

“No reason not to,” Eskel agrees. “Might be a little safer going up the mountain as a group, too.”

“Unless you do a shit job of securing the wagon to Scorpion again,” Lambert says with a snort. Eskel turns and smacks him, none too gently.

“That was once,” Eskel huffs.

Jaskier’s eyes are lit up, clearly wanting the story, and Geralt bites back a groan. “Alright, alright,” he half-shouts, interrupting a new argument between his brothers. “Later. Let’s finish getting supplies so we can go.”

Eskel grumbles but nods his agreement and, once he’s handed Jaskier’s rucksack back, wanders off. Lambert takes one look at Jaskier, snorts, and promises to tell the bard the story later, then does the same.

Once they’re alone – or, as alone as they’re going to get during a market, at least – Jaskier turns to him. “Are you alright?”

Geralt shrugs. It’s the best answer he has. “Come on,” he says. “Supplies, and we can talk when we camp for the night.”

Jaskier looks at him for a long moment, a mix of consternation and fondness in his eyes. “Promise?” he finally asks.

Geralt doesn’t roll his eyes. Instead, he puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and squeezes, then murmurs, “I promise.”

He’s sure he isn’t imagining the tears that spring to Jaskier’s eyes, but the concern they’d usually cause is drowned out by Jaskier directing that beaming smile at him, again.

“Now.” Geralt jerks his head toward the market. “Supplies. C’mon.”

Once they’ve purchased all of the supplies they can afford and carry, they leave Ard Carraigh as a group.

Jaskier walks ahead of Geralt and slightly behind Lambert and Eskel, singing and chattering the whole way. A few times, Lambert throws a look back at Geralt, an eyebrow raised and a smirk pulling at his lips. Geralt just shrugs back.

Based on his earlier reactions, Lambert knows exactly what the bard is like, and has absolutely no reason to judge Geralt. Not when he’s clearly got no power against Jaskier, either.

Despite the wagons and the weight of the supplies they carry, they make good time. They’re almost to the base of the mountains, about two hours hike away from entrance of the pass, when they make camp. It’s almost entirely for the sake of the horses and Jaskier – the horses because they need rest, having to pull so much weight, and the bard because he can’t see in the  dark nearly as well as a Witcher.

They camp in a small copse of trees butted up against a cliff. It’s decently defensible, and because of the cover of branches, no snow has made it to the ground yet. Jaskier continues his chatter while they make camp, though it doesn’t stop him from making himself useful.

Geralt snorts when he sees that it shocks Eskel and Lambert both, but keeps his humor to himself. No reason to offend Jaskier. His brothers, he can tease privately later. When everything is finally set up, with a fire in the center, Eskel volunteers to try some hunting. Lambert, for his part, refuses to be left out and follows him.

It leaves Jaskier and Geralt at the campsite. Jaskier is fiddling with some vegetables, and Geralt is, ostensibly, tending to his swords.

Really, he’s watching Jaskier.

He’s got that enchanted cloak on, even though he’s sitting nearly close enough to the fire to burn. It swamps his figure and hides all but his face in dark fabric and shadow, and Geralt finds that he sort of misses being able to see Jaskier’s ridiculous, peacock-like finery. Or even his plainer clothes; really, Geralt misses being able to see all of Jaskier.

“So,” Jaskier says, without looking up from his vegetables, “you promised we would talk.”

“I did,” Geralt agrees, but doesn’t continue. He’s not really sure how; even with the time and relatively easy travel between Ard Carraigh and here to think, he hasn’t quite figured out his own responses from earlier, and he’s not sure how to present them to Jaskier so he can figure them out, either.

“When I asked if you were alright, you shrugged,” Jaskier offers, and finally looks up at him. Geralt nods. “You didn’t know if you were alright or not?”

Geralt shrugs again. “I…yes. And no. I thought maybe I should be jealous.”

“Of?”

“Eskel and Lambert.”

“And are you? Jealous?”

Geralt shakes his head. He knows that much. Jaskier hums and puts his vegetables aside, standing and coming to sit closer to Geralt. Geralt shifts to let him, holding himself rigid so he doesn’t shiver at the heat of Jaskier’s body pressed against his.

“Want to hear what I think?” Jaskier asks, looking at him with such softness in his eyes that Geralt has to look away.

“Yes,” he answers, because it’s the truth. He always wants to hear what Jaskier thinks, even though he pretends otherwise. He thinks the bard is funny, and smart, and that he provides rather useful insights most of the time.

He’s…not really sure why he’s never told Jaskier any of this. He is rather sure he wouldn’t know how, even if he tried.

“I think that at least part of you was relieved.”

Geralt blinks. “Why?”

“Because,” Jaskier’s voice softens, tone matching that look he’d had in his eyes, and Geralt has to squeeze his own shut to deal with the tightness in his chest. “If I already know your brothers, then they couldn’t put me off staying with you at Kaer Morhen. And I know you want me to stay, Geralt.”

That…is true, actually. As usual, Jaskier understands Geralt better than Geralt could ever understand himself.

“You’re right,” he says. The words still feel a little unfamiliar in his mouth, but he’s adjusting, slowly, to saying them. To admitting it.

His eyes are still closed, but he can hear that beaming smile in Jaskier’s voice when he says, “I’m glad.”

They’re quiet for a moment. In the distance, there’s a whoop – Lambert – and a loud curse – Eskel. Jaskier chuckles, and Geralt grins.

It fades, though, when he thinks some more. “Why did I feel like I should have been jealous?” he asks.

Jaskier pauses, and Geralt can feel the heaviness of it. “I could guess, Geralt,” he says, slowly. “But I think you’ll have to figure that one out on your own, for once.”

Geralt frowns, and opens his eyes. Jaskier is still looking at him, that softness still in his eyes, but there’s a sort of sadness there, too. “Why?”

Jaskier smiles, and it’s not that proud one, though Geralt knows even without that grin that Jaskier is proud of him for talking, like this. Knows it in his bones, like he knows his abilities as a Witcher. “Because I don’t want to confuse you with my guessing,” Jaskier answers, and Geralt…supposes it makes sense, in an abstract way.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier’s smile brightens a little, at that, gets less sad and more familiar. Geralt finds himself smiling back, just a little.

Something changed when he asked Jaskier to come to Kaer Morhen. He knows it, and he can tell the bard knows it. He’s still not quite sure what it was, but it had felt right, whatever it was. He hopes that he’ll figure it out, with or without Jaskier’s help, over the winter. For now, he just looks at the bard – and despite what he’d told Eskel earlier, he does call Jaskier his bard, if only to himself – and is very, very glad that he’s here.

Chapter Text

The next several days as they make their way up the mountain are stressful and increasingly quiet.

Eskel looks worried about Jaskier’s silences, but Geralt tries to ease his concern away from the bard’s ears. He’ll just protest, and it won’t make Eskel – or Lambert, for that matter, even if he acts unaffected – feel any better.

“He’s human,” he reminds. “It’s cold, and this isn’t an easy journey. He’s okay.”

And Geralt knows that Jaskier is fine. Jaskier has told him as much, pressed together for warmth in the night when they camp. He’s cold and his bones ache and he’s worried about the snow’s effect on his lute, but he’s fine. The silence is just him coping with all of that.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that Geralt doesn’t keep a very sharp eye on the bard at all times.

They’re about halfway up, two or maybe three days away from reaching the Witcher’s Trail. Jaskier has been walking alongside them and the horses the whole time. Geralt knows he has to be tired. The first time he stumbles, Geralt just catches him, a silent question on his face. Jaskier smiles at him, though it’s a little weak, and shakes his head, so Geralt rights him and they march on. The second time he stumbles, its Eskel who catches him – Geralt is too far back, making sure that Roach’s wagon is still attached after a worrying creaking – but the bard titters something cheery and keeps walking.

The third time, though, Geralt catches him and scoops him straight up onto Scorpion’s back. Scorpion tosses his great head, but nothing more, and seems mollified when Eskel gives him a handful of oats. Jaskier, for his part, is glaring down at Geralt but not trying to get off the stallion’s back.

“Rest,” Geralt says. It’s not an order or even a demand; it’s more of a plea. He knows orders don’t work with Jaskier except in specific circumstances, and while he’s sure he could order Jaskier around while they trek up the mountain, he finds he doesn’t want to. Jaskier huffs, but puts up no more resistance, and leans down to wrap his arms around Scorpion’s neck. The stallion huffs but gives no further protest.

They continue up the mountain.

They make camp just before they reach the Witcher’s Trail. Even now, having traversed it for decades up and down to return to and leave Kaer Morhen, Geralt wants to make sure he’s well-rested before he does it. He knows Eskel and Lambert are the same.

Jaskier has been mostly quiet all day, and Geralt has let him be. Thanks to several pointed glares, so have Eskel and Lambert. But the bard perks up a little when they have a fire going and he’s got some food in him, and he pulls his lute out to play a few quiet songs.

It’s nice, actually. Despite the incoming snow – not here yet, but likely will be by midday tomorrow – and the cold, Geralt finds himself rather comfortable, leaning against one of the wagons and watching Jaskier play. He doesn’t sing – something about the cold wreaking havoc on his voice, not that Geralt has noticed any difference – but he’s smiling, and that’s enough. Everything is as good as it can be, on the side of a mountain in the early winter.

But then Lambert flinches.

It’s subtle; Geralt just catches it out of the corner of his eye when he sees Lambert bend to adjust his bedroll. But apparently, Jaskier sees it too. He stops playing immediately and stops the hum of the chords with his palm, so there’s silence except the wind howling through the rocks and trees.

“Lambert,” he says, and Geralt knows that voice. It’s the one he uses when Geralt is being stubborn and self-sacrificing. He’s not sure why that voice is being directed at Lambert of all people, and right now of all times, but he supposes if he watches, he’ll find out. And he does.

Lambert flinches again, less subtle this time. “I’m fine, bard,” he says, voice tight.

Jaskier sighs. He sets his lute gently to the side, in its case, and stands. “You were fine last time,” he says, striding purposefully over to Lambert. “Just a muscle spasm, remember? And I’m sure you remember how well your excuses went last time, too.”

Geralt sits up a little, attention fully piqued. When he looks over, Eskel is the same. They share a look, simultaneously questioning and knowing. So Eskel has seen this side of Jaskier, too. Geralt files it away as yet another thing to ask about later.

“Jaskier,” Lambert says, and it almost sounds like a plea.

Jaskier tuts. “Just let me,” he says, and it’s…gentle. Not the softest Geralt has ever seen the bard, hardly, but the gentlest he’s ever seen anyone behave with Lambert.

And even more shocking, it seems to work.

“Fine,” Lambert grunts, and sits. Jaskier sits behind him,  their backs to the fire. “I won’t take anything off this time, though. Too fucking cold.”

Jaskier snorts. “Wasn’t going to ask you to. I agree. I will have to get at your skin, though, so – ”

“I know,” Lambert grits out. “Get on with it.”

Geralt and Eskel share another look, this time more bemused than anything. This is bizarre, and kind of incredible, all at once. For a moment, he’s struck by the thought; bizarre and kind of incredible all at once is a rather good description for Jaskier, actually.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, and Geralt snaps to attention. The bard is looking over his shoulder at him, a small smile on his face. “Can you bring me my bag, please?”

Geralt almost asks which bag, just to be contrary for no reason he can pin down, but bites his tongue and nods. He digs the bag out from their things and takes it over.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, light and easy. He takes the bag from Geralt’s hands and starts digging through it. When he finds what he’s looking for, he pushes the bag to the side and turns back to face Lambert’s back.

Geralt returns to his seat, still watching. Jaskier does – something, with Lambert’s armor and shirt, he can’t see past Jaskier’s body. Lambert shivers but doesn’t complain. Geralt shares another incredulous look with Eskel.

“Same place?” Jaskier asks, and Lambert grunts an affirmative with a nod. “Alright.”

Geralt can smell oil, and he finally pieces it together. Somewhat, at least. Just a muscle spasm, Jaskier had said; so he’s going to massage the spasm out, something he’s done for Geralt a dozen times, more. And he’s apparently done it for Lambert, before.

He finds he’s nothing more than curious about how it happened.

Silence reigns while Jaskier works, until finally Lambert grunts and relaxes forward, just slightly. Jaskier chuckles.

“Better?” he asks, and his hands are still on Lambert’s back, under his shirt. Something odd and almost hot twists in Geralt’s stomach.

“Better,” Lambert agrees, albeit a little reluctantly.

“Good.”

They separate, and Lambert goes back to his bedroll. He doesn’t flinch when he bends, this time, and Geralt smiles.

When he looks across the fire, Eskel is smiling too.

He finds that somehow, the night feels even more comfortable. Jaskier looks smug, when Geralt catches his eye, and that just cements it even further.

There are plenty of questions he wants to ask when they get to the keep, but they can wait. For now, Geralt is content with the knowledge that even in the freezing cold, camped on the side of an unforgiving mountain, he has his bard for company. And so do his brothers.

It’s a wonderful thought.

The Trail is exactly as awful as it’s always been.

The storm that had been threatening yesterday is fully upon them, now, and earlier than expected. It was snowing by the time they woke, a couple of hours before dawn, and has continued snowing since.

The Trail itself is narrow, so they’re forced to walk single file, each leading their horse and wagon up; Eskel at the front with Scorpion, Lambert and his gelding behind, and Geralt and Roach make up the back. Jaskier is on Roach. Despite the noise of the wind, Geralt can hear his teeth chattering.

They had planned to stop halfway through, to eat and rest, but with the snow, Geralt knows they can’t. They also can’t camp, or they’ll be buried. Trusting Roach to keep moving without him in front of her – this isn’t the first winter she’s walked this trail – he moves to the side, so he can talk to Jaskier.

“We can’t stop. We have to keep going until we reach the keep, or we won’t reach it,” he says, as loudly as he dares. Shouting up here, when the snow is heavy on the mountains, can be dangerous. For a moment, he’s not sure Jaskier heard him.

“Fuck,” is all Jaskier says, barely audible through his clacking teeth.

“I’m sorry.” Geralt reaches up and squeezes his shoulder, a small show of affection – all he can do, considering where they are – then moves back to where he was in front of Roach.

He steels himself for an exceptionally long day.

The snowfall gets heavier around noon, but starts to lighten after that. A small mercy. They still don’t stop moving – Geralt knows his brothers will have heard him, earlier, and that they would have come to the same conclusion long before he said it. There’s hardly any change when the sun begins to set, except that the temperature begins to drop rapidly.

Jaskier’s shivering gets worse. Geralt digs a few extra blankets out of Roach’s saddlebags and hands them up.

“Put them under your cloak, so they don’t get wet,” he instructs.

“Okay,” Jaskier mumbles, and does as he’s told. He’s moving slowly, but not worryingly so, not yet. He’s still got color to his face and fingers, and his eyes are bright and focused; he’s just cold and miserable, like all of them.

Geralt goes back to focusing on the trail ahead. But he keeps at least a third of his attention on the bard, just in case.

They make it to the keep just before midnight. Jaskier is half-asleep on Roach, but his pulse is steady, and his breathing, though a little slower than normal, isn’t shallow. When Geralt wakes him, his eyes are still bright.

“I shouldn’t be this exhausted,” he mumbles, when Geralt goes to help him off of Roach and he stumbles. “You three did all the work.”

Geralt shakes his head. “You’re human,” he replies. He leaves out that it’s incredible how well Jaskier did, all the way up the mountains; that really, he had been expecting hypothermia to set in before they reached the trail. He’d been planning on it, in fact, and has the supplies in the wagon to prove it.

“We need to stable the horses,” Jaskier says, looking toward the obvious stable to the side of the courtyard. “Let me help.”

“You need rest,” Geralt counters. “We can handle the rest.”

“We can,” Lambert says, emphatic, gesturing to himself and Eskel. “Go.”

Geralt understands the few words for what they are. Jaskier is still unsteady on his feet, and Geralt has no illusions; he’s not hypothermic, but if he doesn’t get inside and warm quickly, he will be soon. He nods his agreement – Lambert doesn’t take well to thanks, never has – and easily scoops the bard into his arms.

Jaskier shouts, but it’s small and less shocked that he would be if he weren’t so tired. “Geralt!” he hisses.

“Easier,” Geralt explains, and hurries inside. Vesemir must already be asleep; the fire in the main entrance is burning, but not as if it’s been fed recently. Geralt sets Jaskier back onto his feet for a moment to add more wood, then picks him up again to climb the stairs to the bedrooms. Jaskier doesn’t protest being picked up a second time.

“We can set up a room for you, later,” Geralt says as he reaches the room he usually stays in. “For now, you need rest. You can stay in mine.” He sets Jaskier down carefully on the furs over the bed. They’re a little musty, but not terribly; nothing a bit of shaking out won’t fix.

Jaskier is silent for a long moment while Geralt sets to getting a fire going in the hearth. Then, quietly, he murmurs, “Or we could share.”

Geralt blinks at where he’s prodding at a log to get it to light on the burning kindling. He’s not sure he was supposed to hear that. There’s that tight feeling in his chest again, and he thinks about the shift, when he asked Jaskier to come here. He wonders, again, what it was. He has an idea, but…. Not right now. It’s too much. He has things he needs to do.

“We can share,” he agrees, softly. It’s easy for him to hear the way that Jaskier sucks in a shocked breath. He grins, just a little – even as off-kilter as he feels, right now, it’s always a pleasure to shock the bard. He makes sure the fire is properly caught and turns back to him.

Jaskier has already removed his cloak, though he’s not gotten any further than that. His eyelids are dropping, and his fingers are shaking a little where they rest on his thighs.

“Come on,” Geralt murmurs. He pulls Jaskier up, easily taking his weight when the bard stumbles into him, and starts pulling at his clothes. He gets the tunic and breeches off but leaves the undershirt and long underwear. “You need sleep, and warmth.”

Jaskier mumbles something against Geralt’s shoulder. It’s unintelligible nonsense, but it sounds indignant, and Geralt chuckles. He doesn’t fight when Geralt moves him, or when he tucks him into the bed under the blankets and furs, though. In fact, he’s very nearly completely asleep by the time Geralt even gets up under the coverings.

“Stupid bard,” Geralt murmurs, and is very glad of Jaskier’s exhaustion for just a moment. His voice is so fond even he can hear it, and it makes him self-conscious at the same time it makes him a little afraid. He sits on the edge of the bed and watches for a long time after Jaskier has truly dropped off to sleep.

It’s love, that squeezing feeling in his chest. He’s sure of it, now, as he watches Jaskier’s breathing shift the furs he’s under.

He’s much less sure what to do about it, but he supposes that can wait until later. For now, Jaskier is safe and asleep and quickly warming, and despite what Lambert said, his brothers will need his help soon.

Geralt leaves with a single, soft caress to Jaskier’s cheek. An acknowledgement, even if it’s only for himself, right now.

Chapter Text

Jaskier wakes alone, practically suffocating under a mound of dusty-smelling furs.

He groans and fights his way out of the coverings, the cold air outside of them a welcome reprieve from the stifling heat. When he looks around, the room he’s in is only slightly familiar; he vaguely remembers arriving at the keep, and Geralt’s fussing.

The thought of the Witcher fussing over him makes him feel very, very warm. He pushes the furs to the end of the bed.

Judging by the light streaming in from a high, barred window near the hearth, it’s late morning. He has to have  been asleep for at least a few hours, then, because he knows they arrived at the keep before dawn. His memories of the climb up the Witcher’s Trail are fuzzy and disjointed, but he thinks he kept decent track of time despite it.

The room is set up like any other room in castle he’s ever stayed in, though it’s hardly decorated and clearly not well-kept. He goes through as much of the normal routine as he can, pleased to find that at some point between dropping Jaskier off to sleep and now, Geralt has brought their packs in. He puts on some warm breeches and a tunic.

It isn’t until he’s relieved himself, dressed, and washed the dust away from his face with freezing water that it occurs to him that he doesn’t know anything about this castle outside of this room. He has no idea where Geralt or the others might be, or if there are places off-limits to him.

He frowns at the small mirror beside the washbasin for a long moment, but finally decides that it doesn’t matter. Lack of knowledge has never stopped him before; no reason for it to start now. And really, if Geralt or Eskel or Lambert expect him to change just because he’s suddenly in their territory, they’re in for quite the shock.

The thought makes him grin. He passes a hand through his hair one more time – too lazy to dig out a comb – and leaves the room to find his Witchers.

The rest of the castle is just as cold as that bedroom had been, but not cold enough to be bothersome. Not yet, at least; Jaskier is sure if he were outside, he’d change his tune, but in here the great stone walls block the wind.

At first, he wanders a little aimlessly. His memory of their arrival is more a blur of color and vague indignance at Geralt for…any number of reasons, he’s not sure. He finds a hallway blocked off by a mound of rubble, as well as a room full of a lot of old, rusty weapons (at least, he hopes thar red-brown layer on them is rust). Finally, he rounds a corner to find himself at the landing of a staircase, and from there, he can hear voices. Nothing intelligible or recognizable, yet – he’s got good hearing, but he’s certainly not a Witcher – but enough for him to hurry down the steps toward the echoing noise.

The stairs end at some sort of – well, foyer would probably be the best description, though this is a castle, so it’s not, really. But it’s not really an entrance hall, either, not like Jaskier has ever seen. He marvels at the odd shape of it and then puts it out of his mind. Down here, he can tell the voices he heard were Geralt and Eskel, bickering about something, as well as another voice, calmer and…also familiar. Who is that?

He continues following the noise until he comes into what must be a dining room, of sorts, even if it looks like that’s not what its intended purpose was. He finds Geralt and Eskel as expected, and Lambert, who is clearly dozing a little to the side. It looks as if they’ve been having a late breakfast, or maybe an early lunch. The other voice, he finds, belongs to Vesemir.

So that’s why he recognized him, back in Aedd Gynvael. He’s not sure why he didn’t put it together then; seeing them all together now, it’s clear that Vesemir is an authority here. It explains that command in his voice – he’d been a teacher of young Witchers; Jaskier imagined it took quite the air of confidence to corral a bunch of teenagers. Enhanced, mutated teenagers, but teenagers, nonetheless. And better, teenagers with swords.

Suddenly, his respect for the oldest Witcher nearly triples. Which is certainly something, because he already respected Vesemir quite a lot for first, caring for Geralt and the others (which he clearly did, as Jaskier had seen in Geralt’s few stories and can clearly see now), and second, saving Jaskier’s life in that alley.

Eskel notices him first.

“Jaskier,” he says, a certain softness too his voice. Jaskier’s not sure how he knows, but Eskel’s unsure – as if he thinks Jaskier might pretend he didn’t speak, might ignore him outright.

As if Jaskier would ever do such a thing.

“Eskel,” Jaskier greets back with a smile. “Geralt. Vesemir. Good morning.”

Lambert makes a derisive noise, and Jaskier snorts. “And you, too, Lambert. Say, how’s that twitch?”

It’s both concern and insult. From the way Geralt rolls his eyes, at the very least he grasped that.

Lambert just huffs. Jaskier leaves it be, for now. He’ll harass the Witcher into telling him the truth later. Instead, he sits at the table they’re all loosely gathered around and turns to Vesemir. “Had any problems with payment in Aedd Gynvael, lately?” he asks, cheeky, as he steals a piece of bread from Geralt’s plate. Geralt, for his part, ignores the thievery, but clearly places all of his attention on this conversation, even if he doesn’t turn to show it. Jaskier is sure Eskel is doing the same, and probably Lambert, too.

“Not a one,” Vesemir says, with something almost like a smile in his voice. “Alderman won’t look me in the eye, though. Think you might know something of that?”

Jaskier shrugs and waves a hand, overly dramatic. “Ah, he’s just a coward,” he says, swiping more food from Geralt’s plate. Vesemir chuckles at that, soft and short, and Jaskier thinks even if everything else today were to somehow go wrong, he’d still consider the day a success, just for that little laugh alone.

There’s silence for a long moment as Jaskier chews his food. Vesemir goes back to his own meagre breakfast, Lambert still appears to be dozing, and Geralt is just looking at Eskel, expression a little lost. Eskel, though, is looking at Jaskier as if he’s suddenly grown a few extra appendages.

“What?” Jaskier finally asks once he’s swallowed his food. Eskel blinks and looks away, apparently unwilling or unable to answer the question. Another thing on the list to deal with later, then.

“We need to get back to work,” Vesemir says, eventually. That tone of command is there, brooking no argument – not that Jaskier thinks any of them would offer one. He starts listing chores, general maintenance that needs to be done around the keep – Jaskier only really understands about half of it – and each of the other Witchers seem to silently agree upon who will do what.

Jaskier, as good as he is at reading stoic, uncommunicative Witchers, has absolutely no idea what’s going on. He waits until Vesemir is done – well, instructing, he thinks is the best word – and Geralt is standing to leave before he speaks.

“How can I help?”

Geralt blinks down at him, seemingly shocked at the question. Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“I didn’t come all the way up this mountain to be of no use,” Jaskier mutters. “And I can be useful.”

“I know that,” Geralt says, too quickly, as if he’s afraid if he doesn’t spit the words out they’ll stick in his throat. They just might, knowing his usual relationship to using his words. Jaskier smiles at him encouragingly.

“You can help me with the supplies,” Vesemir butts in. “Let these three do the heavy lifting.”

“I can lift quite a bit myself,” Jaskier mumbles, but stands to follow the oldest Witcher.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t, bard,” Vesemir replies. Nothing has really changed in his tone but Jaskier could swear that there was snark in that statement. He loves this man more and more every minute.

It isn’t until the other three are long gone toward their own chosen duties that Vesemir continues, and it just cements how much Jaskier likes him. “I can still lift twice what those boys can,” he says, almost conspiratorially, “and I’m sure you can pull your own weight just fine. No reason to work harder than we have to, though.”

Jaskier can’t help the snort of laughter, nor the onset of giggles that overtake him for a handful of minutes. When he finally wipes the tears from his eyes, he sees that Vesemir is smiling, a small, indulgent thing, and he thinks this winter is going to be wonderful, no matter what it has in store.

By the time they’re through with storing most of the supplies – with only a small break for a meal about mid-afternoon – it’s supper time, and Jaskier is exhausted. Vesemir gives him a hunk of bread and orders him to eat and then go to bed with no small amount of demand in his voice.

Jaskier is, frankly, hungry and tired enough that he wants to follow the orders, but he detours to find Geralt almost entirely to be contrary. He finds him in a sort of study area with Eskel and Lambert. They appear to be playing some sort of dice game that involves alcohol and…something black and viscous that Jaskier can’t name, and probably doesn’t want to.

He perches on the arm of the plush chair Geralt is seated in. The Witcher doesn’t acknowledge him at first, too engrossed in his game, but then Lambert makes a frustrated noise and takes a shot. Eskel cheers, and Geralt grins, but finally turns to Jaskier.

“You should sleep,” he says, immediately, because of course he notices how tired Jaskier is right off.

Jaskier scowls. “I will,” he says. “I just wanted to see how your day went.”

“Fine.” Geralt’s concerned frown melts into a smile. It’s small, but Jaskier has already seen more expression in the Witcher here than he ever gets in a whole month on the Path. It makes something warm and feathery unfurl in his chest. “There’s not much damage this year, not too much to repair. For once.”

“Says you,” Lambert interjects. “Vesemir will work us until the snow traps us here, and you know it.”

Eskel snorts and tips his head toward Lambert, a silent he’s right. Geralt rolls his eyes.

“Well even if he does, there’s not much he can make us do,” he insists, and Lambert just huffs and starts doing something with the dice game. Eskel shakes his head and stands, going over to the hearth to stoke the fire.

Jaskier hums and, seeing that Geralt is now more interested in the dice again, follows Eskel.

He knows that there’s no such thing as privacy with two Witchers barely six feet away, but he hopes the others are too engrossed in their game to be eavesdropping. He leans against the stone mantle of the hearth and nibbles on his bread, waiting for Eskel to finish with the fire and pay attention to him.

It doesn’t take long. “What?” Eskel asks. He stays standing close but doesn’t look Jaskier in the eye. It’s odd; as skittish as Eskel is naturally, he’s mostly adjusted to Jaskier and everything he entails. But the last few days he’s been wavering between his newer level of comfort and the wariness of their first proper encounter.

Jaskier thinks cutting to the chase is the best option, here. Each of the Witchers need their own brand of care; Lambert requires a certain amount of antagonism and snark to work with, while Eskel mostly wants gentleness and honesty, and Geralt needs a peculiar mix of both. “Are you alright?” he asks, softly. Again, he’s fully aware of how well Witchers hear, but there’s no need to broadcast their conversation intentionally.

Eskel blinks at him. There’s a moment where Jaskier is sure he’s not going to get a straight answer, that maybe he’d picked his approach wrong, but then Eskel looks away and sighs.

“Fine,” he says. “Why?”

“You know the answer to that,” Jaskier points out. Eskel just looks up and frowns at him. “Eskel,” he says, and he keeps his tone gentle, “you seemed a little nervous in Ard Carraigh, and now. This morning, you were looking at me like you’d never seen me before.”

Eskel frowns harder for a moment. Jaskier doesn’t look away from him.

“It’s nothing,” he says, finally. Jaskier knows that’s a lie – if it was nothing, they wouldn’t be having this conversation – but he can tell Eskel wants it to be the truth. “It’s just…odd, seeing you with them, too.”

Jaskier hums, mostly because he’s not quite sure how to respond to that. It could mean a whole host of things. If Geralt had said it, he’d know exactly what it meant, but with Eskel, he’s not so sure. He decides to play it safe; gentle teasing has worked with Eskel in the past. No reason he can see it won’t now. “Don’t worry,” he says, smiling softly and making sure Eskel is looking into his eyes. “I love all of you the same.”

Eskel looks confused for a split second before the expression softens into something almost like exasperation. He smiles, too, a tiny twitch of a thing, but Jaskier considers it a win, all things considered. He also notices the way that Lambert stiffens, out of the corner of his eye.

Ah. He doesn’t think he’s ever used the word love around Lambert. Bit of a tricky subject with him, that.

“Lambert,” he says, a little loud. He side-steps away from Eskel and the hearth, patting his shoulder in parting. “How’s your back?”

Lambert frowns and turns to glare at Jaskier. Geralt snorts quietly.

“Shut up, bard,” Lambert hisses.

Jaskier laughs. It’s mostly genuine. “I don’t think I will,” he retorts, and perches on the arm of Lambert’s chair. Lambert tenses, just slightly, and Jaskier bumps into him bodily. “I’m serious, Witcher. It may be winter, with no monsters on the near horizon, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring about you. Even as cantankerous as you are.”

Lambert frowns harder. Geralt rolls his eyes and kicks at him under the table, earning his own glare before Lambert finally sighs and turns back to Jaskier.

“Fine,” he says. Then, in a grumpy mumble, he adds, “I promise.”

Jaskier grins and throws an arm around his shoulders. “I’m glad,” he says, still in that teasing tone, but sincere all the same. He can tell Lambert recognizes it, too, because the Witcher rolls his eyes and shrugs his arm off all without looking at Jaskier again. Jaskier stands and moves away obligingly.

“Sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt says, when Jaskier goes to perch on his chair again. “You need rest.”

Jaskier sticks his tongue out, but the gesture is ruined by the yawn that follows. When he finishes, Geralt is grinning at him, and he picks up some dice to pelt him with before doing as he’s been told and heading up to bed.

Nearly two hours later, Jaskier is not-quite-woken by Geralt climbing into the bed with him. He makes some kind of noise – an acknowledgement or a question, he’s not really sure – but Geralt hushes him and wraps an arm around his waist.

He drops back into sleep with a smile on his face.

The next few days are a blur of more storing, organizing, and cleaning. Jaskier and Vesemir handle most of the inside; Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert handle structural and other necessary repairs before the next big snowstorm hits.

By the time everything is finished, and that snowstorm has rolled in and decided to stay, Jaskier is fairly sure he’s never done this much work in his life. And, surprisingly, he’s not too bothered about it. It’s been surprisingly fun.

Vesemir is exactly as talkative as Jaskier had assumed him to be, when they met, but he’s hardly a stone carving. As they’d cleaned and organized, he’d told a few stories. Most were just his own most memorable monsters. But some were about Geralt, and Eskel, and Lambert; little anecdotes about their time in the castle, training and becoming Witchers. One particular story involving Lambert, another young Witcher, and an ill-conceived plan to steal some alcohol had Jaskier in stitches for nearly half an hour.

But now that they’re truly finished with the heavy workload of chores, Jaskier can say he thinks he might just sleep for a week. And, he thinks with glee, he can if he’d like. Not that he will, of course. Much better things to do than sleep in a castle full of Witchers.

Like right now. He’s slumped into a couch with Geralt at his side, pleasantly tipsy off of the truly godawful homemade vodka Vesemir had supplied with dinner, watching Lambert and Eskel circle each other. It’s nothing more than a playfight, hand-to-hand combat, but it’s fun to watch all the same. Lambert fights exactly like Jaskier would expect him to; quick and brutal, efficient but definitely not sparing on the punches. Eskel fights a lot like Geralt does, with a certain type of mesmerizing grace and a lot of spinning out of range.

They haven’t been wrestling long when Geralt nudges him to get his attention. Jaskier turns his head and lists a little closer to Geralt’s side, entirely unintentional. He giggles, and Geralt rolls his eyes, but doesn’t right him.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he starts, voice low. Much like Jaskier’s conversation with Eskel a handful of days ago, they both know the others can hear them; it’s the principle of the thing. “You never told me you’d met all of them before.”

“Didn’t – oh,” Jaskier hiccups a little, “really think about it. Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” he sing-songs the word, though he’s keeping his voice down, too. Geralt rolls his eyes and shoves his shoulder with his own a little.

“I already told you I wasn’t,” he mutters. Jaskier giggles.

“I know,” he nods. “Just teasing. Really didn’t – hic – think about it, though. Never came up.”

“Tell me about them,” Geralt says, and it’s almost so quiet Jaskier can’t catch it. But he does, despite the softness and his drunkenness, and he flashes back to that shift, before Murivel. Come to Kaer Morhen with me. He blinks and tries to sit up, willing himself a little more sober.

“The first times?” he clarifies. He’s not spent a whole lot of time with Eskel or Lambert aside from their first meetings – some, but it’s negligible compared to the time he spends with Geralt, or even in courts – but he wants to be sure of what Geralt is asking.

“Yes,” Geralt nods.

Jaskier nods, too. He watches Lambert and Eskel circle for a few moments – Lambert tries to jab at Eskel’s side, a feint to grab at his arm, but Eskel turns out of range of both of Lambert’s hands easily with a laugh – then shifts his gaze sideways, to Geralt.

Geralt is looking at the other two, but Jaskier knows he’s paying more attention to him than them.

“Eskel was in…Montecalvo, I think,” Jaskier starts. “Near the mountains, at least. Arachnomorph took a chunk out of his side. I actually didn’t find him – couple of villagers came to find me. Word had spread that that Witcher’s bard was in around, and they wanted me to get him to leave town.”

“I’m sure that worked,” Geralt says with a snort.

“Oh, yes, it went swimmingly,” Jaskier chuckles. “For me, at least. Anyway, I stitched him up and made sure he got some rest as well as his payment for the damn spider.”

“Probably saved my damn life, too,” Eskel adds. Jaskier looks and finds that he and Lambert are apparently done with their contest; Lambert is skulking away, toward the kitchen and probably more alcohol, while Eskel sprawls in a chair near the fire. Jaskier is reminded, suddenly, just how attractive Eskel is. “As soon as I got around to letting him, that is.”

There’s a twinkle in his eye when he says it, and Geralt snorts. Jaskier looks back at him to find an almost contrite grin on his face; he knows exactly what Eskel means by letting him. Jaskier has never given a Witcher an option to actually decline his assistance, and he’s not about to start. He finds himself grinning, too.

“And Lambert?” Eskel asks, just as the man himself stomps back into the room with an entire bottle of that homemade vodka.

“He found me half-dead in a ditch,” Lambert answers in a matter-of-fact tone. His tone can’t conceal the constipated look on his face, though, and Geralt snorts again. “Threatened me with that dagger of his as soon as I was awake.”

“In my defense,” Jaskier says primly, “you nearly broke my fucking nose.”

Lambert’s frown deepens, and instead of saying anything, he just takes a healthy swig of the vodka. Eskel outright guffaws. Jaskier turns to find Geralt giving Lambert a vaguely murderous look and giggles.

“It’s fine,” he says, patting Geralt’s knee. “My nose is still perfectly straight, see?” He taps the side of his nose – actually a tiny bit crooked, but from a childhood injury, not a belligerent Witcher.

Geralt blinks at him, then seems to process the situation past finding out Lambert had hurt Jaskier; a slow grin spreads across his face and soon, he joins Eskel in his laughter.

Jaskier grins and stands to swipe the vodka from Lambert’s hand. Yes, there are definitely better things to do than sleep.

Chapter Text

Several days later, he and Geralt are lazing in bed when Geralt brings it up again.

“You didn’t tell us about Vesemir,” he murmurs.

Jaskier turns his head on his pillow to look at him. He’s not looking back – not that Jaskier expected him to be – but instead gazing up at the vaulted ceiling, one arm propped behind his head. His hair is loose, fanned out across his arm and the pillow, some swept around his throat. Jaskier swallows the sudden lump in his throat, a sudden echo of Eskel sprawled in that chair jumping to mind. They’re both very, very pretty men – Lambert, too, though in a vastly different way. He’s still entirely unsure what he’s meant to do with that.

“Vesemir saved my life, actually,” Jaskier murmurs, turning back to looking at the ceiling himself. “I got jumped in an alley – I don’t even remember why. There were three of them; I broke one’s nose, but one got my arms and pulled me off balance. Couldn’t do much more than just take the beating, at that point. Didn’t think I was gonna survive the beating, really, but then Vesemir showed up.”

Geralt hums, and there’s silence for a moment. Then, “What happened with the alderman, then?”

Jaskier chuckles. “Vesemir took me to a healer and left, but I ran into him the next morning. Alderman didn’t want to pay him for a swarm of plumards.”

“His mistake,” Geralt says, a smile in his voice. Jaskier turns to see it, and this time he finds Geralt looking back; his eyes are soft and fond and Jaskier’s very traitorous heart skips a beat.

“His mistake,” he agrees, a little too soft. Geralt doesn’t mention it.

The first two weeks in the keep passed in the blink of an eye and like molasses, simultaneously.

The mornings and afternoons seemed to amble along, the few daylight hours stretching on and on. Jaskier used the time to compose, to read anything he could in the vast library that remained from Kaer Morhen’s days as a school. But once the sun set, it was as if time sped up to a march. Though, upon thinking about it, that might be the alcohol.

Jaskier had never drunk this much without reason to get properly smashed. As a rule, he tried not to imbibe very much; he needed his wits and his balance about him, thank you very much. But here, the nights were cold and there wasn’t much else to drink, and also, he was safer than he’d ever been. Not much could beat a castle in the high mountains in the dead of winter for safety. Add in four Witchers and, well, Jaskier didn’t much need to keep his wits about him, as much. Or his balance, either – every time he’d stumbled, from Ard Carraigh to now, a Witcher had caught him.

Mostly Geralt, although the one time Vesemir had pulled him back from nearly taking a dive off of a staircase had been particularly memorable.

So, he spent his mornings and afternoons reading and composing and daydreaming – sometimes with Geralt or Eskel for company – and his evenings drinking and playing songs and games. And to his absolute delight, listening. Eskel and Lambert and Vesemir weren’t nearly as tight-lipped as Geralt was. Once a certain amount of vodka had been drunk (and really, it was no less terrible now than it had been that first night, but the awful taste was almost growing on him) they all wanted to tell stories. Some he was even given explicit permission to write songs about, which made him practically vibrate with excitement, much to Geralt’s chagrin.

“Don’t encourage him,” he mutters into his own glass of vodka one night. “He’s bad enough as is.”

“Don’t be such a sourpuss,” Eskel says, a little too loudly. He claps Geralt on the back and goes for more drink for himself. Lambert shouts wordlessly after him – a request for more, as well, probably.

“Listen to Eskel,” Jaskier says, perching on the arm of Geralt’s chair. Or, well – he’s practically in Geralt’s lap, if he’s honest about it. He’s just tipsy enough to leave it be, and either Geralt doesn’t mind the proximity, or he’s also a bit drunk, because he doesn’t move Jaskier. Instead, he just tips back the rest of his glass and huffs. Jaskier resists the insane urge to kiss his cheek and decides that, okay, maybe he shouldn’t be in Geralt’s lap right now. He staggers up and back toward the hearth and his lute.

“Any requests?” he asks.

A truly shit-eating grin spreads across Lambert’s face. “What’s that one?” he asks, then hums a few bars, horribly off-key. “Toss a coin….”

Geralt groans and throws himself up, heading toward where Eskel disappeared to. Jaskier laughs and, never one to deny a request – especially not that one – plays as enthusiastically and loudly as he can.

Judging by the loud thud and colorful Elder swear from somewhere in the direction of the kitchen, Geralt hears him loud and clear.

One morning, it’s Vesemir that joins him in the library. Jaskier hums an acknowledgement but keeps his nose in his latest book. It’s a tome about the care and uses of magical herbs, and he finds it utterly fascinating. He expects Vesemir will do what the rest do – even Lambert, even though his visits to the library are rarer than the others; find his own book, and settle down at another one of the rough-hewn wood tables scattered between the towering shelves.

Instead, Vesemir plops down at the same table Jaskier’s at, directly across from him, and stares a hole into his forehead until Jaskier looks up.

“Uh?” Jaskier sticks a piece of loose paper nearby into the book and closes it. “What is it?”

Vesemir just looks at him for another few moments, then sighs and runs a hand over his face. “They love you, you know,” he murmurs. There’s a weight to his voice, like this is difficult to say but even more important for its awkwardness.

Jaskier blinks. Opens his mouth, then closes it again. Vesemir watches this with a stunning amount of patience. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to continue and is hoping Jaskier will grasp everything eventually.

Unfortunately for him, if that’s the case, Jaskier has absolutely no idea what he’s being told. Vesemir’s clearly talking about Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert – who else would they be, when there’s only the five of them in the castle? – but aside from that, and the rather obvious statement itself, he has no clues.

Finally, Vesemir seems to take pity. “They call you Geralt’s bard, right?”

Jaskier nods. This they is broader; practically everyone on the continent knows Jaskier, and while he’s known for his own accomplishments, he’s also known as the Witcher’s bard. And, because of him, the Witcher everyone on the continent knows is Geralt. His own fault, but it’s hardly something he regrets.

“Well, Geralt is your Witcher,” Vesemir says, pointedly. “And now – now, Eskel and Lambert are, too. They love you. All three of them. And I don’t want you to take that lightly, because – ”

“I don’t,” Jaskier interrupts. He’s almost offended, really, that Vesemir would assume – but no matter. He thinks he understands, now, what the elder Witcher is telling him. “I would never take their feelings lightly. Ever.”

Vesemir looks at him, really looks at him, something appraising in his eyes. Jaskier looks steadily back. He’s still never lost a staring contest with a Witcher, and Vesemir is not going to be the first. Even if he is significantly more imposing than the other three.

Finally, Vesemir blows out a breath and stands. “Good.” He stands and starts to leave, but pauses at the door.

When he turns back, he’s smiling, just a little. “And tell Geralt, would you? Put the poor boy out of his misery. The other two, as well, if you think you can handle them.”

Jaskier tilts his head. “Tell them I love them, or tell them they love me?”

Vesemir chuckles. “Which do you think, bard?”

With that, he’s gone.

Jaskier stares at the cover of the book he’d been reading for a long time. He still finds its contents fascinating, but he thinks he’ll pick it up another day. He’s suddenly got quite a lot to think about, and there’s not much room for magical herbs in the subject he’s tackling now.

Unless of course he suddenly decides to take up alchemy, as well, but he thinks using his words and a little persuasion of the alcoholic kind will be faster.

He decides to start with Lambert.

There’s two reasons for that. One, Lambert is the easiest to get alone; two, Jaskier knows that no matter how good he is at what he does, Lambert will need at least two weeks to sit on this. Better to get it done with so he can simmer, and Jaskier can move on to the other two instead of dithering around accomplishing nothing.

Over the last several weeks, everyone has settled into a pattern. They all converge at mealtimes and after supper, but for the most part, each of them has their own routine completely separate of one another. Jaskier knows that every day around noon, Lambert goes out to the only covered, sheltered part of the courtyard to practice with his sword. Geralt and Eskel practice, too, but not every day, and usually with each other. Lambert is almost always alone.

Which is exactly what Jaskier needs.

He approaches carefully and loudly, just in case. Lambert clearly hears him, if the frustrated grunt before he knocks the training dummy straight over is any indication.

“What is it, bard?”

Jaskier smiles. After several weeks in close quarters, he’s not fooled by Lambert’s gruff exterior and refusal to use his name (not that he was ever fooled, if he’s being completely honest). As violent and rough as Lambert can be – and genuinely is – he’s a lot like Geralt in that it’s mostly defensive.

“I brought food,” he says, holding up some jerky and cheese he swiped from the kitchen on his way here. He sits on the edge of the step leading to the courtyard, grateful for his cloak to muffle the bleeding cold.

Lambert looks at him for a moment. He’s sweaty and panting, his sword still held up, though he’s not pointing it anywhere specific. Jaskier gives him a once over, not trying to be subtle about it, and doesn’t miss the way that the Witcher sucks in a shocked breath.

“Alright,” he finally says, and comes to sit next to Jaskier.

Jaskier hands some of the jerky and cheese over. They snack in silence for a bit, sitting close enough together that they’re almost touching, but not quite. Jaskier fixes that by shifting his leg; it presses against Lambert’s, from thigh to knee.

Lambert almost winces: a startled jump constrained down to nothing more than a twitch. But he doesn’t move away.

“Your sword work is good,” Jaskier compliments, glancing to the side. Lambert is looking none-too-subtly at where their legs are touching. Jaskier bites back a chuckle. “No problems with muscle spasms.”

“Fuck off,” Lambert mutters, but there’s no heat behind it. Jaskier cheers mentally and shifts again, so their arms are touching, too. Another not-quite-wince, but Lambert still doesn’t move away.

“You know,” Jaskier starts conversationally, “I could probably use some training with a sword.” The double entendre is absolutely intended, but Jaskier is sure Lambert won’t grasp it. Or, if he does, he won’t acknowledge it.

“Swords are a lot heavier than daggers,” Lambert replies, and holy shit, that’s teasing. Not sarcasm, or snark, or a compliment thinly veiled as in insult. Teasing, like Jaskier teases him and Eskel and Geralt.

He swallows all of the sappy things that want to spill out of his mouth and instead, just laughs. “I lifted you out of that ditch, didn’t I?” he teased back.

Lambert frowns, but it’s gone quickly, replaced by a smile he’s clearly fighting. Jaskier bumps into him, a little shove, and the smile breaks through.

There’s more silence for a moment, before Lambert finishes his portion of jerky and cheese and sighs. “I should get back to practicing,” he says, and he sounds almost sad about it. Jaskier doesn’t bother telling him he could just put it off for today – he wouldn’t listen.

Instead, Jaskier stands alongside him, but keeps close. Lambert looks at him, clearly a little confused, and Jaskier smiles.

“Maybe you can help me learn to use a sword another day,” he says, brightly, and before he can overthink it or Lambert can step away, leans up just a little and presses a kiss to the corner of Lambert’s mouth. He doesn’t wait for a reaction before he spins around and walks away.

Lambert doesn’t speak, but Jaskier can feel his confusion clear into the castle.

Eskel is next, and Jaskier’s willing to admit it’s entirely because he’s almost afraid to confront Geralt. But he’ll only admit that in his own head, of course.

It’s surprisingly hard to get Eskel alone, actually. He’d known it would be harder than Lambert; Eskel spends most of his time with Geralt or Vesemir, but Jaskier had underestimated just how hard it would be in reality. It takes nearly a week of low-key stalking the Witcher to actually pin down a time he’s reliably alone.

Early in the morning, he goes out to one of the abandoned parts of the castle to sit. Sometimes he hums to himself, but from what Jaskier has been able to discern, he just sits and thinks. Jaskier is loathe to intrude, really, but he can hardly enact his plan with the other three in the same room, so he does what he must.

The Witcher notices him before Jaskier can even properly see him.

“Jaskier,” he says, softly.

Jaskier finishes the climb up the half-crumbled staircase and finds Eskel sitting in his usual spot, legs dangling over part of the half that’s collapsed. The Witcher is looking at him, but there’s nothing more than vague curiosity in his eyes. Jaskier smiles and holds up some fresh bread as an offering.

Eskel smiles and beckons him over. For a long moment, they just sit together and share the bread. Jaskier does the same thing he did with Lambert and shifts so they’re touching, but Eskel doesn’t seem shocked by it. Instead, he just presses closer, all without speaking or looking back to Jaskier.

“There used to be a classroom,” Eskel says suddenly. Jaskier looks at him to find he’s still looking away, but pointing off to the side of the hall, where there’s a pile of rubble in place of a wall. “Well, there used to be a dozen classrooms. But this was the one we spent most of our time in. Me and Geralt, I mean.”

“Oh?” Jaskier prompts.

Eskel smiles, and it’s a little sad. “There wasn’t many of us left, after our Trial. There was sort of three divisions, among the boys here – before the Trial of the Grasses, after, and those that were near getting their medallion.” He reached up to his chest and touched the wolf medallion that rested there. “Vesemir will tell you he was just a fencing instructor, and he was – before. After, when Geralt and I were teenagers, he was much more than just a fencing instructor. He taught us near everything we know, in that classroom.”

An air of melancholy settles over them. Jaskier is reluctant to break the silence. It’s rare – nigh on unheard of – for Geralt to talk about his childhood or his adolescent years; all that Jaskier knows has been gleaned from the occasional drunken slip or reading between the lines of what Geralt does say. Eskel hasn’t necessarily revealed anything Jaskier didn’t already know, as far as facts and happenings, but the gravity with which he speaks of it is different. Geralt is…clinical, at best, when he talks of his upbringing, if he speaks of it.

Finally, Eskel sighs. “Sorry,” he says. Jaskier can practically hear the self-flagellating thoughts he’s having and no, absolutely not, he’s not letting that happen.

“No,” he says, reaching over and grasping Eskel’s hand. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Eskel.”

Eskel stares down at their hands for a long moment before he turns and looks at Jaskier. Jaskier looks back, affecting calm he isn’t feeling (holding Eskel’s hand should absolutely not be making his pulse race like it is, but he’s ignoring that), and threads their fingers together. Eskel’s mouth drops open, just a little, and he looks back to their hands for just a second. When he looks back up, there’s a sort of determination in his eyes, and Jaskier understands what’s about to happen mere milliseconds before it does.

The kiss is surprisingly gentle and chaste, given the fire in Eskel’s eyes. Jaskier shifts, turns to make the angle easier, and Eskel lets out a stunned noise before pulling back.

“That – ” he sucks in a deep breath, almost like it wasn’t voluntary, “was that - ?”

“It was fine,” Jaskier says, softly, and squeezes the Witcher’s hand. “You beat me to it.”

Eskel blinks. “I – what?”

“You beat me to it.” Jaskier chuckles a little. “I had a whole plan.” Didn’t include actually kissing you, though, more like a peck – but that doesn’t matter.

“I – you – ” Eskel looks utterly lost. After a moment of further stammering, he says, “Geralt,” rather emphatically. “And – Lambert, too. I….”

Ah. Jaskier shakes his head. “Eskel,” he says, gently. “Did you really think I’d leave you out?”

Because that’s clearly where Eskel’s mind went. If he’d just mentioned Geralt, Jaskier would assume it was some misunderstanding of exactly how Jaskier functions in relationships (of any kind). But it wasn’t just Geralt he was thinking about; it was Lambert, too. He’d somehow concluded that Jaskier’s heart was big enough for two stubborn Witchers, but not three.

Eskel makes an odd, choked noise and gestures to his face with the hand Jaskier doesn’t currently have a mild death grip on. Jaskier huffs and leans forward to press a pointed kiss to the worst of the scarring, where it pulls his lip up.

“As if scars would put me off,” Jaskier says lightly. He pulls back to look Eskel in the eye. “Watching Geralt tear a cockatrice in half stomach-first after two weeks of following him around didn’t make me run. Your scars don’t even rank on the list of worst shit I’ve seen firsthand and up close. They’re not even on the list, Eskel.”

“Oh,” Eskel murmurs, after a handful minutes of shocked silence.

Jaskier smiles. “Oh. Understand better, now?”

Eskel swallows and nods. “Have you – does Geralt….”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jaskier says, thinking, I’m trying really hard not to. “But you’re included. Alright?”

Eskel slumps a little, toward Jaskier, and Jaskier just squeezes his hand again. After a moment, Eskel murmurs, “Alright,” and Jaskier labels this a definite success.

Now he just has to talk to Geralt.

Chapter Text

True to his form of always running Jaskier’s best-laid plans, Geralt beats him to the punch.

The Witcher corners him in a hallway between the library and the bedrooms. It’s late; supper was hours ago, and usually they’d all be in the common area drinking, but Jaskier had excused himself to read.

Actually, he paced around the library and had a panic attack for an hour, but there was no reason any of them needed to know that. Not that he’d be able to hide it, anyway – he’s sure he reeks of anxiety.

The way Geralt’s nostrils flare when he quite literally pins Jaskier to a wall confirms that.

“Are you alright?”

Jaskier laughs. “Yes,” he says, and it’s not actually a lie. He knows his anxiety is baseless; he knew it before, but add in Vesemir’s talk, and Eskel’s assumptions, he has no actual doubts about Geralt’s feelings anymore. It’s just…talking about it – doing something about it – is much different than their usual. The usual being, of course, that Jaskier makes a lot of quiet assumptions, as well as some loud ones, and Geralt only corrects the ones that are wrong – or at least, the ones that he can’t live with.

Geralt hums and there’s silence for an agonizingly long time while Geralt just…studies him. Jaskier does his best not to fidget. He’s usually more put together than this, but then again, he’s not usually being pinned to a wall by a very large Witcher for whom he has a lot of feelings, either.

 “You’ve been kissing my brothers,” Geralt says, finally, voice low. And Jaskier would retort, would protest – what happened with Lambert hardly counts as a kiss, and Eskel is only slightly more viable – but something about Geralt’s tone, the soft, hot look in his eyes hooks into Jaskier’s stomach and steals his words. All the intelligent ones, that is.

“Yeah,” he mumbles instead. Geralt smiles.

“Were you planning to give me a turn?” he asks, and oh. Jaskier’s never actually seen this side of Geralt before – grinning confident and intentionally seductive, and fuck, he might have met his composure match.

“Yes,” Jaskier swallows around the sudden dryness of his throat and tilts his head up. The difference in their height is trivial, especially when they’re pressed so close together. His nose brushes Geralt’s when he moves. “Was actually going to talk to you tonight – ”

“Well, it’s tonight, and here I am,” Geralt interrupts.

Jaskier wants to say he’s frowning, but it’s almost definitely a pout. Oh, well. Good thing he’s never been one for dignity. “Just – gods, just kiss me, you clod.”

Geralt laughs, the ass, but does as he’s told. It’s barely any more risqué than the kiss Jaskier shared with Eskel, but it certainly feels different. Jaskier reaches up to grab at Geralt, his shoulders or his neck, anything, but Geralt catches his hand and threads their fingers together.

“Geralt,” Jaskier mumbles. Geralt tips his head and rests their foreheads together, hand squeezing Jaskier’s where he has it loosely pinned to the wall.

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers back. “I think I understand what you meant, now.”

“Hm?” Jaskier shifts to bump his nose against Geralt’s, a tiny show of affection he can’t help. Geralt seems amicable, if the way he rubs the tip of his nose across the bridge of Jaskier’s is any indication. “What I meant?”

“After Ard Carraigh,” Geralt explains, and his voice goes soft. “When you said you didn’t want to confuse me with your guessing.”

“Ah.” Jaskier nods just slightly. “And?”

“I think I love you.” It’s not a whisper; it’s hardly a breath. Geralt’s eyes are wide, and all of the confidence from before is gone. Jaskier’s heart thumps once, hard, and then speeds up irrationally; Geralt’s eyes flick down to his chest – he can hear that, then – but Jaskier doesn’t give him a chance to ask or overthink it.

Their second kiss is deeper, more demanding; Geralt lets go of Jaskier’s hand to cup his head, and Jaskier threads his fingers through Geralt’s hair in turn. It lasts for a long, blissful moment, but Geralt breaks it this time.

“I – ”

“I love you, too,” Jaskier breathes, before Geralt can start with whatever negative thinking Jaskier can see brewing behind his eyes. “More than I’ve ever loved anyone, in fact.”

Of course, it’s that exact moment that Lambert turns the corner. He’s gone just as quickly, though not without a very loud, “Fucking finally,” shouted behind him.

Jaskier is still laughing when Geralt kisses him again.

The next time they all sit down together without Vesemir, it’s awkward for about thirty seconds.

Jaskier expects someone to ask, or he expects to have to start the conversation himself, but he was hardly expecting what actually happens.

He’s seated essentially in Geralt’s lap on the chair near the hearth; Eskel is across from them, sprawled out on the couch, ostensibly dozing; and Lambert – well, Lambert.

He returns from a run to the kitchen for more vodka, and instead of falling into his usual seat, he walks right up to Jaskier and Geralt. There’s no warning except his proximity for the kiss; Geralt has to steady Jaskier against his chest to accommodate for how fierce it is.

It doesn’t last long, though. Lambert pulls back, not-quite-frowning, and says, low and quick, “What are the rules.”

Jaskier blinks at him. He huffs and turns to collapse into his chair, taking a long pull of the vodka still clenched in his fist. “Rules,” Jaskier says, a little dumbly. He turns a little, to look at Geralt, who just shrugs. As helpful as ever.

“We know he’s your bard, Geralt,” Lambert mutters.

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Like I told Eskel in Ard Carraigh – Jaskier is his own person.” He looks right into Jaskier’s eyes as he says it, and oh – that’s…. Jaskier will examine the fluttery, swelling feeling in his chest later. Right now, there’s apparently an important discussion to be had.

“Yes, well.” Jaskier swallows. “There’s…not any rules?” He looks at Geralt again, who nods – deferring to Jaskier. They’ll be discussing this privately later, then, because certainly – but no. Not important. Jaskier is his own person – Geralt is letting him – no, not letting him. Jaskier is setting his own boundaries and Geralt is following them.

They will be discussing Geralt’s boundaries later. Definitely. And also Eskel’s and Lambert’s, separately, of course, and – he’s getting ahead of himself.

“I love all three of you,” he says, and pretends he doesn’t see the way Lambert flinches or the way Eskel suddenly goes tense. Geralt, Jaskier is delighted to find, has no negative reaction to the word at all. Instead, he just rubs a hand almost soothingly up and down Jaskier’s back. “And there’s – nothing has to have labels, or…parameters. We can discuss these things as we go. Or, in your case,” Jaskier jabs a finger at Lambert in place of his dagger (currently upstairs in a bag), “you can deflect, and mutter, and I’ll figure out what you want eventually.”

Lambert makes an indignant noise, and Jaskier knows if Witchers could properly blush that he’d be tomato-red.

Eskel swings his legs down from the couch and sits up. He looks pensively between Jaskier and Geralt, and Jaskier takes pity, standing and crossing the room to stand in front of him. “Yes?” he asks, softly.

Eskel just shakes his head and reaches up, prompting Jaskier to bend down. The kiss is soft and sweet, short; meant to be a comfort. Jaskier parts with a hand brushed through Eskel’s hair. He really must start touching Eskel more, he thinks; the Witcher clearly needs it. They all do – even Vesemir is touch-starved, it’s clear – but Eskel specifically seems to need contact more than his brothers or their elder.

“So,” Lambert starts, sounding a little unsure. Jaskier doesn’t move away from Eskel, but turns to look at him. “No…rules…just, figuring it out? As we go?”

Jaskier beams at him and nods. He thinks that is possibly the most non-sarcastic words he’s ever heard Lambert say, and he’s stupidly proud. When he looks to Geralt, he’s also smiling; either he knows what has just been accomplished, or he’s just glad to see Jaskier interacting so smoothly with his brothers, but it thrills Jaskier all the same.

“Exactly,” he confirms. “We can discuss, privately, if you’d like. But that’s – for now, that’s it.”

Lambert makes a rough noise and nods, then takes another long pull of vodka. Eskel leans into Jaskier’s side, just a little, and Jaskier pets through his hair again. He and Geralt share a look – Jaskier proud, almost excited, and Geralt very clearly content.

Jaskier thinks this winter is going even better than he could have ever guessed.

It’s much later that he has that talk with Geralt.

They’re lying in bed; it’s the wee hours. Dawn’s a ways off, but so is last night’s supper in the other direction. Jaskier has been drifting, mildly drowsy, for an hour or so when Geralt turns over and cages him in an embrace, running the tip of his nose along the stretch of Jaskier’s neck.

“Hm?” Jaskier wriggles around until he’s comfortable again, still enclosed in Geralt’s arms. Geralt just tightens his hold and buries his nose in the crook of Jaskier’s neck and shoulder.

“Thank you,” Geralt murmurs eventually, sounding almost choked. Jaskier drags a hand up his side, then pets gently through his hair.

“For what?” Jaskier asks, though he’s fairly sure he knows.

“Everything,” Geralt says. He takes a deep breath – scenting him – and then pulls back, just enough to look Jaskier in the eye. “For refusing to leave, all those years ago. For refusing to leave after that. For loving me. For loving them.”

Jaskier steadfastly ignores the way his eyes go misty and ducks forward to kiss Geralt. It’s slow and tender and makes him ache from his throat to his navel, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“I wanted to ask,” Jaskier mumbles when the kiss finally breaks, “when Lambert mentioned rules – did you…do you have any?”

Geralt hums, an acknowledgement that he heard, but doesn’t reply for a long while. Jaskier lets it be, twirling his fingers through stark-white hair while he waits.

“No,” Geralt finally says. “I just…. I want you; and I want you to be happy. I want my brothers to be happy. It seems I can have all of that.”

Jaskier smiles. “You absolutely can,” he murmurs, kissing Geralt again. He doesn’t think the thrill of it will ever properly wear off, if he’s honest. They get lost in kissing for a long time, until Jaskier is practically falling asleep and the grey pre-dawn light is brightening the darkness.

It’s the most content Jaskier has ever been before dropping off to sleep.

Talking about boundaries or rules with Eskel goes about exactly how Jaskier would expect it to.

Meaning, of course, that Eskel has absolutely no idea if he has any boundaries at all, and Jaskier has to remind him – several times – that he’s allowed to have them. That Jaskier wants to know them.

The conversation itself is long, and a little stilted, and consists mostly of Eskel whispering things guiltily while Jaskier pets through his hair and tells him he has nothing to be ashamed of. But, ultimately, they come to the same sort of agreement he and Geralt had. Eskel, ultimately, just wants everyone to be happy.

But Jaskier can read between the lines, and what Eskel wants most is to be included.

To be wanted.

Jaskier’s entire soul aches, thinking of what experiences Eskel’s had that have made him feel so unworthy of attention and affection. If he had names or faces, he’d hunt every single one of them down and make them regret being born. But he doesn’t have names, or faces, or any other specifics. Instead, he has Eskel, practically begging for affection and acceptance without ever saying a word.

Giving him what he needs is much more important than revenge. (Though he’ll still jump at the chance for revenge if he’s given it. He’s diplomatic, but that doesn’t mean he can’t also make someone bleed to pay for their sins. Playing God has never bothered him.)

The discussion with Lambert goes rather wildly different than he expected, if he’s honest.

Lambert is constantly surprising him. He likes that about the youngest Witcher.

“No rules, like you said. Take it as it comes,” Lambert says, quietly. He’s not looking at Jaskier, and Jaskier won’t make him. He can tell this is something big, that Lambert is fighting every instinct he’s got to say it. However he has to do that is fine by Jaskier. “But…. A request.”

“What is it?”

Lambert takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “Don’t let anyone hurt you,” he says. “Me included. And Geralt, and Eskel. Anyone – just…. I don’t…you’re….” He growls, a frustrated noise, and Jaskier can’t help himself.

He reaches forward and grabs Lambert, yanking him into a hug. “I got it,” he murmurs softly. “Now, hug me back.”

Lambert’s arms come up around him, if a little hesitantly. But once they’re around Jaskier, Lambert seems to relax a little, leaning into the embrace. Jaskier can put two and two together, and he doesn’t want to think about – or know – the specifics; Lambert is just as touch-starved as the others, but he has no way to remedy it.

No. He had no way to remedy it. Now he does – even if Jaskier has to start following him around the Continent to accomplish it.

Chapter Text

The winter passes as it always does; too slow and too fast, all at once. But for once, every moment of it is pleasant.

Geralt knows they have Jaskier to thank for that. Not even just because of their – arrangement? – but because Jaskier naturally livens everything up when he’s around. He jokes and sings and dances and makes a fool of himself, all to coax a smile or laugh out of them.

If Geralt thought he couldn’t appreciate Jaskier more before this winter, he was sorely mistaken.

Those grateful thoughts are interrupted when Lambert belches loudly into their silence. Geralt glares at him, but Lambert just smiles – almost sheepish – and takes another drink. Eskel is sprawled on the couch, head in Geralt’s lap, staring distantly into the fire. It’s barely past midnight; Jaskier had gone up to bed and left the three of them to their drinking and bickering.

It’s Eskel who speaks.

“Can I be honest?” he asks, words a little slow. They’re all at least somewhat tipsy – Jaskier had been properly drunk before he called it a night.

“Hm,” Geralt hums.

Lambert laughs. “Hm,” he mocks. “Go on, Eskel, spit it out.”

“Before,” Eskel hiccups a little, “before I knew him – I just…. I really thought you’d gone soft, Geralt.”

Geralt snorts. He might have been offended, a handful of years ago, but now it’s more of a compliment. “Fuck you,” he retorts anyway.

“No,” Lambert shakes his head. “No, he’s right – I thought you’d hit your head too hard or somethin’.” He nods vigorously and takes another drink. “I really – I mean he’s just a bard, right?”

“Hardly,” Eskel mutters, and Geralt laughs. He flips Lambert the bird.

“Jaskier is…,” Geralt pauses, fishing for the right word. Jaskier is, of course, much better at words than him. Literacy was beaten into me with a cane, he’d said once, and Geralt could relate to the beaten in part, but not the literacy. He could read and write and speak well enough, of course, but expressing specific ideas was always hard. “An enigma,” he finally decides.

Eskel snorts. “You can say that again,” he agrees. “An enigma, a fuckin’ mystery….”

“Feral as fuck,” Lambert adds, and they all laugh.

Silence falls between them again, nothing but the crackling of the fire to fill it, and Geralt thinks if he ever gets a chance to retire – like Jaskier always says – this is what he wants. His family all in one place, safe and fed and drunk. And happy.