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Chapter Text

Julian used to love the forest. When he was a child still, younger and cheerier and when he still had his mother. They used to live on the edge of a village, a small poor thing easily forgoten the moment you’ve passed it. But for Julian it was the whole world, and it was vast. He and his mother would go out of their little cottage and walk right into the woods, to collect firewood and pick berries. Those were the happiest times of his life. The forest used to be a gentle, homely thing for him.

Julian used to love the forest. He used to love a lot of things. The woods, of course, and the berries. A warm fire to soothe the sting of cold, a sunset the color of blossoms. Butterflies, and the gentle hands of his mother that he hasn’t felt in so long. He even used to like stealing glances at handsome lads that passed through the village, once he was at that age.

He doesn’t like any of those things anymore. The forest is cold around him as he lays on his meagre cot. It’s cold and it’s cruel, and its wind rips through the branches of trees and right through him and makes him shiver, makes him shake. He knows he has to get up, because Kilk has already gotten up from behind him, so it means hes already late. He’ll get a slap for sleeping in, or pretending to sleep in, but he doesnt care. He is cold, and everything hurts, but he knows everything will hurt so much worse when he does get up.

“Jule!”, the loud voice of Kilk booms from a few feet away, Julian’s stomach clenching at the imminent danger of getting kicked. He’s gotten kicked in the stomach many times, so many times he should have gotten used to it by now, but he hasn’t. He doesn’t know how to feel about that, “Jule! Get your lazy ass up or ill come over there and give you a reason to sleep in”

Julian opens his eyes and gets up slowly, in stages. He props himself up on his elbow, then gets gingerly onto his knees, and then lastly on his feet. He’s hurt, on his stomach and his ribs, and in other places too, places he doesn’t want to think about. He hurts especially bad now, after a night out in the cold. His cot is but a single wide cloth thrown on the ground, and it doesnt offer much warmth. Sometimes, when Kilk thinks he’s been good, and when it’s very cold, he lets him sleep in his cot, which is big and has blankets made of furs. He doesn’t know how to feel about that either.

He quickly goes on with making breakfast for the camp, if Kilk and his two outlaw buddies can be called that. He hurries as much as he can, knowing that if he makes one more mistake he’s in for a nasty beating. He doesn’t make any for himself, knowing he will get to eat only tonight and that is if he behaves. He doesn’t try to take any food for himself, has stopped trying a long time ago. Kilk said it made him obedient to go hungry, and it did. It also made him weak, cold, and sickly. Julian felt it, has been feeling it for some time now, that he’s getting too thin, too beat up, too cold. His body can’t take it much longer, and that’s okay. One night he’ll go to his cold cot and won’t get up in the morning. He’s waiting for that day.  

He ladles out food to Mikl and Lein, Kilk’s friends, and they sit down to eat without a glance at him. Kilk appears shortly after, emerging from the woods after his morning piss. He strides up to Julian, getting too close to him, before bending down to kiss him viciously. He’s all teeth and foul breath, violating Julian’s mouth, his hands reaching around him to grope tastelessly at his ass. It hurts, but Julian just closes his eyes and holds onto the bowl he’s holding. Abruptly, Kilk leans back with a grin and takes the bowl from his hands.

“Thanks, darling”, he says mockingly, causing laughter to erupt from his two companions. He sits down with them, but then beckons Julian to sit at his side. He taps the ground like he would for a dog, and Julian obeys. He got really good at that. He sits there and looks at his knees, feeling the cold of the ground seep up from below and into his flesh, stealing his warmth. He doesnt listen to the conversation the men lead, knowing it will be about another raid or foul job they had conjured up, knowing that listening will do him no good at all. He looks at the leaves on the trees, so green, at the shine of the morning dew, and wishes he could find comfort in its beauty. He wishes the sun would warm him, make him feel less alone, make him feel more content. He knows his end is near, that there is no more to his story, that this is it. He wishes it felt better.

A hand appears in front of his face, holding a little food between the fingers. It’s the same thing he gave out to the men, and he’s hungry, so hungry it doesn’t even hurt anymore, but he doesn’t take it right away. Kilk loves this sort of humiliation, any kind of humiliation, anything to show Julian that he is less than himself. He indulges in such behaviours frequently, when he’s in a good mood, convincing himself he’s being generous while he’s being cruel.

“Go on, take it”, Kilk says, and there is a note of warning in his voice. Julian has been pushing it lately, with his lethargic behaviour, with his dead eyes, and he knows it. He opens his mouth and takes the food, the disgusting mush that only makes his stomach feel more hollow, feeling Kilk’s rough fingers trailing his lips as he does. The man smiles, satistied, leans out of Julian’s space to continue on eating, “What do you say, Jule?”

“Thank you for feeding me, Alpha”, Julian says, not lifting his gaze from his knees. He hates saying it, but he’s used to it by now. There is no use in fighting, like he did in the begining, when he still thought he could force his way out of this. When he thought his protests might make them realize that he was a person too, that he wasn’t just a toy, a thing given to them from the heavens to use and abuse. The men thought that was what he was there for, that it was his purpose, because he was an omega. A lot of people thought that way, he found. Omegas were small, slight and frightly, easy to subdue. They were soft spoken, and eager to please, and if they weren’t it was easy to slap them around till they were. Julian hated it, he hated the people, and the alphas, and the omegas for letting it happen to them. He hated himself for letting it happen, and he hated his body for being so weak.

He was pretty sure Kilk wasn’t even a proper alpha, that he was a beta. He could never say it out loud, but he didn’t smell like much of anything to him, besides sweat and dirt. He hadn’t seen many alphas in his time, hadn’t gotten close to any of them out of caution. His father was an alpha, his mother told him, but he’d died when Julian was a small child and he didn’t remember him. So Julian didn’t know a lot about alphas, had been warned by his mother to keep away from them, but he knew they were big and imposing, and that their scents were strong and cloying. He knew they were cruel, and that all betas wanted to be alphas, like Kilk did. He took Julian as his omega to prove that he was man enough, that he was alpha enough, to his friends and to himself.

And, Julian thinks, he has proven it. Julian is broken, a mess of his former self. Kilk has succeeded.

Chapter Text

They spend the whole day walking, sometimes following a trail and sometimes not. Julian doesn’t keep track of where they are going, or what the men are talking about, because it doesn’t matter to him either way. Whether he gets fucked raw in a bed or on bare ground makes little difference to him at this point.

Once the dark starts to settle, they come to a halt in a clearing nice enough to spend the night in. Unpacking is quick, all of them used to it, and lighting the fire is relatively easy for Julian after so many times. There is not enough water, though, even though there is a river near enough. Julian can hear it, so he sets off for it with a large bowl in his hands. Just as he’s about to pass Mikl, the man darts out a hand and grabs his arm harshly, squeezing.

“Where are you going, Jule?”, he growls down at Julian, and the omega supresses the urge to flinch. That only urges them on.

“I have to go get water”

“So you thought you’d just sneak off?”, the man sneers, shaking him painfully. He looks across camp, looking for Kilk, “Ay, Kilk, your bitch was just trying to run off”

“N-no, I wasn’t, I wasn’t”, Julian says, feebly trying to get out of Mikl’s grip. He doesn’t try to escape anymore, hasn’t for a long time. He wouldn’t, not after what happened the last time he tried it. Kilk must know that. He turns in search of the man desperately, finding him just a step behind himself, “Alpha, I wasn’t, I wouldn’t, I was just going to...”

A harsh slap cuts him off, making the words stick to his throat. Julian’s eyes burn, and he blinks to get rid of the tears before they can be seen. That always riles him up even more. He tenses even more as he’s grabbed by his hair, his scalp sensitive and painful from always being yanked around by his hair.

“Always talk too much, dumb omega bitch”, Kilk spits, tightening his fist and making a tear escape Julian’s eyes. That makes Kilk smile, and Julian yelps as he feels himself being dragged into the forest, the bowl still gripped tightly in one of his hands. He trips over his own feel, unable to look where he's going, but Kilk just hauls him up painfully and keeps on dragging him toward to river, “Little bitch tried to go on without me, didn’t ask his Alpha. Didn’t learn your lesson, Jule?”

“I did! I did, I promise, Alpha”,  Julian yelps, trips over his own feel and a loose branch a few more times as they near the river, and is unceremoniously thrown onto the sharp rocks by the river. He shudders when he hits the ground, his chest constricting with fear and desperation. He wishes he could sob, he wishes he could roll into the river and drown, let this finally be over. But the river is too shallow and gentle to drown him, and Kilk would drag him out of it by the scruff of his neck. He gets up weakly, looks at his alpha, lowers his eyes, breathes in the wet air of the riverside. Waits.

“Shut up! And get the fucking water”

Julian does just that as Kilk uses the river to wash his face and wet his throat. His hands are shaking, and he breathes deep in an effort to calm down, tries not to spill the water he just collected. He straightens up and swallows, looks at the man next to him, “Alpha?”

“What is it?”

“Can I go relieve myself?”, he asks, and his cheeks burn. They always do, no matter how many times he has to say it. The humiliation swallows him, and he frowns at the river, curses himself, hopes tonight is the night he goes to sleep for the last time. He hasn’t had many years, but he has had too many hurts. It’s enough.

Kilk bursts out laughing, and it’s an ugly, wet sound. He looks at Julian mockingly, snickering as he calms down, “That why you tried to sneak off? Like we don’t all know what you got between your legs”

Julian just stands there with his hands shaking and his cheeks burning, looking at the ground until he sees Kilk nodding from his peripheral vision. He sets the bowl down carefully , and then scurries off into the nearest bushes.

“Don’t go too far off”, Kilk warns as Julian hurriedly hides in the relative dark and hurries on with his business, knowing that he will get scolded if he takes too long. He ties his breeches back up and looks around himself, seeing a glint at his left side. It's opposite from the way he came, and it catches his attention. He takes a few steps in that direction, almost unconsciously, though he knows he shouldn’t and he’ll get punished for taking his time. But he doesn’t regret it as he stumbles unexpectedly onto rocks, his eyes widening at the sight of a small lake. It’s beautiful, shining in the last evening sun, almost blinding. The water looks very clear and deep, and Julian has a visceral need to drink the water. He gives in.

The water is cold when he steps into it, crisp when he takes it into his mouth, cleansing when he splashes it onto his face. He almost smiles, his reflection looking back at him, and straightens up.

And comes face to face with a woman.

She’s beautiful, her skin white like show and slick with water, giving the appearance of silk. Her hair is white and perfect, and her eyes are dark and mysterious. She’s standing in the water, naked and without a single blemish, untouched by harshness. She smiles at Julian, reaches out and touches his cheek gently, looks at him like he’s kin. Water drips from her hair and back into the lake, but when it lands it sounds like a song, mild and soothing.

It makes Julian's eyes water once again, his breath hitch. He hasn’t heard anything like music for the longest time, hasn’t thought about it. He swore off it, in the dead off night when he realized there is no hope for him. But his soul missed it, and it weeps.

The girl, the vila looks at him, looks into him, her dark eyes feel like they’re reading into his very essence. And he knows it’s a vila, and he knows she will drown him, and he feels joy. The vila opens her mouth, a row of perfect but sharp teeth emerging, and to Julian’s shock, she speaks.

“Brother omega, they have hurt you”, her voice is soothing, but it is not human. It has a dual quality to it, like it is not one person speaking but many at once. Nonetheless, it doesn’t frighten Julian like it should.

Julian swallows, his throat tight, and tries not to cry. He’s cried enough. He doesn’t answer the vila, because she doesn’t need an answer. Instead, he asks, “Will you drown me?”

The woman frowns, caresses his face once more, then smiles. This time the smile is dangerous.

“I will, if you want it. My brothers and sisters that have joined me give me great joy”, she gestures to the lake, and Julian doesn’t see anything in it besides the clear water, but he knows that the vila is all those who have drowned here willingly, who have come out of desperation, “But first I will drown that one who did this to you. Call for him”

Julian opens his mouth to say something, to protest or call for his alpha or beg to die, but he never gets to say it because he hears steps behind him, on the rocks and pebbles of shore.

“What the hell are you doing, Jule?!”, Kilk yells as he emerges from the forest, his eyes glaring daggers at Julian, and the omega flinches and takes a step further into the water. Kilk is about to say something else, stepping threateningly towards the water, but then he spots the vila. He gapes at her.

The vila opens her mouth, and sings. It’s a beautiful but frightening melody, and she looks Kilk in the eyes as she steps towards him, the water moving with her. The man doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t even look like he’s breathing, completely enchanted. The song winds around them all, mesmerizing and haunting, the voices of many whispering and murmuring and creating a crescendo. The vila reaches for Kilk in a graceful motion, and the man steps toward her, takes her hand. Follows her into the water, into the deep, up to his waist.

Julian watches, enchanted just like Kilk but differently, his heart hammering in his chest. He waits for the woman to dunk Kilk under the water, is certain it will happen any second when at once she snaps her head to the side. The song woobles and dies off in a cacophony of wails, and for a moment there is silence.

Julian sees Kilk blink dazedly, but then rips his eyes from him and looks at the opposite edge of the lake, where the vila is looking. There is a man there. His hair is white and long, and there is a sword in his hand. For an unknown reason, the sight of him chills Julian to the bone, something deep inside him cowering.

Then the vila screams. It’s a horrible sound, a twisted, wretched thing. The sound hurts, and Julian sees the man on the shore fall to one knee. The scream heightens into a song, a different one from the one before, a menacing one. It twists something in Julian's chest just to listen to it, even though he knows it’s not aimed at him. Kilk forgotten, the woman rushes through the lake, seemingly parting the water as she goes at an unimaginable speed. Her body changes, losing the shape of a beautiful woman and taking one of a monster, arms elongating and hands turning into claws, hair growing longer so it covers the water around her, teeth becoming sharp and long like daggers. She lunges at the strange man with white hair, but just as she’s about the sink her claws into his face, he seems to regain his strength and rips his sword into her way. He cuts her, and she wails, and the sound merges with the song, and Julian’s head hurts at the sound. The man gets up onto his feet swiftly, too swiftly, like he neither isn’t human, and starts cutting at the vila.

The vila fights, all limbs and sharp claws, but as more cuts appear on her white skin it becomes clear she is no match for the sword. The man has but a single scratch on him, and he is ruthless, and he is armed, and he cuts and cuts. The song tapers off, becomes harder to hear, becomes more painful to listen to, and Julian looks away just in time to avoid seeing the man giving the final blow. He hears the head hit the water, a loud splash, and looks back in time to see it sink below the surface eerily quick. The rest of the woman’s grotesque body follows, sinking below the surface and disappearing, like she wasn’t even there.

Julian blinks, and wonders hysterically if he’s dreaming, or he’s already dead. He watches the man on the shore, watches him breathe heavily as he recovers from the fight. He’s interrupted with a sharp pain on his cheek, and he looks back just to see Kilk’s furious eyes looking back at him, and he looses his balance from surprise and falls into the water. He goes all the way under, dunking his head under the surface, and for a moment he just stays there. Eyes open underwater, he watches the dying sun and feels betrayed, feels like he was just ripped from his peaceful end. He was supposed to die here, and he welcomed it, and that chance was violently taken from him.

Chapter Text

After slapping Julian a few more times for the mistake of ‘not even trying to help his Alpha’, Kilk eases off and starts sweet talking the strange man that appeared out of the forest and then slew the vila. Julian looks at the water with grief and shivers as they talk, or rather while Kilk talks at the stranger. At first the man seems like he just wants to leave as swiftly as he appeared, but then gives them both a once over and seems to change his mind.

“My saviour, you have to let me thank you properly! You saved my life, man”, Kilk says cheerily, trying to convince him to come back to camp with them, “At least let me thank you by having a drink and something warm to eat”

“Hmm”, the man murmurs, blinks, and then seems to make his final decision, “I have to get my horse, I left it when I heard you”

Julian isn’t really listening, but he almost flinches just at the sound of the stranger’s voice. It’s quite possibly the deepest voice he’s ever heard, and he eyes the man as he retreats to collect his horse. He hopes that he lied just to get Kilk off his back, and that he won’t appear again. The man looks dangerous, and is obviously violent. Julian doesn’t want to be anywhere near him or those swords he’s carrying on his back.

To Julian’s great grief, the man reappears just a minute later on the same side of the lake they’re at, and Kilk hurries to clasp his hand. He’s awfully, overly excited over the stranger, and that worries Julian, even more than seeing what the man looks like up close does. To his utter horror, the man is built like a wall of bricks, and is at least half a head taller than Kilk. Julian is tall for an omega, but even so his alpha has a few inches on him. Julian swallows, tries to push down the uneasy feeling he’s got just from looking at the man.

“I’m Kilk, friend”, he says with a grin, “Nice to meet you, witcher”

“Geralt”, the ‘witcher’ says simply, letting go of Kilk and turning towards Julian. He waits a few seconds, and then opens his mouth to say something, but before he has the chance to he’s cut off by Kilk.

“Let’s get back to camp then. Im certain my friends will be delighted to meet you”

And so they return back to camp, with Julian scurrying to get the damned bowl with water that started the whole mess in the first place. When they get back to camp they find out that Mikl and Lain hadn’t heard any commotion, and Geralt informs them that it’s because ‘rusalkas can only be heard by those that can see it’. That strikes Julian as strange, since the man appeared at the lake with sword in hand, like he knew what was going on, but goes over everyone else’s head. He lets it escape his mind as he hurries to prepare something for dinner with their meagre supplies, knowing Kilk is going to be mad if it’s not grand enough for their guest. He hurries through camp, the late night breeze making him shiver viciously, and brings the men the wine Kilk yells at him for. His alpha keeps it in his bag for special occasions.  

The men eat and drink hastily, emptying the wine bag quickly. They laugh around the fire, all of them but the witcher merry and boastful. Julian has just sat down next to his alpha when the man shoves him harshly, making him almost topple over.

“What’re you sitting down for, lazy omega? Get our witcher friend something to clean his wound with”, he spits at Julian who scurries back to his feet.

“It’ll heal on its own, it’s fine”, the witcher says, but Julian is already digging through his alpha’s bags in search of some scrap of cloth and something to wipe the wound clean with.

“Nah, let him do it. We gotta use the whore for something when he’s not nursing a cock, right boys?”, Kilk says and laughter booms at his joke, but when Julian approaches the witcher with his supplies he sees that the man isn’t laughing with them. He kneels in front of the large man, wetting the cloth with some stronger alcohol he could find and leaning to gently wipe at the cut on the man’s face. The witcher lets him, doesn’t wince at the burn Julian is sure he’s feeling, observes him with eyes that are a strange color that the omega can’t make out in the dark.

“You’re cold”, he says lowly, his eyes on Julian’s hands which are shaking. Julian doesn’t answer him, too busy trying to discern the smell surrounding the man. The smell of fire is in the air, of cracking wood and leaves, but it seems to him that the smell is stronger right next to the witcher.

“Nah, the whore ain’t cold, he’s just needing his alpha’s touch”, Kilk booms over them and then uses Julian’s ragged shirt to drag him into his lap. His hands squeeze his hips harshly and teeth nip at his neck, making him flinch and making the men laugh. Once again, the witcher doesn’t laugh, but no one seems to notice, “Answer the witcher, whore”

“N-no, I'm not cold”, Julian says, but then winces when Kilk grabs him painfully by the nape, growling into his ear to ‘answer the man right’, “I’m not cold, sir. Thank you for asking”

That seems to satisfy Kilk, who shoves Julian off his lap with ease, letting him crumple to the ground, a sickening grin on his face. He’s revelling in this, Julian knows, that he gets someone else to show how he’s got a nice little obedient omega just for himself. It’s a point of pride to him, how harshly he treats Julian, how he can do anything to him and he can’t fight back. It makes Julian sick, but he doesn’t do anything about it. Knows he can’t, knows he’s already tried it all. He tried running away and cutting the bastard’s throat, tried talking people in towns they passed through into hiding him, taking him in, but it never worked. He was always dragged back and punished for his insolence, laughed at. Stupid little omega doesn’t even know what’s good for him, needs someone else to make his decisions, to keep him from getting into trouble. That’s what the general public thought about omegas, that they ‘need a tight leash and a harsh hand to keep in line’, as he heard from a beta woman.

So he grits his teeth and does nothing, hopes that the end is near. Still hopes that tonight is the last night of his life.

“Go put on something else, you’re all wet”, Kilk tells him, and Julian takes the chance to scurry off. There is a dangerous atmosphere in camp tonight, and if he makes a mistake he’s likely to regret it. Kilk’s itching to show his new friend how well he can control his whore, how well he can punish him, and Julian  doesn’t want to give him any reason to demonstrate.

He changes hastily, into some ratty old Kilk’s shirt that is way too big on him and some pants that have holes on the knees, but at least the clothes are dry. At this point, he takes what he can get. He skulks around the camp, doing some imaginary chores as the men talk around the fire, tries to stay unnoticed. He doesn’t want to go back to Kilk’s side, and thankfully the man is too preoccupied with trying to entertain the witcher to notice he’s not there. By the time the men retire to their cots, it’s late and they’ve drunk all the liquor in the camp, which is not very much but enough to get Kilk woozy. Julian’s prayers are answered when the man just passes him on his way to his cot, doesn’t even blink at him. He’d feared that he’d be forced to share the man’s bed tonight, or even that he would be sent to the witcher’s out of some twisted sense of gratitude. Julian eyes the witcher as he too lays down, watching the man put his furs onto the ground and get comfortable. He shudders thinking about how much it would hurt if he’d been forced to share the man’s cot, how harshly he would be treated. At least with Kilk he knows what’s likely to happen, and when he has to think of things far away to escape the pain. He’s sure that with the witcher there would be no escaping the pain.

With those thoughts, Julian slips into an uneasy slumber, too cold and aching to sleep nicely. He dreams of being tortured by a monster with white hair.

Chapter Text

Julian jerks awake to shouting. He shoots up to a sitting position, looks to his left, and freezes. The morning is young, barely the ghost of sunlight present to see by, and in it the blood looks black instead of red. And Julian knows it’s blood. He knows by the looks, and by the smell. He knows the smell of blood well, too well, for he has smelled his own far too often. But never this much at once. The smell is metallic and sickening and it makes his stomach twist and roll.

He looks at the blood and he looks at who it was inside, and Kilk’s empty eyes look back at him. His alpha’s mouth is open like he was just about to say something, to yell or to plead, when his throat was slit.

The sound of metal clashing snaps him out of his haze, and Julian whips his head in the direction the sound came from. He sees flashing of swords, two men circling each other. One of them is Mikl, and the other is the witcher, a focused look on his face. Mikl looks out of his mind, his shirt rumpled and ripped where he got cut. His eyes are wide and terrified, one of his arms limp and quickly becoming soaked with blood. Julian watches as he parries, tries to attack, but he knows what is going to happen. The witcher is uninjured, and he is in his armour. Julian realizes he didn’t take it off when he laid down to sleep. He watches as Mikl gives a yell and rushes forward, watches the glint of steel as it sinks into his chest and then out. The body falls to the ground, and when it does Julian sees another one just next to it. Lain.

He blinks, frowns. Looks back at Kilk, and then at the witcher once again. The witcher straightens from his fighting stance and turns towards him. Big, broad, with an eerily long sword in his hand, he steps towards Julian. He’s going to kill him, he knows it, believes it with his whole being. Tonight really is his last night. He knew it.

The witcher takes a few steps towards Julian and then stops, doesn’t move. Just looks.

“Are you going to kill me?”, Julian asks, voice calm. There is nothing to fear here. Just death, which he has been calling. Finally it has answered. It’s here, it’s between him and the witcher, waiting to take him into her arms. He knows it’ll be gentle, unlike this wreched life.

“No”, the witcher says simply, and Julian’s stomach flips.

“Why not?”, he asks dumbly.

“Hmmm”, the man says, adjusting his sword and crouching down. The sword is wet and red, dripping blood to the ground.  His eyes meet Julian’s, but they’re unreadable, “Do you want to die?”

He says it like a threat, like he expects Julian to suddenly realize his situation and try to run away, call for help. But Julian simply nods, “Yes.”

The man is hard to read, but for a moment he is visibly taken aback. After a few moments he clears his throat, “I’m not going to kill you”

“But you killed everyone else”, Julian feels like he’s going mad, hears his own voice and thinks he sounds insane, his voice in the wrong octave. That doesn’t make him back down. He can’t, “You killed everyone else! Why not me?!”

“I kill monsters”

“But I want it. You don’t get it!”, Julian hisses back, not even hearing the witcher’s words further than to realize he’s been rejected. His mind reels, and he stares at the witcher with wide eyes as a horrible realization hits him, “You think...No, I’m useless. I’m all used up, I’m sick and scarred. There’s nothing you can use me for!”

He grips the ground on either side of him, his nails digging into the dirt painfully. He doesn’t notice, doesn’t care. This man is going to take him for himself, he is going to make him his omega, and he knows it is going to be so much worse than it was with Kilk. He’s a real alpha, he knows, the smell of a fire that’s not present mixing with the smell of blood in his nostrils. A real alpha, stronger and harsher and more ruthless. Julian’s blood turns to ice, his heart jackhammering in his chest. He thinks he’s going to pass out, hopes for it, but he doesn’t. Instead he starts to cry, loud ugly sobs punching out of him.

“There is nothing you can take! I’m just waiting to die!”, he screams at the man, struggles to breathe and cry and yell at the same time, his head spinning. In the back of his head, he thinks he’ll get a bad beating for yelling at an alpha, “There is nothing for you! Just kill me!”

Tears streaming down his face, Julian looks at the man in defiance, in hope, his chest shaking as he cries. But the man looks back at him calmly, doesn’t move, opens his mouth, “I’m not going to kill you”

“Are you going to stop fucking repeating that?! Did you not hear me?”, Julian rages, scrambles onto his knees and reaches for the alpha’s sword in desperation. The man moves it out of his reach, frowns, “Please. Please”

“Omega, stop it. I’m not going to kill you”, he says, voice even deeper than it usually is. A tingle starts in Julian’s neck and goes all the way down his spine at the tone of the alpha’s voice. It makes him pause, listen, even though he doesn’t want to, “I’m not going to use you either”

The witcher stands up, severing the conversation and leaving Julian gaping. He doesn’t believe the alpha, shivers on the cold ground and watches the sun come up through the branches. His sobs taper off, turning into sniffles and then completely stopping as the alpha wanders around camp rearranging bodies and supplies. Some things he takes, some he leaves, but Julian doesn’t care. He’s lost two chances to die in one day, he thinks and lies back down onto the ground. Huddles onto his cold cot and breathes in the scent of blood and fire, closes his eyes and tries to forget.

Chapter Text

Oblivion is a hard thing to obtain, Julian knows. He lays on the cold ground and keeps his eyes shut and tries to ignore his buzzing mind and the witcher stomping around him. It’s impossible, but he’s tired and he’s pretty certain he is going to start crying again if he moves.

So he lays there, he doesn’t know for how long, and only stirs when the witcher’s steps stop right next to him and he lays something onto the ground next to Julian’s head. It’s still barely morning, so not too long has passed.

“Eat, omega”, the rough voice says, and Julian cracks his eyes open to see a bowl almost touching his nose. He sits up groggily, painfully, his head feeling like it’s going to split open any moment and his joints creaking. He takes the bowl, looks at the bread and cheese that’s in it, gulps. It’s not a huge portion, probably even less than an average person would eat, but to him it’s a feast. He hasn’t had a full meal in a long time, he thinks. Just bites here and there, when his alpha would allow it or when he would find a berry or a mushroom in the forest that he deemed edible enough. 

Julian looks at the food for a while, jerked out of his thoughts when the witcher appears from where the horses are tethered and takes a seat across from him, a bowl in his hand. At a glance, it seems that in the bowl is the same thing that he’s given to Julian. It’s strange.

The man takes a bite of his food, chews, looks at Julian, frowns, and then grabs something from the ground. He throws it at Julian, and the omega flinches, thinking he’s about to get hit for staring, but instead a waterskin lands a foot from him.

“Water”, the alpha says simply, and resumes eating.

At a loss for words, confused and wondering if maybe he hit his head at some point, Julian takes the water and drinks. He drinks almost the whole thing, thirsty beyond belief, and then starts eating. His stomach cheers, then protests, rolls and growls as he slowly chews. He knows that he can’t eat too quick, that he wouldn’t be able to take it. He eats anyways, eats it all even though his insides protest. He’s learned that he never knows when he’ll eat again.

When he’s done he sits there and looks at his knees, ignores the urge to gawk at the witcher. The man is frightening and strange, and Julian doesn’t want to get punished for being too curious. After a short while, the man finishes his meal too, and stands up. He moves very easily for someone his size, too easily. Once again Julian is hit with the realization that he isn’t human. There is something strange in the man, something more, something dangerous.

Julian doesn’t know a lot about witchers. He’s heard of them, stories told by fires in villages and towns, in corners of seedy taverns. He’s aware that most of what he heard is horseshit, though. People love to talk, and they love to exaggerate, and they love to stir fear. He knows all the horror stories aren’t true, because they can’t possibly be, but it’s hard to believe that when looking at a witcher.

“Get whatever you want from the camp”, the man rumbles, waits for Julian to get up on his feet, and then steps toward where the horses are, “And hurry. We have to leave before anyone shows up”

The witcher leaves, disappearing behind the trees, and Julian blinks for a moment before shaking himself. He has to get it together before the man loses his patience. He hurries around the camp thoughtlessly, almost tripping over his alpha’s body, doesn’t look at it, hurries to find anything useful. He can see that the witcher already took the food and coin, and there isn’t much left. Julian looks at the cots, debates taking some of the furs, but decides against it as they’re all covered in blood. There’s even blood on him, he notices dazedly. It’s not a lot, a few drops here and there. He tries to wipe it off, but it has already dried and only crusts off a little bit, not easily removed. He wonders whose blood it is, decides it doesn’t matter. He’s digging through Kilk’s bags when he pulls out a cloak. It’s not too nice, a bit ratty even when looked at in direct light.

Julian holds it, thinks about how cold he is, thinks about how Kilk never let him wear enough clothes, always let him shiver on the cold ground as he himself was wrapped in a warm cloak. Thinks about how furious the man would be if he knew Julian took it. Then he puts it on.

The man is dead. And the dead can’t complain.  

Chapter Text

The witcher is saddling his horse when Julian approaches him. The man doesn’t turn towards him, so the omega stands there and watches him. The horse the man is tending to is more of a beast than an animal, monstrously big and black as the night. It’s built of pure muscle and sinew, a lot taller than Julian and imposing. It suits the witcher well, he decides.

He’d debated running away while alone in the camp, just disappearing into the woods and hoping that the witcher wouldn’t follow him. But he knew he’d never be able to outrun this man, and even if he did he knew he’d be caught by someone else. The ruckus they caused in the night was not something to go by unnoticed, and if he got caught skulking around he’d hang for the deaths of the three men. Even though everyone would know an omega would never be able to overpower and kill three men, they would still find him guilty. That’s how it worked, the omega was always guilty.

“Pick a horse”

“What?”, Julian wondered, startled.

“Pick a horse”, the witcher repeats, gesturing to the three horses besides his own. Those are the horses belonging to dead men, Julian thinks, then squashes that thought. He is already wearing a dead man’s cloak, “You’re going to need a horse, so choose one”

Baffled by the thought that he’d get a horse for himself, Julian looks over the horses, but he already knows which one he’ll take. He’d been the one to take care of all the horses, and he’d tried to treat them equally, but there was always one he spent the most time on. As much as his master was cruel, Kilk’s horse was a gentle thing, never biting and always looking for a good rub. The gelding's a dirty cream color, its hair shiny when brushed properly. Julian approaches the horse and starts saddling it. He’d always saddled the horse but almost never ridden it, usually left to travel on foot while his companions rode. Quickly done with the task, he is left to frown up at the horse, not sure if he could get up on its back with the condition he is in. His body aches terribly, and he's pretty sure he would fall over if he tried to get on.

During his internal monologue, the witcher had untethered the remaining two horses and let them run off. He approaches Julian, a frown he seems to perpetually have on his face souring his features once more.

“Do you not know how to ride a horse?”

“No..I mean I do, I’ve ridden one a few times”

“Hmm”, the witcher looks Julian up and down, “Then what’s the problem?”

Confused and embarrassed, Julian sputters, turning to the witcher and immediately regretting his decision. The man is a lot more frightening in the daylight than he was in the cover of dark. His skin is white to the point of transparency, the color made uncanny by the droplets of blood that have dried down on his face and arms. He’s a good head taller than Julian too, which makes him uneasy. Makes him regret not trying to run away though he knows it would have been futile.

And his eyes are yellow. An unnatural, weird yellow, with slits for pupils instead of spheres. Julian gulps, slaps himself internally, reminds himself he absolutely cannot make this man angry.

“N-Nothing, I’m sorry, I’m sorry”, he babbles, not knowing what he’s saying, lowering his eyes and looking at his feet. He can feel his body erupting in goosebumps, expecting a strike, knowing it will hurt terribly. His hands are shaking, “I’m sorry, Alpha”

The witcher ‘hmm’s, then reaches for Julian, who is too scared to move away, to try to escape, but jerks once he’s touched. The man’s big hands settle on his waist, big but not squeezing, and Julian flinches and starts to apologize but is then lifted into the air. He grabs onto the alpha’s arms, feels the muscle in them hard like steel, looks unintentionally into the alpha’s eyes for a moment.

“Get your foot in the stirrup”, the man has to say, and then Julian rips his eyes away from the yellow, cat-like ones of his companion and finally gets his wits together and starts to cooperate. He slots his left foot into the stirrup and is easily pushed just the remaining way into the saddle, where he settles confusedly. The witcher doesn’t say anything else, goes to his own horse and mounts, starts riding in a direction Julian doesn’t find any different than all the others.

At a loss, Julian follows, his gelding trotting happily after the man’s horse. The gelding doesn’t know that its master is dead a few feet away, or it doesn’t care. Julian finds he doesn’t care either, grips the reins and leaves the wretched place after the witcher.

Chapter Text

They ride through the forest for a while, slow and careful, the witcher first and Julian behind. The witcher doesn’t talk, doesn’t chatter. Julian used to talk a lot, once upon a time, a lifetime ago. But he doesn’t anymore. The silence is strange to Julian, but peaceful. The men he was with used to talk all the time, about foul jobs and their past crimes. They made fun of each other and of Julian, laughing and cackling at him. He never got used to the ridicule, always flushed and lowered his head, never managed to hide how much it hurt him to be talked about like that. So he sits in silence, looks at the forest, looks at the witcher’s broad back, listens to the crickets and the birds. It’s a peaceful day, sunny and warm with the approaching summer, but Julian doesn’t take off his cloak. He was cold for too long. He’d rather sweat.

After some time, when the sun is already high in the sky, they come across a road and follow it. There is enough space, so they ride side by side. Julian tries to watch the alpha from the corner of his eye in a futile attempt to understand the man’s intentions, to understand anything. He doesn’t learn anything new, except that the alpha’s hair shines in the sun and that he always knows when he’s being watched. So Julian looks away, keeps his eyes on the road, plays with his fingers. After a while he starts wincing any time his gelding comes across a rough patch in the road, as his injuries decide he’s abused them enough. His bottom hurts terribly, even more than it usually does after a full day of walking. He doesn’t say anything, grits his teeth.

Nonetheless, a short while after he has started feeling the joys of riding on a sore ass, the witcher leads them off road. Once they’re safely hidden from a passerby’s glance, the man dismounts. Before Julian has the time to even consider how he might dismount, the alpha is by his horse. He extends a hand toward Julian, body held easily and non-threateningly.

But Julian hesitates. He moves his hand and then stops, looking at the witcher’s hand which is big and roughened by the swords, by the reigns. That hand could pull him down harshly, squeeze his flesh painfully, break his hand. Julian’s hands start trembling, and he swallows, looking from the extended hand into the alpha’s eyes. They are strange and unreadable, looking straight back at him. Gaze back on the man’s hand, Julian hesitates for a painfully long time. He doesn’t want to touch this strange man. He doesn’t want to give him the chance to hurt him, though he knows the witcher wouldn’t need a chance if he wanted to do so. There is no defence for Julian, no chance to be given, no vulnerability to be shown. It’s all in the open.  

But the man waits patiently, standing calmly and not moving, waits until Julian gathers his courage and lowers a shaky hand into his. Helps him down gently, letting Julian lean onto him heavily as he gets his legs to work again. Julian is aware that anyone else would have already dragged him to the ground by his hair, and kicked him for his insolence too. He’s gotten backslapped for hesitating just for a moment before. Got sent out to sleep in the rain because he didn’t obey an order fast enough.

Julian is confused but wary still, letting go of the alpha as soon as he’s able to and stepping back. He slots his arms around himself in a mimicry of a hug, confused. He understands nothing about the witcher, and that is a danger he can’t afford. Makes it harder for him to avoid making mistakes. Makes it easier to make the man angry.

“We’re taking a break for lunch”, the witcher says roughly, turning away, “Then we ride again until dark”

Julian wrings his hands, knowing that his ass will not be taking that well, but not able to say anything. You don’t argue with alphas, don’t say anything. You just listen, grit your teeth and keep going. If he said anything the man would probably make him ride without a saddle, or offer to freshen up his bruises so they’re easier to sit on. He shakes his head and waters the horses without being told, is wary of approaching the witcher’s horse, but the beast just headbutts his hand in greeting. That makes Julian’s lips twitch with a ghost of a smile. Horses he understands, at least.

He finishes and turns to the alpha, who is looking into the woods with a focused expression. Julian hates to interrupt him, but, “Alpha, could I..?”

The man turns to look at him, eyes blank, and Julian flushes, swallows.

“Could I go..?”, he starts, but doesn’t have the heart to finish his sentence. Maybe he’s been humiliated too much, or maybe it wasn’t enough, because he can’t make the words leave his lips. But he doesn’t have to, because the witcher rises a single brow and twitches, like maybe he wants to hit something and interrupts Julian’s struggle.

“Don’t ask, just go”, the man says briskly, and Julian cowers for a moment, certain that he’s somehow annoyed the alpha. Head down, he murmurs a ‘thank you, alpha’ and then scurries off behind the trees.

When he returns to the small clearing where they’d stopped, the alpha is sitting on the ground, a bowl in his hands. He’s eating, but he nods his head to the ground, where another bowl is sitting pretty and full of food. Saliva floods Julian’s mouth, though he has already eaten today, though his tummy isn’t even empty. Though he knows he doesn’t get two meals a day, ever. He sits opposite to the alpha, next to the other bowl, looks at it and then looks at the alpha. Thinks he looks too eager, too needy and lowers his eyes to the ground between them. Maybe the bowl is a twisted way of testing Julian, to see if he’ll take the food without permission. He won’t.

“What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing, I just..”

“Eat, omega”

Julian is used to being called that, used to it smarting like a well placed slap every time someone says it to him. When people call him that, they usually do it in the same tone in which they would say ‘bitch’ or ‘whore’. Like those words are interchangeable, like they are the same. It confuses Julian, but the witcher doesn’t say it like that. From his mouth, it’s not derogatory, though he says it with his deep, witchery voice.

The bowl is heavy with food when Julian takes it, and he has to resist the urge to gape at the food. It’s bread again, but next to it is nestled some dry meat. There’s not a lot of it, but it’s something Julian doesn’t get to eat very often. He takes some and puts it in his mouth, adds some bread and tries to chew slowly. It tastes really good.

“What is your name?”, the alpha asks out of the blue, surprising Julian. The omega lifts his head to look at the witcher, his mouth full. He’s pretty sure his cheeks are bulging with the food, too, and flushes when his eyes meet yellow ones. He quickly chews and tries to swallow in a hurry, choking in the process and coughing viciously. The waterskin lands in front of him, and Julian grabs it and takes a few big pulls from it. It calms his ragged throat, but not his embarrassment.

“Tha-thank you, Alpha”, he mutters and opens his mouth to say ‘Julian’, but then stops himself. He’s been Julian for a long time, his whole life. But lately he’s been ‘Jule’, a nickname that ridicules, that lessens. It taints him, taints his given name. And who is left in the world now that knows his name besides himself? But a few tavern owners and slutty village girls, no one.

On sunny, pretty days, back when he was little and his mother still healthy, she used to make the both of them flower crowns. Hers was a mixture of different flowers, but his own was always mostly buttercups. That’s what she used to call him, when he was being cheeky as a child, she’d say he was her buttercup and kiss his hair.

The memory is vivid, and it makes his eyes mist and his throat tighten, but he just blinks and it goes away. The memory is a happy one, among the numerous ones that aren’t, and he’s not going to cry at it. This grief is old, worn, but it is not something he wants to be rid of. He decides on a name.

“Jaskier”, he says, and it feels right in his mouth, slides out like it really has been his name his whole life.

“Hmmm”, the witcher says, nods. He looks at Jaskier, looks into him. A few seconds pass, and the omega thinks the witcher won’t offer his own name, that he just asked Jaskier’s out of curiosity, “That man made you call him Alpha. You don’t have to do that anymore. My name’s Geralt”

Then he continues to eat, like he didn’t just flip Jaskier’s world upside down. It’s easy for Jaskier to just sit there, baffled, but he jerks out of his stupor when he realizes the alpha is already finishing his meal. He hurries through his food, ignoring the pain in his stomach and hoping it doesn’t escalate. He’s not used to eating this much, and he’s aware that for him a full tummy could easily mean nausea.

When they are both finished, they get up in silence and gather their things. Geralt helps Jaskier onto his horse in the same way he did before, and again the omega can’t help but jerk at the touch, but the alpha doesn’t comment on it. Once again, he’s touched without pain, Jaskier thinks and watches Geralt and he mounts his own horse. They set off, back onto the road and up it, as far away from the place they met they can manage.

By the time the sun starts to sink into the mountains on the horizon, Jaskier is not even certain he owns a backside. Geralt stops his horse on a nice little clearing in the woods, and Jaskier almost wishes they would keep riding. He’s numb to the pain, having gritted his teeth for so long that the pain faded away, sunk into him. He’s sure it’s going to come back with a vengeance as soon as he moves.

But as with everything else in life, it never goes Jaskier’s way, and he is lowered from horseback by Geralt. The witcher helps him down, but the omega doesn’t even have time to be grateful for that before his knees give out. He gasps, grabs onto the alpha’s arms, is sure he is going to hit the ground painfully. The pain is something vicious, something more, and it makes his eyes water and his muscles tense. He wishes he could curl up on the ground and stay there for a long time. Wishes the witcher would let him fall and forget about him, just let him be pathetic and small.

But that doesn’t happen, the man swiftly stabilizing Jaskier by his elbows and half dragging, half carrying him a short distance from the horses. He sets him down easily, carefully, crouches down in front of the omega, a severe frown on his face.

“You’re hurt”, he rumbles, and there is a tone to is voice that Jaskier can’t decipher, “You smell like pain”

Jaskier doesn’t have the presence of mind to be baffled, but it still occurs to him that smelling emotions is not a usual thing. Not even an alpha thing, not unless it’s between mates.

“..What?”, he croaks, his arms tight around his middle, like that’ll help the pain. It doesn’t, but he can’t help it.

“Hmm”, the alpha says, his hands twitching like he wants to touch. To Jaskier’s relief, he doesn’t, “Sometimes, I can smell emotions. When they’re strong. Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”

Jaskier doesn’t answer, because there is no answer. He wouldn’t say it, wouldn’t ever dream of telling an alpha he’s hurt. He imagines it only ending with him getting more hurt. There is nothing the alpha would, could do. Hands like that don’t comfort, they pull, and squeeze and bruise.

“Hmmm”, the witcher stands up and rummages through his bags, coming back with a small skin which he hands to Jaskier, “It might help some”

Confused as he usually seems to be, Jaskier watches the alpha begin to unpack, taking care of the horses and clearing some space for a fire. He opens the skin, takes a small sip and winces. It’s alcohol, and it’s strong, burning his throat and all the way down into his tummy. He doesn’t hate it, takes careful little sips as he watches the sun set. He’s not exactly cold, the cloak big and soft around him, and he’s not hungry. There’s pain, but it’s not the witcher’s doing, so it doesn’t matter.

It’s weird, and Jaskier supresses the urge to shake his head like a dog to straighten out his thoughts. His head is all out of order, jumbled, senseless.

The man, Geralt, disappears into the forest for a few minutes, reappearing with an armful of dry branches. Puts them on the ground and gets to work building a fire.

“I..I can do that”, Jaskier says, wanting to do something. Being useful is good, being useful means he doesn’t get beat as much. But the witcher shakes his head, sets his hands in a weird pose, and a small fire starts right underneath the neatly placed wood. Jaskier gapes.

He looks at the fire, blinks, his mouth open. Looks at the alpha, then back at the fire, repeats the process.

“It’s... it’s.., what is that?”

“It’s sign magic”, Geralt says simply, like that explains it. It only confuses Jaskier more, but he doesn’t dare to pry. The alpha gets up, starts unpacking his bags. He takes out his furs, stacks them on the ground, making a comfortable looking cot. Jaskier wasn’t expecting it, he wasn’t, but he sees that the man in placing all the furs in one place. He wishes he’d brought his ratty sheet, even though it’s greedy, even though he now has a warm cloak he can use to sleep in. He got treated good for one day and all of a sudden he thinks he gets his own furs, get to not sleep on the ground. Stupid, needy omega bitch, he thinks, curses himself.

Geralt finishes making his bed, readjusts a few things in it, puts a bigger fur to the side to use as a blanket. Then he looks at Jaskier, clear intent in his eyes. Their gazes meet, and Jaskier knows. He understands, and he feels sick. His stomach twists and turns, and he bursts to his feet, ignores his pain, takes a step back and grits his teeth. He wants to go off into the forest and empty his stomach of all the food this man fed him, everything he gave him.

He doesn’t need it if it’s for this.

“No...no”, he says, almost sways on his feet due to the sudden spike in his heart rate, the anger clouding his vision. He wants to bare his teeth at the alpha, to growl at him, to take one of his big swords and cut his neck, “I will not! I will not! You can’t make me”

He breathes heavily, his heartbeat loud in his ears, like an avalanche coming in, his chest tight. He stares down the alpha, glares daggers at him, feels the hatred pouring out of his eyes and onto the ground between them. The witcher gets up from his crouch slowly, and once he is standing Jaskier is cruelly reminded of how tall, how massive the man is. He doesn’t care, stands his ground.

“I will not come into your bed willingly!”, he spits, heaves, “You can drag me into it, beat me into it, but i will not do it myself”

“Jaskier”, the man says, tries, but he is cruelly cut off.

“You think because you fed me and didn’t hit me for a day that I’ll crawl to you, spread my legs for you?! You think I’d do it just for some scraps?”, he yells, screams, his voice breaking halfway, “You want a willing bitch?”

Omegas don’t yell at alphas. They don’t stare them down and bare their teeth at them, seethe and hiss and scream. It just doesn’t happen, and Jaskier knows what is going to happen to him. He’s ready for it, expects it, almost revels in it.

Because in him, too, there is steel. Jaskier knows it, has known it for a long time. Underneath all the weak, soft flesh, underneath the sadness, there is something in him that does not give. That never breaks. It surfaces when it’s needed, when there is nothing else to be but strong, but to push forward.

He’s felt it before, when he held his mother’s hand as she died. As he sat there with death in the room, talking and smiling and being strong because he had to, because there was no one else to do it, because it was just him. Felt it when he buried her, did it alone, dug the hole long and deep, carried her out of the house and lowered her into the ground, filled it back up. Felt it when he set fire to the cottage he’d lived in his whole life, when he turned his back to the flames and walked into the world.

No beating can hurt more than he hurt then. The pain he felt then is like no pain he felt after, like no pain he could ever feel. His steel is sad, and it hurts, but it is strong.

So he stares at the witcher, knows any punch and rape will hurt less than he is already hurt. Than surrender would hurt.

“You want an omega just for yourself, right? That’s why you killed my Alpha, that’s why you killed them all. You couldn’t share a bitch”, Jaskier’s chest hurts, and his steel creaks, but it does not give, “You want me all pretty and willing on your dick, you want me to beg for it, to want it”

The alpha swallows thickly, lowers his gaze back onto the cot. He doesn’t say anything. Seems to be waiting for something.

“You’ll have to drag me kicking and screaming into your sheets, witcher”, Jaskier spits the word with venom, saying it like an insult. He’s heard people use it like that, knows why they do it now, “You think any self-respecting omega would willing lay with you? I know what you are, witcher”

“Jaskier”, the witcher says, but his voice is weak. The alpha looks at the ground, looks sad, looks lonely, for a moment. The smell of smoke nips at Jaskier’s nose, makes his eyes water, and it is not from the fire.

“You’re a monster in human skin. You don’t even look human. You know what I first thought when I saw you”, Jaskier says, his mouth twisting into a smile. It’s wrong, “I thought, monster. You killed that vila, but you are worse than her. She was going to help me. She would never do this”

Out of breath and out of fuel, Jaskier looks behind himself, into the woods. He wants to run into it, run from the alpha and the beating he knows is going to come. It’s a fruitless desire, he knows he would be caught, knows his body is too weak to run, even. Done, his knees weaken and Jaskier sinks to the ground, scrapes his hands when he tries to support himself. His adrenaline is weakening, leaving only heavy acceptance in its wake. Jaskier knows what comes next, and he doesn’t know if he can take it, but that doesn’t matter. If he can’t take it, he will die. At least this is a punishment he has deserved. It feels kind of good to actually be guilty.

Still, when the witcher takes a step in Jaskier’s direction, the omega flinches. He can’t help it, has never gotten used to the pain no matter how often he’s felt it. But the alpha frowns, hesitates and then takes a deliberate few steps back. He sits against a tree, leans against it like he is very tired, looks at the fire, and then at the omega.

“Jaskier”, he says and the omega shudders, his name thick and heavy when spoken with such a voice, condemning, “I, hmmm, I didn’t do this to fuck you. Willing or not”

He makes a pause, like he thinks Jaskier is going to say something. He isn’t. He’s said his part, said every single scathing, horrible thing he could, and now he can only wait and see how he is going to be punished. Maybe the alpha is going to talk for a bit before getting on with it, drag it out.

“Witchers don't need to sleep every night”, the alpha jerks his head in the direction of the furs still laying on the ground, meticulously arranged. They look like nothing even happened, like Jaskier didn’t just throw his life down the drain, like he didn’t try his best to anger a man that could snap his spine with bare hands, “The cot is for you”

Silence descends between them, thick as is the night. Jaskier listens to it, realizes there are no birds or insects to be heard. It’s because of all the ruckus he caused, because of all the noise. Scared even the wildlife.

“I’m going to mediate. You can sleep in the cot, but you don’t have to”, the witcher sighs, sounding weary, “I am not going to touch you, Jaskier. Try to rest”

Chapter Text

The morning finds Julian sore and tired. He wakes to a headache and a throb in his stomach, his legs. His throat is raw, scrapped raw by his screaming and yelling. He swallows dryly and sits up slowly, carefully. Feels all scraped up, mushed together, like he’d been cut into pieces and then hastily put back together, some pieces in the wrong places. There’s a fur on his shoulders, slowly sliding down now that he’s upright. He frowns at it, at the furs under his body, at the warmth coursing through his body. Then he remembers that he crawled into the cot late in the night. He’d fallen asleep right where he’d fallen after he’d finished yelling, taken over by exhaustion. But then he woke at some point, sore and chilled, and the cot was there. It was still empty and perfect, just waiting, and the witcher wasn’t even watching, sitting still against the tree with his eyes closed. So Julian went to the cot, got down into it and wrapped himself in the furs, shivering at the softness of them. He fell back asleep as soon as his head hit the ground.

Julian has slept for a long time, he thinks as he looks up at the sun which is already high in the sky. It’s later than he’s had the chance to sleep in years, more rest than he’s had in all that time too. He used to sleep in back when he was traveling alone, when the people were marry and the nights were good and full of coin. He’d take a pretty girl home and fall asleep next to her, sleep until the glaring sun dragged him out of bed around noon. It’s a strange feeling to remember that time, to see the sun high when he wakes.

Julian would apologize to the witcher for oversleeping, only that the witcher doesn’t seem to be in the camp. And also that apologizing for this after what happened the night before seems pointless. The mistakes he’s made already are grand, so what are a few more, Julian thinks and runs a hand through his long hair. It’s dirty and tangled horribly, and he yanks his hand out angrily, pulling out a few hairs in the process. He wishes he could take a knife to it, shear it all the way to his scalp, feel the wind on his ears. He’d always had short hair back in the days when he was free and could do what he wanted. He never agreed with the stereotype that omegas had to grow their hair out. Sometimes, in the village, the old ladies would tell him he’d never find a mate if he didn’t stop wearing his hair short. Short hair was manly, it was serious, it wasn’t feminine enough for an omega. Omegas had to have their hair long, their bodies slight, and their voices soft.

He’d always worn his hair short, but once he got captured by Kilk he’d been forced to keep it long, let it grow over his ears and chin until he couldn’t recognise himself. He’d catch glances of himelf in the water, or more rarely in the oval metals that were hung in some fancier taverns, and he’d think omega. He’d remember all the omegas he’d seen in villages and towns, how ragged and tired they looked. How subdued, keeping their eyes low to the ground and their shoulders hunched. He saw how people looked at them, like they were lower than them, like they were less. People looked at him like that, too.

He hates the way it’s used against him, to subdue him when he’s being unruly, to humiliate him. But he blinks, takes deep breaths, trying to forget about it, knowing he can’t do anything about it. He doesn’t get to decide those things anymore.

The witcher emerges from the forest seemingly at random, appearing completely soundlessly. He moves nothing like a man his size is supposed to, makes very little noise when he does. He almost looks surprised when he sees Jaskier, starts towards him immediately. And just when Jaskier is sure the man is going to at least give him a slap for his insolence, the man stops advancing and crouches in front of the cooking pot. Jaskier hadn’t noticed before, but there’s something in there, slowly cooking above the dying embers of the fire. The witcher ladles some of it into a beaten metal cup, hands it to Jaskier.

Jaskier holds it for a moment, bewildered, looking straight at the witcher who should by all acounts be furious with him but is instead serving him. He thinks maybe he’s dreaming, but then feels the warmth of the cup burn his fingers.

Geralt frowns under his gaze, nods to the cup before looking at Jaskier with a weird expression, something Jaskier would think is concern if he was stupid enough to think alphas could feel such things.

“It’s camomile tea”, the witcher says, then takes another cup and ladles some out for himself as well, “Drink it”

And sure as hell, when Jaskier brings the cup up to his nose, the liquid smells of chamomile. The smell is so soft, so gentle, like nothing Jaskier has sensed in so long. It almost makes him cry.

But he won’t cry over a cup of tea, so he grits his teeth and sips the overly hot liquid, burning his tongue. He feels like a child again, being comforted by his mother after throwing a tantrum. For a moment, his brain tries to convince him that this, too, is some test or hidden punishment, but he dismisses the thought. It’s so ridiculous, so utterly unbeliveable that it’s kind of funny. No one gives people camomile tea out of malice. Even he cannot find any way to read any threat into the action of the alpha, and it confuses him.

The witcher takes a few gulps of his tea, seemingly immune to its high temperature, and then gets back up onto his feet. He goes to his bags and gets something out, striding back to Jaskier. He opens the cloth that is in his hands, revealing a generous piece of bread. Breaks it in halves and offers one to Jaskier.

It takes Jaskier a moment to gather himself, still preoccupied with the fact that the witcher is giving him half of his portion, but then he shakes himself and takes the bread. He takes care not to touch the other man, doesn’t want their fingers to touch, and cradles the bread close to himself.

“Eat”, Geralt nods at him, takes a sip of his tea, “Do you think you can travel today? Not a long way”

“...What?”

“Because of your injuries”

“Yes, Alpha”, Jaskier says automatically, wincing when Geralt frowns at the title, “I can travel”

“Hmmm”, the witcher looks him up and down, and Jaskier is sure he is going to say something else, but he does not, “Alright. We’ll leave after we eat”

So Jaskier focuses back on his food, eats his bread and drinks his tea. The bread is stale, but it still very sweet when dipped into the tea, and Jaskier eats the whole think quickly. His stomach flips once, and for a moment he thinks he is about to lose his meal, but he swallows thickly, waits for it to pass. Thankfully, it does.

After they are finished they get up and start packing. Geralt frowns at Jaskier as he is rolling up the furs, and the omega worries that he is doing something wrong. He folds the furs instead, bringing them to the alpha to be packed. The job is quickly done, and soon they are standing by the horses. The gelding looks happy to see Jaskier, and Jaskier is happy to see it too. Geralt’s horse snorts in his general direction.

“Do you want to ride together?”, Geralt asks from beside him, and Jaskier whips his head towards him, “It would be easier on you”

“No”

The word is out before Jaskier has the chance to bite it back, to swallow it. It shouldn’t have been said, because he doesn’t tell his Alpha ‘no’. But Jaskier doesn’t want to sit on the same saddle as the witcher, doesn’t want his strong arms reaching around him for the reins. He thinks if he was forced to touch the man for that long his heart would give up out of fear. Besides, there’s no taking it back now.

But Geralt just gives an easy ‘alright’ and hoists Jaskier up onto his gelding. His hands aren’t harsh, they aren’t punishing for disobedience, even though at this point even Jaskier is sure he should be punished. He’s been too willfull.

So they ride, following the road the whole way. Jaskier tries to enjoy the ride, tries to calm his thoughts, but he’s too unsettled, his body hurting. The pain which had been mild while he was walking around camp returned with a vengeance as soon as the horse took a few steps. But it’s fine. Jaskier doesn’t have any new bruises for the first time in months, and that thought calms him a little. Still, he’s very relieved when after a few hours the witcher leads them off road once again. They go through the forest for a few minutes and suddenly emerge upon a midsized silver, which shines in the sun like silver. Jaskier gapes, having not heard the water at all before he saw the river, watches it flow slow and gentle like sand as the witcher dismounts.

 He helps Jaskier down gracefully, leading him further into the shade and letting him sit down. The omega’s legs are like ale, liquid and shaky, and he is grateful that he doesn’t have to stand. He is given the waterskin which he gratefully takes, takes big sips as the alpha rummages through his bags and takes out a few things.

“I’m going to bathe”, is all the witcher says before starting to take off his leathers, his fingers quick and nimble. Before Jaskier can string two thoughts together, the alpha has already removed his shirt and is doing quick work of his pants. Hastily, Jaskier looks away, stares at a really big tree just to the left of him, watches the crickets jump through the short grass, “You can too if you want”

Jaskier doesn’t look as the witcher enters the water, just listens to the splashes and works on breathing slowly and deeply. For a long time, people undressing in front of him has been a very bad thing. It makes him twitch and shiver to think about that, to remember. There is so much of it, all strung together and overlapping in his head, so he holds the waterskin tight and stares at the bark of the trees and tries not to think.

When he finally gets some semblance of control over himself, he drains the waterskin and lays in on the ground, touches the soft grass. Looks into the water, and at the witcher in it. He is white as the snow is in the coldest winters, his skin almost glistening under the sun. His shoulders are broad, look even broader when bare like this than Jaskier thought they were. He scrubs his skin roughly, his arms flexing when he raises them to wash his face and under his arms.

Jaskier blinks, frowns and then looks at his knees. Geralt looks like someone Jaskier would have found attractive back in the days when he still had the choice over who he slept with. When he was traveling with his lute he slept with many women and not a single man, but that doesn’t man he didn’t appreciate the view of some of them. He always chose women because they were easier to deal with, and because any man who would have slept with him would know he is an omega. That was something he could not afford under no circumstances, so when he saw a good looking man he simply averted his gaze. So now, too, he averts his eyes. There is nothing for him here.

And Gods, his lute. Jaskier’s heart constricts when he remembers it, his throat tightening dangerously. He still remembers all too clearly the night Kilk found him, took him. How after his heat ended he smashed his lute, worth more then both of their lives combined, shattered it onto a random rock by the side of the road. Jaskier cried for weeks then, wept for his love, for the one thing he loved after losing his mother. For the one thing he cherished more than himself. He cried and then he thought of revenge, thought of slitting Kilk’s throat open and watching his blood flow out. But that revenge never came, no matter how many times he stole knives and got beaten for it, no matter how many times he tried to resist when Kilk dragged him to his bed.

Jaskier swallows his tears and thinks of how grateful he is that Kilk is finally, blessedly dead. Thinks of how good it feels to sit here in the shade, touch the warm grass and listen to the river, how good it will feel once he bathes and his hair is finally clean. Looks at the witcher and how inhuman he looks under the sun, a shadow of a smile on his lips.

Chapter Text

It's a wonderful thing to be clean, Jaskier decides. His hair is blessedly clean, and he revels in being able to run his hands through it again. Thought he’d rather have it shorter, it is still a weight off his chest to not have it matted and dirty. He's chilled from the water, shivers a little by the fire, but he revels in it. He washed and when he was done there was a fire waiting for him. It’s more of a comfort than he’s had in a long time. 

He'd been worried, going into the water. The witcher could look, and he could come into the water, and there was nothing he would be able to do, naked and vulnerable in the stream. 

But the witcher had bathed alone, hadn't made Jaskier come into the water with him. It would have been easy for him to drag Jaskier into the water, take his clothes off. It would have been easy for him to leer at Jaskier too, comment on his skinny and scarred frame, but the alpha did none of that. Jaskier bathed quickly and efficiently, grateful for the bar of soap the witcher had given him, avoided looking at the shore for fear of what he might see. But he did look, a few times when he got so overwhelmed by anxiety that he was just certain that the alpha was right there, standing behind him in the water and about to touch him. He looked and each time he’d find the witcher doing something on the shore, paying no attention to him. Not once did he catch his eyes. 

He was grateful for that, while he was in the water and while he was on the shore, hastily getting dressed, and now as he was sitting by the fire. Geralt had taken out the furs, nodded at them when Jaskier got dressed. So the omega had sat down, draped a fur over his shoulders and warmed his hands on the fire. He felt coddled, allowed to wash and rest and eat whenever he was hungry. It was a strange feeling. 

"Tomorrow we'll reach a village", Geralt says abruptly, catching Jaskier's eye, "There should be a healer there"

Jaskier offers no response, just looks at the witcher. He doesn’t understand, his brain still all soft and muddled from how good he feels. 

"For you", Geralt clarifies. 

"What?", Jaskier says eloquently. 

"To look you over. Because of your injuries", the witcher gestures vaguely at Jaskier's form, and the omega instinctively stiffens. He pulls into himself, tugging the fur on his shoulders tighter. 

"No"

At his brisk response Geralt raises a single brow, and Jaskier feels a chill go down his spine. It settles in his heels, making his whole body tingle uncomfortably. The alpha doesn’t need to yell or stand up for Jaskier to know he’d just stepped over a line. He'd overstepped, had done so for the nth time. His too big mouth got loose, got too confident. He’s being rude, he’s being terribly rude, and he’s going to get punished for it. 

For a moment he thinks maybe it would be good for him, that after a few slaps maybe his mind would get itself under control, that he would stop acting like this. Like a free man.

He’s getting fed and he isn’t getting slapped and he’s got furs. It’s more comfort than he had in the whole past two years, and he’s going to let it disappear just because he can’t shut up. Can’t be a good omega to save his life. He just has to shut up and say ‘Yes Alpha’, and keep his eyes down, and he might go another night without being raped. But he’s so brave, he’s so fucking stupid. He knows that once this alpha gets angry he will never be this kind again.  

He’s certain it’s coming, braces for it and is waiting for it, maybe even welcomes it. It would be familiar, if nothing else, to get beaten for his mistakes. 

But the witcher just hmmm-s, doesn't stand up, doesn’t reach with his long arms and drag Jaskier to him. He just sits here, still safely at the opposite side of the fire.

"I'm really bad at this. I'm sorry", bizarrely, the alpha says, and Jaskiers head turns to mush, "I've been alone for a very long time"

Through his shock, Jaskier thinks that maybe 'long' is a lot longer for Geralt than he would normally assume. He’s so caught up on the fact that the alpha just apologized to him, his brain just looping the words in his head. Alphas don’t apologize, they never do. They fight and they duel and they pull out their daggers when they get in an argument. They spit in the fire and steel their eyes and they never ever apologize, not to each other and not to betas. And most certainly not to omegas.

“We’ll go into the village, to rest for a few days”, Geralt says, observing Jaskier closely, “Then..Do you have any family?”

“What?”, Jaskier mumbles, and immediately wants to smack himself upside the head for it. He’s been so lost these last few days, it’s starting to annoy even himself. He can’t even imagine how angry it makes the witcher.

“Do you have anyone waiting for you? Or anywhere you want to go?”

“No”, Jaskier swallows. It’s the truth. The only person he had was his mother, and after she passed he never stayed in one place long enough to make friends. He was too afraid of being found out, of being dragged away from the freedom he’d carved for himself, and fled from every village and town after a few weeks.

He was probably supposed to say something more, because the witcher humms and waits, but then continues when the silence drags on.

“If you do, I can take you there”, the witcher throws another piece of wood into the fire, making it hiss between them, “I should have said his earlier, but you are not my prisoner. You can go where you want”

Jaskier looks at the witcher, and when that gives him no answers he looks at the fire. It bends and runs across the wood, charring it. It’s pretty and it’s red, but it doesn’t offer wisdom. He knows he’s supposed to say something, at least agree with the alpha, but he cannot. The man is offering him something he cannot give, and Jaskier is shaken with realization. He’s been owned too long to be on his own. He knows the witcher is likely lying, is most likely just saying this to get Jaskier to trust him and is playing some twisted game. He’s probably still trying to lure Jaskier in, playing on his weak omega intincts.

But the problem is that, even if he wasn’t lying. Even if he was saying the truth, Jaskier still couldn’t leave. He deflates with that knowledge, sinks into the furs and the fire, breathes the smell of smoke and the water nearby. He knows with great certainty and grief that even if the witcher let him walk free, even if he let him walk into the woods right now, that he would be someone’s by the end of the next day. Hell, even if he had a horse.

He’s too beaten down, too run down and used up to be anything else than an owned omega. His hair is too long and his limbs too thin. His gaze is too weak and his voice too frail. He could not pass as nothing but what he is, and he would be dragged off by the first man that saw him. Maybe he would be kept or he would be sold, but that does not matter.

When he was younger, he was strong and spirited and he had his music. He had words and coin and a courage that let him travel free. People didn’t look at a bard who travelled so brazenly through the wild and think ‘omega’. Now he has nothing but grief and two shaking hands. And a devil you know is always better then the one you don’t.

“I don’t have anyone”, Jaskier says into the fire, far too late for it to be answer of any sort, but the witcher still nods. His eyes seem sad when Jakier finally looks up. He doesn’t say anything about leaving, doesn’t have the strenght or the inspiration to answer that. The witcher, too, must know he’d never make it on his own. It’s another way to prey on Jaskier, make him trust the man, make him rely on him. Jaskier is already in the trap, he knows, but there is nothing else for him to do.

“I know you don’t trust me, Jaskier”, the witcher says, and it sounds so much like what his brain is screaming at him that Jaskier doesn’t even try to deny it. A different man would beat him just for not saying otherwise, he knows, but he’s too tired to think about that right now, “That’s alright. Let’s eat”

Chapter Text

Julian wakes to wet cheeks and the smell of camomile. His bones ache as he sits up, but it’s a good ache, one of a good rest, and he tries to think about that as he groggily wipes his face. He doesn’t remember his nightmare, but that doesn’t mean that his hands don’t shake. He hates that the witcher is sitting on the opposite side of the dying fire, that he’s watching him with those yellow eyes, that he’d seen Jaskier as he turned and cried in his sleep. He hates it and wants to run away, wants to sink his nails into the meat of his hands, but he can’t do that. He takes the camomile tea and lets its warmth burn his fingers and sips the too-hot liquid. It calms him.

They ready for the road without much fanfare, after eating a light breakfast and drinking their tea. Their food supply is getting low, Jaskier can tell. The meal is meagre and poor, but it still fills his belly, makes him nauseous. There is not a lot of food, and he is sure that the witcher is hungry, that he could eat it all by himself and still be ravished, but he dishes out their portions evenly. Jakier doesn’t comment on it, doesn’t call out his good luck, knowing that it can all disappear in a second. He’ll take it while he can. He can already feel the difference in his body after a few days of regular meals. His vision isn’t so blurry anymore, and he doesn’t feel so weak as he stands. It’s a blessing, he thinks. Being hungry was a miserable punishment.

They get up on their horses and start their journey. Geralt doesn’t talk other than to mumble a few short words and to humm once in a while, but Jaskier doesn’t find it in himself to mind it. They follow the road for a while, and before the sun has a chance to reach its peak they are in the village. It’s a small and desperate thing, the houses old and rundown. There are children playing in the dirt of the road, but they quickly disperse when seeing strangers. Looks like the place doesn’t get many visitors, Jaskier thinks, looking at the ratty children as they hide away. They are poorly dressed but well fed, their cheeks dirty but full, and that comforts Jaskier. The village is a clutter of buildings, only a few of them big enough to be called houses instead of cottages. The dirt road is cluttered with a few shops, selling fruit and clothes and the things neccesary to make a living.

It reminds Jaskier of his own village, reminds him so much that for a moment he thinks it really is it, though his home is on the other side of the country. There must be a poor little cottage on the outskirts of this one too, he thinks, just by the woods, like there was in his village. It makes his head spin, and he shakes his head to clear it as Geralt turns to one of the stalls and starts talking to the man behind it.  

His cottage is not there anymore, he knows. He burned it to the ground.

“Is there a tavern around here?”, he hears Geralt ask, but when he looks at the man he is talking to he is met with an angry face. He watches in shock as the man promptly spits at Geralt’s feet, steps forward to get in the witcher’s face.

“We’ve no need for a witcher here”, the man hisses, his words sharp and mean, “Leave”

Jaskier watches the man with terror, watches Geralt’s swords hanging menacingly off the man’s back. Geralt is going to reach and take one of them, he knows, and he is going to push it through the man like through butter, and Jaskier is going to have to watch. He wants to yell in warning, but he cannot. There is no point.

But Geralt just turns and walks on, like he didn’t just get insulted in the worst way. He doesn’t kill the seller, doesn’t even growl at him. Jaskier gapes at the man, but then quickly rips himself out of his daze when the man looks like he’s going to say something to him. He follows the witcher, reeling, follows him to the end of the street where they find a sizeable house with a wooden board nailed onto the front of it. The words carved into the wood are so faded that Jaskier can’t make them out, but the house looks more like an inn than anything else they’ve come across. They dismount, tethering the horses outside since there is no visible stable, and enter.

The house is dim and a bit dingy, but there are wooden tables and benches and a few men drinking ale inside. The men are old and a bit fat, balding and overly curious for the newcomers. They are just like all the other old men that sit and gossip in the taverns during the daytime that Jaskier has ever seen. They look at Geralt, mostly, their eyes slipping off Jaskier like he’s not there. An omega is nothing special, he knows. A witcher is something a lot more interesting, especially in a godforsaken place like this.

Jaskier from a few years go would have been jealous of the attention. He liked it back then, liked it when people looked at him and talked about him and listened to his songs. It was good to be noticed, once upon a time. Now he’s just glad that there is someone else more interesting than him.

It’s a few seconds of tense silence before a slight woman scurries in from the back, rushing towards them but stuttering in her steps when she notices who her guests are. Jaskier can tell immediately that she is an omega, with her small frame and submissive posture. She glances at Geralt once and then lowers her eyes, keeps them on the ground.

“Good day”, she says to her feet, “Would you like a meal?”

“No”, Geralt replies simply, “Do you have any rooms available?”

“Yes yes, we have two rooms in the back”, the woman answers, and from this distance, Jaskier can see that she is not young. Her hair is graying and not all of her submissive posture is voluntary. Those are the rounded shoulders of a long life spent in hard work, with not enough rest. Still, she is older than many omegas Jaskier has seen, than many of them make it, looks better than them. Somehow, she is lucky.

“We’ll take the bigger one”

The woman hesitates, her eyes flicking to Jaskier for some unknown reason, “The rooms are the same, sir. Sorry”

“Hmmm”, Geralt shrugs, “Then we’ll take whichever”

“Yes yes. Come with me please”, the woman nods to the floor and then turns around, goes back the way she came. Geralt follows, Jaskier trailing behind him. He can feel the eyes of the two men drinking ale burning into his back, and he doesn’t want to be left alone with them for a second. He knows what men like that will do if given the chance. The woman walks into a short hallway that’s filled with doors and picks one seemingly at random. She swings it open and reveals a room with a small bed and little more in it. There is space for him and the witcher to stand and walk past each other in it, but not for much else. That makes Jaskier shiver, “It’s fifty crowns per night”

It’s an outlandish price, and the omega knows it. Geralt does too, surely, but he merely pauses for a moment before nodding and starting to pull out coins from his belt. Jaskier tries to school his expression, looks down as the witcher and the omega exchange money. It’s way too much for such a ratty room in the middle of nowhere, but he doesn’t say anything. With how the man on the street treated Geralt, they are probably lucky they didn’t get yelled out. The inn probably isn’t making good money.   

They are quickly left alone, and Geralt gives the room a suspicious look before shrugging off his swords and leaning them against the wall. He turns to Jaskier, tries to catch his eyes, but the omega looks at the witcher’s knees, stubborn. He can’t look at the alpha right now, not when they are so close to a bed. Beds are very bad news for Jaskier, have been for a long time.

“I have to go tend to the horses. Will you be alright?”, the witcher asks, waiting until Jaskier nods shakily before exiting the room. Jaskier stares at the door as it closes behind the man, his knees shaky and weak. His breaths are fast and uneven, and he looks at the wood as he tries to count his breaths.

He’ll make it through the night. He always did before.

He flinches viciously when the door creaks open a few minutes after, but it just the omega woman. She pokes her head inside, catching Jaskier’s eyes before letting the door open more fully. She’s got her hands full, carrying rags and a broom and an empty chamber pot.

“The room’s been empty a while”, she says simply, drops all the stuff on the ground, “I thought I’d tidy up a bit while the witcher is out”

Jaskier nods, and it’s shaky at best, but he is quick to move when the woman grabs a rag from the floor and starts hastily wiping whatever she can get her hands on. He stands there and watches her like in idiot, moving whenever she walks past him. The woman turns and looks at him, at his skinny body and long hair. Sees him for the omega that he is. Sees him as her equal. It’s nice, to for once look someone in the eyes and not feel the urge to look down lest you be struck. She holds herself easy now, alone with him. They are the same, he guesses, in more ways than they are not.

“You want to help?”, she asks and when Jaskier nods she gives him the rag. She gestures to the window by the bed, “Wipe over there, I didn’t do that”

With a rag in his hand and a task, Jaskier feels more centered, and he carefully wipes any surface he can reach while the woman bustles behind him. He opens the window to air out a bit, collects the dust from the floor where it has collected the most, shakes it out onto the grass.

“The witcher, he good to you?”, the woman suddenly says, and Jaskier snaps his head in her direction. She is not looking at him, seems to be trying to fluff up the hay matrass on the bed. She takes the pillow and hits it over her knee a few times, straightens the blankets.

Jaskeir doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t know what he’d say even if he opened his mouth.

“Does he beat you?”

“No”, Jaskier answers and is shocked that it is the truth. He probably would’ve said that even if he did get beaten by the alpha, but he doesn’t. He eats and rides a horse and sleeps on soft furs and he flinches when touched. He says no and he yells and he stomps and he doesn’t get hit, “He doesn’t... he hasn’t...”

Jaskier can’t finish, and when he trails off the woman turns to look at him. She looks like she doesn’t believe him. He wouldn’t believe himself either.

“He looks scary, the witcher”, the woman states, needlesly.

“Yes”

There is a moment of tense silence, where they both look at each other and wonder what the other is thinking. Jaskier doesn’t know why the woman asks about Geralt. There is no point. No matter what he told her, she wouldn’t be able to help him. Just as he can’t escape his fate, she can’t escape hers, either. They are both trapped.

But then the moment vanishes, the woman continuing with her work. Jaskier eyes broom the woman brought in, then picks it up and starts sweeping. It’s soothing, in a way, to do this. He hasn’t cleaned a space since he lived with his mother. He was always on the move, always rushing somewhere or running from something. Never in one place long enough to make a mess. He hasn’t held a broom in five years, he thinks, or something like that.

And too soon, it is done, the mess all swept into the hall and into a dustpan. Jaskier never thought he’d grieve that he is done with cleaning, but he does. The woman gathers her things and moves to the door, stops in front of it and waits for a moment. Jaskier thinks she’s listening for something. Then she puts the broom down, freeing one of her hands and turns to Jaskier again. She pushes her hand into a pocket on her apron and pulls something out. Jaskier can’t see it, because she’s got it in her fist, but when she extends her arm to him, he offers a hand.

She drops a coin into it, and when Jaskier looks he sees that it is a crown.

“What?”, he says, almost hisses, “I can’t take this”

Omegas don’t carry money. Not ones like him. Mated omegas do, sometimes, when they are going to the market to buy something, but it is always with a coin bag that they return to their mate as soon as they are done. They don’t just have crowns of their own. If they did, Gods forbid, they might get ideas.

“You helped me clean”

“It’s too much”

“It’s yours”, the woman says with conviction, like she did not just give him the first coin he’s held in years, “Take it. Put it somewhere safe. You might need it”

And with that she picks up her broom and exits the room, leaving Jaskier with a crown and a pit in his stomach.

Chapter Text

At dinnertime, Geralt and Jaskier eat in the tavern. They sit on the wooden benches which turn out to be absurdly uncomfortable, facing each other. There are more people there now, though it is still mostly empty. There are no women besides the innkeeper, and she is busy delivering a steady stream of ale to a table that Jaskier is facing. The men there are the same as the two that were there when Jaskier and Geralt arrived, with a few more people joining them.

They gawk at Geralt’s back, now without his signature swords, look at his hair and whisper with each other. To Jaskier’s horror, they look at him too, try to catch his eye. They look at him intently, with interest, exchange glances with each other. At one point one of them winks at him and Jaskier flinches, makes it a point to keep his eyes off of them from then on.

When they order, Geralt asks for two bowls of food and ale, and the omega woman frowns at her feet as he talks. She comes back with their things, sets it all in front of the witcher and then rushes off, giving Jaskier a weird glance. But the alpha just looks down at the food, displeased, and then pushes a bowl and cup to Jaskier.

It’s stew, he sees and tries to keep his mouth from watering too much. It looks good, and it smells like meat and it’s warm. It’s a big portion too, generous. Jaskier hasn’t eaten a warm meal in a very long time, so when the witcher nods at his bowl pointedly, he digs in without much hesitation. He hasn’t gotten beaten for eating yet, and he doesn’t think the witcher is going to suddenly change his mind now that he has an audience.

So he eats, chews the thick meat and vegetables swimming in the soup, drinks his ale. The meal fills his stomach, warms him from the inside, makes him sleepy. The ale is weak but not too bad, and Jaskier feels some lightness settle onto his shoulders once he finihes his cup. He looks at the witcher, at the bowl which is big but looks small in his big hands, looks at how his hair is slowly falling out of the tie at the back of his neck. The alpha eats in silence, pretends he doesn’t see Jaskier studying him, drinks his ale quickly.

The men behind them chuckle and laugh, and Jaskier has a feeling that some of that is aimed at them though he isn’t sure. The atmosphere in the room isn’t great, but Jaskier is still sad when their meal is finished. Here in the crowd he might get laughed and looked at with greedy eyes, but he knows it won’t go any further than that. He doesn’t know what is going to happen once he and the witcher get to the privacy of their room.

Maybe the alpha is one of those who only like to fuck in comfort, he wonders. Maybe he didn’t want to do it outside, on the hard ground. Maybe he likes a closed door, a bed. Maybe he is going to make up for lost time tonight, give Jaskier everything he couldn’t in the past few days.

Jaskier shivers, his mood souring, and stands up when the witcher does. Follows him into the hall, passes the tables full and empty, ignores the omega woman when she tries to catch his eyes. He can feel the men from before looking at him, can almost see their evil smiles in his head. They know what is going to happen to him, just like the woman knows, just like he himself does.

He isn’t stupid. It’s all an omega is good for.

The witcher enters their room first, does quick work of lighting the candles with his magic. If he wasn’t so keyed up, Jaskier would probably be just as amazed by it again as he is every time he witnesses it. He knows there is magic in the world, has heard tales of it, talked to people who claim they have seen it, but it was always something outside of his experience.

The room bathed in a dim glow, Jaskier closes the door behind himself as he enters. He doesn’t want to give up this last straw of comfort, drags his feet as he walks the few steps, but he knows there is no hope. He either walks in willingly or he gets dragged while everyone in the inn watches. He doesn’t have much dignity, might not have any at all, but he’d at least like to pretend he does.

So he watches as the witcher takes off his leathers, as he reaches back and unties the leather strip holding his hair, letting it lose for the first time since Jaskier has met him. Even when he had washed it in the river, he tied it up while it was still wet, let it dry like that. Now it falls loose onto his shoulders and below it, looks gray in the weak light. The witcher leans down and starts untying his laces, and Jaskier is hit with the sight of the bed now that it isn’t being obscured by the alpha’s broad back. He looks at it, at how small it looks, wonders how they are going to fit on it. Wonders how many times he is going to hit his head on the headboard.

He looks at the headboard, looks at the witcher’s leathers laying on the ground next to their bags, and he can’t take it anymore. He can’t take it anymore, and he’s done, and he doesn’t want this to happen, and he doesn’t want it to hurt. He doesn’t have any dignity, he knows, feels his throat tighten and close. It’ll hurt less if he does it himself, he knows, if he doesn’t have to be dragged into the bed. If the witcher doesn’t have to rip his clothes off of him, if he doesn’t have to pin him to the bed so he wouldn’t fucking stop moving, it won’t hurt as much. Two days ago Jaskier yelled and raged and screamed at the alpha about how he would never give into it, how he would never do those things willingly. But he was lying, because he is weak, and he is tired, and he can’t take it anymore. He thinks if he’s hit or dragged, if he’s thrown on the bed, if the witcher uses his big hands to gather and squeeze at his wrists, that his heart is going to stop beating at the spot.

His steel isn’t there, is nowhere to be found, is somewhere out of his reach. The only thing that is left is the soft underbelly of his weakness and desperation. This is going to happen to him anyways, at some point, no matter how much he fights it. It is going to happen, and it is going to hurt, and it’s going to destroy him all over again. And he can’t do anything to stop it. He can’t take the game anymore, is done playing, wants the other shoe to drop already, because the longer it takes the worse it will be.

He’s just so tired, and he’s so scared, and he’ll spread his legs for the witcher if that means the man will be a little bit gentler, if that means a slap less or a lighter bruise. He thought the witcher would have to break him, but he was wrong, he thinks hysterically, reaches for the edge of his shirt. He broke all on his own.

He pulls off the shirt. It’s a big, roomy thing, and it comes off easy, falling to the ground gracelessly. Another shirt follows, because Jaskier is a greedy, spoiled omega and he wears two shirts so he isn’t cold. He fumbles with this one, because it’s tighter, because he’s naked under it, feels goosebumps erupt across his skin as he lets this one drop to the floor, too.

He takes a deep breath, reaches for his breeches, his hands shaking, but gives up on untying them as the witcher straightens up. The alpha toes off his shoes and kicks them to the corner, shakes his head so his hair falls more evenly, turns to Jaskier.

He looks good, Jaskier thinks, tries to think, tries to convince himself. His hair is pretty and his eyes are sharp and his lips look soft. It’s a good face, a handsome one, a face Jaskier could have fallen in love with in another life. He steps in towards the witcher, so they’re almost touching, has to tilt his head back for a moment so he’d keep eye contact. Then he lowers his eyes, reaches for the man’s breeches.

Some men like to be seduced, he knows. Some of them like it when an omega shows initiative, like seeing them acting as slutty as they always talk about them being. If he pulls the alpha into bed, smiles at him and looks up at him through his lashes, things might be better this time.

His hands are shaking, and his fingers aren’t listening, and the alpha’s breeches have fucking buttons. But he clenches his teeth and steadies his hands, gets one button and then another. The pants are dark, like the shirt the witcher is wearing is dark, like everything he ever wears is, and it makes it hard to see, but Jaskier feels it out with his fingers and pushes on.

“Jaskier?”, Geralt says, tries to step back but the omega just follows him, stubborn, “What are you doing?”

But Jaskier doesn’t answer, can’t answer, does one more button, and how many can there be. He has his head down, sees the witcher’s hands as they move to grasp his own, sees them envelop his smaller ones. The alpha ducks his head, tries to catch Jaskier’s eyes, but the omega avoids his questioning glance, looks at the alpha’s large hands as they encircle his wrists.

His breath stops in his throat, his mouth drying instantly. He feels his skin grow cold, and he can feel the hands squeezing, and his bones are going to break, please. He flinches viciously, involuntarily jerks back. Staggers two steps back, doesn’t even realize the alpha had let him go without struggle until he’s staring into those yellow eyes.

“Jaskier”, the witcher says, sounds weary, looks confused, his eyes wider than Jaskier’s ever seen them. If he wasn’t a witcher and if he wasn’t an alpha and if he wasn’t so big he never had to be afraid of anything, Jaskier would think he looks scared, “Calm down”

But Jaskier doesn’t listen, hasn’t been listening for a while, surges forward, back to the man he is so scared of. Lifts his hands again, reaches for the man’s pants once again. Notices his wrists aren’t actually broken, that they don’t even hurt, but the thought is fleeting and is squashed quickly under the terror that occupies his mind. He has to do this, can’t stop now, is already too far into his own head to stop. He’s never done anything like this, never stooped so low, never offered himself up. He hates himself, despises how pathetic he is, wishes the witcher fucks him so hard he bleeds out.

His hands never make it to the witcher’s pants again, are intercepted by large hands which take his own, tangle their fingers together. Jaskier tries to get out of the hold, but can’t, and it’s bizarre, because it doesn’t hurt, because it’s just like when he was a child and held hands with other kids.

He hasn’t held someone’s hand in so long, in years, hasn’t entangled his fingers with theirs. He watches, reeling, as the alpha uses his thumbs to smooth over the back of his hands. Remembers, fleetingly, that the last person he did that with was his mother, as she took her last breaths.

“Jaskier”, the witcher tries again, ducks his head, searches for Jaskier’s eyes, “What’s wrong?”

Jaskier doesn’t say anything, looks into Geralt’s eyes, tries to tug his hands out weakly, doesn’t succeed. He opens his mouth, closes it again, tries to look anywhere but the witcher, feels the witcher’s fingers gently squeezing his own.

“Jaskier, look at me”, the witcher says, and it’s an order so Jaskier listens, looks into those unreadable eyes even thought he doesn’t want to, “I’m not going to fuck you”

And it’s so weird, so confusing, Jaskier frowns and opens his mouth to argue. He doesn’t know what he is going to say, never says it because the witcher talks over him.

“It’s not going to happen. Let’s sit down”, he pulls Jaskier to the bed and pushes him to sit, crouches in front of him. He’s shorter than the omega now, and it’s a strange feeling, makes Jaskier feel even more unsettled. He tries to tug his hands out with more vigour, his breaths quickening, “Jaskier, calm down”

And he does. His hands still and stop shaking, the tide in his head retreating a bit. It makes him surface slightly over his terror, makes him able to breathe again.

“I’m not going to fuck you”, Geralt states, looks deeply into Jaskier’s eyes, searches for something in them, “I’m going to take out my furs, and I’m going to lie down, and we’re going to sleep”

“But..”, Jaskier says, finally regains use of his mouth, but is cut off by the alpha. The man looks tired, he thinks, finally notices. There are bags under his eyes and creases between his brows that weren’t there before. He hasn’t slept in too long.

“You are going to put a shirt on and lie down in the bed, and we are going to sleep”, he says, sighs wearily, waits for a response that doesn’t come, “Do you understand?”

Jaskier frowns, breathes slowly, tries to calm down. This time when he tries to free his hands Geralt lets him, and he slots them around himself. He is cold, he realizes, his skin chilled to the touch. He shivers, and the alpha gets up quickly, unexpectedly, goes to the bags on the other side of the room. He digs something out hastily, walks back to the omega and gives him something.

“Put it on”, he commands, and Jaskier lets the cloth unfold in his hands before he obeys. It’s a shirt, a thick, big one. It’s obviously Geralt’s. It’s warm when he puts it on, if a bit scratchy, the sleeves falling past his fingers. He slots his arms around himself again, feels better now, safer. The alpha crouches down again, so he’s below Jaskier, looks up at him, “You are going to lie down, and you are going to sleep, and nothing is going to happen. Do you understand?”

This time Jaskier nods.

Chapter Text

Jaskier doesn’t sleep that night. The witcher does, lies on the floor, drapes a fur over himself and starts breathing evenly. He looks exausted, Jaskier thinks, thinks about the nights they spent in the woods where he slept and the witcher stayed awake.

Jaskier can’t sleep, he’s too confused, too riled up. He can’t make sense of the man sleeping on the floor, doesn’t understand why he isn’t sleeping on the bed while Jaskier is sleeps on the uncomfortable floor. Can’t understand how come there are no new bruises on him, only old ones that are starting to slowly fade. That the only aches he has are old ones, that the worst pain he’s felt since meeting the witcher is soreness after riding a horse. He can’t understand why he isn’t naked, being made to beg for food, for water. He doesn’t understand anything, lays in the bed and looks at the witcher as he sleeps so deeply, looks at the window as the night deepens and then starts to lighten. He counts the clouds in the sky, nods off when the sun is already fat and glaring, wakes when the door opens.

He turns, weary, but it is just Geralt, returning to the room. He already has his leathers on, so he has been up for a while, and Jaskier sits up groggily in the bed. He doesn’t even expect to be scolded for his behaviour from last night, isn’t even scared of it. Knows not to try and foresee the alpha’s actions.

“Let’s go eat”, the witcher says, simple and to the point like he always is, and Jaskier can’t help but frown at him as he stands up. His bones hurt, but it is his own fault, his own doing. He can’t blame anyone else for not sleeping but himself. He follows Geralt out of the room after tugging on his shoes, sits with him at a table. The bench reminds him of how uncomfortable it is, and it helps him wake up. The tavern is blessedly empty except for them and the woman, who is sweeping the floor on the other side of the room. There is already food on the table, sweet fresh bread which smells enticing and a small measure of honey.

Jaskier looks at the food, feels his stomach growl, thinks about how it has become such a greedy thing so quickly. Geralt pushes the food in his direction, already having bitten into his share, and Jaskier takes a generous slice. He eats it dry, doesn’t dare reach for the honey which calls for him with abandon, waits for the witcher to take it. But the man doesn’t do that, takes a look at the omega and pushes the little bowl with honey towards him, tells him to eat it all.

And Jaskier should argue. He should refuse. He’s gotten enough, more than enough, has gotten plenty. But he takes the bowl anyway, murmurs a soft ‘thank you’, and dips his bread into the honey. It’s heavenly, the food melting on his tongue, the bread fresh and crispy and the honey so sweet he could cry. He eats hastily, greedily, finishes his meal far too quickly. The witcher is still eating, so he sits and watches him, watches the woman sweep. The silence is peaceful, and he’s just starting to feel sleepy once again when nausea hits him.

It’s not an unusual thing, happens often lately, since he’s started eating more regularly. So he doesn’t worry. It usually goes away after a few minutes, so he clenches his teeth and stares resolutely at a wall, tries to wait it out. But the nausea builds and builds, and when he goes to take a deep breath it mounts, making him cough and then spurt the contents of his stomach onto the bench he’s sitting on and the floor. He barely misses his own lap, tries to stop it but it is futile, feels his throat burn viciously.

“Jaskier!”, the witcher says, and then he is standing, rounding the table to approach the omega. Jaskier sees him move from the corner of his eye and then feels a hand on his back, jerks away from it. He heaves, feels his cheeks wet and sticky from tears, chokes on a sob when he is finally able to breathe.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please”, Jaskier begs, his eyes unable to see from the tears, completely blurry. The witcher was eating, and then Jaskier threw up, and he almost did it on the table, too. The alpha had to stop eating because of him, and Jaskier had ruined it, and now he was going to get punished, “I’m s..”

He goes to apologize again, doesn’t know what to say to make this better, because nothing can make it better, he knows. He’s being gross, and he’s making a mess, and now he’s crying too, but another wave of nausea cuts him off and he retches again.

“It’s alright”, he hears the alpha say, feels him move so he’s sitting next to him instead of looming over him. Jaskier feels him touch his back again, but it’s tentative, barely there, and he can’t even flinch with how he’s spewing his insides onto the floor. He feels a fluttering touch on the side of his jaw, feels his hair being pulled back from his face, “Just let it out, it’s okay”

So Jaskier does, can’t do anything else but sit there and get his back rubbed by a big scary witcher while nausea rolls over him. When he’s finally done, he breathes deep, wonders what the fuck he’s going to do now, and goes to wipe his face with the back of his hand when the omega woman speaks.

“Here”, she says, and Jaskier looks up to see her holding out a rag. He takes it and wipes his face with it, wipes his hands too. They’re trembling. He goes to start wiping the bench, but the woman reaches and takes the rag from him, shakes her head slightly.

“I’ll do that. Don’t worry about it”, she says and gets on with it, doing quick work of the mess Jaskier made.

He feels the witcher pull back from behind him, take his hand off his back and let his hair fall back onto his face. He turns to him, thinks he’s going to see him angry and frustrated, but the man looks just as he usually does. The witcher hides his emotions well.

“I’m sorry. It was an accident”, Jaskier says, his mind blank, doesn’t know how to apologize, doesn’t know why he isn’t already being dragged to their room or thrown to the floor, “Please don’t be mad”

Geralt frowns at him and Jaskier barely holds back a wince, holds the witcher’s gaze, “I’m not mad Jaskier. It happens, it’s normal”

“What?”, Jaskier says, confused. It’s certainly not normal to throw up on the floor after eating a meal. Geralt gets up from the bench, reaches for his belt and takes out a few coins.

“Because of the baby”, he says, puts the coins on the table. Jaskier sees that it is a handful of crowns, probably for the breakfast and the added cost of cleaning Jaskier’s mess, “You want to lie back down?”

Jaskier sits there, counts the coins. There are eleven crowns on the table, and they glint in the light. There are eleven crowns, and it’s too much, an outrageous sum for a measly breakfast. Jaskier frowns at it, thinks about how much money the witcher has when he’s throwing it around like that, looks at his feet. The woman is still cleaning, and she catches his eye when he looks down. She nods at him, and he almost flinches at it.

“Yes..yes, I’ll go lie down a bit”, he stumbles over his words, stands up abruptly and goes off, rushes to the room he and the witcher share. He closes the door, leans against it for a moment. Sees the witcher’s waterskin laying on the ground, so he picks it up and drains it hastily, soothing his throat. He stands there, doesn’t know what to do with himself, but then he toes off his shoes and crawls back into bed. His tummy turns and rolls but has mostly settled, and he pulls a hand down to touch it. It’s a flat, pathetic thing.

There’s no way there is a baby inside it. There’s no way. He can’t believe it, he won’t. It can’t be true, after all he has been through, after he has been starved for so long. His heats weren’t regular, weren’t even really coming anymore. He hadn’t been on a steady cycle since he left his village, his heats coming more rarily while he was on the road. He wasn’t eating enough, and he wasn’t sleeping enough, and he was drinking too much. But it was exactly the way he wanted it. But later, with Kilk, his heats came until he lost too much weight, until he was all skin and bones. He’d only had one heat since winter, and it was so brief he didn’t even think he was fertile.

He was so weak then, so thin. He slept on the cold ground and walked all day. Jaskier curls up, brings the blanket high around his shoulders, feels his eyes burning.

The door creaks open and Jaskier resists the urge to pull the blanket over his head. It won’t save him now. But it isn’t the witcher that steps in.

“He went to check on the horses”, she says, looking at Jaskier, “Come”

So Jaskier does, pulls his body up and onto his feet, walks to the front of the inn. It is still empty, too early for anyone to bother drinking ale. The woman walks to the bar, pushes a cup towards him, and it’s warm when he takes it. It’s tea of some sort, but not camomile like the alpha made for him.

“You didn’t know you are pregnant”, she states, and Jaskier doesn’t say anything. She is right.

“You think...You think I’m really pregnant?”

“Yes”, she says, takes a cup of her own, sips on it. She looks older up close like this, her hair with strands of grey. Her skin is all wrinkled up, but her hands are still fast, still strong. Jaskier wonders how old she is, how old he will get to be. It seems that such a long like is torture. Jaskier wonders what she has went through in her many years, when he has went through so much in his few, “Witchers have good noses. And throwing up like that is an obvious sign”

Jaskier nods, looks deep into his cup like it’ll give him any answers. It doesn’t.

“The baby isn’t the witcher’s”, Jaskier says, has to say it even though it doesn’t matter. The woman doesn’t know Kilk, doesn’t know what he was, what he did to Jaskier. Doesn’t know that it is his child in Jaskier’s womb, “I.. had a different alpha, though he wasn’t an alpha”

The woman frowns at him, doesn’t say anything. Jaskier looks at her, looks at her old hands and her sharp eyes the color of stone, and he knows that he has one chance. There is no one but her.

“Please, please help me”, he says, reaching across the bar and taking the woman’s hand. He can feel in the strength of his grip how desperate he is. He is withering from the inside out, “I can’t keep it”

“You don’t want the baby”, she says, and again it isn’t a question but Jaskier nods, frantic. For a moment he thinks she is going to push him away, tell him off for thinking like that. Omegas are made to be obedient and to be fucked and to birth children. That is their utmost purpose. When you are done using an omega as a toy you knock it up and it births you a child. That is how it goes, how it is supposed to be, what Jaskier is supposed to do. He is supposed to love this child, to expect it, to welcome it. He is supposed to revel in being pregnant, in his body changing so much he can’t recognise himself, he is supposed to be happy for the pain of birth.

That is his purpose, and many omegas think that. It is a sin to think otherwise, and saying it out loud could get him killed.

But he doesn’t care. The thing in his stomach is Kilk’s, and he does not want it here. He didn't consent to it, wants to take a knife and stab it into his own stomach until he knows he is rid of it. Jaskier thinks about being pregnant, about his body growing and morphing, thinks about giving birth. Thinks about having a child, boy or a girl. That child would grow up, and it would be an omega like him, and that would break his heart. Worse, they would be an alpha or a beta, and one day turn their back on their mother because they are above him.

He cannot take it, will take a sword to his throat rather than let it happen.

“How long has it been?”, the woman asks, but Jaskier is too busy with his thoughts, with his fears, so she shakes the hand he is holding and asks again, “The heat? How long has it been?”

“...A month. Maybe a bit more”, he answers and the woman frowns at his words. His heart quickens, so he can feel it in his throat. His throat is dry, so he takes a big gulp of the tea, feels it scald his tongue.

“It’s probably too late”, she says and Jaskier’s face falls. He doesn’t know what to do, is grasping for straws, will take any way out even if it might kill him, “But I have something”

She hurries off after telling Jaskier to wait there, so he does. He sits and twists his fingers together, taps his feet on the ground. Prays that the witcher doesn’t come into the inn right that second. He needs this to work, needs to have this one break. He can feel a layer of sweat on his forehead, on his back. He feels ill.

The woman comes back with a small pouch of something, dumps it into some water that’s boiling over the fire behind the bar. It’s some sort of tea, he guesses, picks at his cuticles until one of them starts bleeding sluggishly.

“The witcher didn’t hit you when you threw up”, the woman says unexpectedly and Jaskier looks up at her, startled. There is nothing to say to that. The woman was there, and she saw what happened, “He’s strange”

“Yes”

“He looked worried”, she says, and Jaskier must look so shocked that she goes on, “He really did”

There is a minute of silence before the woman gets up takes Jaskier’s cup. She spills its contents and then fills it with the new tea, comes back to the bar. Jaskier takes the cup, looks at it for a second before taking it into his hands. It looks like regular tea, but smells pungent. It is too hot to drink, so he just looks at it anxiously for a few minutes.

“This is more than you usually take, but it’s okay because it’s late. In a few hours your stomach should hurt, down here”, the woman explains, points to her lower stomach, and in a moment of clarity Jaskier realizes he doesn’t even know her name. It’s a terrible thing, to not know the name of the person who helped you when no one else would, “That’s how you know it worked”

Jaskier decides that it’s too risky to wait anymore, takes the hot cup and watches the murky liquid. Thinks of the gods he does not believe in. He chokes it down, too scared that someone is going to come through the door to wait, burns his whole mouth and all the way down his throat. The pain makes his eyes water, and he almost throws up, but he keeps it down. He feels one tear trail down his face, and he wipes it off angrily. Now is not the time for crying.

“Thank you”, he tells the woman, means it with all his being.

So Jaskier goes on with his day, helps the woman clean and pour ale for the few guests, crosses his fingers and prays the tea works. He tries not to think about it, but thinks only about it and about nothing else. The witcher appears a few hours later, and he gives Jaskier new shoes. It is such a weird turn of events that is serves to divert the omega’s attention. He tries on the new shoes and revels in their softness, in the slight prickliness of the wool lining it. His old shoes are falling apart, but he didn’t think the alpha would notice, that he would care.

He wiggles his toes in his new shoes and thanks the alpha, watches the man sharpen his swords on the ground. He waits for it, and he prays for it, but his stomach doesn’t hurt. He waits until dark to despair, avoiding the omega woman’s gaze when it searches him out at dinnertime. He doesn’t want to believe it didn’t work.

The next morning, Jaskier throws up again.

Chapter Text

Jaskier spent a lot of his life wishing he was not an omega. He wished it when he presented and his mother looked at him all sad, all dissapointed. She grieved for him, and at that time he thought she was dissappointed with him. But he was wrong, and now he knows it. She feared for him, and she had good reason to.

He wished it when he looked at the men and women that travelled through their village, how careless, fearless they were. They didn’t have to hurry home before dark, or to wear loose clothes, or to settle for a life in living and dying in the same scrap of land where they were born. They were born different, privileged. Even back then, Jaskier remembers feeling envious.

He wished he was not an omega when his mother got sick and it was so hard to get work, to get coin, to get food. No one would hire an omega, nor did they think a sick one was worth any pity. They thought his mother cursed, for living alone and having a child, they thought her punished by illness. The Gods struck her down for her sins, they said, struck Jaskier down with her, too. He hated them then, hated them with all of his heart, with more than he thought he was capable of. He hates them still to this day, will hate them forever, carries that ugliness in his heart and in his bones.

The right thing would be to forgive. But he can’t. 

He wished then and he wished when he was travelling and he could never settle anywhere, not even for a few weeks, not even when it was heaven. Wished to be a beta with everything he had when he was in Oxenfurt and he heard he could study music there, could do the thing he loved most. But from there, too, he had to leave a few days later, to leave that dream in the mud.

He wishes for it now the hardest, though, as he stands in his room in the inn, alone. He threw up again, made it to a waste bin this time. He threw up again and the witcher stood with him and rubbed his back and Jaskier cried. The alpha thought Jaskier was crying because he was scared, tried to calm him down, but it was impossible. For the first time, it was not Geralt Jaskier was scared of. Jaskier was scared of himself, of his own body.

He wishes he did not have a womb. It’s an ugly thing to wish, and if there are Gods out there surely they will curse him for this. They will curse him, and they should. But the world is ugly and Jaskier is ugly and no matter how pure the thing in his stomach is right now it will become ugly, too. Everything does.

And Jaskier can’t take it, stands in his room and shakes and cries, is grateful that he is alone to suffer. The witcher made himself scarce once Jaskier started panicking, probably not knowing what to do with a hysterical omega. The woman, Jeska, Jaskier had learned, hadn’t come after him. He was grateful for that too. He didn’t know what to say, had no words to share, could just choke on his tears.

Jaskier drops to the floor, right next to the witcher’s leathers and swords, hugs his knees. He runs his hands through his hair, grips it to the point of pain. The swords are right there, and he entertains the idea of slitting his own throat for a few minutes before pushing it away. If he had the guts to kill himself, he would have done it until now. His sobs slow and then taper off, and he sniffles as he turns his head to look at the witcher’s stuff. There are the man’s bags, full of clothes and whatnots, his swords which look quite dangerous upclose. They look heavy too, Jaskier thinks, wonders if he could even pick them up.

Then there’s the coin bag next to them. Jaskier frowns at it, knows that the alpha has one on himself right now, didn’t know there was another one. Then he remembers that the witcher took Kilk’s money, wonders if this is it. It doesn’t look too full, is worn and starting to fray on one edge, but there is coin inside.

Jaskier has one crown, inside of his shoe where he knows it won’t be found, has hid it from the witcher without even knowing why. He thinks about the money, thinks about what he could buy with it. He knows that there are potions out there, that you can take and end a pregnancy, has heard of them here and there. People spoke of it in whispers, looking around while they did so no one heard them. It was a shameful thing, but it could be done.

It wasn’t cheap either, Jaskier knows. He takes a deep breath and then another one, listens for the witcher and reaches for the bag when he hears nothing. He opens it, takes a sharp breath at the sight of the coins inside. It isn’t a too large sum, nothing he couldn’t had earned back when he was traveling with his lute, but it’s like a fortune to him now. He pushes his hand inside, feeling like suddenly the witcher is going to jump out from under his bed, grabs a few coins and then pulls it out in a hurry. Shaky, he puts the bag where he had found it, gets onto his unsteady feet and looks around the room for a place to store the coins. He turns in a circle, clutching the metal in his fingers, quickly warming in his sweating palms, shakes his head before toeing off his shoes.

He stuffs the coins into his shoes, counting five of them now, pushes his feet back into the comfortable wool. The coins are bumpy and cold, but it doesn’t matter. Five coins aren’t enough, Jaskier knows, is way too little, but he doesn’t dare take more lest the witcher notices. The man had been forgiving until now, but Jaskier knows this was too much. There is no alpha in the world that would allow their omega to be so unruly, he’s certain. He shivers with that knowledge, with the thought of how angry Geralt would be if he knew Jaskier had stolen from him. He would probably whip him with a leather belt, Jaskier thinks, pictures it in his head. It had always been a terrible punishment, one he had endured multiple times for his mistakes, and once he had been punished like that those mistakes never repeated.

Kilk knew that punishment, knew it well, knew how much it scared Jaskier. The omega feels his back tingle in memory, the back of his thighs. He remembers the burn, the tears, the humiliation, feels his eyes sting once more. He wonders if the witcher has a leather belt somewhere in his bags, is frighteningly certain he does, for a moment. He steps towards the bags, wants to check, but then holds himself back. If he finds the belt, he will try to run away, and he knows how that ends.

So he balls his hands into fists, presses his nails into his skin until the pain lets him breathe, lets him calm down. It doesn’t matter whether the witcher has a belt, because he isn’t going to find out about this. Jaskier is going to take the coins little by little, collect them, sneak off when the witcher is gone and get the potion. He is going to take care of this, he decides, he is going to do it however he knows.

It calms, him, having a plan, having something to hold onto even though it is so little. He has nothing but himself, hasn’t had anything else in a long time, so it’s alright. He goes on with his day, makes his measly bed and goes back to the front of the inn though he probably shouldn’t, helps Jeska wash the dishes and doesn’t drop a single one even though his hands shake. She looks at him after a while, waits until there is no one around to grip his elbow, her fingers strong but reassuring and says a low : “I’m sorry”

And Jaskier can’t help it, chokes on his breath and feels a tear slip down his cheeks as he hugs the woman close, tries to take her warmth into himself. She is smaller than him, and that feels good, feels like control. But she has strong arms and grips his with fervor, rubs his back as he sobs into her shoulder.

“What am I going to do?”

“What you must”, she states, her tone stiff but not cruel. She pushes Jaskier lightly, takes him by his shoulders and meets his eyes, “Do what all of us have done. The witcher will not make a bad father”

And Jaskier’s heart falls, though he knows there is nothing else to be said, though he knows Jeska cannot help him. His own plan is hard, and dangerous, and it will end with him hurt, but he can’t do anything else but stick with it. Stick with it or Jeska’s words will become reality.

And maybe Geralt would make a good father. It’s hard to imagine it, feels wrong, but maybe he would. But that doesn’t matter, because Jaskier would make a terrible mother. He knows it like he knows the sky is blue, knows he is too sad and too scarred and too damaged to do it right. He knows he would look at the child and see Kilk, knows that he would hate it. Burden a child with the sins of his father. And that is not right, and he refuses to do it. Motherhood is supposed to be a beautiful thing, he knows, it is supposed to be like what he had with his mother.

He could never have that.

Jeska lets him go, lets him cry it out, goes on with her work. Jaskier helps her a little bit more, sweeps the floors though they do not need sweeping, airs some of the rugs. He sees white hair in the distance while he is outside, hurries back inside so the witcher doesn’t see him dallying outside of their room. Geralt enters their room soon after Jaskier does, nods at the omega and then turns his back to change his shirt. Jaskier looks at the man, at the expanse of broad pale skin, at the many scars marring it. He thinks the witcher has more scars than he does, and for some reason that makes him feel a bit better.

He still looks away, feels guilt coiling in his stomach. He shouldn’t be ogling the man like that, offering something he doesn’t want to give.

Quickly, Geralt is dressed once again and is sitting on the ground, taking his coin bag and shaking it with disdain before letting it drop back to his waist. He doesn’t touch the one laying the ground, doesn’t notice the coins that are missing, and Jaskier thanks the skies for it.

“We’re running out of coin”, he says gruffly, takes one of his big swords out of its sheath and starts sharpening it. It is sharp already, Jaskier knows, he watched the man sharpen it yesterday, but he doesn’t mention it. He guesses the witcher feels cooped up. He’s used to being on the road.

“I’m sorry”, Jaskier dares to say, holds Geralt’s gaze when the man looks up at him with raised eyebrows, “We stayed in the inn because of me”

“Hmmm”, Geralt frowns at him, glances at his swords than back at the omega, “Don’t apologize. I just meant that I will have to take a contract soon”

And Jaskier feels guilty, because the witcher has not been cruel to him and yet Jaskier offers nothing but distrust and fear. He feels guilty, but that will change nothing. He is guilty for his feelings and his behaviour and he is guilty because he stole. Still he will steal again.

The witcher doesn’t talk more, is easy to be in silence with. He sharpens and sharpens his swords and he ruffles his bags. He takes out vials and looks at them, singles some of them out. If he had more courage, Jaskier would ask what they are for, but he doesn’t, so he keeps his silence.

At dinner, Jaskier finds himself at a table once again, looking at the witcher. There is stew again, and it is just as good as it was the day before, and Jaskier eats. He is hungry, because he lost his breakfast and ate little for lunch. For the first time, when the witcher offered food, he wasn’t able to finish it. his nerves filled his stomach and made it hard to swallow, hard to chew. He thought the man might get mad, but he didn’t. Jaskier is still surprised every time the witcher doesn’t get mad over something, but he is still grateful.

But now, Jaskier’s appetite has opened once again, and he eats his stew with vigour. He chews, glances at Geralt just to find him looking at him, his own stew untouched. Jaskier straightens, realizes he didn’t ask permision to start eating, feels the back of his neck go cold. But the witcher just nods at his bowl, picks up his own spoon.

“Eat”, he says, plops a piece of meat in his mouth and chews. His hair is tied up again, has been tied up since the first night in the inn. His eyes look golden in the dimmed light, “If you’re still hungry after, we can take another portion. You’re too thin”

Because you’re pregnant, goes unsaid, but Jaskier hears it all the same. So Jaskier starts eating again, doesn’t want to talk to the alpha, eats small bites and focuses on what’s going on in the inn tonight. He won’t be hungry for the second bowl, he knows.

There’s a bit more of a crowd tonight than there was before, and it has Jeska running around like she’s ten years younger than her age. She flits between the two tables that are occupied besides their own, bringing ale and food where it is needed. But mostly ale. The men that sit at the table behind Jaskier are being rowdy, they yell and joke and laugh loudly. They are drinking heavily, and Jaskier resists the urge to turn around and look at them, see how far they are from him. Geralt is facing them, and Jaskier can tell that he is looking at them, tracking their movements.

But still, he doesn’t say anything, eats slowly and just looks behind Jaskier. He doesn’t look bothered, just looks on guard, until suddenly he does. The alpha tenses and fixes his eyes just behind Jaskier, and then Jaskier feels a heavy hand land on his shoulder. He tenses like he’s been hit, whips his head to the right and looks up at the man standing there. The man seems unbothered, looks at the witcher with all the courage of someone who’s had too much to drink, smiles at him.

“Witcher, I had to meet you!”, the man says and sits on the bench next to Jaskier, sits far too close. Jaskier can feel the man’s leg press against his own, scoots a bit away but the man just widens his legs, “To have a witcher stay in my inn is something I never thought would happen. I’m Jon”

The man reaches across the table, waits for the witcher to shake his hand in greeting, but it doesn’t happen. Jaskier looks at the man, remembers seeing him always at the same table, always drinking, always getting served first. He is Jeska’s mate, he realizes and shivers. He knew she didn’t have it good, knew it had to be something bad, something like this. He just didn’t want to believe it.

“Geralt”, the witcher says, doesn’t shake Jon’s hand which is left to awkwardly hang over the table. Jaskier doesn’t expect it, but when he looks at the alpha, their eyes meet. There is a question in the man’s eyes, but Jaskier doesn’t understand what it is, so he just helplessly holds the gaze for a few seconds before looking down at his stew. He isn’t eating anymore, doesn’t want to, can smell the ale in the air and on the man next to him, feels a bit sick.

“Jeska! Bring two pints here!”, the man yells, looks around for his mate. He doesn’t seem to bothered by Geralt’s behaviour, still seems to be in good spirits, “She ain’t good for much, but she can pour ale like no one else”

Geralt doesn’t answer, and very quickly, there are two pints of ale at the table. Jeska hesitates at the table for a moment, looks at Jaskier with alarm in her eyes, but then quickly scurries off. There is nothing she can do. The man takes a large swig of his drink, sighs contendedly after he does, turns to Jaskier and gives him a long look.

“I see you’ve got yourself one too, witcher. I didn’t know witchers kept omegas”, the man says, his eyes sneaking over Jaskier’s body. The omega feels the urge to cover up, to get up and hide behind his alpha, but he doesn’t do that. He isn’t a child. So he just sits there and burns under the man’s unwelcome eyes, feels his leg press disgustingly into him, “You like them nice and skinny, I see. I like ’em that way too”

“You do?”, Geralt says, looks at Jon with an unreadable gaze.

“Yes, when they’re all tight and nice”, the man smiles widely at the witcher, happy that he is getting a response. But Jaskier thinks that he shouldn’t be happy, that something is off with the alpha. Geralt looks at the man, and he sips his ale, but his eyes are gold and dangerous, “You like male omegas more? I heard they take it better. The women cry so much”

“Jaskier?”, Geralt says, and his voice is so low that the omega barely supresses a flinch, “Take your bowl and go eat in our room”

And it’s an order, most definitely, so Jaskier takes his bowl and goes to stand up. Doesn’t make it because a hand latches onto his arm. And Jaskier can’t help it, flinches and almost spills his dinner onto the floor, but the man doesn’t let him go.

“Why? We’re just talking”, Jon says, tightens his grip on Jaskier’s arm. Jaskier’s heart is speeding up, and he resists the urge to yank himself away, run to the safety of his room. That is a bad idea. He knows how that would end.

“Let him go”, the witcher says, and his voice is heavy. It’s scary, and Jaskier shivers, realizes the man has never spoken to him like that. For a moment, it looks like Jon is going to argue, even opens his mouth, but never says anything. The witcher looks at him like a predator.

The man lets Jaskier go, and the omega shoots up so fast his head spins. The man has offended Geralt, he knows. It is impolite to touch another person’s omega, and Jon had done it twice. Something is going to happen here, and Jaskier doesn’t want to witness it. He hurries to get out from between the bench and the table, to get away from that gnarly man and whatever punishment the witcher dishes out for him. he is just about to pass the witcher and rush to their room when he is stopped.

“Wait”, Geralt says and Jaskier freezes, looks at the alpha helplessly. But the man just reaches over the table, takes Jaskier bowl which he had forgotten, gives it it to the omega. His voice isn’t gentle, can never be gentle, but Jaskier hears the difference in his tone from when he was talking to the man, “Don’t forget your stew”

So Jaskier takes the bowl, grips in his hands and hurries to his room, slams the door behind himself. He can’t hear much from here, can’t figure out what is going on, but he doesn’t want to know. Maybe the witcher is going to beat that man up, or maybe he is going to drink and talk with him. Jaskier doesn’t care, he tells himself, puts his bowl on the little table by the bed. His hands are shaking, as they always fucking are, so he slots them around himself in an effort to soothe his nerves. They’re shot to hell, he knows, feels his skin crawling from the man’s touch.

Jeez, he thinks, just from a hand on his arm. He used to get fucked raw every night on the hard ground, and now he can’t even take a painless touch. Omegas really are soft, he thinks, curses himself. His arms tighten, no longer comforting, and he takes a forcefully deep breath and lets it out. Runs his hands through his hair, walks to the bed and sits on it.

His gaze falls on the coin bag laying on the other end of the room.

The witcher is talking to that man. Or he’s beating him up, or whatever the hell it is that alpha’s do when someone touches their property without permission. Fact is, he’s not here.

Jaskier stands up on impulse, walks the two steps it takes to get to the witcher’s bags. Crouches down and takes the bag, opens it. He looks at the coins and bites his lips, thinks about how many he should take. He guesses he could stuff them in his cloak for a short while. He takes five coins, counts them out meticulously, watches them shine dimly. Takes three more, cinches the bag with one hand awkwardly while holding the coins with the other. Then he stands up, looks at the coins, counts them again though there is no need.

He goes to toe off his shoes, thinks he can get away with putting at least two more in there so they don’t jingle in the cloak. The door opens just as he gets one shoe off, and he steps back, almost trips over his feet. He hears one coin hit the ground, looks at the witcher who is standing at the door. Swears his heart stops beating.   

Chapter Text

The coin hits the ground, rolls a bit and then falls flat to the ground with a final sound. It seals Jaskier’s fate. The witcher follows it with his eyes, looks at it as it rolls and stops, keeps looking at it for a few seconds. Looks back up at Jaskier. Looks confused. He looks confused, Jaskier knows, because he doesn’t know how dare Jaskier do this, and soon he isn’t going to look confused. He is going to look furious.

The man steps towards Jaskier, but the omega steps back in turn, keeping distance. He can’t help it, looks at the alpha with his eyes crazy, looks at his eyes and mouth and hands. He is going to start yelling any second, start snarling, bear his teeth. His hands are already roughened, Jaskier thinks, can see a spot of blood on one of his knuckles. The witcher’s hands are going to ball into fists, and they are going to be red when he is done with Jaskier. Jaskier feels his heart rate go up and up, feels the blood leave his face.

He takes another step back, feels his hands go limp, listens as all the coins hit the floor. It doesn’t matter how many coins there are, doesn’t matter that he let them fall. One is enough. One is too much.

He feels his eyes burning, tries to gulp but finds he can’t, opens his mouth. He can feel his heart in his ears, in his fingertips, can feel his eyes pulsing in the staccato his heart has set. Can feel his throat closing up, takes a few panicked breaths before he can’t.

“Jaskier”, the witcher says, and he sounds bewildered, but Jaskier doesn’t listen. Doesn’t hear anything over his own breaths which are now gasps more than anything else, “Your heart..”

The alpha takes another step towards Jaskier, slowly, but Jaskier winces as if he had slapped him. Winces and goes to step back and trips on nothing. Falls on his ass in a tangle of limbs, feels a sharp pain shoot up his spine. He sits on the ground and looks up at the witcher, and he can’t breathe.

The alpha looks huge from his position, looms over him horribly. Jaskier thinks he is going to step forward and just kick him, won’t even bother to use his hands. He is going to kick him, and he is going to break his ribs, and he is going to kick and kick and kick until there is nothing but blood on the ground.

Jaskier can’t breathe, and he grabs at his own throat, still looks at the witcher, can’t take his eyes off of him. His head rings, echoes and screams. He is so stupid, to steal from his alpha. He is so stupid, and he is going to die for it. He can’t believe his own actions, wants to tear his own skin off, tear his own throat out before the witcher can get to him.

“Jaskier”, Geralt says, starts lowering himself slowly. There is something in his voice Jaskier doesn’t recognize, and it is not anger. The witcher sits on the floor, his hands up in a surrender pose. Jaskier looks at him like he’s lost his mind, scratches at the tender skin on his neck, feels tears flow out of his eyes and stream down his face, “You have to breathe”

But Jaskier can’t, because his throat doesn’t work, and because he knows what is going to happen. He knows. This kind of thing isn’t forgiven, isn’t looked over. It can’t be. If the alpha lets this slide, Gods know what Jaskier is going to do next. Jaskier knows, knows he has to be punished, knows he deserves it. Knows it is coming, knows it is going to hurt, knows he can’t take a breath.

The witcher doesn’t even have to punish him, he thinks. He can just put his hands around Jaskier’s throat and squeeze, help him suffocate.

“Jaskier, please. You have to breathe”

Jaskier’s vision blurs, and he claws at his own throat, feels his nails break the skin. He is going to pass out. He is going to pass out and he is never going to wake up again.

He sways where he’s sitting, feels his limbs go weak. Can’t even see the witcher anymore, his vision blurring out completely.

“Jaskier, breathe”, the alpha says, and something tugs in Jaskier’s chest, and he gasps for breath. It chokes him, and it’s terrible, and barely any reaches his lungs. His lungs burn, and his eyes burn, and his neck burns where he has clawed it raw, “Breathe. In, and out”

Jaskier chokes again, feels some air trickle in beside the blockage in his throat, tries to follow the witcher’s instructions. The man breathes as he speaks, takes big breaths, lets Jaskier hear him as he breathes in and out.

“Come on Jaskier, please”, Geralt says, and Jaskier blinks in order to clear his eyes. His vision clears a bit, and he looks at the alpha. His golden eyes are wild, “In, and out. Do it with me”

And Jaskier listens, can’t do anything else but listen, sits there and looks at the witcher’s chest and mimicks it, breathes. Geralt keeps it up, keeps speaking in that voice that calls to something soft inside of Jaskier, something vulnerable. It’s a rumbly, but soft tone, and Jaskier feels his heart slowing a bit, feels his head clearing slightly. Still feels weak and unsettled, but isn’t convinced he is going to die anymore.

“It’s alright. Everything is alright”, Geralt says, and he sounds so sincere Jaskier almost believes him, “I’m going to get up just for a moment”

On his feet, the witcher looks scary once again, but before Jaskier has a chance to panic he is already at the door, leaning into the hallway.

“Omega!”, he yells, booms so loud and unexpected that Jaskier shakes for a moment. But the man isn’t looking at him, stands there restleslly until Jeska comes running from the front.

“Bring some honeyed water”, Geralt tells her, and Jaskier sees the omega woman stand there confusedly for a moment, sees her try to look past the witcher and into the room, “Jaskier isn’t feeling well”

And with that the woman rushes off, leaves the witcher standing there. He turns and looks at Jaskier, walks to him, stops when the omega tenses.

“Can I come closer?”, he asks, and it’s so bizarre that Jaskier just looks at him. Jaskier is sitting on the floor and he can see all the coins scattered on the ground, sees them lay there all accusing and condemning. What have I done, he thinks and feels tears flood his eyes again, feels them slip down his cheeks and neck, doesn’t even know why he is crying. He is still afraid, but he doesn’t have the strength anymore. He just wants to ball himself into a small ball and hide from the witcher, cry all night. His heart beats quickly in his chest, and he feels his chest ache as he breathes, “I won’t hurt you. It’s alright, Jaskier”

And Jaskier can’t refuse an alpha, can’t even open his mouth to say anything, doesn’t even know what to do, so he nods. It’s always better to agree, he thinks and opens his mouth to sob, brings up one of his hands to wipe at his face. His throat is raw, and he doesn’t know why, doesn’t get it, because he hasn’t said anything. He hurts and yet he hasn’t been touched, cries because of it. The witcher looks alarmed, steps forwards until he is just before Jaskier before sitting down. Then they are face to face and Jaskier feels just like a child, crying and crying and being a mess.

“It’s alr..”, the alpha goes to say, but is cut off by Jeska rushing into the room with a cup in her hands. She gives Jaskier an alarmed look, but doesn’t hesitate in giving the alpha the cup, “Thank you”

Jeska stands there, hesitates in leaving even though it is obvious she should, looks at Jaskier and tries to tell him something with her eyes. But Jaskier doesn’t understand, just cries, looks at her and the coins and the alpha.

“Jaskier, drink this”, Geralt says, dragging the omega’s eyes back to himself. He gives Jaskier the cup, steadies his hands with his own. Guides the cup to the omega’s mouth, helps him take a small sip. Jaskier chokes on it, his hands shaking, but the liquid doesn’t spill and it tastes sweet on his tongue, “Easy, just small sips. This will make you feel better”

So they just sit there, the witcher’s hands over Jaskier’s, as the omega drinks the water. The honey soothes his throat, takes away some of the burn. It slows his tears too, because it turns out you can’t sob and swallow at the same time. They still flow, but now it is the silent kind, the kind Jaskier can take. He’s all muddled and confused when the cup is finished, his head all mixed up. He doesn’t know what to think, feels like he’s just going to keel over at any second, avoids looking at the witcher. Notices that Jeska isn’t there anymore, wonders briefly when she went. The door is closed now, and it is just him and the alpha.

“Good, that’s good”, Geralt says, his voice softer than Jaskier has ever heard it. It soothes something raw in the omega, makes it easier to breathe, “That’s great. Do you feel a bit better?”

Jaskier is so tired, and the coins are still looking up at him from their place on the ground, and he wishes they would disappear but they don’t. He doesn’t know if he is better, knows he is breathing now but still shakes sluggishly, sways a bit. He looks at the witcher, doesn’t think anything, his head too full for any thoughts, lets his body lean forwards until his head touches the man’s shoulder.

The witcher is wearing his leathers, so his shoulder is all hard, but it is warm. It feels good to rest on something, let someone take a bit of his weight. It even feels good when a tentative hand touches his back, rubs a slow circle on it. Jaskier sighs into the leather, breathes in the smell of it. There is the smell of the alpha too, campfire and forest and pine. It smells good, Jaskier decides.

“It’s okay”, Geralt says, and Jaskier feels it rumble through his chest. It’s soothing, and he lets a bit more of his weight lean onto the witcher. He can take it, “There’s no reason to be scared. You’re all right”

And it’s all nonsense, Jaskier knows, knows it doesn’t mean anything, but it still calms his heart. Something in him unwinds, unties from a knot that was tugged way too tight, finally lets loose. The witcher is here with Jaskier, sitting on the ground, uses his big hand to rub soothing circles onto his back, uses his body to support him. Speaks nonsense, talks low and soothing into Jaskier’s ear. It feels like a place to rest, like a corner in this world where Jaskier can let his guard down. He doesn’t want it to end, sits there as his tears flow and then stop, sits there and lets the big scary witcher comfort him like he hasn’t been comforted in years. It almost makes him want to cry again, but he refuses, doesn’t have any tears left.  

Jaskier’s bum and back start hurting from holding the same position at some point, but the witcher doesn’t pull away, so neither does he. He knows the moment he moves the illusion of safety will break, that he will once again have to be big and brave and that the alpha is going to be scary again. But like this, as his hair tickles Jaskier’s nape and his chest rumbles under his forehead, he isn’t frightening. Jaskier thinks it’s the first time he isn’t afraid in years.

“Jaskier, can you tell me what scared you so much?”, Geralt asks, but it is in the same cadence, in the same soothing tone he has been speaking in, so Jaskier doesn’t asnwer, “Is it the coins?”

Jaskier tenses at the question, but Geralt’s hand is still on his back, is still soothing down his spine instead of hurting him, so he relaxes again. He nods into the witcher’s shoulder, tries to burrow deeper into it.

“Hmmm”, the witcher says, and it rumbles deliciously in his chest, makes Jaskier sigh tiredly, “It’s okay that you took money. Why did you need it?”

Jaskier doesn’t answer, doesn’t want to break this trance he has fallen in. Knows if he starts talking he will have to go back to reality once again.

“Is it because you wanted to leave?”, the witcher asks, “It’s okay if you want to leave, Jaskier. I told you, you can go where you want”

But Jaskier frowns, for some reason doesn’t like this, finally unsticks his mouth and gets some words out of them: “It’s not that”

“Hmmm. Then what is it?”, the alpha says, shifts and uses one hand to gently push Jaskier away so he can look at him. Jaskier moves easily but grieves instantly, shifts his weight so he’s sitting normally once again and looks at the witcher. He can feel his face is all blotchy and red from crying so much, is sure he looks terrible, “You can take money, Jaskier, but I think you should tell me what it’s for. Maybe I can help you”

Jaskier frowns, sets his mouth closed, doesn’t say anything. The witcher was nice and comforted him, but he still doesn’t want to tell him his plan. It’s a scary thing, too bad to say out loud.

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me”

And it’s the truth, Jaskier knows. He knows his plan was terribly foolish, something that had no real chance of succeeding. Those potions are expensive, and they are hard to get, and they are almost never sold to omegas directly. He was more likely to be hanged for trying than actually get the potion. Jaskier isn’t stupid, he knew it would never work. He just needed something to push him forward.

“It’s..it’s the”, he says, but can’t make the words fall over his lips, clutches instinctively at his stomach.

“The baby?”, Geralt says, and he sounds worried, so worried that Jaskeir shakes his head in answer. It’s not the baby, it’s not because it’s never going to become one, “Do you need something for it?”

“I...I just, Geralt”, Jaskier says, his throat hurting. It feels like it wants to collapse into itself, close up so Jaskier isn’t able to say the words, “I..I don’t want..”

But Geralt just sits there, seemingly for a long time, just looks at Jaskier. He doesn’t get it, his eyes empty, but then he does.

“You don’t want the baby?”, he says, and it sounds accusing though it isn’t, though the witcher still looks the same. Jaskier still flinches, feels like he had been slapped by those words, feels bare and vulnerable. He doesn’t say anything.

“You don’t want the baby? Jaskier?”, the witcher repeats, frowns at the omega, “I’m not mad, Jaskier, but I need you to say it”

“I would make a terrible mother”, Jaskier tries.

“Okay”

“And it’s Kilk’s baby”

“Okay”

“And it could be an omega, too”, Jaskier says, his throat saw, the scratches he made on his skin burning once again. Geralt looks sad, doesn’t look angry, doesn’t even ball his fists or move or say anything. He just waits.

“I don’t want the baby”, he finally says, choked it out somehow, feels all drained after it is finally out in the open, feels like he could sleep a hundred years, “I don’t want it, Geralt, please. Please don’t make me have it”

“I won’t make you do anything”, Geralt says, and his voice is harder now, more like it usually is. His eyes are hard, but they are not cruel, “We’re going to find a healer, and we are going to take care of this”

“We are?”

“Yes, we are”

Chapter Text

In the morning, everything seems better. Jaskier slept like the dead, didn’t wake once, lost consciousness the moment his head hit the thin pillow. After his breakdown, Geralt coaxed him into eating a few more bites of his stew, but then his brain shut off and all he could think about was sleep. So Jaskier slept, but he doesn’t think the witcher did. The man doesn’t look haggard, exactly, but he does look a bit ruffled.

They get up early, when dawn has barely broken, pack their things and pull their cloaks on. It’s a chilly morning, Jaskier can tell, feels the draft come in from the window. He liked having a room and a bed for a few nights, but he knows it is time to move on. He is going to miss Jeska.

“We can’t stay too long”, Geralt says, lifts his swords and positions them on his back. They glint dangerously from up there, look imposing, “We’ll eat on the road. I punched the owner yesterday”

So they head out of their room, Jaskier with his cloak on and an unfamiliar weight on his hip. After his whole fiasco, he dug the remaining coins out of his shoes, but the witcher wouldn’t take them back. He took the coinbag Jaskier had stolen from and put the coins in it, gave it back to the omega, saying he should keep it. Jaskier tried to refuse, tried to find a reason why he shouldn’t take it, but Geralt wouldn’t listen. It was mind-boggling.

In the front room, Jeska is already up, though she looks sleepy. She is sitting at the bar, drinking tea out of a cup, but her eyes widen when she sees them. She stumbles out of her chair, looks Jaskier up and down like she expects him to be missing a limb.

“We’re leaving”, Geralt says simply, “Can you pack us some food for the road?”

That snaps Jeska out of her trance, and she says a low ‘yes, sir’, before scurrying off. Jaskier hears her bustling around, gathering supplies, watches the witcher as he reaches for his own coinbag and unties it. He puts a big amount of coins on the bar, counts them hastily then adds some more. It’s a lot of money, more than there should be, Jaskier thinks, but doesn’t say anything. It’s not his business. Quick, Jeska comes back with her hands full. She puts everything on the counter, pulls out a cloth out of nowhere and starts wrapping it up.

“I put some cheese in there. You should eat it quick”, she says as she ties the cloth, hands it to Geralt who nods at her.

“Thank you”, he says and turns to Jaskier, “I’ll be outside with the horses. Come when you are done”

And Jaskier just gapes at him as he exits, blinks at the door as they close. He didn’t think the witcher knew about him and Jeska talking. But the alpha doesn’t seem mad, doesn’t even seem irritated. It is one more thing about the man that Jaskier doesn’t understand, can’t put in the scary box in his head labelled ‘alphas’.

“He’s a good man”, Jeska says, and Jaskier turns his shocked expression to her, “He didn’t hurt you, right?”

“No”, Jaskier says, watches Jeska as she goes around the counter and walks close to him.

“Yesterday.. I never saw an alpha act like that”, she says, conviction in her voice, takes Jaskier’s hands in her own, “Keep him close. You deserve him”

And Jaskier doesn’t know what to say, still can’t make his mind equate the image of the scary witcher with the man who sat with him as he cried yesterday.

“What about you?”, he says instead.

“What about me? I’m old”, she says simply, like it’s a good thing. Maybe it is, Jaskier thinks, “Jon’s old too. I’ll be fine”

Jaskier isn’t sure he believes her, can’t do anything but look at her and try to find the truth in her eyes. He stands there and doesn’t talk, just looks at her and feels his eyes burn a bit. She’s so kind and he is never going to see her again. He knows it.

So he hugs her, squeezes the woman tight and tries to burrow into her. She is old and soft and smells like berries of some sort, and it is so gentle Jaskier’s heart hurts.

“Have a good life, Jaskier”, she says into his shoulder, “You deserve it”

And with that they separate, hearts heavy but set, and Jaskier leaves. Geralt is standing outside, horses at his side. They nose at him as he walks close. Jaskier’s gelding is already saddled, so he looks at the horse’s back with trepidation, decides he can do it and gets his leg in the stirrup. Once he’s up on the horse, Geralt follows, and they ride out of the village side by side. This time, it is too early for children to be playing or vendors to be selling, and no one watches them as they leave.

The morning is chilly, the air cutting through Jaskier's hair and making his ears redden, but it is just a one off. Summer is coming quick, and soon it is going to be warm and sunny. Soon Jaskier won’t even need a cloak, will be able to soak in the warmth he so missed. He can’t wait to see the meadows plump and full of flowers.  

“We’re not too far from a town”, Geralt says, unexpected, “We should make it there before midday”

It’s quicker than Jaskier imagined, quicker than he hoped. He feels a kind of relief in knowing this is going to end soon, that there is an end in sight when he thought it was a goal almost impossible to achieve. But there is grief too.

“Then we can look for an apothecary or a healer”, Geralt continues and Jaskier supresses a wince. The witcher said he would help him, but he still feels like the heavens are going to open and strike him down for his sin. Because it is a sin, he knows. He knows it is right, and he knows there is no other way, but it is still a sorrow.

In a different world, he would make a great mother.

But he can’t surrender to his thoughts, can’t let them consume him. He knows if he gives himself the chance he is going to drown himself in guilt. So he does something he hasn’t done in a long time, and opens his mouth without thinking.

“You’re not mad that I don’t want the baby?”, Jaskier says, almost bites his tongue just as the words leave his mouth. He doesn’t know what fucking gives him the courage to act like this.

“There’s nothing to be mad about, Jaskier”, the witcher says, and he sounds a bit tired. Sounds like he expected this, “It’s not my business”

But that’s confusing. It makes no sense. Whose business is it, if not the alpha’s?

“Hmmm”, the witcher says, looks at Jaskier for a moment, thinks about something. Goes on, “A long time ago, when a mother didn’t want a child, it was sent to become a witcher”

And it sounds like a suggestion, would sound like one if Jaskier didn’t know there are no more places that make new witchers, that they have all been desecrated. The witchers are a dying breed, a remnants of a time passed, a piece of history most want erased.

“What..what happened to the children?”, Jaskier asks, immediately feels like a fool. It is a question that answers itself. The children who went there became witchers, man-made monsters who roamed the continent until they were killed by something stronger than them. But it feels like there is more to the story, something that has been forgotten, so Jaskier asks.

“Most of them died”, Geralt answers, his voice easy, too easy. It’s not the whole truth, Jaskier knows then, a chill going down his spine. Something a lot worse happened to those children than death, “Those who didn’t became like me”

And it is said in a tone devoid of emotion, yet full of disdain. The witcher doesn’t like what he is, Jaskier realizes, tries to make sense of it. To him, being anything but an omega is a prize. He’d take the witcher’s place in a heartbeat, do anything to be big and strong and untouchable. But then he thinks of the witcher’s skin, of the scars on it. He knows the witcher has been touched , if not in the same way as he was, with violence.

Thinks, briefly, that maybe being so big and scary no one wants to look you in eyes isn’t such a good thing as it seems. Then he does something dumb.

“I’m sorry I called you a monster”, he says, has no reason for saying it, knows it was a mistake when Geralt’s face crumples into a scowl. The witcher doesn’t look at him, looks decidedly at the road, but his jaw is tight and his eyes are hard.

“Don’t apologize. You weren’t wrong”, the alpha says and then hurries his horse, overtakes Jaskier easily. The conversation severed, Jaskier is left to rush after Geralt, think about what he said wrong, “We should hurry”

For the rest of the trip Geralt makes sure that he is pushing his horse hard, hard enough that he stays in front of Jaskier, that he doesn’t have to make any conversation. Jaskier looks at the swords on the man’s back, wonders about his reaction, looks around himself but mostly pays attention to the road. The gelding is obedient, but they are going fast and he doesn’t want it to trip and break a leg.

They enter the town before the sun has reached its highest point, earlier than they expected. It is a proper town, too, with merchants and multiple inns. Jaskier can spot a sizeable market from his place on the horse, but feels a bit nervous at the thought of entering it. He hasn’t been in a place with a lot of people in a long time. Before, he used to love towns, but especially cities. Those were the places where he could easiest get lost if it was needed. There were plenty people to listen to his songs, but also plenty of them to blend into the crowd when it was time to disappear. In cities he could stay longer than in villages or towns, could just change inns and be a stranger again. Now he fears getting lost in the crowds, fears being seen too.

He is scared of the witcher, but doesn’t want to be without him. It’s a hard thing to admit.

Geralt dismounts as they trek further into the streets, and Jaskier follows. He doesn’t often ride a horse, but even he knows it is a big faux pass to go through a crowd on a horse. The witcher could do it, though, probably wouldn’t get any more dirty looks than he does anyway. He still doesn’t.

They pass a crowded inn, the kind that doesn’t look to expensive, and Geralt looks at it for a few moments before walking towards it. There’s a boy outside, and he rushes to take their horses reigns. He looks terrified, shakes as he walks up to Geralt, and scurries off before he can be handed a coin for his trouble. The witcher huffs before stuffing it back in his bag, walks through the door and into the darkness of the room. It is lively for such an early hour, obviously a busy place at all times. They get a few incredulous looks, a few people whispering while looking at them, but everyone seems like they are used to visitors.

A stern looking woman approaches them, looks the witcher in the eye with no fear, rattles off an acceptable price when asked for a room with two beds. She looks confused by the request but in the spirit of hospitality says nothing of it, and Jaskeir is grateful for it. She’s a beta, or maybe even an alpha, Jaskier thinks as she catches him looking straight at her. It’s not polite, not something an omega is supposed to do, and he sees disapproval in her eyes before he looks away. But the moment passes quickly, and soon they are standing in a middle-sized room.

“We’re going to need a room afterwards”, Geralt says, and Jaskier agrees. Whatever happens, he knows it’s going to leave him exhausted. He doesn’t want to think about how it is going to hurt, even though he knows it will. There’s no going around it.

He’s still surprised by it, how the witcher does things for him just because, things even Jaskier wouldn’t think of. He was half expecting to continue riding a horse till evening, to just have to deal with the pain. He wouldn’t even mind it, would still be grateful.

They dump their bags on the ground, and Jaskier waits for the witcher to take the swords off his back but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what to think about that, follows the man as they leave their room and go back to the front. The woman that welcomed them is nowhere to be seen, replaced by a young man behind the bar. Geralt walks up to him. Asks him about a healer.

“A healer?”, the man scoffs rudely, looks the witcher up and down, “I don’t think they’d know what to do your kind”

“Not for me”, Geralt says, and that prompts the man behind the counter to look at Jaskier. He’d been ignoring the omega until now, as is normal, but now he looks him up and down, lets his eyes roam Jaskier uncomfortably. Jaskier looks down, doesn’t want to look at the man, but Geralt steps in front of him.

“For your omega?”, the man says, sounds like he’s saying a really good joke. Jaskier doesn’t like him, feels something coiling in his stomach at the sound of his voice. He kind of wishes they were in a different inn, kind of wishes it was still Jeska behind the counter, but he knows it would be the same anywhere, “Jeez, I don’t know. There’s not many healers that will do omegas”

There’s a silence, and Jaskier can’t see much with how Geralt is standing in front of him, but he hears the sound of a coin being lowered onto wood, hears it being taken.

“There might be some”, the man says, sounds bored, “There’s a healer a few streets away from the centre. A woman, something with ‘H’”

And with that they leave. Jaskier is grateful to be back under the sun, grateful to not be in that room full of people laughing and talking and whispering. The witcher’s hair shines under the midday sun, and his swords shine too. They don’t look like they are made of steel, Jaskier thinks, wonders what they are made of. The witcher walks briskly, finds his way through the winded streets easily, seems like he’s been here before. Jaskier guesses he has, guesses he has been to many places. Wonders how many places they will visit together before the witcher decides that an omega is too big of a liability, that he is too tiresome.

Wonders why that matters to him.

Once they are two streets deep, Geralt stops an omega woman and asks for directions. She looks like she’s genuinely going to piss herself when he approaches her, and Jaskier feels bad for her. Weirdly, he feels kind of bad for the witcher too.

After some shaking and stuttering, the woman points them another street down, to a house with a ‘Hage’ sound up front. Geralt thanks her but she runs off before he even has the chance to finish his sentence, and Jaskier watcher her go off. He feels weird about their interaction, wants to say something but has no idea what. The witcher doesn’t look bothered, just continues on.

Soon enough, they reach the quaint little house with the sign. It doesn’t look too oficial, doesn’t look like much of anything. There’s a little path and then the house with its doors wide open like a shop’s. Jaskier’s stomach tightens when they reach it, tightens even more as they walk inside. This is it, he thinks.

He knows the healer might not be willing to do it, might run them off. But he hopes that Geralt’s presence is going to be enough to stop that from happening. He thinks it is. Who dares opose him, he wonders as he stands next to the witcher in the entryway of the house. The room they entered is big, covers almost the whole house. It is cluttered, a lot of regular things thrown around, but also some things that makes the occupation of the woman apparent. A whole shelf filled to the brim with vials big and small, full and empty, makes it especially obvious. They wait a minute, but when no one appears Geralt lifts one hand and knocks loudly on a table.

“Coming!”, a female voice comes, and a few moments later a woman bursts through the door on the other end of the room. Light falls into the room from behind her, and Jaskier catches a glimpse of a garden behind the woman before she shuts the door. She’s short, with long curly hair. She turns around with a huge smile on her face, “I’m sorry, I was just in the...”

Jaskier watches as the smile falls off her face, her lips press into a thin line. She’s looking at Geralt like there’s a devil standing in her house instead of a man.

“Mage”, Geralt says, his voice low and dangerous. Jaskier snaps his head to him, sees him touching his chest with one hand. He hasn’t reached for his swords, at least not yet, but they loom on his back, and the witcher looks like he wants them in his hands. Jaskier doesn’t want that, feels a chill go down his spine.

“Witcher”, the woman responds, and her voice could cut stone. There is nothing left of the cheerful woman that greeted them, and it scares Jaskier, “Unless you’re here to kill me, get the hell out”   

Chapter Text

The silence in the room is tense, and it is so thick Jaskier thinks he could easily cut it with one of Geralt’s swords. The witcher and the mage stare at each other, both waiting to see what the other is going to do. There are a few seconds in which Jaskier is convinced that they are going to attack each other, kill each other right there, with the door open for anyone to see.

But then Geralt shifts, drops his hand from where it was stuck to his chest and lets himself relax a little bit.

“I’m not here on business”, he says.

“Then why are you here, witcher?”

“Because of him”, Geralt says, gestures to Jaskier though he doesn’t take his eyes off the woman. He’s still on guard, still suspicious, but he is trying. Jaskier is thankful, more than he could ever describe. He doesn’t know how he feels about the woman either, knows hardly anything about mages, just knows that they are usually ridiculously powerful and don’t spend their time in little towns being healers.

The woman blinks, completely taken aback for a moment, and then struggles to collect herself before looking at Jaskier. Their eyes meet and Jaskier doesn’t even think to look down, doesn’t see anything in her expression to suggest he should do so. She looks confused, but her features are soft and pleasant. She is young and petite, the kind of person with innocence written all over their face. Jaskier can’t find it in himself to be afraid of her.

But she doesn’t say anything, and after a minute Jaskier realizes he is going to have to speak. He swallows, opens his mouth: “I’m..I’m here to..”

He tries but he can’t say it, knows when he says it she is going to scowl at him like she scowled at Geralt. He brings up a hand and clutches instinctively at his stomach, sees her looking at his hand.

“He’s pregnant and he wants an abortion”, Geralt says simply. Jaskier sees the woman look back at the witcher, set her jaw hard. Her eyes are steely.

“You do not get to speak for him”, she spits, fire in her eyes, steps toward Geralt, “Get out”

“But...”, the witcher tries, but he is cut off easily. Jaskier is a bit scared, but also a bit impressed. He cannot imagine a lot of people have the guts to speak to a witcher like that.

“You are going to wait outside or I am not going to see him”, she sets an ultimatum.

“You’re a mage practicing as a healer”

“Yes”, the woman says, has the audacity to roll her eyes, “If I was killing my patrons you would have heard of it. You heard me the first time, get out”

But the witcher turns to Jaskier, gives him a long look. Just stands there until Jaskier nods. He doesn’t know why he does it, doesn’t know what gives him the courage to be willing to be left alone with this woman. Maybe it is because she is a woman, maybe it is because she doesn’t try to suck up to the alpha. It is mostly because he has to do it, and he will do it even if he has to do it alone.

“Yell if you need me”, Geralt says finally, a severe frown on his forehead. He gives the mage a scathing look before he turns and leaves the house, stands on the path and looks at the door as the woman walks across the room and closes it. She heaves a sigh once the door is closed, though she must know that the witcher could break them down easily. Then she turns to Jaskier again, a smile on her face once again. It’s like she didn’t almost get into a fight to the death two minutes ago.

“I’m Hage”, she says, reaches a hand for Jaskier to shake. He does so, looks at her perfect little smile and her big curls. The woman is beautiful, looks like some of the girls Jaskier fancied back in the day. Though he doesn’t think any of them were mages that could’ve killed him in a second.

“Jaskier”, he responds and she beams at him, steps back and motions to a part of the room with a couple of comfy looking chairs.

“Come, sit”, she says and sits in one of the chairs, so Jaskier sits too. It is comfortable, more than he expected. They are facing each other, but Jaskier can’t hold her gaze for long, is too used to looking at his feet when speaking, so he looks behind her instead. He looks at the many vials on the shelf, wonders what they do. Wonders how many are actually poison instead of medicine.

“I’m pregnant”, he says finally, breaks the silence.

“Yes”

“I don’t want it”, he says, bites his tongue hard after he does. Again, the woman looks just as angry as she did when Geralt had said it. Jaskier doesn’t like this. He tells himself that the witcher is just outside, that he will burst through the door if Jaskier calls for him.

“That’s what the witcher said”, she says, a frown on her pretty face. It doesn’t suit her, “He’s making you do this”

“No”, Jaskier says, taken aback. This wasn’t how he expected this to go, “He’s not, he’s...”

The woman cuts him off, just like she did Geralt, but this time Jaskier is not impressed. It seems like a bad habit of hers: “It’s okay, you can tell me. I can help you”

And it’s so weird, so bizarre that Jaskier just looks at her. How in the world would she even help him, he thinks. He also thinks that it’s a cruel twist of faith that now he meets people who want to help him when he has no need for it. There is nothing to be helped from, when it comes to the witcher. Or at least, there hasn’t been anything until now.

“Witchers are sterile”, she says, takes his silence as agreement. But Jaskier is stuck on her statement.

“What?”

“They’re sterile. They can’t sire children”, she says, sighs like she expected this, “It’s because of the mutations. You didn’t know?”

“No..”, Jaskier admits, thinks about it for a second before realizing they are completely off topic, “That has nothing to do with my pregnancy”

“But it..”, she goes on, but Jaskier is fed up. He’s fought hard to be here now, to have this chance. He is not going to let her walk over him.

“I don’t want to be pregnant. There’s nothing more to it. I don’t want to birth a child”, he says, forceful. He is impressed by his tone, steely where it should be meek, but it also frightens him. The woman seems frail, but he knows she is not.   

But when he studies her expression, instead of finding it angry he finds it sad. She looks heartbroken for a moment, just sits there and looks at him, but then she swallows and nods. She attempts a smile, but it is weak.

For some reason, Jaskier is annoyed, but he pushes that emotion down where it came from. He doesn’t need it.

“Okay...Yes, okay”, she says, visibly collects herself, “How far along are you?”

Jaskier squirms in his chair, thinks back to the days with Kilk he barely remembers. He doesn’t want to think about his heats, doesn’t want to thinks about one ever again. He wishes the woman could take out his womb, make it so he never has one ever again.

“About a month. Maybe more”

“Yes..You look a bit underweight”, she notices, gestures to Jaskier’s middle, “Can I touch, for a moment?”

And Jaskier doesn’t want her to, but he knows if he refuses he’ll never get what he wants. So he nods, and tries not to flinch when she stands up and walks to him. She doesn’t ask him do lift up his shirt, and he is pathetically grateful for that, just touches him over the fabric. Her hands are gentle and soft, but still Jaskier tenses like she is going to claw into him at any moment.

But she just touches for a few seconds, lets go like she touched hot coals. She straightens up, her eyes meeting Jaskier. She looks like she touched something terrible, like she knows something Jaskier doesn’t. Jaskier remembers she is a mage, and guesses she does.

“Jaskier...the baby. It isn’t...”, she starts, stumbles over her words. Seems to be searching for the fitting expression, but Jaskier realizes he doesn’t want to hear it. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter.

“I don’t want to know”, he says, clenches his jaw, “Please”

He thinks she is going to argue with him, knows that is something that she does regularly, but she doesn’t. She just nods, steps back until she is next to the shelf with the vials. She looks at it for a long moment before picking out a small vial. She folds it in her hands, and Jaskier looks, mesmerized, as it glows from between her fingers. Then she turns back to Jaskier, walks to him and offers him the vial. It’s warm when he takes it, but not hot.

“You can drink it now or you can drink it later”, she says, sits back down, but before she has the chance to say something else he uncorks it and downs the liquid. He doesn’t want to wait, doesn’t want to give faith another chance to take this away from him. The cure is in his hands, so he uses it. The woman seems stunned when he looks at her.

“...Okay”, she says simply, takes the empty glass back when he offers it, “It should be an hour or two before anything happens. Then you are going to have some pain and a little blood. It should be done until the sun has set, but if it is not send the witcher for me”

Jaskier nods, still too shocked by what just happened to say anything. He swallows, feels the remnants of the potion clinging to his throat, feels the sourness of it burning his mouth. It’s done, he’s done it, he thinks, expects to feel fear or regret but feels only relief.

By nightfall, he won’t be pregnant anymore, he thinks, and feels a weight drop off his shoulders.

“Is there anything else?”, the healer asks, interrupts Jaskier internal monologue. Jaskier shakes his head, thinks about his fading bruises and his scars, thinks about how he is almost without pain, now, “I could check you over, since you’re already here?”

The woman looks kind, and she looks at Jaskier feebly, with no malice in her eyes. She doesn’t look greedy, doesn’t look like she takes pleasure in making omegas take off their clothes and making fun of their scars, of their protruding ribs. Jaskier still can’t take even the thought of taking his shirt off and showing off all of his weakness, stands abruptly.

“No..No, I’m fine”, he says, nods forcefully, steps away from the chair he was sitting in and towards the door. The woman looks surprised and sad, gets to her feet and rushes after him as he walks. Takes him by the elbow. She is small, slight and shorter than him, and that is the only reason he doesn’t rip himself out of her grasp.

“The witcher...how is he..?”, she starts but hesitates, looks at the omega with a question clear in her eyes. She thinks Geralt beats Jaskier, thinks he revels in it. She thinks the witcher a monster, just like he did, just like everyone does. He can see it in her eyes, can see it in the way she hesitates, can see she doesn’t want to say it outright so he wouldn’t run away. But she is wrong. There is an unfamiliar sort of anger in Jaskier's chest. 

“He’s good to me”, he says and turns, opens the door and steps into the afternoon sun. He squints at it, after the dimness of the house, walks down the few steps and towards Geralt who is looking at him expectantly. He wonders if the witcher has heard what he said, wonders if it even matters. The man could use it against him, he knows, but he knows he could use anything against him. He still hasn’t.

“Is it done?”, the witcher asks, voice rough but concerned, and Jaskier just looks at him as those yellow eyes flit over his face and body as if searching for a new injury. Geralt is waiting for Jaskier to answer, but the mage does it instead.

“It’s going to start soon”, she says, and they both turn to her in unison, “It should be done by nightfall. If it isn’t, come find me”

Geralt nods, hand going to his coinbag. Instantly, Jaskier feels bad. The witcher gave him money and yet he didn’t even think to try to pay the mage. But the woman shakes her head at them.

“No charge”, she says, prompting them both to look at her like she’s grown a second head, “Omegas get treated for free. Good luck”

The last is aimed at Jaskier, the woman’s eyes meeting his as she says it. Then she turns, closes the door behind her, leaves the two men on the street to stare at the closed door.

“She’s weird”, Jaskier comments, can’t hold back.

“Hmmm”, the witcher says, shrugs and turns back the way they came, “Let’s go back”

Chapter Text

The food in the inn isn’t very good. It’s a bit too greasy, too heavy, sitting heavy in Jaskier’s stomach as soon as he swallows it. The inn is unreasonably full for the time of day, with people drinking and yelling and very rarely eating. Jaskier thinks that they don’t usually serve a lot of food, thinks that’s why it sucks.

Thinks it’s weird that he can even criticize food. A week ago Jaskier would be glad to have been given one spoonful of the meal he is eating now, would think it was the most delicious thing he has tasted in years. He is spoiled, is getting comfortable being fed and clothed and protected. He isn’t sure what to think about that, feels a nervousness coiling in his chest at the thought of it all going away. And it could, he knows. All of his comforts are temporary, and he can only enjoy them for a limited time. Such is his fate.

So he looks at the witcher as he eats. The man eats the food hungrily, doesn’t complain about the quality of it, meets Jaskier’s eyes with a question when he feels he is being observed. Raises an eyebrow at the omega, but Jaskier just buries his head back into his bowl. He ought to stop staring at the man, to stop studying him. He knows how such attentions can be understood.

There is a vague cramp in his stomach as he is halfway through his bowl, and Jaskier frowns at it. Eats a bit quicker. It doesn’t hurt very much, barely hurts at all, repeats a few times over the next few minutes. Jaskier can take this sort of pain, barely feels it, thinks that he was too scared of it. But then he goes to put the spoon to his mouth again and freezes halfway, feels his insides clench and turn over, feels them burn. He lets his spoon drop back into the bowl, stares into it and waits for the pain to pass. He can still take it, will take it happily, but he isn’t hungry anymore.

“It hurts?”, Jaskier hears Geralt ask, looks at the witcher to see him looking at him with concern. Jaskier doesn’t say anything, just clenches his jaw and doesn’t move. It’s easier if he doesn’t, “Lets go to the room”

But Geralt isn’t done eating yet, so Jaskier opens his mouth to protest, but he can’t. The witcher is already up and at Jaskier’s side of the table. He offers a hand to him, frowns and asks: “Can you stand?”

And Jaskier can, has stood through worse, so he just grabs the hand that is offered to him and gets to his feet, ignores his womb which is trying to kill him, ignores all the people who have turned to look at them. Alphas don’t help omegas out of their seats like this. They drag them up, or they kick them down. So people stare, their eyes lingering on the way Geralt carefully waits as Jaskier puts one leg over the bench and then another, on their linked hands. They stare, but Geralt doesn’t bat an eye, so neither does Jaskier.

Let them stare, he thinks, follows the witcher as they exit the main room. It’s easier to breathe in the hall, where no one is watching, and Jaskier lets one hand rest on his stomach. They round a corner and approach the stairs, and Jaskier stops in front of them. He’d forgotten their room was on the second level, forgot that the stairs were so steep and so many. They didn’t appear so when he passed them the first time.

“You want me to carry you?”, Geralt asks, and it’s so weird Jaskier has to turn and gape at him. The witcher says the strangers things, sometimes, “It’ll be easier for you”

And it will. Jaskier imagines how it would feel to be carried up the stairs, but he can’t. All he can imagine is being dropped, decides he can’t take that chance.

“No”, Jaskier says once again, being brazen and rude and all an omega shouldn’t be, all he has been trained not to be. He is mad at himself, for being so uncontrolled, so disrespectful, when his alpha is trying to help him. So he grits his teeth, steps forward and onto the first step, grips the wooden railing tightly.

Still, it isn’t enough, and he woobles precariously. Geralt is quick to step in, wrap an arm around his waist tightly. Jaskier tenses, doesn’t exactly like it, but he has to admit he doesn’t feel like he’s going to fall over with the witcher holding him like this.

“Okay?”, Geralt asks, frowns at the omega.

“Okay”

And so they go up the stairs, one at a time, Jaskier wincing and leaning heavily onto the alpha. He feels bad for it, feels guilty for relying on the witcher when he has stood on his own for so long, but it also feels kind of good. He won’t fall when Geralt is holding him. It’s good to know that.

When they finally make it to their room Jaskier is exhausted, can’t wait to get into a bed, rest his aching bones. The pain going through him is dull and boring, but it is not to be ignored, just endured. They walk into their room, uninteresting as it was the first time they saw it, and towards a bed. Geralt lowers Jaskier gently onto it, lets him sit on his own. Crouches down and takes one of Jaskier’s ankles, takes off his shoe.

Jaskier is in too much pain to protest, but he isn’t in too much pain to be awed. He can’t believe the alpha. He’s sure if he scoured the whole continent he wouldn't find an alpha who gets on his knees to take off their omega’s shoes. He wonders what all the people who are scared of the witcher would think of him if they saw him right now.

Both shoes off, Jaskier wastes no time in lying down. A fur is draped over him, and he gratefully hugs it, presses it into his belly. It doesn’t help much, but he feels safer now, warmer. Some of his strained muscles relax, sinking into the bed.

“Do you need something else?”, Geralt says, suddenly, his rough voice startling Jaskier. He hadn’t noticed, but the alpha is still crouching at his bed.

“No”, Jaskier says, wonders if that is true. Watches as the alpha shifts so he’s sitting on the floor, wonders why he doesn’t just sit on the other bed. Looks at the witcher for a bit, winces whenever the pain changes it volume, its sharpness. Looks at the wall when he feels like he’s studied the other man too much, wonders why it isn’t a bit more interesting so he’d have something to take his mind off the pain.

“Does it hurt a lot?”

“Not too much”, Jaskier says, lies or doesn’t, he isn’t sure. He isn’t sure about pain anymore, has endured so much of it he doesn’t know what is too much, what he can and can’t stand. He just stands it all, because he has to.

“Hmm”, Geralt says, but he doesn’t sound convinced.

“How did you know?”, Jaskier asks, suddenly, the words bursting out of him. The pain is here, and it is persistent, and the sun is still high in the sky so he knows it is not going to stop anytime soon. So he talks, because he doesn’t know what else to do, because the witcher looks willing to indulge him, “That I was pregnant? Was it really your nose?”

“Yes”, Geralt answers, frowns, “How did you know that?”

“Jeska said”, Jaskier says, opens his mouth to say something else but doesn’t, cut off by a cramp that takes him by surprise. He closes his eyes briefly, breathes through the pain, and when he opens his eyes the witcher’s hand is right above him. He twitches involuntarily, startled by the sight but not as afraid as he should be. He looks at the witcher, so eager to touch, wonders what he was about to do.

“It’s okay”, he says, wonders immediately whether he is delirious from the pain. The hand descends on him, touches his head and tangles into his hair. Jaskier tenses, feels the familiar fear of having his hair yanked, of having it ripped out from the root. Geralt’s hand is gentle, and his fingers are just soothing, not pulling, but Jaskier can’t take it anyways. One of his hands shoots up, grabs the alpha’s by the wrist.

“Not the hair”, Jaskier says, pulls the witcher’s arm with his and moves it easily. The fingers leave his head without pulling, without scratching, but Jaskier’s heart still beats faster. He feels his throat burn, lets the alpha go and buries his hand in his chest. He shouldn’t have touched Geralt like that, has no right to act like this, “Sorry, I’m sorry”

“Shhh, it’s alright”, Geralt says, and though he should feel patronized Jaskier doesn’t. He just looks at the witcher and fights his tears and feels his stomach rolling and rolling and aching. He wishes he could have his head rubbed and feel soothed by it, that he could have his hair played with. He wishes he could kill Kilk again, take Geralt’s sword and run it through his chest, spit on his body, “I won’t touch your hair if you don’t want me to”

Jaskier expects Geralt to retreat after this, to give up. He should get tired of him already, get up and get on with his business. The omega is sure that the witcher has more important business than to sit on the floor while his omega cries and cowers like a child. But instead the witcher lowers his hand onto the bed, leaves it there like an offering. Jaskier looks at it, studies the calluses and the scars and the veins clearly visible through alabaster skin.

He takes the witcher’s hand, squeezes it tightly. The witcher squeezes back, soothes a thumb over Jaskier’s skin.

“Alright?”, Geralt asks again, but this time Jaskier just nods, still confused. He is holding hands once again with the witcher, just like he did when they were at Jeska’s. And again, it doesn’t hurt even a little bit, feels good.

Jaskier is confused, and he wants to cry, swallows his tears. He is so unused to being touched, so afraid of it, but with Geralt it feels good. It feels good to hold his hand, makes something deep in him unravel, let loose. Feels good to hold a hand that could easily crush his own, to be vulnerable like this. It felt good in the inn, too, when the alpha rubbed his back so gently. The alpha could have hurt him back then, could have turned on him, but he didn’t. He was just tender.

Jaskier thought he would never be touched gently again.

He squeezes the witcher’s hand tightly, too tightly, drags it towards himself until it meets his chest. He swallows again, feels his throat tight and raw from supressed sobs, feels a single tear escape his eye and run down the side of his face and into the pillow under his head. Geralt follows it with his eyes, looks alarmed, and it makes Jaskier want to smile for some insane reason. He decides to keep talking, so he doesn’t fall apart.

“Why didn’t you tell me I was pregnant?”, Jaskier asks, and his voice is scratchy, but he hopes the witcher will spare him and not mention it. He tries to clear his throat, coughs and feels another tear wet his face, “Did you think I knew?”

And then Geralt is silent, silent for a suspicious amount of time. He looks at Jaskier, moves his thumb over his skin in a soothing rhythm, looks like he is thinking hard about something. Then he breaks eye contact, looks down at the floor.

It’s the most obvious act of submission Jaskier has ever seen the alpha make.

“I...You did smell pregnant, but it was...off, somehow. I can’t describe it”, the witcher says to his lap, brings his eyes back up after a few seconds and looks right into Jaskier’s eyes, his glance unreadable, “I thought I should wait before telling you”

There is a lot that he doesn’t say, Jaskier knows, but he isn’t cruel so he doesn't dig. He isn’t angry, either, thought the witcher obviously expects him to be.

“The healer... the mage, she said... she touched my stomach and looked like she felt something terrible”, Jaskier admits, feels guilty for not telling the witcher before even though there was no reason to do so.

“She didn’t tell you why?”

“I didn’t want to know”, Jaskier says, still feels the same way. It doesn’t matter, he thinks, wonders why that feels like a lie. Says it for emphasis, “It doesn’t matter”

“You were too thin, Jaskier”, Geralt says, his voice sad. Jaskier doesn’t know why the alpha sounds sad, why he sounds so miserable when he is the one who took him to the healer and told her Jaskier wanted an abortion. He wonders why he feels sad, too, feels angry at himself for it, “And you’re right, it doesn’t matter”

There is silence again, in which Geralt looks much too sad for a witcher, and Jaskier hugs the man’s hand to his chest. It’s a big, meaty hand, and it is very warm. Jaskier squeezes it, and it squeezes gently back.

“She said witchers are infertile”, Jaskier says, doesn’t know why he says it, stills for a moment after saying that. He thinks the witcher is going to squeeze his hand harshly, or shake it cruelly, or rip his own out of Jaskier’s grasp. He doesn’t know what would be worst.

But none of that happens, and Geralt keeps gently touching Jaskier’s hand, so the omega relaxes a bit.

“That’s true”, Geralt says, and Jaskier is surprised, because he didn’t expect an answer. The witcher is deep in thought, looks like he is remembering something from a long time ago, “In the trials, the boys become infertile”

“The trials?”, Jaskier says, feels a strong urge to slap a hand over his own mouth. It’s obviously something Geralt doesn’t want to talk about, “I’m sorry for asking, sorry”

“It’s alright. You can ask anything you want”, Geralt answers, and it’s a soothing tone, a rumbling sound, and Jaskier breathes deep in a sigh, feels the scent of the witcher envelop him. It’s more noticeable like this, when his hand is so close to his nose. It smells like fire, the soothing kind, the kind he lit in his cottage with his mom, the kind he smelled when he was having drinks in a good inn after closing time. The pine smell tickles his nose gently, and Jaskier ignores the urge to bring the witcher’s hand up to his nose and sniff, “The trials...It’s what the boys went through to become witchers. They give you potions and you go through the mutations. When you finish them you are one”

Jaskier thinks that the witcher is talking a lot, that he is being more open right now than he ever was before. He wants to make use of that, wants to take the chance and ask all the questions he has had piling up in the back of his head. But that feels cruel, feels like taking advantage, somehow. And Jaskier feels sleepy too, feels content though his stomach hurts and he feels some wetness at the back of his breeches. So he asks just one more question.

“The mutations? Is that why your hair is white?”, he asks, his words slurring a bit, and he blinks hard in order to wake up a bit. He doesn’t want to fall asleep before the witcher answers. He feels like that’d be rude.

“Yes”

“Hmmm”, Jaskier sighs, burrows deeper into the bed. His eyes are closing slowly, and every time he blinks his eyes stay closed for a little longer, “It’s pretty, you know, the hair. I’m still sorry I called you a monster”

There is silence for a moment, and Jaskier blearily wonders if the witcher believed him, this time, if he is going to get angry again like he did last time. He doesn’t have the strength to open his eyes and check.

“I know, Jaskier. It’s alright”, Geralt says, and his voice lulls Jaskier deeper into the arms of unconsciousness, “Sleep”

And so Jaskier does, sleeps though his pain and discomfort as though they are not there, as though they are not real, like he never has before. Oftentimes he begged his brain for the blessedness of unconsciousness when he was in pain, when he was in agony, but it was never given. Now it has, and he sleeps without, dreams, is only woken by someone squeezing his hand when it is already dark outside.

Jaskier groans, tries to turn over but can’t because someone is holding his hand, wakes in a twitch. He isn’t used to being touched, because it is always a bad, ugly thing, but when he wakes he doesn’t hurt. The witcher is sitting by his bed, sitting on the cold, uncomfortable floor and holding his hand. It doesn’t seem like he has moved the entire time Jaskier was asleep, but he doesn’t look annoyed. Jaskier is grateful, so grateful he doesn’t say anything, just squeezes the hand he is holding.

“Is it over?”, he asks, though it makes no sense, though it is his sleepy brain talking, because how would Geralt know.

“Does it hurt?”

“I don’t know”, Jaskier says, frowns, sits up groggily. He rubs his eyes, confused because when he wakes it is usually very abrupt, very instant. He is never sleepy like this, never so relaxed he could go right back to dozing off. So Jaskier sits on his ass, yawns and runs his hands through his hair and rubs his eyes, tries to shake off this feeling.

He is still very tired, like he just did something very difficult, like he needs to sleep more, but he doesn’t hurt anymore.

“It doesn’t hurt”, he says finally.

“That’s good”, the witcher says, finally moves and gets up, doesn’t looks like he’s stiff even though he spent the entire afternoon holding the same position. Just witcher things, Jaskier guesses, “I’ll go get us some food”

Geralt steps away, and Jaskier goes to stand up, but the witcher stops him with a hand on his arm.

“No, you stay here. You need your rest. I’ll be right back”

And so the witcher leaves, closes the door after himself. Jaskeir feels a strong urge to lay back onto the bed, wrap himself in the blanket and go to sleep, but he knows the man is just going to wake him when he returns. And he is also a bit hungry, though not much. He ate little today, too worried about how things were going to go, and if the universe was going to fuck him over again.

Geralt reappears swiftly, two bowls in hand. They are steaming, which is always a good sign, and Jaskier’s mouth waters. It’s not exactly good food, like it wasn’t when he ate it in the afternoon, but it isn’t bad, so Jaskier eats almost the whole bowl before he starts precariously tipping to the side. Geralt is sitting on his own bed, facing the omega, but he sees Jaskier moving and takes the bowl from him in time. Jaskier lies down, content and full and surrounded by the smell of smoke and pine, by the smell of his alpha. He hugs his blanket around himself, hears Geralt bid him good night but doesn’t have the presence of mind to respond.

Jaskier sleeps peacefully through the night, and when he wakes it is early morning. Geralt is standing in the middle of the room, wearing his leathers, his swords hanging on his back. He is sifting through the bags, rearranges some things and then heaves one bag onto his shoulder. Looks at Jaskier.

Tells him he has to leave today.

Chapter Text

Jaskier looks at the witcher, looks at his stance and his armour and his swords and knows he is leaving. He is leaving him.

“Are you going to come back?”, he asks, voice calm, too calm, because he doesn’t understand why he is so afraid of the man leaving. He doesn’t like alphas, doesn’t like men who are big and powerful and who own him, and yet he doesn’t want the witcher to leave.

“Yes”, Geralt answers, easy. Jaskier doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t, doesn’t know why he wants to get up and go with the witcher, follow him wherever he goes. He is weak, he knows. He flinches from the witcher but also craves his company, craves his protection. It’s pathetic.

“When?”

“Tomorrow, probably. Maybe the day after that”, Geralt says, shrugs, looks Jaskier in the eyes with determination, “I have to find a contract”

It sounds like an excuse to leave, somehow, though logically Jaskier knows it is the truth. They have spent a lot of money, he has spent a lot of money, and they need more. He still doesn’t understand, can’t understand why the witcher is leaving him.

He feels like a child, small and slight on the bed. He is still tired, and his stomach hurts a bit, like muscles sore and agitated, like he needs to burrow down into blankets and spend the day there. Like he needs the witcher to sit beside his bed and hold his hand again.

“Can I come with you?”, he asks instead, a bit desperate. He hates himself for it.

“You need to rest, Jaskier”, Geralt says, and Jaskier knows the tone of an order, knows when he needs to shut up and listen. He hangs his head, “You have some coin, if you need it. Don’t pay for the meals here, I already paid for that”

Jaskier nods to his knees, brings them up and into his chest so he can hug them. It’s a miserable comfort.

“Take this, too”, Geralt says, takes something out of the hollows of his leathers. It’s a knife, “Use it if you have to”

Geralt puts the dagger, still in its sheath, on his bed. He doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t see anything strange in giving an omega a dagger. You never give an omega a knife.

“I..I can’t take that”, Jaskier starts, eyes desperate, but Geralt just gives him a hard look. He shuts up.

“You can. Tie it to your ankle or your belt if you’re leaving the room”, he says, and it sounds so logical, like the alpha really thinks his omega should have a weapon on his person, “Jaskier, I will be back. Please eat while I am not here”

And with that the witcher leaves, takes his soothing scent and his big swords and closes the door behind himself. Jaskier looks at the door, feels disbelief blooming in him, consuming him. He knew this would happen, he knew it, knew that it was inevitable that he’d be left behind.

He wants to sob, wants to pull the blanket over his head and hide from the morning sun and drown in his sorrow, stay there until the witcher is back, if he is back. He shakes at the though, takes big gulps of air and tries to calm down his racing heart.

He feels betrayed, curses himself for it because it is his own fault. He knew he’d started to trust the witcher, started to rely on him. He knew he was weak, that he only needed a few soft words and a hand that doesn’t hit to submit.

His own self from three years ago would spit on him.

There is a knock on the door, and Jaskier tenses. If it was Geralt, he wouldn’t knock, so it has to be someone else. He wonders if this is how long it takes for people to realize he is a lone unclaimed omega, if someone has already come for him now that the witcher is gone. He looks around the room wildly, jumps out of the bed and takes the weapon the witcher had left for him.

Someone knocks again, this time louder. A bored voice booms through the thick wood, makes Jaskier’s hand shake along with the knife he is holding, makes his brows furrow: “Breakfast!”

It’s so weird that Jaskier walks up to the door, grips the dagger hard with one hand and stands in front of the door. He wants to open the door, wants the courage to slam it open and look at the person on the other side, but he doesn’t have it. Instead he just stands there as minutes pass, listens to the person shift restlessly on the other side of the door.

“The witcher said to bring it up to you”, the voice says, waits a bit, “I’ll leave it outside”

Jaskier listens as something is lowered onto the floor, as steps leave his room and go further down the hall. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at a few knots in stress. He paces the room a few times, looks at all the things the witcher left behind, wonders if he would leave all that behind if he wasn’t going to come back. Decides it isn’t likely.

Loses his patience, stalks to the door and slams it open, chest heaving. There is a tray with a bowl and a pitcher on it. Jaskier leans down and picks it up, carries it into the room and slams the door closed behind himself. There is oatmeal in the bowl, and though it doesn’t look too apetizing it looks freshly made. Jaskier sniffs at the pitcher, raises his eyebrows when he realizes it is only water.

He sits on the bed and hugs his knees again, feels drained just from walking the length of the room a few times. There is a small stain on the bed, one that he hadn’t noticed before. It’s blood, and he flinches at the sight of it, but then remembers what the healer said. It means that the potion worked, that he is no longer pregnant, that he is alone in his body once again.

It’s a relief, even in these circumstances. Even if the witcher went and never came back, even if he left him to fend for himself, Jaskier will still be grateful for what he has done for him.

Jaskier thinks of all the gods, thinks how none of them helped him and instead a monstrous looking man did, takes the bowl into his hands. It is still warm, and Jaskier just holds it for a few moments, revels in the soothing feeling. He takes the spoon and lifts it too his mouth, blows onto the oatmeal before taking it into his mouth. It’s sweet, and there are dried raisins in it, and that makes Jaskier happy. He eats the oatmeal, realizing he is famished, resists the urge to lick the bowl after he is done, sighs tiredly and lets himself slip down into the bed.

Turns towards the door, wishes Geralt would walk through it, blinks tiredly at it until he falls asleep.

He is woken by knocking, jerks from his bed like he’s been hit, stumbles onto his feet. He is disoriented, and he is scared a bit, but then the same voice from this morning talks through the door.

“Lunch!”, he says, and Jaskier blinks before walking toward the door. Decides that the person who brought him breakfast that morning is unlikely to do a complete one eighty and suddenly barge into his room. He opens the door. On the other side is the young man that told Geralt about the healer the day before, but his demeanour is obviously much different than the last time Jaskier saw him.

He seems smaller now, his shoulders hunched and his eyes flicking from Jaskier’s to the floor, and Jaskier realizes they are the same height. Jaskier wonders why he is acting so weird, when he is talking to a lowly omega, one that isn’t even mated.

“Lunch”, the man says simply, and Jaskier sees that he is holding another tray. He offers it to Jaskier, and the omega takes it. There is another bowl on there, now filled with stew. There is also bread there, and it looks fresh. It’s a generous meal, “Can you give me the bowl from this morning? To wash. Please”

He sounds like he chokes on the last word, and Jaskier wonders if he has suddenly grown to be ten feet tall. People have never spoken to him like this. It’s bizarre, and he kind of wishes it would stop. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even know what to say, just turns and places the new tray onto his bed, picks up the old one and brings it to the man.

“Thank you”, he says and takes the tray with the empty bowl, swallows and then opens his mouth again, “Do you need anything else?”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows, wonders what the hell happened to this man in the one day he hasn’t seen him. When he saw him behind the counter, he was mean and leering, looking Jaskier up and down like a piece of meat. Now he seems afraid to even glance at him.

“No”, Jaskier answers, confused. The man nods and then turns, leaves the omega standing in the doorway. Jaskier shakes his head at the situation, walks back into the room. He tries the stew, but he isn’t exactly hungry so he puts it down. Then he looks around the room.

Geralt left one bag, and it is full from what Jaskier can see. He left some of the leather straps he uses to tie up his hair on his bed, too.

Jaskier shouldn’t touch Geralt’s bag. He shouldn’t.

It would be something he shouldn’t do even if he wasn’t an omega, even if he wasn’t someone you punish like a child when he makes a mistake. But he doesn’t think Geralt will punish him, not really, not anymore. He also doesn’t think Geralt would even notice Jaskier went though his bag.

Jaskier takes the bag, sits on the floor to open it. His muscles immediately protest from the new position, from the hard floor, and he briefly wishes he was back in bed. He opens the bag, is met with some of the witcher’s clothes. It’s all black or gray, a pair of pants like the ones the man is already wearing, a thick shirt, soft from age. Jaskier looks at it, at the fabric fraying on one sleeve, brings it up to his nose.

It smells like the witcher, like pine and fire. It’s a good smell, calms Jaskier’s nerves and slows his heart. He sits there, breathes the smell of the alpha until he cannot anymore, until he feels too stupid. No one is watching, but he is still ashamed.

So he puts it down, shakes out the rest of the bag. There is the stone that Geralt uses to sharpen his swords, and there is the soap Geralt uses to bathe. Jaskier sighs, a bit settled. If nothing else, he knows that Geralt wouldn’t leave without the tool to sharpen his swords. He seems to do that all too often to just leave it behind like that.

A book also drops to the floor, opens randomly on a page with pictures. Jaskier frowns at it. He didn’t think Geralt was the type to carry around a book, hasn’t seen him open it once. It is obviously old and worn, read many times over. The pages are thinned with use, the ink smudged here and there from too many fingers touching it.

There is a picture of a monster staring at Jaskier. He doesn’t know what it is, but it has sharp teeth and claws. Jaskier looks at the picture, looks at what is written beside the picture. It is more like a diary entry than a book, like someone wrote down their experience with the monster. Jaskier looks at it, at the curved letters, brisk but pretty, wonders if that is Geralt’s handwriting.

Takes the book and stands up, takes it to his bed. He wraps up his sensitive torso in a fur blanket, leans back and reads the journal and waits for Geralt to return.

But Geralt doesn’t return that day. Jaskier reads the book, looks at it from all angles and sees that it is called ‘Bestiary’, tries to pass time that way. He eats the dinner that is brought up for him and studies his new dagger and falls asleep late.

He sleeps poorly, to stressed and keyed up to rest properly, expects the witcher to burst though the door at any time. But he doesn’t. Jaskier wakes late, finds a bowl of breakfast in front of his door when he opens it, closes it hurriedly after he takes it. This inn is weird, he thinks, eats his oatmeal. He reads the bestiary a bit more, looks at the pictures and wonders who drew them, wonders how old the book is, how old Geralt is. Wonders what the witcher would say if he walked in right that second and saw him touching his things, reading his book. Wonders briefly if that would make the witcher hit him, doesn’t really think so but can’t be sure.

So he takes the book and puts it back in it’s place, puts everything in the bag the way he found it, rearranges it when he thinks he got some things wrong. He bites his nails, stalks the room, uses the water basin to refresh, tries to sleep a bit. Lunch comes and goes, and with it does Jaskier’s sanity.

What if the witcher never returns, and the meals just keep coming. What if this is his life now? How long is he going to sit here in the room and look at the same four walls and sift through the alpha’s stuff and weep for his return.

He knows it makes no sense, knows that if the witcher doesn’t return the meals will stop coming, that he will be kicked out onto the street. He knows how that would end, shudders when he thinks about it.

Jaskier knows, but he doesn’t feel like he knows anything today. He is all keyed up, mixed up inside, confused and angry and scared. He wants the witcher back and he wants to yell at him, he wants to curse him. he wants to curse himself too.

Jaskier is many things, but is not someone who can keep still for very long. He decides he is not going to wait for someone to bring his dinner to his room, that he is going to go down into the tavern and take it himself.

He need to get out of this room, prove to himself that there are other things out there beside his far and desperation, beside the witcher’s hair ties and his soap and monsters.

So he waits until sun is settling, gets up from his bed and runs his hands through his hair. He ignores his racing heart, tells himself he doesn’t need an alpha to hold his hand to do simple things like this, puts on his shoes.

The witcher might not return, he knows, and he has to prepare for that.

Jaskier opens the door, stands there. The hallway is empty, and there is little noise coming from downstairs. It seems like a slow night for the tavern, but Jaskeir can still hear people down there, talking and drinking and eating, and he feels himself pale.

He closes the door behind himself, counts his breaths and starts to descend the stairs. Tells himself that he can’t go back, that that’d be stupid. That would be cowardly, and that would be something an omega would do, so he won’t do it.

Jaskier walks into the main room, and there are people there. He knew there’s be people there, doesn’t know why he is surprised, why he is hesitating. He stands there until he realizes no one is looking at him. some glanced at him when he came in, but then they continued with their business.

An omega is invisible, is no one. People don’t pay attention to them, and Jaskier is pathetically grateful for that.

He goes up to the bar, stands there like an idiot. The stern woman who welcomed them into the tavern is behind it, but she is facing away. When she turns around she stares at Jaskier like she just saw a very disgusting, very interesting bug.

Jaskier wants to be back in his room, but turning around now is not something he can do. So he soldiers on.

“Umm, I came for the.. dinner”, he manages, feels a blush land on his cheeks, tries to look the woman in the eyes but finds he can’t. She is too scary. So he looks at the wood before him, tries not to fidget too much.

“Alright. Sit”, she says, and for a moment Jaskier is surprised that she even answered. She turns and disappears into the room behind the bar, and Jaskier is left alone. He looks at the high chairs of the bar, is glad no one else is sitting there, climbs onto one. He has his dagger in his right boot, strapped to his ankle with one of Geralt’s leather strips, and its weight is reassuring somehow.

He wonders what the people in the tavern would think if they knew he had a weapon. They’d be scandalized, surely. He himself is still scandalized, but is glad for it. He feels better, knows that he has something to protect him if things go wrong. He wishes he had that before, shakes that thought from his head.

Someone sits next to Jaskier.

The omega tenses horribly, feels his shoulders bunching up to his ears, tries to relax his posture but finds he cannot. The more scared he looks the worse it is. The man sitting next to Jaskier doesn’t say anything for a moment, and the omega hopes that he just came for another pint of ale. Maybe he hasn’t even noticed Jaskier.

Omegas are invisible.

“Hey, little omega, what are you doing by yourself?”, the man says, drawls in a way some men think is attractive, puts his elbows onto the wood of the counter and leans towards Jaskier. He smells like ale and something foul, something dirty. The man is an alpha, Jaskier knows, feels terror zip through his body.

Jaskier doesn’t move, doesn’t turn his head or look at the alpha or get off the stool and leave. He is too stunned, too scared to move. He hopes if he stays quiet the man is going to go away.

But of course that doesn’t happen, that never happens.

“Where is your alpha?”, the man asks, leans out a bit to look at Jaskier. The omega feels his his eyes rake across his face, his body.

Jaskier wonders where his alpha is, too.

“You don’t look claimed. Tell me, you even got an alpha?”, there is a tone of mocking in the man’s voice, a tone that Jaskier doesn’t like. It’s very familiar, “Cat got your tongue? Hey, are you ret...”

The man leans in, goes to touch Jaskier, goes to pull him or pinch him or hit him, and Jaskier tenses horribly, but it never happens. There is another man standing behind them, now, looming over them both. The man leans in, puts a heavy hand onto the alpha’s shoulder.

And Jaskier can’t take it anymore, feels like a mice caught in a trap, wants to stand up and run back to his room but finds his legs too weak. He turns to look at the man.

It’s the barkeeper, the man who brought Jaskier all his meals the last few days. He doesn’t look at Jaskier, has a very weird expression in his eyes as he looks at the alpha.

“Jen, you don’t want to do this”, he says, voice somber.

“You don’t tell me what to do, errands boy”, the alpha says, sneer in his voice, and he looks over the barkeeper to Jaskier. Manages to catch his eyes. The man is not too big, average build and average looks. Looks like a farmer. Looks like a family man, “Bring me a pint of ale, and mind your own fucking business”

“Jen, don’t be an idiot”, the man standing sighs, sounds weary, sounds tired, “Just go back to your table and I’ll bring you the ale”

“Bring me the ale right here! Is this your bitch? Is that why you are acting up? Then why didn’t you claim it? It’s up for pickings”, the alpha says, his voice rude, cruel, booming over the tavern. Jaskier is sure people are looking at them not, wondering what the fuss is all about, looks down at his hands which are gripping each other desperately in his lap. But then he feels a hand in his hair, stops breathing, “Look at this neck. Ain’t no bite on there”

The hand in his hair finds his scalp, tightens. Turns into a fist and rips out whole strands of his hair and pulls to the side, forces Jaskier to expose his neck.

Jaskier can’t move and it hurts and there is a hand in his hair. It grips and pulls and forces him to stay still, forces him to obey. Jaskier feels like a bird caught in a hand, heart hammering so quick it is going to stop. His heart is going to stop and he is not breathing and he wishes it would stop because he can’t take it anymore.

Jaskier is going to die, he thinks, is sure of it. Hears a noise in the air, a keen, realizes it is coming from him.

There is a loud noise, and for a moment the hand in his hair pulls even harder before it lets go. Jaskier falls off his chair, barely lands on his feet, feels his head spin. The men are arguing beside him, are fighting, but Jaskier is beyond understanding anything beside his own fear at the moment.

“You wanna lose a fucking hand?!”, someone yells, and Jaskier flinches away from the sound, “That’s the witcher’s omega”

Jaskier stumbles a step away from the commotion, brings a hand up and grips his own throat, brings his head up in a twitch to look for an escape. There are people in the room, a lot of people, and they are all looking at him. They are all looking at him and they all know and they are going to touch him and he can’t do anything to stop it.

Jaskier’s eyes catch onto the hallway, and he runs in that direction, trips over his feet but keeps going. He runs up the stairs like they are on fire, feels his lungs burning and takes a choked breath, feels it scrape his insides raw. He slams into his own room, bangs the door closed and leans against them, trips and falls to the floor.

He gasps again, gets some air in his lungs, coughs. His heart is beating in his ears, in his eyes. He closes his eyes, feels tears spill over, bites his own lip so he doesn’t scream. A warm thing drips from his chin, and the smell of iron hits his nose. The pain of a split lip is familiar, and it sobers Jaskier, makes him grip his own knees to his chest and gasp into them, hide his face in them.

There is something in his boot, and he puts his hand in there. Pulls out the dagger, looks at it and looks and feels digust rise up from deep within him. What in the world did he think he could do with it? Did he think he could defend himself? Whip out a weapon and wave it in people’s faces and that that’d work.

Jaskier feels tears flow out of his eyes, grips the dagger tight and flings it away from himself, watches it hit the wall and fall to the ground.

What the hell did the witcher think, giving it to him. Did he think it would be enough?

Jaskier wishes the witcher was here, so he could take one of his big swords and drive it through him, hurt him like he hurts.

Jaskier hugs his knees and sobs into his shoulders, chokes on his breath and hides from the world. Goes to touch where he hurts, touches his hair and flinches.

Opens his eyes, blinks away his tears and looks at the dagger. Gets up, picks it up. Brings it up to his head.

Chapter Text

It’s the middle of the night when the door to Jaskier’s room opens, and he jumps to his feet. He was on the bed, restless, sleepless, not able relax. He laid down long after the cursed dinner, clutched the dagger to his chest and faced the door. He didn’t light the candles, didn’t clean up the strands of his hair littering the floor. He just cried and cried and then he crawled into bed, shivered and hoped that no one would come in, that no one would ever come in again.

But someone did.

There’s a man in the doorway, a soft light shining from behind him but not giving away his identity, and Jaskier stands at his bedside and looks at him breathless. He’s done for, he’s exhausted, he’s useless, basically bald like this, ready for the slaughter.

He thinks the man from earlier is going to come into his room, that he is going to be angry at Jaskier for having the dagger and having short hair and running away from him. Those are all mistakes, and they are all severe ones.

“Jaskier?”, the man says, and he is tall, broad. Far too big to be the man from earlier, too big to even resemble him. Jaskier grips the dagger tighter, feels the ridges of the handle imprint onto his skin, “What’s wrong?”

Jaskier doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. It’s Geralt, he knows, doesn’t know why he is so surprised at his arrival. Watches as the witcher drops his things onto the ground roughly, moves quickly to light one of the candles and then another one.

He looks eerie in the fluttering light, his expression stony but his eyes wild as they rake over Jaskier. They catch on his face, rip onto his head, but in the end they land on the dagger.

“Jaskier, it’s alright”, Geralt says, and it sounds weird in Jaskier ears, sounds like a lie. The witcher steps towards him, looks him in the eyes while he approaches. Jaskier frowns at that, twitches and takes a step back. He doesn’t know what the witcher wants, but he doesn’t want to be close to him. He grips his weapon, feels his knuckles white and bloodless with the pressure. Geralt’s eyes twitch down to his hands, and he takes another step forwards, “Please calm down”

Jaskier gulps, wants to scream. He wants to yell at the witcher and throw something at him, but his jaw is clenched too tight and he can’t move it. The only thing he can throw is the dagger and it is too precious, is too important though it is useless, though Jaskier knows he’d have better luck slitting his own throat with it than anyone else’s.

Jaskier is angry and he is confused and he is scared and he is betrayed and he wants to scream. He wants to grip the dagger and throw it at the witcher, hopes it would cut him. He wants revenge. It’s a childish thing. He knows his experiences can not be avenged in ten lifetimes.

Jaskier is angry but he is scared, he is always scared and he is tired. Geralt is big and and he is scary and Jaskier’s anger has nowhere to go. He looks at the witcher, watches him approach him slowly, carefully, doesn’t dare to yell, doesn’t even dare to open his mouth.

He takes another step back, hits the wall with his back and feels his pulse spike. He feels cornered, feels like prey, feels like a wild animal. The witcher is acting like he is one, anyways, Jaskier thinks as he looks at him, can’t hold his gaze anymore so he lowers it, looks at his own hand.

Looks as Geralt’s hand reaches for his, takes the dagger by the blade. It’s weird, and it’s bizzarre, and it confuses Jaskier, but he still doesn’t let go. He looks back up at the witcher, has to crane his head up, finds him close, meets his eyes. They are worried.

“It’s alright, Jask”, Geralt says, rumbles into the space between them, and Jaskier feels a pull where he tries to take the dagger from him. The omega twitches, tenses, feels his hand move involuntarily where it’s holding the handle. The witcher doesn’t let go, doesn’t move, just looks at Jaskier, “You can let it go”

Jaskier doesn’t. He feels himself subborn and terrible, expects for the atmosphere to change at any second, expects for the witcher to shake him or smack him or do anything he is supposed to do. You don’t let an omega point a dagger at you. You simply don’t.

Jaskier could have his hand cut off for this, he knows. He shivers at the thought.

“You can let go. It’s okay”, Geralt says again, uses the same soothing tone, and Jaskier is confused. He opens his mouth, feels his jaw sore and achy, his teeth sensitive. He goes to say something, hesitates. He shouldn’t speak, but the witcher looks at him expectantly, waits patiently for him to say something.

“You’ll take it away”, he says, his voice feeble, his words senseless. There is no taking away anything from Jaskier, he knows, because there is nothing that is his. He owns nothing, not even the clothes on his back, and he knows that the witcher could take any of it away at any given time and that he’d have no right to complain about it. He’s just a whiny bitch, that’s what he is.

“It’s still yours”, Geralt says, and Jaskier doesn’t answer though he doesn’t understand, “It’ll be on your bed”

Jaskier feels Geralt pull on the dagger once again, resists for a moment before letting go. Geralt’s expression doesn’t change when he does, doesn’t change when he brings his hand up and turns to toss the dagger onto Jaskier’s bed. It lands soundlessly, but Jaskier doesn’t notice, because there is blood on Geralt’s hand. A single drop of it runs down his forearm when he brings his hand up, and it looks like ink.

“It’ll heal”, Geralt says, lowers his hand when he catches Jaskier looking at it. Doesn’t even look angry, smells like soothing fire and freshness combined, doesn’t even make Jaskier look at the wound. But Jaskier does, follows it with his eyes and wonders how deep it is, how much it hurts, thinks ‘I hurt my alpha’, chants it in his head. Gods help him, he thinks, feels a breath catch in his throat, “Jaskier, it’ll heal. It’s alright”

Jaskier doesn’t think so, looks at the witcher with panic in his expression, watches as a dark expression crosses his face.

“Jaskier, what happened?”, the alpha asks, brings a hand up like he wants to touch. Reaches for Jaskier’s head, now free of the wretched hair but still full of horrid memories. Jaskier can’t help it, he flinches so hard he bangs his head on the wall behind himself, watches the witcher with wide eyes full of fear. The witcher backs off, raises his hands.

“I’m sorry”, Geralt says, does it in a weird tone, does it so Jaskier doesn’t understand. He isn’t touching Jaskier, isn’t threatening him, but Jaskier is too raw right now. He doesn’t know what to think, doesn’t know how to read the witcher, doesn’t know how to look at those strong hands and not imagine them hurting him, “Who did this to you?”

“I cut my hair”, Jaskier responds, confused. There is hair on the floor, littering the wood in big chunks, too obvious to be missed. It’s hard to assume anything but that Jaskier took the dagger to it, is the only logical explanation for the state of him. Jaskier knows he looks unhinged, knows he did a terrible job of hacking his hair off. The dagger was sharp, but daggers are made for slicing vegetables and people and certainly not for giving even haircuts. So Jaskier’s hair is choppy, is at some places sheared almost right to his scalp and at others still a couple inches in length.

Even a child would know he did it himself. 

“I can see that”, Geralt answers, and he looks weird, sounds weird. Jaskier thinks about how he looks to the witcher right now, how horrified the alpha must be at seeing him like this. Geralt has gotten over a lot of things, ignored a lot of mistakes, but Jaskier isn’t sure that he can ignore his omega being ugly. What is an omega’s worth if it is not presentable?

“I wanted to cut my hair”, Jaskier says, tone defiant, too wilfull. He is a piece of shit, and he knows it. Acting like he is strong enough to stand his ground when he knows for a fact that he would collapse into a puddle if the witcher even looked at him threateningly. He does it still, his voice shaking. He is very tired, “I wanted...I hated it”

“Alright”, Geralt says, exasparatingly. Jaskier is irked that he is so calm, that he doesn’t care when he should. That he isn’t angry when he is supposed to be. He feels irritation spike over his skin, mix with the inherent fear of a man stronger than himself, “But why did you do it now?”

“Omegas should have long hair”, Jaskier says, like that means something, like it makes sense. The witcher doesn’t say anything, doesn’t respond in any way. Jaskier wants to scream again, “They should have long hair so it looks good and so you can grab it. It makes an omega act good”

“Jaskier”, Geralt says, sounds sad, sounds angry, a bit. It makes the omega tense, “Did someone touch you?”

“Did you want to touch my hair?”, Jaskier asks, “Everyone likes pulling it. Are you angry that I cut it?”

“Gods, Jaskier”, Geralt says, a tone in his voice that Jaskier hasn’t heard before. The witcher breaks position, brings up one of his hands to run through his hair. It doesn’t go over too well, because the witcher’s hair is in a braid, just loosens it a bit when touched. Jaskier thinks, weirdly, how this is the first time he has seen Geralt make a gesture as nervous as this one, “Did someone touch your hair? Who was it?”

“Are you angry?”, Jaskier asks again, is too fixated on the witcher’s anger to pay attention to what the man is saying. He waits for the answer with morbid curiosity, with unbreakable focus. If the witcher says yes he is going to lose the strength in his legs, and if he says no he is not going to believe him. It’s a futile effort.

“I’m not angry”, Geralt says, takes another step back from the omega. Jaskier doesn’t believe him, doesn’t consider it even for a second, “Come sit, please”  

Geralt takes a seat on his own bed, and so Jaskier follows. He’s been bad, he’s disobeyed, but this time he can listen. He doesn’t want to sit next to the witcher, doesn’t want to give him access to all his vulnerable parts, but he knows he has been difficult enough already. Still when he goes to approach the alpha, the man nods at the other bed.

“Sit there”, he says, and it is an order though it feels like a rejection. Jaskier wants to rake his nails through his thoughts, through his brain, wants to wash it out with soap so it clears. He doesn’t want to touch the witcher but feels sad when he isn’t touched, feels threatened when it is offered still.

Jaskier sits, sinks into his own bed despite his tenseness. The furs he slept with are still thrown about it, resting around him, from where he left them. He wants to just bring one up and wrap in around himself, hide himself from the world. He resists the urge. He has to keep at least some of his dignity.

“Jaskier, please”, Geralt says, and he sounds like he never did before. Jaskier wonders at how many times the witcher has said ‘please’ since he entered the room, wonders if he said it as many times in the whole past decade. He doesn’t think he did, “Tell me what happened”

Jaskier doesn’t want to say anything, doesn’t know what to say anyways. He doesn’t want to recount what happened and he doesn’t want to remember and he doesn’t want to say it out loud because it is humiliating. He wonders how the witcher would look at him if he told him what happened, if he would laugh. Most alphas would laugh.

Jaskier is angry too, still, just a bit. There is some anger fluttering underneath his skin, not as much to threaten spilling over but enough to want to keep the witcher in the dark. He doesn’t deserve to know what happened.

“You left me”, Jaskier says anyways, can’t help himself. He sounds pathetic, and he knows he looks pathetic too, wants to get up and blow out the candles lighting the room so the alpha cannot look at him. The man looks imposing in his leathers, looks regal, even. His hair is perfect and white and his face is chiseled and he uses his yellow eyes to look at Jaskier who looks like a sewer rat. Jaskier wants to dissappear.

“Jaskier”, the witcher says, should say something more but he doesn’t. Jaskier thinks it’s because he doesn’t know what to say.

“You left me, and I...”, Jaskier says, feels his throat sting and ache. His tears are too many and they are too old so they hurt, “They...”

“What did they do, Jaskier?”, Gerals asks, leans forward and puts his elbows onto his knees, looks at Jaskier expectantly, “Tell me. I’ll break their fingers”

The last sentence is said in a growl, and Jaskier flinches slightly at the tone. He looks at the alpha, looks at him with fear and disbelief and then looks down at his knees, doesn’t know why he isn’t more scared. There is an alpha clenching his fists and talking about violence a few feet away, and Jaskier feels annoyed. He would wonder at his behaviour more if he had the energy.

“I’m tired”, he says, brings up his knees so they’re a bit further away from Geralt, doesn’t want to be so close to him when he is angry though he is less scared than he is supposed to be. The witcher looks at him in disbelief, and then something like embarrassment.

“Are you hurt?”, Geralt presses, looks at the omega with a bit of desperation when he doesn’t respond, “Do you need a healer?”

“No”

“Alright”, Geralt says, takes a deep breath and then lets it out slowly, looks at Jaskeir with an emotion he can’t identify, “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake”

Chapter Text

Jaskier wakes to yelling, bolts up in his bed, startled out of his dreamless sleep. He whips his head around, looking for danger, but he is alone. The witcher is nowhere to be seen, but his swords and bags are still where he left them, though his bed is impeccably made.

Jaskier wonders if the witcher slept, guesses he didn’t. He gets out of bed, frowns at another yell that comes from downstairs. Jaskier is startled, but those are not the sounds angry men make. Those are the sounds a dog makes when you step onto its foot.

Jaskier shakes his head, hopes that Geralt isn’t downstairs making true of his promise. Wonders what he would do if he was. He guesses there is nothing he would be able to do, that he would want to do. He has no power to decide what the alpha does.

So Jaskier stands there and listens to a few more yelps, tranfers his own weight from one foot to another, waits. He is too scared to leave the room, doesn’t know what he’ll find downstairs, has seen too many ugly things in his time to want to see any more. He goes to run his hand through his hair nervously, flinches when his fingers meet fuzz and skin where there were locks. The hair on the top of his head is a bit longer a few inches at most, but on the sides he’d managed to shear it almost completely to the skin.

Jaskier wonders what he looks like, but is also grateful for the lack of any reflective surfaces in his vicinity. He is pretty sure he wouldn’t like what he’d see if he were to look into one.

The door opens, unexpectedly, makes Jaskier twitch and step back as the witcher enters. The man looks at him, seemingly confused to see him up.

“Jaskier”, Geralt says, closes the door behind himself. There is some blood on his hand, “I thought you’d sleep more”

“Did you break their fingers?”, Jaskier asks, can’t help himself though he knows he is going to be sick if the witcher says ‘yes’. Geralt frowns at him.

“No”, he answers simply, doesn’t elaborate. And Jaskier doesn’t want him to, either, is gratified enough. The witcher goes to the side of the room, dips his hands into the bin to wet them, dries them on a rag.

“Are you hungry?”, the alpha asks, turns to Jaskier. He doesn’t wait for the answer, leans down and starts digging through his bags. He takes out a slip of dried meat, some bread. Gives it to the omega, “You should eat”

“Are we not leaving?”, Jaskier asks. The last time the witcher got into a fight in an inn they had to leave immediately. The delay is confusing, is illogical.

“Later”, Geralt says, nods at Jaskiers hands which are filled with food. Jaskier looks down, too, thinks about the last time he ate and brings the bread to his mouth. It’s yestersday’s, or from the day before, but that is fine. Jaskier eats the bread and nibbles the meat and looks at the witcher who bustles around the room, seemingly packing but getting nowhere with it. He knows for a fact that the witcher can pack in five minutes when he wants to, wonders what he is doing now. The skin on the alpha’s knuckles is broken, is raw, red peaking out from beneath ruined skin. Jaskier wonders who the witcher bruised his skin against, kind of hopes it was the rude alpha woman who runs the inn. Kind of wishes he was there to see it happen, chides himself for it immediately.

He doesn’t revel in violence. He doesn’t.

Jaskier wonders what is wrong with him, chews his last bites as the witcher hauls his bags onto the bed Jaskier isn’t sitting on. He is mad at the witcher, he guesses, remembers. He is angry but isn’t, too. He isn’t scared either, not more than the usual baseline sense of fear he feels all the time. He didn’t use to feel fear all the time, to feel anxious and attentive of his surroundings and twitchy. But that changed.

Jaskier finishes his breakfast, wonders if the alpha has eaten. He doesn’t think he did, feels bad for eating all by himself. Is angry at himself for it. He doesn’t get to feel bad for the alpha, and he doesn’t get to trust him, and he doesn’t get to be so fearless around him. He’s getting too comfortable, is falling deeper into the trap, so deep he is never going to get out.

Jaskier is still wondering why he isn’t afraid right now, when Geralt produces a pair of scizzors from somewhere on his person. He’s looking at Jaskier. Suddenly, Jaskier is scared, his eyes fixated on the blade. Scizzors are dull, are not usually used for cutting, but he knows that makes a weapon so much worse. He knows.

He also knows he had this coming, that he has had it coming. He is debating whether he should jump out the window or pass out when the alpha opens his mouth.

“We should fix your hair”

“What?”

“Your hair”, Geralt says, waves the scizzors around like they are a toy and not something that can be used to cut off fingers. Jaskier still tracks them with his eyes, “It’s...Hmmmm. It’s uneven”

Jaskier feels untethered, feels a burst of hysterical laughter bubble from somewhere deep in him but forces it down. He opens his own mouth, with only little difficulty: “You want to cut my hair?”

“Yes”, Geralt says, holds the scizzors and steps closer to the omega, closer to the bed Jaskier is sitting on. It is a weird moment, where Jaskier isn’t sure whether he should be relieved or if he should freak out, because he just doesn’t know.

But the witcher comes closer yet, doesn’t notice anything strange, doesn’t sniff out Jaskier’s fear like he usually does. And Jaskier realizes that he does, actually, know. He knows that Geralt didn’t bring up the scizzors to cut his finger off. The idea of the witcher conjuring up that hideous punishment and going through with it seems insane, because it is. Jaskier doesn’t think Geralt would do it.

And that’s scary as hell.

“Can I?”, Geralt asks, fucking asks, like he always does, like he knows that makes Jaskier feel better. And it does, makes Jaskier let out the tension he didn’t even know was collecting in his shoulders, makes him look at the witcher and wonder where the fuck this man came from, “You can do it yourself”

That confuses Jaskier, because why didn’t he think of that. His head is raw, and it is scraped, and it is still very scary to have it touched. He’d most rather leave it like it is, but he knows it is not worth the price he would pay for it. Hair like this, obviously roughly hacked, attracts a lot of attention. Especially on an omega.

Because he is still one, he knows. In his own eyes and in the eyes of the world, as well. He isn’t stupid. A haircut doesn’t take away his posture and his lowered eyes and his frame. It doesn’t take away his scars. He is an omega with short hair, now. He supposes it would be better if said hair looked presentable.

“You can do it, if you want”, Jaskier says, lets the words leave his mouth before he even procceses them, gulps hard after they have already left. Watches surprise flicker on the witcher’s face before his face is left blank once again.

“Alright. Sit here”, Geralt says, points to a spot on the bed which is close to the edge, “Your back to it. I have to wet your hair”

Jaskier sits where he is insctructed, sits there and watches the alpha as he takes a rag and wets it, walks back over. Walks behind Jaskier. Touches him on his back, feather light.

“Straighten up”, he orders, and Jaskier listens. It is scarier like this, with the man standing behind him. It is frightening, in a way that sobers Jaskier. He doesn’t like it, has to tell himself that it is okay and that he said so himself. Has to repeat it to himself multiple times, closes his eyes and then rips them open again when it makes it worse. Flinches when the cold rag touches his head, when it glides over his skin and hair in turn, musing it up.

For a moment, it feels like when he was little and his mom dried his hair with a towel. He would giggle, back then, the little boy that he was. He doesn’t giggle now, but he does feel a touch better. The rag leaves his head, and he hears the witcher sigh from behind him.

“I have to touch your head”, the witcher warns, and Jaskier is grateful, is so grateful that he is mad, that he is pissed. He is angry and he feels a hand on his head and he flinches, lurches forward.

Breathes heavy, for a moment, looks at the sheets under him and reminds himself that it is Geralt behind him, that he isn’t grabbing his hair, that there is no hair to be grabbed.

Maybe this was a bad idea, he thinks, closes his eyes briefly.

“It’s fine”, Jaskier says, his voice low. He jerks back, straightens up like he’s got a rod up his ass, “It’s alright, it’s fine. I’m fine”

The witcher doesn’t say anything, but also doesn’t touch Jaskier again. The omega has the strong urge to whip around and look at the alpha, to stand up from the bed and put on his cloak which feels like a shield, to take his dagger and hold it in his hands for comfort. He doesn’t do any of that.

“You can go on”, he says, and for a moment it feels too much like an order, coming out of his mouth. He thinks about that until there is a hand on his head again, and he tenses up. But the hand is gentle, calloused and warm, and it just parts his hair with fingers, takes in the lenght of the strands. The witcher humms from behind Jaskier, humms again and then moves, takes a strand between his fingers and snips. Some hair falls from Jaskier’s head.

Jaskier can’t believe he’s letting someone touch his head willingly. Immediately after, he thinks is’t even more insane that there is a witcher cutting his hair. He doesn’t think that there is a single person on the continent that would believe him, if he told them that this happened.

“You know how to cut hair?”, Jaskier says, dumbly, as he listens to the soft movemements of the alpha. He hears his hair being cut and he feels the fingers on his head, however gentle, and it makes him want to run away. Makes him want to cut off his own head, so it is not touched ever again. So he talks. It makes things easier.

“Hmmm”, Geralt says, and Jaskier can almost hear the frown in his voice as he snips at a strand, snips at it again, “I cut my brothers hair sometimes. Had to pick it up”

“Your brothers?”, Jaskier asks, unable to filter himself. Curiosity burns inside him, burns with a fire that is hard to put out. With a fire that is dangerous. Ask too many questions and you get slapped for it.

“Yes. Other witchers”, Geralt anwers, simple and to the point, as always. He uses one finger to tilt Jaskier’s head to one side. It tickles, for a moment.

“Oh”, Jaskier gasps. For some reason, he hadn’t thought of that. Hadn’t thought of the possibility of other witchers, even though he knew they existed. Hadn’t thought they would call each others brothers, would have some sort of deep connection. Hadn’t thoght they were capable of it. Jaskier feels embarrased for that, feels ashamed, “How many witchers are there?”

“Hmmm”, Geralt mumbles, takes a strand of Jaskier’s hair and pulls it away from his head, goes to untangle it and rips out a few of Jaskier’s hairs. The omega immediately breaks form, flinches away. That makes a few more hairs come lose, makes his eyes water. The fingers swiftly dissapear from his hair, and Jaskier hears Geralt shuffling behind him, “Sorry”

“It’s fine”, Jaskier says, tries to blink the wetness from his eyes. It’s not fine. But it should be, it has to be, because it doesn’t even hurt, because it wasn’t even intentional, because the witcher doesn’t want to hurt him, “It’s fine, I’m sorry. Sorry”  

“I’m not sure about the witchers. Most of us avoid each other”, Geralt talks from behind him, acts like Jaskier isn’t being a little brat at the moment. Like he isn’t acting like a child, “Maybe ten, maybe less”

Jaskier breathes audibly, shakily, collects himself with what he has left. Straightens up again, looks at the wall opposite him, listens to the alpha move behind him. Feels movement just beside his head and closes his eyes, opens them with a deep breath when he is touched again.  

“My brothers cut my hair for me, too. Eskel does it seriously, at least”, Geralt says, unprovoked. He sounds wistful, somehow, Jaskier thinks. He didn’t think the alpha could do that, could sound like that. For some reason, that makes him feel better, “I let Lambert cut my hair once”

“He didn’t...he didn’t do a good job?”, Jaskier asks, because it is expected, and because he wants to. Because the witcher is talking and it is about himself and he never does that. And because he is doing it to make Jaskier feel better.

“He tried to shear me like a sheep. Cut off half my hair”, Gerals says, and it suspiciously sounds like the man is talking about a prank. Jaskier is amused. He wonders what the witcher brothers are like, to other people and to each other. Wonders if they play pranks on one another, and how that looks. Wonders if Geralt does it too, serious as he is. He guesses not.

“That’s mean”

“It was”, Geralt agrees, tilts Jaskier’s head to the other side. Snips and snips and humms, “I shaved him bald in return”

That makes Jaskier laugh, from surprise and amusement and mirth. Geralt, playing pranks. It feels like a lie, feels like a fabrication. It’s too childish a thing, too human, too soft. Jaskier wants it to be true, hopes it is. His laugh echoes the room, once and twice and then the omega swallows it, knows there is always a price to be paid for being loud.

“Sorry”, Jaskier says, feels like he has to say it, like he is compelled to. In a way, he is. Sorry is a miserable shield, but it is one.

“Hmmm”, Geralt says, sounds serious again. It’s a sadness. He runs a hand through Jaskier’s hair, fluffs it and stands still for a moment before humming again, “Don’t apologize. Your hair’s done”

Geralt moves away, and Jaskier takes the chance to run his hand through his hair. It seems more even, he guesses. He doesn’t know, can’t know, supposes he will see himself in a stream at some point. It doesn’t matter anyways. He gets up, shakes his shoulders so the remaining hair would fall to the floor, reaches for his boots.

“Geralt”, Jaskier says, looks at the alpha who has his back turned to him but turns once he is called. He eyes Jaskier curiously, and the omega feels his eyes tracing his head, his new appearance. He wonders what the alpha thinks of it, if it is something he dislikes, “Don’t leave me again like that. Please””

“I won’t”, Geralt says, simple. It is too simple, Jaskier thinks. It is too simple when he is a witcher and Jaskier is just a man, isn’t even that but is half a real man, half of someone who could keep up with Geralt. It’s too simple when the witcher has brothers he talks about and who cut his hair and who he goes back to. It’s too simple but he has to take it, because he has nothing else. Jaskier nods.

Chapter Text

Jaskier sits in a meadow in the height of summer, grass around him green and buttercups yellow in his lap. There’s a lot of them, an overwhelming amount. The smell is strong, is summery, is wonderful. The sun burns and bears down on him and Jaskier knows his skin is going to turn red and hot but that doesn’t matter.

He didn’t think meadows were for him, anymore. Didn’t think he’d get to sit in one, to bask in the sun and to collect flowers in his lap and just watch the grass. He thought those days were over, that they were only in memory.

The half-finished flower crown in his lap tells him different.

It’s a strange feeling, heavy yet light, bittersweet. Jaskier frowns at his fingers, frowns as he winds the flowers together until they make a circle. Frowns at it some more, then puts it on his head. Takes it off, because it feels weird, feels childish, feels like it’s something he shouldn’t do, even though no one is watching.

Geralt is off somewhere, looking for some plant. Jaskier knows he is close though he can’t see him, knows that the witcher is close enough to hear him, probably. The witcher has been hovering, has been worrying, since the inn. Maybe the witcher thinks he lost his mind, Jaskier wonders, looks at a butterfly that it flying next to him. It’s very pretty, he thinks.

Frustrated, Jaskier reaches out and plucks a daisy, looks at it like it is going to tell him something. It doesn’t. Flowers don’t talk. But they make great crowns, so Jaskier plucks some more and tangles them together. It’s an easy job, so easy it’s sad, because he’s done it so many times before. Though it has been years, he has not forgotten.

He doesn’t mix the flowers like his mother did, can’t do it. That was hers, and hers it will remain.

Jaskier can feel the sides of his head burning, where there is still little hair to protect the skin. Reaches up to scratch it and twitches. The skin is hot and angry, his palm cold against it. He should get out of the sun, he knows, go to a shade and wait for the witcher there. But Jaskier has had no chances to sit in meadows for years, and he is not going to waste it. He puts his flower crown on again, shakes his leg when a grasshopper climbs onto it.

Jaskier puts his head in his hands, closes his eyes and soaks in the sun. Soaks in his luck, to be able to idle here like this. Wonders how come that he is here sitting on the ass when the witcher is working, decides not to think about that. Sighs and burns in the sun until he hears steps a few meters from himself.

Silent as always, the witcher. Jaskier lifts his head, squints at Geralt who is looking at him. The witcher looks very white in the summer sun, looks inhuman. Looks good, Jaskier thinks, his white hair braided perfectly, glinting in the sun. His eyes are shining like a cat’s.

Jaskier grinds those thoughts down mercilessly.

“What are you doing?”, Geralt asks, needlessly, because Jaskier isn’t doing anything. It’s pretty obvious. For a man who talks terribly little, he asks a lot of unnecessary questions, Jaskier thinks.

“I’m sitting in the sun”, Jaskier says. It’s a bit cheeky, a voice in his head tells him, but he runs it off with all of the anger he can muster. Geralt is nice, he knows. Has tried so hard to not know, to not see it, but it is the truth. Well, as nice as an alpha can be, Jaskier thinks.

“You’re burning”, Geralt says, again without need. He’s looking at Jaskier like he is a very strange animal, like he isn’t sure if he can get close, “I got what I needed. We’re leaving”

Knowing well what an order is, Jaskier gets up. It’s slow and groggy, the omega’s limbs heavy with warmth. He’s a bit sleepy, he thinks. Knows he’s going to wake up as soon as he starts riding. Sleeping on a horse is very dangerous business.

Jaskier stands, dusts his knees off a bit, the daisy flower crown in his hand. When he straightens up, Geralt is still looking at him. Is looking at the flower crown, like he has never seen one before. Jaskier wonders if that is true. It is very sad if it is.

“I made flower crowns”, Jaskier says, because he has to say something. He lifts his hand up and offers the daisy crown to Geralt. Watches in silent shock as the witcher takes it, turns it in his hands. Wonders if the man is going to put it on. Thinks about how pretty that would look.

Thinks that the witcher is going to frown at him, is going to throw the crown onto the ground. This is for children, Jaskier reminds himself. You don’t give alphas flower crowns, you don’t sit in meadows and weave flowers like you don’t have anything better to do. You don’t idle long enough to get sunburnt, to get grass imprints on your palms and peeling skin on your shoulders. You just don’t.

“Hmmm”, Geralt says, does indeed frown, “It’s pretty”

He doesn’t put it on his head, turns and walks to his horse. He doesn’t throw it away, either. The crown is still in his hand, and Jaskier looks at it thoughtfully as he walks. Gets to his horse and pats its head, hauls himself up into the saddle. Looks around at the nature once more, takes the crown off his head, puts it on the horses head because it is a pity to throw it away.

The gelding wears it beautifully, and Jaskier looks at the flowers as they ride.

Riding into a keep is a serious thing, Jaskier knows. Back when he was a bard, there were a few times when he would play at a court of sorts. He played for lords and ladies, nobles of higher and lower standing. Usually lower. He was always especially careful when doing that.

Make a mistake in a keep and you are not leaving it, is what Jaskier knows. So when he and Geralt ride into one, the guards stopping them just at the entrance, he keeps his head down.

“What is your business here?”, one of the guards says, and he is burly, tall. Looks cruel, like some men do. Jaskier hopes that he is not going to look at him.

“Lord Byran has a need for a witcher”, Geralt says, straight to the point, and the guards frown at him. They frown and they look at Jaskier, their eyes catching on the omega’s hair. A lot of people so that, now. They take double takes and they stare at him and they look like he has personally offended them, somehow, for looking different than he is supposed to. It scares Jaskier, scares him more than he thought it would, more than it should. He is used to not being noticed, to being looked over like he is made from something see-through, to being invisible. It’s frightening to suddenly be noticed again, to be looked at, to be remembered. He is very glad Geralt is right next to him, on his beast of a horse.

The guards let them through, tell them to leave the horses in the stables. They are not happy that they are here, are as unhappy as most people are when forced to interact with a witcher, but they do need Geralt’s help. Something is killing the villagers, killing the passengers, people young and old disappearing into the night. The lord has made it public knowledge that whoever slays the beast is going to be rewarded, is going to be granted entrance.

No one has returned yet, Jaskier knows. It’s because none of them were witchers, he tells himself. Because none of them knew what they were dealing with.

The keep looks well kept, looks orderly, from the inside. The stableboy takes their horses without daring to look at the witcher, but he eyes Jaskier curiously. He turns to the witcher when the man is about to leave, catches his eyes.

“Can I come with you?”, he asks, though it is obvious he is supposed to stay here. Omegas aren’t really allowed into court, aren’t to be seen mixing with noble people. Jaskier remembers seeing some noble omegas back in the day, remembers thinking how they looked good, looked healthy. How they were always silent, always looking down, like living statues. To se been and not heard.

Geralt just nods in response though, and Jaskier is grateful. He doesn’t want to be left alone.

There are more guards at the door, and after taking Geralt’s swords they let them in. The witcher parts with his weapons reluctantly, even though Jaskier knows he has at least three more daggers on his person. Even though Jaskier has one, as well. The guards aren’t doing their jobs too well, it seems.

 Being led through the richly decorated hallways and lounge rooms is a weird experience, when for so long Jaskier has seen only wretched roads and seedy taverns. The wealth is astounding, it is sickening. Jaskier looks at the paintings lining the walls and the big doors made of full wood and the servants scurrying around and feels ill. Wonders how come some people have money and just use it to make a prison around themselves to stay in their whole lives.

They reach a particularly big door, and there are more guards there. Jaskier wonders if that is really neccessary. Wonders what the lord is so afraid of, to have to be so completely guarded. They wait a bit for the lord to finish with whoever is inside at the moment, and when a peasant looking man exits the doors are open for them. Jaskier goes to step in with the witcher, but one of the guards reaches out and takes him by the arm. Jaskier looks at the hand touching him like it is a snake. He wants to bite it off.

“Only you, witcher”, the man says, looking at Geralt, “The omega stays here”

“The omega comes with me”, Geralt says, and his voice is hard. It’s not a tone to be argued with. It is dangerous, and Jaskier looks at his own feet as he feels the man holding him consider his options. The grip on his arm tightens and then loosens, and just when he thinks the man is going to say ‘no’, he is let go.

No one wants to be on a witcher’s bad side, that much is sure. Jaskier is glad for it, steps forward and ignores Geralt when the alpha tries to catch his eyes. Ignores the urge to rub his arm, too. Walks behind Geralt and keeps his head down, tries not to look at the lord sitting in the centre of the room. He can see that he is sitting on a sort of throne, that he is in lavish clothes. It is a waste, Jaskier thinks.

“Lord Byran”, Geralt says, bows informally. A step behind him, Jaskier bows too, bows like men bow at court. He feels eyes on him, closes his eyes tightly. Omegas don’t bow like that, he knows, he remembers. But he has never been at court as he really is, has always been an esteemed guest. He mistakes his worth.

“Witcher”, the lord says in response, sounds like he is trying very hard to appear bored. He has probably never seen a witcher in his life, Jaskier thinks. Will probably never see one again, either, “You’re here because of the reward”

“I’m here because of the monster”, Geralt responds, and it sounds terribly rude in the big room. Jaskier tenses. He is not sure what a witcher can get away with, and for a moment he thinks that the lord is about to call his guards forth. He does not.

“Yes. Killing the peasants. Unpleasant business”, the lord sighs, sounds truly bored now. It is an inconvenience that his people die. It is a thorn in his side. Bad reputation on his name, “The people don’t go to hunt anymore”

The people are hungry, because they are afraid of the woods, Jaskier hears.

“I’ll kill it”

“I’m sure you will”, the lord says, a smile in his voice. He sounds condescending, sounds rude. Jaskier is used to it, knows that is how royals are. It still angers him, “Five hundred crowns”

Jaskier feels his head whip up without his permission, meets the lord’s eyes for a second before bringing them down to a respectable level. The money is too little, for something like this. So many men have tried to slay the beast and lost their lives for it, laid it down for a bag of coins. Jaskier knows Geralt usually gets paid more, even when it is not lords paying him. He hadn’t expected a man decked out in leather and silk to be so stingy.

“What is it, omega?”, the lord asks, just when Jaskier thinks that he is not going to react. Jaskier looks at the man’s feet, looks at the legs of the throne the man is sitting on. It looks like a glorified chair, looks cheap. Jaskier bites his lip, bites it to blood, feels the familiar taste of it on his tongue, “I asked you something. Speak”

“N-Nothing, my lord”, Jaskier tries, his voice soft. Too soft, so soft he hates it, too weak. The lord hears him anyways, raises his eyebrows at him like he’s calling him out on his bullshit. Jaskier swallows, almost chokes. He can see Geralt in his peripheral vision, can see him tense.

“Look at me when I am speaking to you, omega. I don’t like lies”, the lord says, and Jaskier can hear a smile in his voice. Jaskier can hear it and then he can see it, as well, when he looks at the man. The lord is a middle aged man, ordinary looking if not for his clothes that make it very obvious that he is not. And if not for the man’s eyes, which are exceptionally mean. Jaskier meets the lord’s eyes, holds his gaze for a few moments. It is as long as he can stand it, and then he looks at the man’s chest. It’s easier, “And you are lying”

“It’s too little”, Jaskier whispers, bites his lip again. It stings badly, and Jaskier thinks it is going to bruise. He wishes no one had heard him, but he knows they did. He can’t believe he said that. Can’t believe that he dared to open his mouth at all. It is like a bucket of cold water. Jaskier wishes he didn’t have a tongue. That way he wouldn’t be able to speak without thinking.

“What did you say?”, the lord asks, and Jaskier is as stupid as they come, he knows, but he didn’t think he was this stupid. Jaskier looks at the man’s chest, so focused his vision blurs, wonders if keeping quiet will make the man drop it, hopes it will. It is a childish endeavour to hope so, “Repeat what you said”

The man is doing this out of cruelty, Jaskier knows. He knows a lot about men and their games, their dominance. He wants to bite Jaskier’s head off for daring to enter this room, for daring to stand in his presence, for daring to have short hair. For daring to exist. He wants to punish him for it, and Jaskier has given him a good reason. He has never met a fool greater than himself, Jaskier thinks, wishes the witcher had said no when he asked to go with him.

 “I said that’s too little”, Jaskier says, because there is nothing else that he can do. The lord has already heard Jaskier, had heard him the first time he spoke. Jaskier would love to lie, if he had anything in his head at all, if he had any thoughts. He doesn’t. He is too scared.

Jaskier’s voice is not too strong, but it is easily heard in the silence. The lord smiles maniacally at him, and then laughs loudly. It echoes off the walls, like a very ominous bell. Jaskier’s heart feels like it is going to burst out of his chest.

“I didn’t think a witcher would let his omega act like this”, lord Byran says, entertained. He is looking at Geralt now, looking at him with very little respect. Jaskier can feel the witcher’s anger, can feel his frustration. Can see it in the hard line of the man’s shoulders, in his neck which is corded and full of tension. Something is going to happen, he knows. Something is going to happen and it is going to be ugly, it is going to be terrible. Geralt is going to say something disrespectful to the lord, or he is going to threaten him, or he is going to turn around and slap Jaskier across the face. Jaskier knows which one is best, feels cold sweat erupt across his skin, “Short hair like a man, disrespectful. You let him act how he wishes?”

If Geralt turns to him he is going to cry.

Jaskier tries to keep his eyes on the lord’s chest, but even that is hard for him, so he lets it drop to the man’s feet. Even his shoes are expensive, polished leather. Jaskier has never seen shoes that shine like that. He hopes to never see them again, tries to breathe and to stand still. Tries not to turn to Geralt and beg, not to turn around and try to run away. He can’t do any of that, can just stand here and let two men discuss him, hope that he is going to walk out of the keep on his own two feet.

“I can show you how to discipline him, witcher. It’d be my pleasure”, the lord offers, and it is clear from his voice that the man would really enjoy it. He would revel in it. Jaskier starts shivering, even though it is not cold. Even though he shouldn’t, “Come here, omega”

Jaskier thinks his knees are going to give under his weight, that he is going to collapse onto the stone floor. That is better then the alternative. Jaskier stands and feels his blood pulsing through his veins too quickly and he feels dizzy.

He feels dizzy because earlier he was on a meadow and he was making flower crowns and burning under the sun and now he is going to be punished. Now he is going to have to go to this lord and the man is going to put his hands on him, is going to hurt him.

Jaskier wants to scream.

“I know full well how to punish my own omega”, Geralt says, growls. It’s a rude, dangerous tone. It doesn’t even sound human, doesn’t sound sane. Jaskier feels the tremors in his muscles get even worse, feels his breaths get shallow. The witcher turns to Jaskier, takes one step and takes the omega by the arm. Jaskier flinches terribly, tries to step away but it is fruitless. There is no fighting the witcher’s strength. He doesn’t even dare look at the alpha, can’t look at him. Thinks if he looks at him and sees anger in his eyes that he is going to pass out, “Lord Byran, I’ll take the job”

Geralt turns without waiting to be dismissed, drags Jaskier with him. The omega is too scared to cooperate, trips over his feet once but is hauled up instantly. Jaskier keeps his eyes down, keeps his focus on his feet. Tries to keep pace with the witcher, who is walking dangerously fast.

“Bring me the monster’s head!”, the lord yells from behind them  as they exit the great hall.

Chapter Text

Jaskier feels Geralt’s hand on his upper arm like a brand. It doesn’t hurt, not exactly, not like it is supposed to. Though his grip is tight, it is not bruising, but that is a thought that passes through Jaskier’s head just momentarily. He’s completely blank, running on instinct. He walks with his alpha, waits while the man retreats the swords from the guards. Walks with him towards the stables.

“Jaskier”, the alpha says, and Jaskier twitches like he has been slapped. He is trying to blend into the ground, however impossible that is. He hopes the witcher forgets he exists. They stop in front of the stables, and the witcher lets go of him. For some reason, Jaskier feels even worse once he is let go. He brings his hands up, slots them around himself, “Jaskier, listen to me. I need you to calm down”

Jaskier looks at the ground, looks at the horses’ hooves as they approach. Wonders how come horses can have four legs and be so graceful, thinks about that as his gelding stops in front of him.

“Jaskier”, Geralt says, again. He sounds weird, “Get on your horse”

The horses have very different hooves, Jaskier thinks, notices. Wonders how come he has never noticed that before. His gelding has legs which are much more slender and sleek than Geralt’s stallion, and his hooves are much smaller as well. It must be because of their height.

“Jaskier, we have to leave”, Geralt says, and finally Jaskier moves his head and looks at him. Looks at his chin because he is unable to look at his eyes, “Get on your horse”

The sun is strong in the sky, still beating down on Jaskier’s head. It’s terribly strange that this is the same sun he sat under while he was wearing buttercups on his head. Terribly strange.

Jaskier watches as the witcher stands still, for a few minutes, watches him when he moves. Doesn’t realize the man is going to touch him until it is too late, and he is easily caught as he tries to move out of the way. The alpha’s hands catch him by his waist, and Jaskier doesn’t even have the time to react before he is hauled onto a horse. It is Geralt’s horse, Jaskier realizes, just at about the same time the witcher climbs up behind him.

Jaskier feels the witcher’s body just beside his own, watches his arms reach past him to take the reigns. Takes a big breath, tenses terribly.

“You’re fine”, Geralt says, does something that Jaskier can’t see with his hand, starts riding. Jaskier feels ill, feels unstable, riding side-saddle with the witcher behind him, feels trapped. He closes his eyes, feels some wetness descend onto his cheeks. He hadn’t realized he was crying, he thinks. He hears the guards at the entrance say something to Geralt, but he isn’t listening, isn’t able to listen. All he can do is sit between the witcher’s thighs and try not to lean on him. Try not to fall off the horse because that is marginally worse than what is waiting for him. He knows what is waiting for him, knows what he has done.

He has disrespected his alpha, has done it before a lord, no less. He didn’t think it was possible to get in so much trouble.

They start moving again, speeding up a bit. Briefly, Jaskier wonders if his gelding is still at the keep. Tells himself that it doesn’t matter anyways, because he is not going to be able to ride after this.

“Jaskier”, Geralt says, “I’ll let you down soon”

Jaskier doesn’t know what that means, but then he does and a chill goes down his spine. He feels himself tremble and takes a shaky breath and then he feels himself starting to slide from the horse. Geralt wraps an arm around his waist before he has the chance to panic about that, and he grips the arm with weak hands. He lets the man manhandle him so he sits more securely, just trembles as he is touched.

“Jaskier. Jaskier”, Geralt says, his voice tense. Jaskier blinks at his tone, the one Jaskier only gets to hear sometimes, that always stops him in his tracks, feels his breath catch in his throat. More tears land on his cheeks. He watches one drip from his chin onto the alpha’s hand, “I’m not going to hurt you. I need you to calm down”

The voice calms Jaskier, a bit, in a weird way. Jaskier feels his mind clear of the terrible noise that is in it, empty out. He still isn’t able to think, though. He feels very empty, like a deep well has taken place within him. Like he is just a shell, devoid of any consciousness. He looks at the arm wrapped around his waist, wishes it would let him go so he could fall down onto the ground. So he could pretend he doesn’t exist.

“Jaskier”, again, the voice speaks. Jaskier turns his head in its direction. It’s a rumbly, weird tone, and he isn’t scared of it, “You’re alright. We left”

Jaskier blinks at the alpha, blinks at the voice that he is making leave his chest. It is a voice that makes him want to curl up in front of a fire, to burrow into furs. He feels the arm that is around his waist move, slide up until there is a hand on the back of his neck. That makes Jaskier try to pull away, but the hand is strong and he quickly relents. It guides him to the crook of the alpha’s neck, lets him press against the soft skin there. Jaskier shudders against it, brings a hand up and grips onto the alpha’s shoulder.

“Breathe”, the alpha says, and it reverberates through his chest, through his neck and into Jaskier. It is an order, so Jaskier listens, takes a big breath. It smells like a fire, like a good fire. Jaskier presses himself further into the smell, into the warm skin. It is gentle, and it is vulnerable, and instinctively Jaskier knows that he could hurt the alpha from this position. That makes his heart slow down slightly, “Jaskier, I need you to listen to me. I would never punish you”

It’s a very strange thing to say, Jaskier thinks as he pushes his nose against the alpha’s neck, because everyone punishes Jaskier. Omegas are punished when they are bad, and Jaskier has been very bad. Jaskier can feel the alpha’s heart beat under his skin, can feel it beating steady. It is a comfort, just like his smell is. It’s homely and warm, with a hint of freshness. It makes Jaskier want to stay here forever.

“I mean it, Jaskier. It is never going to happen”, the alpha rumbles, caresses Jaskier’s nape with his fingers before wrapping his arm back around the omega’s waist again. It feels secure, “No matter what happens, I am not going to punish you. Do you understand?”

Jaskier frowns into the soft skin he is pressing against, breathes into it. He feels that the skin against his nose is wet, and it smells like tears. He has cried onto the alpha, he realizes, feels bad about that. He is not supposed to do that.   

“Do you understand, Jask?”, the alpha says, and his voice grates in Jaskier’s ears, because he’s speaking differently now, speaking too harshly. He lets out a soft whine against the alpha’s skin, closes his eyes tightly so he can pretend everything is alright. He feels the alpha take a deep breath and then let it out slowly, feels him do it again, “Alright”

Jaskier relaxes at the change in the man’s tone, is content to stay hidden right where he is. The alpha isn’t hurting him, isn’t yelling at him, either. He’s talking in a low, calming voice that makes Jaskier want to close his eyes and drift off. He smells like home, somehow, like something Jaskier hasn’t felt in a long time. He feels safe and he feels warm and he just listens to the voice talking to him and the horse’s hooves hitting the ground rhythmically and he does not think.

Some time passes like that, before the horse they are riding changes course and starts walking on something softer. Grass, Jaskier thinks, realizes that they have veered off the road. They ride like that for a few more minutes before coming to a stop. Jaskier doesn’t move, doesn’t even consider it.

“Jaskier”, the alpha says, unwraps his arm from Jaskier’s waist and brings it up his back. Rubs the knobs of Jaskier’s spine, hard enough that the omega can feel it. Jaskier frowns, “I need you to come back”

Jaskier feels the fingers touching him over his chemise, feels them harmless but firm. The sensation embeds itself in his brain, makes a space for itself in the emptiness. Jaskier opens his eyes, frowns some more. He doesn’t want to move.

“Jask”, the alpha, the witcher says, and Jaskier twitches involuntarily. What the hell is wrong with him, he asks himself, feels his muscles tense up again, “You’re fine”

Jaskier feels the hand which is touching his spine travel up and onto his shoulder, feels it move him back, merciless. Jaskier is hit by the strength of the day, by the sounds of the forest surrounding him. He is hit by the realization that he has been leaning against Geralt, has been fucking sniffing him, for Gods know how long.

He thinks his cheeks would redden if he wasn’t so confused. As it is, Jaskier just looks at Geralt’s chest like it is going to give him some answers. He can feel his head clearing rapidly, like he is surfacing from underwater. Feels just like he did when he was in the lake with the rusalka, before he was dragged out of it by Kilk. Feels confused and betrayed.

He felt so good and then suddenly he doesn’t, anymore. Geralt tries to catch his eyes, and after a few seconds he suceeds, locking eyes with Jaskier. Geralt’s eyes look assesing, look like they are searching for something in Jaskier’s own.

“Are you back now?”, Geralt asks, and Jaskier has a lot of questions but he just nods. He is back, from whatever happened to him after they left the keep. Jaskier feels Geralt shift behind him, “We’re getting off now”

Before he has the chance to react, Jaskier is lowered onto the ground. The witcher gets off right behind him.

“What happened?”, Jaskier asks, turns towards the witcher. Then, he remembers, “What about the lord?”

“What about the lord?”

“He said...You said..”, Jaskier starts and then he remembers, takes a step back hastily, “You said you’d..”

“I was lying”, Geralt interrupts, “We had to get out of there. Do you remember what I said after?”

Jaskier takes another step back from the witcher, looks at him suspiciously though he knows that makes no sense. He is very confused. He is confused and he should be very upset but he isn’t. He has never felt like this before.

“You said..”, Jaskier starts, unsure if what he remembers actually happened or if it was just something he imagined. It feels too good to be true, feels unreal. Feels weird because Jaskier remembers it and he also doesn’t, remembers it like it happened to him but he wasn’t there. Wasn’t anywhere, really, “You said you wouldn’t punish me”

Jaskier’s voice is weak to begin with, and it peters off as he talks. What he is saying is rude, it is willfull, it is blasphemous. He can’t believe he’s said it, grinds down the urge to slap a hand over his mouth as the words leave it. Watches in shock as Geralt nods at him.

“Why?”, he asks, because he always does, even when he doesn’t want to know. Because he has a big, loose mouth and he can’t keep it shut.

“Because you’re not mine to punish”, Geralt says, frowns. Jaskier thinks he must be dreaming, because it feels like Geralt is speaking Elven at the moment. He doesn’t understand a single thing the alpha has said, doesn’t understand his own thoughts, either.

“What happened, Geralt?”, Jaskier asks, because he needs to know, because it is so confusing, because he was not his own on that horse. Jaskier has been scared before, has been terrified, but he has never lost his footing like that, has never experienced the floaty feeling he just did. It’s bizarre, and it’s scary, and Jaskier blames Geralt.

“You should sit down”, Geralt says, instead. It’s terribly irritating.

“What happened?”

“Jaskier, your heart rate is..”

“I don’t care about my fucking heart rate!”, Jaskier says loudly, on the verge of yelling. He immediately takes another step back, “Just tell me. What was that?”

“You...you don’t know about Alpha voice”, Geralt asks, speaks freaking Elven again. Jaskier wonders if he hit his head somewhere along the way. That would explain things a lot better than the witcher is doing right now. Jaskier kind of wants to walk up to the man and shake him.

“About what?”, Jaskier asks, and he hears that he sounds irritated. It’s a dangerous thing to be, but Jaskier is too keyed up at the moment to calm down.

“I thought maybe you didn’t know but I wasn’t sure”, Geralt says, still cryptic.

“’Alpha voice’ is a fairytale”, Jaskier retaliates. Because it is. He’s only heard of it in stories, and usually in stories that are about how alphas are the best thing ever. Jaskier never liked those.

“It’s not a fairy tale, Jask”, Geralt looks tired. He kind of looks like he wants to sit down, Jaskier thinks. Like he’s done with Jaskier’s shit. He talks over the omega when he opens his mouth, “It just happened”

Jaskier is done with the shit, too. Alpha voice isn’t real because if it was omegas lives would be even harder, even grimmer. If it was real than alphas would be able to make omegas do whatever they want just by saying it, would never even need to hit omegas or punish them because there would be no one to punish. Jaskier wonders what it would be like, to not have free will. He feels a chill go down his spine.

“Is that one of your spells?”, Jaskier asks, scandalized, “Can you just..?”

“No”, the witcher answers, cuts Jaskier off rudely. He looks like he has something to say but doesn’t know how to say it, “It’s not like that. I can’t just..”

“You can’t just tell me to do something”, Jaskier interrupts, scathing. Knows if he was in the witcher’s place right now that he would want to slap himself.

“I can’t. Even if I did, the Voice doesn’t work like that”, Geralt turns to the horses takes something out of one of the bags. It’s a small waterskin. He sits down and opens it, takes a sip.

“How does it work?”

“It just calms you down. Hmmm”, Geralt frowns at his bottle, takes another sip. Offers it to Jaskier, but lets his arm drop when the omega doesn’t take it, “It’s hard to explain”

“Explain”, Jaskier answers, doesn’t even realize what he has said until he meets the witcher’s eyes. Despite everything, Geralt doesn’t look angry. Jaskier wonders when that will stop surprising him. Perhaphs it never will.

He watches as the alpha pulls the bottle away from his mouth, offers it to him. Nods when the omega takes it.

“Alright”, he agrees, golden eyes dull. He gestures to the ground, “Sit”

And Jaskier does.  

Chapter Text

Geralt had said a lot of things, then, when they were sitting on the florest clearing. He had talked for minutes on end, trying to explain things to Jaskier. The omega was impressed, indeed, that the usually silent man had taken the effort to explain things to him.

He had gotten the impression, though, that Geralt isn’t very good at explaining things.

It didn’t seem like the alpha was trying to be obscure on purpose, though. As much as Jaskier was pressed to believe that, he had less and less belief over time that Geralt was trying to manipulate him. They had spent time together, a very long time in Jaskier’s standards, for how the witcher treated him. Almost two months together, and not one hit, shove, not even a raised hand. Not even a threatening look. It had to mean something, and it did.

It meant everything, though Jaskier firmly refused to think about that. He had spent the last few years being vulnerable to no end and he was not eager to make himself even more so. So Jaskier sat, thought, and listened.

The witcher had looked uncomfortable, drinking his alcohol and talking. He wasn’t much of a drinker, Jaskier knew. He found it strange that the man had reached for the bottle then, but he didn’t mind it. He liked the burn in the back of his throat when he drank, liked the way it made him less wary, less skittery. It made it easier to listen, and believe.

The alpha had tried to explain, in halting sentences. But Jaskier hadn’t understood much. He hadn’t understood because it was so hard to understand something you had never seen, something you had thought was certainly a myth. He would still think so, if he didn’t remember the floating feeling he had felt while riding with Geralt. He would love to be able to hate it, to call it a weakness, to loathe himself for letting it affect him, for losing himself so completely. He wasn’t able to, though.  Geralt had said that it wasn’t something that could be forced, something that could be used against his will.

Jaskier wasn’t sure he believed that, like he wasn’t sure about a lot of things, but he was sure of something else. He had liked it. He had liked it with all he had, had treasured it, had felt safe. Had felt safer then than he had in years, than maybe he ever had. It made him relax and go loose limbed, go slack. It had made him feel at home.

He couldn’t find it in himself to be angry at the alpha because of that. Not when every time the man had spoken in that voice it had been to calm him, to reassure him.

Jaskier doesn’t know what to think, doesn’t know what to feel. He feels oddly settled, though, while sitting on the lush grass and watching the witcher groom his beast of a horse. It is mid-morning, and the day is beautiful. The witcher’s hair shines in the stray rays of sunshine that manage to break through the trees surrounding them.

Jaskier has the strange feeling that the alpha himself wasn’t sure what he was talking about, yesterday. Like he was talking about something he has only seen before, only heard of. He had said that Jaskier was safe, though, that his mind was safe, too. Jaskier finds that hard not to believe, blames himself for it. His shields are down, completely and utterly, and it is a mistake. It is always a mistake.

It is a mistake because he looks at the witcher and thinks about the lord, thinks about what he had said to the man, and how it had made Geralt very angry. He doesn’t want that. He looks at the alpha’s broad back and his muscular arms and feels a strange sort of guilt brewing in his stomach at the thought of disappointing him. It isn’t because he’s afraid of being beat, even, which makes it worse.

“Are you mad?”, Jaskier asks, unable to contain himself. He had asked yesterday, and gotten an answer, but he asks again. He has to be sure.

He fells a pit threatening to open in his stomach at the though of the witcher being mad at him, being displeased with him.

“What?”, Geralt says, stops brushing his stallion in order to turn and look at Jaskier. He seems confused.

“About yesterday”, Jaskier plows on, staring at his fingers which are corded around each other, “I shouldn’t have even gone in. It was stupid”

For a moment, the witcher is silent, and Jaskier brings his head up to look at him. The man has turned back to his horse again.

“I’m not mad”, he asnwers, and Jaskier frowns.

“When he asked me, I should have kept my mouth shut”, Jaskier sighs, squeezes his hands together harshly. He has never known how to be gentle to himself, “I should have lied”

“Jaskier, I’m not mad”

Jaskier blinks at the witcher, at his movements even and precise. He loves his horse, Jaskier has noticed. He takes very good care of it, unlike most people do. Most men act like horses are objects, there only to ride on and carry things. Geralt doesn’t, and Jaskier likes that.

Jaskier swallows, looks at the grass and at the witcher and at his own hands which are red by now. He is nervous and he is pent up, suddenly, and he can’t keep his mouth shut. It gets him in a lot of trouble, has always gotten him in trouble. All his life he has not been able to shut up.

“I’m sorry, you know. I really should have lied, b...”

“Jaskier!”, Geralt says suddenly, voice raised. He doesn’t yell, exactly, but it is a close thing. Jaskier jerks back like the man kicked him in the ribs, looks at the alpha with wide eyes when he turns to face him, “It’s fine. We’ve talked about this”

Geralt’s shoulders are stiff, though, his fists are clenched. He’s holding the brush he uses to brush the horses very tightly, so tightly Jaskier is almost surprised he can’t hear the wood of the handle squeaking under pressure.

The witcher is lying.

“You are angry”, he says, reckless and stupid and all the things he is and shouldn’t be. All the things that life has not managed to beat out of him. He is stubborn and he is impulsive and those qualities have stayed with him his whole life, though it was something no omega should have. He has been told that countless times, on countless occasions. He agrees.

“You..”, Geralt steps forward, stops when Jaskier shrinks back at his movement. His words have made the alpha angrier. Or have brought his anger to the surface, he guesses. It has been here this whole time. It makes Jaskier uneasy that the alpha was able to hide his emotions all throughout yesterday and the morning, to act like nothing is wrong while simmering under the surface, “You don’t know what could have happened. There were so many guards. He could have done whatever he wanted to you”

Jaskier looks at the alpha, looks at him fume and press his fists tighter, takes his words like he would a blow. The man is right. The man is right and he knows so, he has known so. He just hadn’t wanted to think about it.

In that room, he knows exactly what the lord would have done to him. He almost feels it, now, feels the phantom feeling of unwanted hands on his body, feels the helplessness that comes with it. That might be the worst part of it, in spite of it all. He knew it but still it makes his stomach roll, still makes him sick. He feels himself pale, feels the strength leave his body.

Back there, it wouldn’t had mattered that Geralt is his alpha.

Jaskier is used to the witcher protecting him, now. Is too used to it, is used to the man hoovering behind his shoulder and sending scalding looks to anyone who dares to glance at him twice. To anyone who comments on his appearance, on his behaviour. He has gotten used to the influence a witcher has, to the infamy. He has gotten to comfortable with it, as well. He feels sick now. Geralt isn’t allpowerful, isn’t as strong as Jaskier made him up to be in his head.

If something had happened yesterday, the witcher would have been unable to stop it. It rocks Jaskier right back to reality, rocks him right out of the lull he had fallen into. He is not safe. As an omega, he is never going to be safe, not completely. He can’t forget that. Can’t forget what the world is like now, when he has an alpha that doesn’t beat him.

Jaskier should say something, now. Before he should have kept his mouth shut, but now he should speak and he is silent. He swallows dryly and looks at the grass at the witcher’s feet because he can’t look at the man himself. Geralt is angry and it is his doing, it is by his mistake. It stings terribly, in tune with all of the other wounds he has.

He feels like a child getting scolded by a parent.

“I’m going after the leshy”, Gerals speaks after it becomes obvious Jaskier is not going to do so. His emotion is still evident in his voice, and he turns away from Jaskier. He takes his sword and mounts it onto his back, looks like a mercenary, “Feed the horses”

It’s a dismissal, and a clear one, so Jaskier bites his tongue as the witcher walks off in big strides. He looks at his knees and listens as the alpha goes into the tree line, listens to how quick his steps become silent. Feels the horrible sting of tears in his eyes, brings up a hand to press against them.

Crying will not help now, he knows. He looks at the horses, at Geralt’s stallion which he knows is named Roach. Absolutely absurd, he thinks, watching the horse which looks back at him, looks almost like it is going to open its mouth and gossip about its’ master any second. Jaskier wishes the horses would talk, because that would make it easier not to cry. He gets up instead, because he received an order, and he can do at least one thing right. He takes some grains and offers them to the horses, gives some to Roach and wonders if he should name the gelding, as well. Does his horse know he is nameless?

He turns back to camp, looks at a tree the witcher was standing next to. There’s a sword there, one of the two signature ones Geralt wears on his back most of the time. It looks terribly displaced there, in the grass. Looks terribly displaced because the witcher has gone to hunt without it.

Jaskier walks to it, picks it up with some difficulty. It’s stone-heavy in his hands, but he brings it up to his chest to support its weight better. Turns and heads in the same direction the witcher went.

Chapter Text

Jaskier lugs the sword though the woods, wonders how the fuck the witcher carries this steel beast around on his back all the time. How he manages to carry not one but two swords on his back and still move quickly, still move fluidly. He thinks of the corded muscle in the witcher’s arms, in his back.  Hates that he knows it is there, that he has observed the man so closely.

He should not be doing that, he thinks as he readjusts the sword in his hands, hurries his steps. He does not know where he is going, and there is no path to trace in the woods. He goes in a straight line from where he left camp, just buries himself further into the woods. If he wasn’t so worried he would admit it is foolish. The witcher is quick, and he is not human. Jaskier can’t trace his steps.

Jaskier knows he should turn back, knows he is just going to get lost like this. He can’t help himself anyways. The guilt burns in him, eats at him. He hates it, wants to drown it out, wants to correct his mistakes. He thinks about the witcher getting hurt because he made him so mad he forgot his sword and feels a vice squeeze his heart. He will do anything to prevent that.

Jaskier trips over a root, almost sprawls right over the sharp steel he is carrying. Almost impales himself but catches himself against a tree, closes his eyes and just breathes for a minute. The steel in his arms is sheathed but it is a poor defence, because it is sharp and deadly. At the right angle, it would slice right through the leather around itself and through him. He knows full well how sharp the witcher’s swords are, has seen the man sharpen and tend to them to no end.

Jaskier is no good if he manages to die before he gets to his alpha, he knows that. So he closes his eyes, feels the bark cold and rough against his skin, calms his racing heart and goes on. Walks through bushes and tall grass and an occasional clearing just like the one where he left the horses.

Jaskier has no fucking idea where he is, and it makes him grit his teeth. He is pretty sure he doesn’t know how to return, either, though he has been walking for ten minutes at most. He wonders how he has survived for so long when he is so clueless, turns in a flinch when he hears the sound of metal clashing to his right. Starts walking in that direction. The sound gets clearer the closer he gets, and soon he is certain that it is the sound of swords clashing.

He has had the misfortune of hearing that sound many times while travelling with Kilk and his crew, when the men ambushed innocent travellers on the roads or executed one of their work deals. Now, Jaskier walks with purpose. Walks just until he realizes what he is doing. That he is walking straight into a sword fight. That he is going to get cut in half if he continues. He stops, listens and looks and tries to figure out what is going on, walks forward until he can see something. Tries to soften his steps but still isn’t able to do it, just prays that he is not going to be heard over the loud clash of metal.

And he isn’t, passes unnoticed as he steps up to a tree just at the edge of a little clearing. It doesn’t deserve that name, not really, with how close the next treeline is. There are items scattered on the ground, like it is a camp disrupted, like someone had made a home of this scrap of land and now it has been desecrated. But Jaskier doesn’t really think about that, because something else catches his attention.

The thing that Geralt is fighting is also Geralt. Jaskier feels his head spin.

There are two witchers a few metres away from Jaskier, both holding the same swords and wearing the same clothes. They are identical, and for a moment it even seems that they are moving in sync. Jaskier wishes he would wake up. That he would wake up and that this is a nightmare and that Geralt, the one Geralt, is meditating a few metres away from him.

Jaskier is too stunned to think much, but he remembers reading about a creature like this in Geralt’s book. An imitator. When he was reading the book he didn’t think that he would have an actual use for it, and he does not. He can’t remember anything that matters, can just swallow convulsively and feel his knees weaken.

One Geralt moves, hits the other one hard against the chest with a sword. The other one staggers back, and Jaskier can’t tell if he is wounded, can’t tell if it is serious, can’t tell if that one is actually Geralt. He watches as the man stiffens before looking up, saying something Jaskier doesn’t understand and moving his hands in a way that is somewhat familiar. The other Geralt stumbles back as well, like he has been hit by something. In just a moment, the spell caster is already there, striking, and manages to cut his opponent across the face.

The Geralt that has been cut flickers, for a moment, distorts before retaliating and continuing the fight. It shocks Jaskier, though he knew one of the witchers was fake, to see the illusion so easily broken and then restored right back. The men fight in a flurry of steel, a haze of movement. Jaskier would be impressed if he wasn’t fucking terrified. He feels the sword he has carried all the way starting to slip from his hands which are now slick with sweat, tries not to fumble with it as he lowers it to rest against the tree he is hiding behind. His arms ache, weakened by carrying such a heavy burden for so long.

Jaskier straightens back up, looks to the fight and catches Geralt’s eyes. His Geralt’s, the spell caster, the real one. They lock eyes and Jaskier doesn’t have the time to read the emotion reflected in the witcher’s glance because something hits the alpha on the head. The imitator catches him on the head with the blunt side of his sword, with force that kills men, and Jaskier sees with stark clarity the moment the witcher loses consciousness.

He goes down like a bag of rocks, crumples like a shirt discarded for a wash, folds into the ground like he is a man and not more than that, like he is going to die there. Jaskier watches the other Geralt, so similar but obviously fake, stand there in something like surprise for a moment.

For a moment, time stops, and then the monster lifts its sword back up. Goes to lift it high, above his head. An execution, Jaskier thinks, feels in his bones the dread of what he has done. The horror and the reality of what is about to happen. Without thinking, he steps out of his hiding space, steps right onto the clearing and towards Geralt. Rips his own dagger out of his belt, thanks the gods that it is not in his boot today like it is most days.

Geralt is going to die, and it is because of him, he thinks as he runs. He is going to die and if nothing else Jaskier is going to die with him. Because he knows there is nothing else for him. This is it.

It is terribly weird, in that moment, that Jaskier is here, that he is moving so fast, that the monster has not seen him yet. It feels like it is happening in slow motion, when the imitator finally notices him and turns.

Jaskier drives his dagger into the creature’s chest, into Geralt’s chest. Right where the heart is, because he knows where it is. Because he has leaned against the witcher’s chest and listened to his heartbeat and he knows where it is. He pushes the blade in with all of his strength, all of his weight, barrels into the monster and falls right with it in a tangle of limbs.

Falls over Geralt who is fake but feels so real, so similar. In the corner of his eyes Jaskier sees the white hair of the witcher as he falls into him, gasps as the handle of the dagger drives into his own ribs from where it is buried in the creature’s chest. It hurts terribly, for a moment, the breath punched out of Jaskier’s lungs.

He moves back hurriedly, moves away before the creature hurts him, before it retaliates, but he is met with something dead. Jaskier knows the look of dead things. He knows it terribly well, knows that he has pierced the monster’s heart the moment he lays eyes on it.

It looks different now, looks nothing like it did seconds before. It is small now, ugly and miserable. It doesn’t look too violent, doesn’t look evil. Jaskier wonders what is it that made it so cruel, when it looks almost innocent in death.

Jaskier takes a halting breath, takes another one as his insides quiver and roll. He wants to lie down on the ground and bury himself into the grass until he is invisible. He wants to throw up. He wants to scream. He wants the witcher to be awake and well and to speak to him in that deep voice that makes him feel better. Wants to hide in his chest. But that is impossible.

It’s not the time for any of that, for Jaskier’s feelings and fear and weakness, so he swallows his emotions. Pushes them down harshly, smothers them. He knows how to steel himself, knows when he has to do it. It was a miserable lesson to learn, but it is good to know. He turns to the witcher.

Chapter Text

Geralt is terribly, unimaginably heavy. He fell onto his side, rolled partially onto his front after he hit the ground. He is a mess of limbs and hair and terribly pale skin. He is a mess and he is heavy and Jaskier doesn’t know what to do but he knows that the witcher is breathing because he checked and that is important. The witcher is breathing and he needs to get him onto his back so he can see the damage. So the man can wake up. 

Jaskier takes the witcher’s arm and then pulls with all of his strength, pulls and pulls and digs his heels into the ground until the alpha slowly starts to roll over. Jaskier wants to cheer but this is not something to cheer over, not when he can see the man’s leathers damaged from blows and his head dyed with blood and when he is already so tired, so drained. There is a lot of work to be done.

Jaskier heaves for a few seconds once the witcher is finally on his back, stands over his body and tries not to eject the sparse contents of his stomach onto the ground. It would do him no good. He straightens, looks at the alpha. He doesn’t look too injured, at a first glance. Has a cut on one of his arms, right next to where the sword landed when he fell. Jaskier thanks the Gods that is the only damage of falling over a sword. Jaskier kneels then, takes the arm in his hands but immediately drops it. He needs to take care of the head wound first. He crawls to Geralt’s head, looks at the blood coating the white hair, is afraid to touch but knows he has to.

Jaskier knows cuts on the head bleed a lot. He knows that because he has been cut on the head, has been hit and slapped and his skin had split from it. He knows it bleeds a lot and that it looks bad when it isn’t.

It looks really bad, Jaskier thinks and feels his hands shake, reaches for Geralt’s head but sees his fingers trembling and pulls back. The white of the witcher’s hair is dyed a terrible deep red, ominous and creepy and the color of death. Jaskier closes his eyes, feels his heart in his chest about to burst, sits there and takes deep breaths until his hands start shaking a bit less. Then he reaches for the witcher’s head again.

It’s terribly heavy, like everything about the man is, but Jaskier manages to move it so he can see better. He saw where the sword hit Geralt, looks at the skin there that is swollen and spit, but not cut. It is trauma from the hit, he thinks, and that is good. It’s good because it has to be good. Jaskier feels the man’s head, his fingers roaming nervously through the witcher’s hair. It is soft and silky and matted with blood and Jaskier wanted to touch it but not like this.

There is a bump forming on the side of the witcher’s head, probably from when he hit the ground. That one isn’t bleeding, and so Jaskier ignores it. He should clean the wounds with something, with water, but he turns and realizes he has nothing, realizes their camp is not close and he can’t leave Geralt in this state, doesn’t even know where he’d go if he did.

He feels tears sting his eyes then, clutch his throat. He bites them back, reaches for the corner of his chemise and rips it. Tries to rip the fabric in even stripes but does a poor job of it, uneven chunks left in his hands. He takes them, presses them against the witcher’s head and arm. Uses a longer strip to tie the fabric to Geralt’s arm, though it is not bleeding very much.  

Some of the blood is already drying, and it sticks to the fabric, dyes it quickly. It looks ominous under the bright sun. The day is so beautiful but it is not, it is terrible and Jaskier is bad at this and there is nothing he can do. He knows Geralt is not human but he does not know what that means. He knows he is old, older than he is supposed to be, that he is fast and silent and strong. He knows that when the witcher cut his hand on Jaskier’s dagger it healed terribly fast, that Jaskier saw it just a few days later and there was just a line where there was previously blood.

But Jaskier still doesn’t know. Doesn’t know which wounds are too deep, which hits are too strong for a witcher to endure. Doesn’t know if Geralt got hit on the head too hard, if there was too much damage.

Jaskier wishes he could stop thinking, because then his hands would shake a bit less. He looks the witcher over once more, because he has to do something, because he is going to go out of his mind because it has been ten minutes and the witcher still has not awoken.

He takes the sword Geralt fell over and drags it from under the witcher, takes great care not to cut the man again. Puts it to the side. He turns and looks at the imitator, suddenly paranoid. It is still dead. Jaskier gets up and gets the cursed sword that started this whole mess, drags it on the ground so he can lay it next to the other one.

Then he kneels next to the alpha again. He looks at the man’s leathers, at how hollowed they look, at one spot. He can see where the sword bashed against the alpha’s chest, can see the cut in the leather but mostly he can see evidence of a hard hit. A blunt one. He worries about that.

Worries because he has nothing else to do than sit there and wait for something, because he is useless and he is helpless and he wants his alpha to wake up. Worries because he wants to take off the man’s leathers so he can look at the damage but he can’t see any blood and he wonders if Geralt is going to be mad if he undresses him.

It sounds bad, in his head, when he thinks of it like that, but he is too far gone to think about that. Geralt is going to be mad either ways. He is going to mad because of a lot of things, all the things that Jaskier has done today, because he has been reckless and he has been a fool. He is going to be mad but that is okay because Jaskier can take it.

Jaskier can take it because he’ll take being hit and yelled at over the alpha not waking up again.

Jaskier reaches for Geralt’s chest, fingers scrambling over the leathers which are smooth and hard, sturdy. He can’t remember if he ever looked at the witcher while he was taking them off, if he ever saw how he did it. Runs his hands over his face and holds his breath, keeps his eyes closed. Opens them again.

He takes a closer look at the light armour the witcher wears, if it can be called that. Jaskier doesn’t think there is any metal involved in it. Sees that there is a seam that goes right down the center of the witcher’s chest, that there are tiny little latches that are hard to see because they blend in color with the rest of it. Jaskier gets to work, unlatches one and then another until there is not one left.

Geralt wears a chemise under it, and it is dark in color like all things he wears are, and it almost makes Jaskier crack a smile. Would make him crack a smile if he wasn’t too busy pulling the fabric away from the witcher’s body to take a look at his chest.

It’s a bit red, he thinks at he looks at it. It’s a bit red and it is probably going to bruise, or it will if witchers even bruise at all. Another question to add to the list, Jaskier thinks hysterically, terribly relieved. He huffs and leans forward, rests his forehead against the soft fabric of Geralt’s chemise. Can feel the man’s heart like this, strong and steady and so comforting.

He jerks back then. There are things to be done, and he has to do them. Jaskier straightens the witcher’s clothes a bit, doesn’t latch the armour back on. He doesn’t think it matters that much. Gets on his feet, looks at the woods surrounding him.

There could be another monster there. He looks at the dead imitator and at the miserable camp it seemingly lived it and doesn’t think it’s true, doesn’t think that there’s more to it than it seems. But it isn’t impossible. He thinks that if there was something in the woods watching him, it would have attacked while he was busy having a nervous breakdown kneeling over Geralt.

He walks to the imitator’s body anyways, takes his dagger by the handle and takes it out of the creature’s chest. It takes quite a bit of force to do that, and Jaskier feels his muscles spent and tired, overworked. He wishes he could rest, but rest is a far way to come. He uses the rags the creature wears to clean off the blade.

The blood is a weird dark green color. That’s strange, Jaskier thinks and tugs the dagger back into his belt. He should move the witcher, move so if there is something in the woods they are not just waiting for it to come at them. Jaskier would love if he was actually able to do that, but he knows he isn’t. Barely being able to turn Geralt onto his back proved that, so Jaskier just hopes for the best, takes the imitator by the legs and drags him into the woods.

If he’s going to sit here for hours on end, he does not have to do it right next to a corpse.

The sun beats down on Jaskier, and his ass feels sore. He has been sitting next to Geralt, alternating between looking at the alpha and looking at the woods for a few hours. Every once in a while, he thumbs his dagger, drags his finger along the blade, just to make sure it is there and that it is still sharp.

The woods seem blessedly empty, and that is one good thing. The bad thing is that Geralt is still out. It’s starting to gnaw at Jaskier, to suffocate him like it’s got hands around his throat. He thinks a few hours are a long time to lose consciousness, for anyone. He thinks it’s an especially long time, for a witcher. He thinks and thinks and tries not to, checks Geralt’s wounds and his dagger and glances at the woods.

He did everything he could think of, ransacked the imitator’s camp but found nothing of value. Found some things that made him a bit sad, though. It was too human.

The rags the creature wore, and the place it obviously slept, dirty and wretched but still warm and sheltered. Its small body, ugly but slight and weak. It didn’t look like a monster. It had little trinkets and a place where a fire was frequently lit, had a metal cup that was dented but obviously well used.

Jaskier looked at the camp until he couldn’t anymore, thought about whether he felt guilty for killing the creature. He did not.

He should. He knew that much, was self aware. But he was selfish and the creature was going to kill the witcher and it was probably going to kill Jaskier as well. And Jaskier was a lot of things but he knew he wanted to live, wanted the witcher to live. He was sad the imitator was dead, sad that it was a killer, as well.

Jaskier sighs, feels the muscles of his back, of his arms all tight and angry, pulsing in pain.  He’s terribly tired though the day is so young, feels like he has been awake for days though he certainly has not. Looks at his hands in his lap and his skin which is getting just the slightest bit of tan, and the fine hair on his arms which has gotten lighter in the past month. Sees Geralt’s hand move from the corner of his eye.

Snaps his head up, so quickly it kind of hurts, looks to see the witcher blinking at the sky above him.

“Geralt”, he blurts, watches with rapt attention as the witcher’s eyes slide to him. His gaze is clear, if confused.

“You’re awake”, Jaskier says, presses his lips together but can’t keep in a sob. Chokes on it, hears another slip out as soon as he opens his mouth. Shuffles forward on his knees the few inches he had left between him and the witcher, raises a hand to touch but lets it hoover. Geralt catches his hand, his movements easy and precise. His grip gentle but strong. Jaskier can’t see through his tears, “G-Geralt”

“Jaskier”, Geralt says, squeezes Jaskier’s fingers with his own, and it is supposed to be comforting but it is not enough. Jaskier feels all composure leave him with his tears, all his strength. He had to be strong, had to be vigilant while the alpha was unconscious, had to keep his wits with himself. Had to not think about the possibility of Geralt not waking up.

Now Jaskier lets himself slump forward until he lands on top of Geralt, pushes his head in the crook of the man’s neck. Clutches the unbuttoned leathers with his hands and sobs outloud like a child. Takes big lungfulls of the alpha’s scent, feels it burn in his nose like medicine, like incense. One of Geralt’s arms is trapped between their bodies, and Jaskier feels the other one come onto his back. Geralt’s injured arm, the one he cut on his sword because of Jaskier. That makes Jaskier cry even harder, his breaths coming short and laboured.

“Jaskier, what’s wrong?”, Geralt asks, and Jaskier can hear in his voice the confusion. He doesn’t know if the witcher remembers what happened, is pretty sure he doesn’t. Feels the man rub over his back with his hand, the other one squeezing his fingers. Then, he stiffens, stops moving, “Let me up”

The witcher tries to sit up, even with Jaskier laying on his chest. He almost succeeds, but Jaskier presses him down, pushes himself even tighter against the alpha’s body. He feels like he is going to shake apart if he moves from here.

“The doppler”, Geralt says, goes to move once again. Tries to move Jaskier off him, “I have to kill it”

“It’s dead!”, Jaskier yells from his place against the witcher’s neck. He’s pretty sure it makes the man’s ears hurt from the way his head twitches. He doesn’t care. Opens his mouth to speak but feels a cry come out, swallows and tries again. His voice sounds weird, souds raw like he has been screaming into the woods instead of sitting silently for the last few hours, “You have to stay down”

“Jaskier”, Geralt says from underneath him, and he dares sound exasparated, dares to try and pull Jaskier off him with his hand. Jaskier lifts his free hand and slams it against the witcher’s chest. Makes sure to avoid the places where the man is hurt, does it again. He is breaking at the edges, feels his stress reach a boiling point.

“Don’t move! I thought you were going to die”, he says, his words swallowed by the witcher’s skin, by the tears Jaskier can’t stop. They’re clear anyways, and they are terrifying. Out in the world, Jaskier realizes he really had thought that, in a way. He thought that he would sit next to the witcher until it became clear that the man was not going to wake up, that he would have to leave him. He feels his throat close back up again, heaves for a moment. Feels Geralt’s hand land back on his back, feels it move with the sobs rocking Jaskier’s body, “I thought you were going to fucking die”

“Jaskier”, Geralt says, and now he sounds sad, “I don’t die that easily”

Jaskier is crying but then he huffs a laugh, chokes on it. He coughs onto the witcher. It’s rude, and it’s kind of gross. Jaskier doesn’t give a fuck.

“You got knocked on the head. There was blood”, Jaskier says, and it sounds very unimportant when he says it like this. He frowns, “You were out for a long time. The immitator, the doppler, it had a sword and it was going to slice you open. It was going to kill you”

Geralt stiffens under Jaskier, but he doesn’t move. Jaskier is grateful for that. He needs to stay here for a moment. Needs to hide in the witcher’s neck to he can’t see the harshness of what has happened. Geralt is warm and smells nice and his hair tickles Jaskier. His skin is wet with tears, a distinct salt smell in Jaskier’s nose.

“What happened? Is it dead?”, Geralt asks, and it is infuriating because Jaskier has already said that it is dead, is sure he did. He tightens his grip on the alpha, sniffles against the man’s skin.

“It’s dead”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s fucking dead. I stabbed it in the chest”, Jaskier pushes his nose against Geralt’s skin. Ignores the urge to bite the witcher in punishment for asking too many questions, “It’s been hours”

“What did you use?”, Geralt asks, and Jaskier blinks. There are still tears coming out of his eyes, but it seems that there is not enough time for them. Jaskier doesn’t stop crying anyways.

“What?”

“What did you kill it with?”, Geralt asks, and his tone is urgent. He shifts like he is going to move, and Jaskier prays to the Gods that he just settles down. He wants to be considerate, wants to understand the man’s unease after being unconscious for hours, but he can’t. He is all spent, “Jaskier, this is important. What did you kill it with?”

“The dagger”, Jaskier huffs, exasparated, moves with Geralt’s chest when the man heaves a big sigh. The hand that is on his back relaxes again, strokes his back. It feels good. Jaskier wants to sleep like this, now that the danger is over. He is rudely disturbed when the witcher bites a laugh.

“Gods. It’s silver”, Geralt says, and he sounds weird, sounds like he has never sounded before. He chuckles, but it doesn’t sound right. Jaskier thinks about how he has never heard the alpha laugh before, how this is a bad first time for that. It makes him sad, “Good, that’s good”

They lie there for a few minutes, the witcher seemingly content enough to let Jaskier have his way. He rubs the omega’s back and squeezes his fingers with his own and lets himself be scented and doesn’t seem to mind Jaskier pushing his wet nose into his skin. Then he breathes deep, and Jaskier feels him open his mouth again.

“You killed it”, Geralt says, and he sounds confused, sounds like he’s saying something wrong, “Hmm, I didn’t think..”

It’s unusual for the alpha, but he stops mid-sentence. Jaskier knows it’s because he was going to say something along the lines of ‘I didn’t think you had it in you’.

It’s rude, in a way, but Jaskier doesn’t mind. He has a lot of things inside himself not even he knows about.

“You did well”, the alpha says, instead, and instantly Jaskier feels his eyes burn again. He is not going to cry now, though. He just stopped, and he is comfortable like this, in this ridiculous position. His back is going to be in agony once he moves, he knows. He sighs into the alpha’s skin, feels sleep skitter the edge of his thoughts, “Thank you”

Chapter Text

In the strong light of early morning, Jaskier feels like he has not slept. The sun beats into his eyes, into the corners of his brain which are heavy and wounded, still shuddering with fear and shock. He turns and looks at Geralt, busy eating a quite stale loaf of bread. The alpha is there, he tells himself. He is there and he is alive and he did not die. He tells his heart to calm down, tells his breathing to slow, closes his eyes and resists the urge to press his fingers against them harshly. Geralt would notice, then, that something is wrong, that he is still upset, that he is a fool.

He looks down at his own hands, at the bread that is in them. He is not hungry. It is a disgrace, for him, to have food in his hands and not eat it, to be so spoiled he lets such a gift go to waste. He berates himself for it, but he does not eat, just swallows dryly and drinks some water to soothe his raw throat.

Yesterday, Jaskier had gone back to their camp to get their stuff and their horses. He’d trekked through the woods alone in the dying sun, breathed deep and hard and tried not to think about how he had left his alpha alone. How he had left him hurt and covered in blood and how the man might not be there when he comes back. How he might get lost on his way back.

He was being hysterical, he told himself. He was being what an omega is, a fretting worrysome being, sensitive to a point of irritation. He was irritating, he knew. He knew it and the alpha knew it as well, though he had not said it.

So Jaskier had straightened his back and gone into the woods alone, returned alone as well. The horses seemed happy to see him, seemed relieved if horses can seem so. He’d been worried about Roach coming with him, but the stallion seemed to know where it was being led, and came willingly.

Geralt had said he has a concussion, Jaskier remembers, grips his bread harder. It starts to break apart in his hands, and so he softens his grip. Turns and wraps it back into the cloth it was covered with. Geralt raises an eyebrow at him from a few feet away.

“Is it bad?”, the alpha asks, like there is something that could be wrong with food that is not spoiled, like Jaskier is not being a little pathetic bitch by refusing to eat his breakfast. He’s acting like a child after being scolded. The omega swallows dryly, drinks some more water.

“I’m not hungry”, Jaskier says, cringes at his own words. It’s a terrible thing to say when offered food, a terrible thing to say while being fed. Geralt should be angry. Jaskier opens his mouth, can’t get any words out for a moment, and then gets them all at once, “I mean, I’m grateful for the food, I’ll eat. I’m sorry, I’ll e...”

“Jaskier”, Geralt says, voice loud. He looks deep into Jaskier when the omega meets his eyes, frowns at him. There’s blood in his hair. It’s a different color now, a deep brown in some places, and a wine red in others. It makes Jaskier want to look away, “You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to. There will be food later”

 Jaskier swallows, almost chokes with how tight his throat feels. He looks at the grass next to his knees until he feels a bit better, until he feels like he can look at the witcher without cringing.

Geralt has a concussion. He said so himself. Jaskies worries about that, closes his eyes again and then opens them forcefully. He has to get it together. He has to. He has been enough of a burden, enough of a nuisance. He’d cried onto the witcher yesterday, burrowed into him until his back ached so much he had to move. He’d done the same thing in the evening, after the witcher had tried to get up and swayed on his feet, when he’d looked like he was going to fall over once again. Geralt had looked at him with wide eyes then, childish confusion swimming in them, and said ‘I’ve got a concussion. I haven’t had a concussion in twenty years’.

So Jaskier had fretted, and fretted some more, frowned and sweated with fear until he was pale and trembling. He had gone alone to their camp to get their things, and after they’d eaten he’d laid next to the witcher. He’d laid next to him because he was not able to stop himself. He had to feel the man moving, to feel him breathing and twitching and moving in his sleep. Had to be close enough to sense his heart beating.

And so he did. He inched forward until he was impossible to ignore, until he was so close he was almost sticking to the other man, and Geralt had drawn him in. There were no words, because Jaskier did not know what to say, did not know any words. He just knew how to listen and feel, relish in every single sign of the man next to him being alive and well.

And so they’d slept like that, close in a way they’d never been before, close in a way that Jaskier had thought he’d never want to be with anyone again. Once again, he is a fool, he knows.

He makes promises to himself that he can never keep.

“Alright”, Geralt says, stands easily like he was not so unsteady on his feet just the night before, looks at Jaskier until the omega stands as well. The alpha packs the rest of the bread, puts it into Roach’s bags, reaches down and takes off the bandage on his arm. Jaskier opens his mouth, closes it again. Swallows his words. He needs to keep his mouth in check, needs to keep his thoughts for himself. He has no right to tell the alpha what to do. If the man wants to take off his bandages he is free to do so.

Jaskier walks around their pathetic excuse for a camp, takes the one fur he had dragged out of their bags the previous evening, packs it back up. There isn’t anything else to take, besides Geralt’s swords. Jaskier watches as the man lugs them onto his back, watches as he mounts his horse, frowns up at him from the ground.

“What about the imitator?”, Jaskier asks, weary. If Geralt has forgotten about it like it seems he has, he might not be doing as good as he seems to be. A just-buried panic claws at Jaskier’s chest.

“What?”

“The...Don’t you need its head?”, Jaskier asks. He doesn’t like it, that Geralt usually cuts the heads off of monsters after he slays them in order to collect his payment, but he gets why it’s done that way. Anyone can say they went into the woods and killed a monster, but only few can prove it. A head makes it pretty clear who did the job, “I’ll...I’ll go cut it”

Jaskier reaches for his belt, feels for his dagger with shaky fingers. Geralt doesn’t forget things. He doesn’t. He is silent and he is brooding but he is sharp and he sees everything. He does not forget to collect a monsters head.

“Jaskier, wait”, Geralt says when Jaskier turns his back to him, turns in the direction where the doppler’s body lays. Jaskier does not want to cut the creature’s head, does not want to look at its body again. It seems like enough of a crime that he has taken its life, “There’s no need”

“But the lord..”

“We’re not going back to the castle”, Geralt says, frowns at Jaskier like he thought he’d known this already. Jaskier wonders if he is the only one that hit his head, “We’re just leaving. Get on the horse”

It’s an order, a rare one in a sea of gentle words, and so Jaskier instantly listens. He gets onto his gelding, feels his chest ache from where he hit it yesterday. He looks at the witcher as the man starts to ride, abandoning the whole mess that was their home for the last day, can’t help but speak.

“But the money”, Jaskier says quietly as they leave the small clearing, as they leave the imitator and its home behind. If Jaskier was a better man, if he was a stronger one, he would have buried it. But he is not, “What about the money?”

“The money isn’t important”, Geralt says, but Jaskier can hear the frown in his voice. The money is important. They never have enough, because they keep spending it on Jaskier. The omega feels a pit opening in his stomach, feels guilt clawing at him, “We can’t go back to the castle”

“It’s because of me”, Jaskier says, a bit breathless. He can’t believe it. He can’t fucking believe it. He thinks if he was Geralt he would have kicked his hideous omegan self off his back a long time ago. He thinks Geralt is a good man. A better man. Or not a man at all, truth be told, “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, Geralt, please, I’ll be b...”

“Jaskier”, Geralt says, stops talking when his horse breaks onto a road. He lets the stallion takes a few steps and then pulls it to stop, watches Jaskier intently as his gelding also climbs onto the road. Waits until Jaskier finds the strength to look at him, eyes gold and hair red. He doesn’t look angry, not at all, not even a little bit, “Listen to me. I’ll chose you being safe, us both being safe over five hundred crowns any time. Do you understand?”

“Yes”, Jaskier says. He does not understand. He lowers his eyes because he cannot stand to look at the witcher any longer, can not stand the weight of his own guilt anymore. It is a terrible, heavy thing, and it drags on the ground behind him. He doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Alright”, Geralt says, done with the conversation, loosens the reigns again until Roach starts walking. Jaskier follows, right next to the witcher. He would say something more if he had anything to say, if there was anything that could make this better, “I have to tell you something else. But I’m not angry. Repeat it”

“You’re.. not angry”, Jaskier mumbles, feels weird saying it. Geralt looks at him meaningfully, seemingly trying to speak with his eyes.

“I’m not. What, hmmm, what happened yesterday, when you came after me. It can’t happen again”, Geralt looks at him, and when Jaskier opens his mouth to say whatever dumb thing was on his mind, he speaks right over him, “It can never happen again. We could have both died”

“I’m so...”, Jaskier speaks, just because he knows he should, just because it’s instinct. He hasn’t even processed the witcher’s words yet.

“What did I say?”, Geralt cuts him off, tone serious and stiff, “What did I say before?”

“That you’re.... not angry?”

“Yes. What else?”

“That what happened yesterday can never happen again”, Jaskier says, swallows, feels his throat tight and strained. He doesn’t like the witcher like this, cold and commanding.

Jaskier grips the reigns so tight they cut into his skin, grips them even tighter. He needs to fucking get it together. All of this is his fault.

All of this is his fucking fault and he knows it, and Geralt knows it too, and he isn’t even yelling. Isn’t even doing anything, is still riding and talking like normal. Jaskier knows, really knows, this time, that he is not going to be punished for this.

In some twisted, terrible way, that makes it worse.

“Yes”, the witcher says and humms. He brings a hand up, tries to run it through his hair but can’t, just kind of twitches and gives up. Bloody hair is a terrible thing, Jaskier knows. It itches and it stings and he wishes it was his head that was bloody instead of Geralt’s. If he was the one that was hurt instead of the witcher he thinks he would feel just a tiny bit better, just a tiny bit less guilty.

Just a tiny bit less like he wishes Geralt would whip him for his mistake. Because he deserves it.

“We’re going to travel for a few more hours”, Geralt says, unprompted. It’s unusual for him, “We’re going to a village. I’ve got a friend there”

They travel until the sun is high in the sky, travel more until it is not so. Jaskier’s ass gets sore and then goes numb, and his stomach awakens and demands food. He does not give it any notice. They don’t stop for a break, and Jaskier does not ask for one. He does not deserve it, and is content to ride as long as the witcher wants to.

He bites his tongue, as well, doesn’t say sorry or beg or do anything he wants to do. The witcher doesn’t want to hear his apologies. That much is clear. And there is no begging because there is nothing to beg for. Jaskier is used to being punished, is used to pleading and begging and scraping his knees on the ground so he does not get hit.

So what would he beg for now? Hot anger instead of cold, yelling over silent indifference, any attention in exchange for none. Jaskier thinks how it’s a terrible, terrible thing that he would take a beating over being ignored. He thinks about how this is what Kilk wanted, about how this is what he strived for. To have him so needy and cracked that he craves anything, anything to the point of violence.

Jaskier wonders if he has gone insane, then. Because his mind does not make any sense at all.

The village they do end up in is a picturesque, pretty place. It’s a lot richer than the other one they were in, is a bit bigger, as well. It is not a town, not by any means, with its last house being visible while standing on the road, but it is certainly on the bigger side.

The cottages are nice, are all mostly well kept and with neat little gardens in the front. There are a few bigger buildings, of one which Jaskier is sure is the inn, and he is sure that that is their destination until he isn’t. Geralt goes past the inn without a second glance, passes the bigger buildings and turns to the left. He looks at one cottage with interest, with remembrance. He has been here before, Jaskier thinks, surprised though there is no reason to be, though the witcher is old and experienced and though he had said that there was a friend here.

Geralt dismounts, lands on his feet a bit more heavily than he usually does. Jaskier rushes to join him, leaves his gelding and stands next to the witcher. The man looks fine, looks distracted as well. A man passes by, gives them both a curious look but doesn’t say anything. That, as well, is strange. Jaskier has noticed that in most places the people ignore Geralt, or give him dirty looks, if they don’t outright insult him.

“We’re here”, Geralt says, frowns and turns to Jaskier, “You smell like pain”

“I’m fine”, Jaskier says, feels a shot of embarrassment go through him. Geralt, with his head bashed in, is worried about him. Jaskier swallows, lies, “I’m just stiff. Are you dizzy?”

“Lets go in”, the witcher says, looks from Jaskier and onto the cottage. He is eager to go in, to pass the low fence and go to the cottage. To the right, there is a garden. It is wonderful, full of vegetables and flowers alike. He looks at it longingly as Geralt goes in, takes Roach with him. They tether the horses at a tree in the corner, and when Jaskier looks up he sees that it is an apple tree. The fruit is big and rich, weighing the branches down heavily. Jaskier has a strong urge to reach a hand up and take one, bite into it almost straight from the tree.

He does not. He has some manners.

This cottage seems a tad older than the other ones, a tad less kept. Jaskier quickens his steps in order to stand next to Geralt as he knocks on the door. He does so loudly, with a lot of force, and then stands there for a few moments before knocking again, softer this time.

The door opens, creaking on its hinges terribly, revealing a very old woman with a terrible frown on her face. She scowls at Geralt for a moment, looks almost like she is just about to tell him off but then changes her expression.

“Geralt?”, she says, confused, and her voice is just as old as she is. Jaskier looks at the cane she is holding in her hand, at her fingers wispy and skinny and strained with age, “Oh, it is you! Come give me a hug”

She steps forward with more quickness than she seems to possess, and Jaskier looks as Geralt bends down to embrace her. It’s a bizarre picture, something like a bad joke that’s come to life, a witcher and an old woman hugging. But still, they hug, like old friends, like they have known each other for an age, like they have known the world together. Jaskier watches as the withered fingers of the woman clutch at Geralt’s shoulder, as they go through his hair.

“You have not come to see me for years, you heartless prick”, is what the woman says next, her voice muffled in the witcher’s shoulder. Her voice is crackly, worn-out. The pair separates, slowly, regretfully, hold each other’s gaze for a moment, “I’m glad to see you”

“I’ve been busy, Aeda”, Geralt says, but there is a smile in his voice, on his lips. It’s faint, but it is there, even through the way the woman had spoken to him, even though she has insulted him. He looks fond, in a way Jaskier has not seen before.  

“You’re always busy”, Aeda says, frowning up at the alpha in a way that makes her whole face crinkle. She scowls at Geralt, her eyes visibly catching on his hair darkened with blood, but then her gaze slips to Jaskier. The omega resists the urge to step back. He feels like he is committing a terrible crime, intruding into something personal. Something old and soft, worn with age, “And who’s this?”

“This is Jaskier”, Geralt answers, turns so now there are two pairs on Jaskier instead of one. It’s uncomfortable, “He’s travelling with me”

The old woman blinks at Jaskier for a moment, lifts her eyebrows marginally. She looks back at Geralt, seems confused for a moment, seems surprised. She turns back to Jaskier with a smile, though.

“Well then”, she says, her eyes warm. She extends both her hands, in a weird greeting Jaskier has not seen before, “Pleased to meet you, brother omega”

Jaskier ducks his head for a moment, doesn’t know what to do. Doesn't know what to think. He remembers the villa, the rusalka, the white woman in the lake that changed his life. 'Brother omega',  she had said so tenderly, so sadly, had held his hand and offered to take his life. Jaskier remembers, and doesn't know what to think. He does know whether to regret that day. He thinks not. 

He resists the urge to look at Geralt for guidance. He is not a child. He reaches out with both hands, tentatively. The woman grasps them in her grip, squeezes them. Her hands are warm, though they shake slightly, “Nice to meet you too”

“Sister omega”, she says, seems to be correcting him when he says nothing else. She’s looking at him expectantly, still smiling, looking fond. Too fond.

“Nice to meet you, sister omega”

Chapter Text

The inside of the cottage is terribly homely. There are carpets on the floor, and see-through, rose tinted curtains on the windows. The light covers the room in a soft glow, makes the living area they have entered into seem unreal. There is a hearth, a table low to the ground and two chairs. One of them has a knitted throw on it, and there is a book of some sort on the table. There is a table obviously meant for dining on the left, though it is small, though there is some weird machine sitting on it. Jaskier frowns at it, thinks it is vaguely familiar but can’t put his finger on where he has seen one.

“Sit, sit”, Aeda says, closes the door behind them. They listen, settling around the dining table while the woman bustles around the cooking area.

“I’ll help”, Geralt says, goes to stand but stills when Aeda turns and gives him a stern look.

“You’ll sit, damned witcher. Don’t think I can’t see you bashed your head in”, Aeda says, turns back to what she was doing before. Takes two cups, pours something in it from a glass bottle. Pours water over it. Slams the cup down in front of Geralt with a little too much force, puts the other one in front of Jaskier, “What’d you do? Jump off a bridge again”

“That..That was just once”, Geralt says, looks down into his cup and brings it to his lips, “This is good”

“Of course it’s good. I made it”, Aeda says, tone of voice stern. Like she knows that Geralt is avoiding the question, like she is scolding him. Like she has done this before, many times. Stood strong, human, unfearing, scolding a witcher.

She is an omega, Jaskier thinks, and it is obvious now that he knows. She is short, petite in a way only some omega women are. Her hair is pure white, and in a long braid that hangs down her back. There is a very faint, very hard to notice smell of flowers floating through the room. It’s calming.

She is omega, and she is very old. So old. The oldest Jaskier has ever seen. He has the insane urge to drag her to the side, to question her. About how old she is, and about how dare she. About how she is so confident and so brash and how she so easily looks an alpha like Geralt in the eyes. About how she has survived for so long.

He brings the cup to his lips instead. Drinks. It’s sweet, and it’s tingly, and it’s mint juice and that makes Jaskier very sad. He used to make mint juice with his mom, back when the summers were long and warm and they still had time for such frivolous things.

“It was a doppler”, Geralt answers some question Jaskier didn’t hear.

“You let a doppler bash your head in?”, the woman asks, unimpressed. She fiddles with some dish, her back to them. Takes two plates and serves something onto them. Puts one in front of Geralt and one in front of Jaskier.

“I thought it was a leshy”

“Because those two are so similar”, Aeda says, sits with them. She seems smaller when she is sitting.

“I was distracted”, Geralt says, takes a bite of the pie the woman had served them with. Jaskier looks down at his lap, suddenly ashamed. It is his fault, and he can’t forget that, “It wasn’t acting like a regular doppler”

“You’re lucky Lambie isn’t here right now. He’d never shut up about it”

“You’re going to tell him anyways”, Gerals says, but it lacks the bite he obviously wants to express. He loves this woman, Jaskier thinks. He is all soft, his usually rough edges filed down. It’s sweet, in a strange way, to see him like this. Jaskier has known, for a while, that the witcher had people that cared about him. He didn’t think he’d get to meet them, though.

“I am”, Aeda says, gives a smile too wicked for someone her age, “You missed him by just a few days, you know”

“Lambert was here?”, Geralt says, looks somehow disappointed, “When’s he coming back?”

“I don’t know. He went down south, for a kikimore I think”, she says, looks at Geralt for a moment longer and then she is looking at Jaskier, “Eat your pie, dear. It’s cheese pie, made yesterday”

Jaskier looks down, and indeed there is cheese pie there. It looks terribly tasty, homemade. His mouth salivates at the sight of it, and he swallows. Brings the plate closer to himself. His stomach reawakens, reminds him that he has no eaten since dinner the previous evening. He takes a bite.

“Is it good?”

“It’s very good”, Jaskier says, takes another bite because he can not contain himself. He has not eaten something this nicely made, this homely in a very long time. The diet of the road is not the most appetizing one, though he is hardly one to complain about any food, “Thank you”

“Oh, you’re a dear”, Aeda says, and she is smiling at him again. Smiling like she has known him for long, like she knows things he does not. Jaskier is sure she does.

“Is he going to be back at Kaer Morhen for the winter?”, Geralt interjects. Jaskier frowns at his plate. He has never heard of that town before.

“I don’t know. Probably”, she shrugs, “You know our Lambie has had a hard time choosing where to go ever since I got too old for the path”

That seems to be a sore point of conversation for the duo, and Geralt busies himself with his plate. Jaskier thinks that he is doing that so that he does not have to speak. Aeda asks him is he wants another slice of the pie after he finishes his plate, but the witcher shakes his head at the offer.

“A bath, then”, she says, smiles at him. It’s a weird smile, especially for a face as wrinkled as hers, but on her it looks natural, “It’d do you good. You stink”

Jaskier tenses in his chair, pie halfway to his lips. He looks at Geralt.

He expects to see the man angry, to see him irritated, at the least. He sees none of that. Instead, the witcher nods, brings a hand up to touch his soiled hair once again. It seems to be irritating him a grave deal.

“That’d be great. In the bedroom?”, he asks, gets up when the omega woman nods. Quickly, he dissappears into the only other room the cottage has.

Jaskier looks at the plate, looks at the machine just to his right. It is a sewing machine, he recognizes finally, drags that knowledge out from the dregs of his memory. He used to see those a lot, back in his day. Back when he was a bard and he wore expensive clothes, doublets and pants colorful and made of silk. He blinks at it, confused to find one here, in the middle of nowhere.

“And you and I, dear, are going to the garden to pick what we need for dinner”, Aeda says, snaps him out of his thoughts. Jaskier watches as the witcher carries the wooden tub from the other room and into the living area, deposits it onto the floor carefully. Jaskier is pretty sure those weigh a ton.

The garden is magnificent, Jaskier thinks, as he picks some tomatoes and puts them in the bag Aeda gave him. There are many different vegetables there, cucumbers and potatoes and green leafy things that Jaskier does not know the name of. He is sure they are delicious, though.

Jaskier terribly wants to bite into a tomato the color of cherries that he is holding. He holds back though. That would not be very polite.

Aeda works tirelessly, despite her age. She seems to glow in the late afternoon sun, looks younger. Jaskier is happy, to see her so unburdened by her age and by the weight of her life. He wonders what type of life she had. He is too nervous to ask.

“Geralt likes you”

It’s unexpected, and Jaskier brings his head up from where he had it buried in a tomato blossom. He looks at the old woman, but she is not looking at him.

“What?”

“I said Geralt likes you”, she says, pauses in ripping some weed from where it’s growing right next to her strawberries. Jaskier hopes she will let him have some. He loves strawberries, “No one ever travels with him”

“I..Geralt helped me”, Jaskier says, stops. He does not know what to say, how to explain it. There are a lot of things to be said, but none of them he wants to say out loud, to let them out and into this gorgeous summer day. They would rot all the green, he thinks. They would eclipse the sun.

“He’s always been a good man”, Aeda says, shakes her head. She’s still looking at the ground, “Be a dear and go fetch me a mattock. There’s one just inside”

And so Jaskier goes, swallowing all of the questions he has for the other omega. He feels light, here in this garden, here in this village, where everything is so pretty.  Where everything is peaceful and people grow strawberries in their gardens. The door opens easily when he pushes it, and he steps inside. Looks left and then right, blinks at what is a very naked witcher taking a bath.

“Sorry”, he says, averts his eyes. He looks at the ground, sees the mattock right there. The culprit. Picks it up, “I’ll get out right now”

“Jask, wait”, Geralt says, does something that makes the water splash. He sounds normal, sounds like he always does, sounds like he is not naked just a few feet away, “Can you get me something from my bag?”

Jaskier swallows, looks at the garden outside and at Aeda working in it, looks at the mattock in his hand. Puts it down. Turns back to Geralt. He’s still naked.

The witcher is sitting in the bath with his back turned to Jaskier, arms resting on the side of it. His hair is loose now, spilling over his back.  

“Yeah”, he says, too late, rushes to get to the man’s bags. Crouches next to them, opens one. Digs a hand into it, touches something that is crumbling. 

“The other one”, Geralt says, splashes again but Jaskier isn’t looking so he doesn’t see, “There’s oil in a little vial. For my hair”

Jaskier pulls his hand out, looks at it. It's covered in dried grass, spotted over his skin. it's making a mess, and he frowns at it, rubs his hand off of his pants. Opens the bag so he can look at the offending object better. He should clean this, maybe, probably, even though he usually doesn't touch Geralt's bags. 

It's dried daisies. 

“For the blood?”, Jaskier asks, has to say something so the witcher doesn't ask him what he's staring into his bag for. Lets the first bag drop and reaches for the other one.  Finds what Geralt is looking for. Turns to him. Looks him in the eyes, and nowhere else.

There's dried daisies in the man's bag, soiling the bottom of it and ruining everything around them, corroding it. Splattering white and green all around themselves, marking their presence. Even when they are gone it will be obvious that they were present. But now is not the time to think about that, Jaskier tells himself. Has to repeat it.

“Yeah”, Geralt says, shakes his head like he just remembered the sensation of his matted locks, “To soften it”

“Warm water is best”, Jaskier says, stands. Walks the two steps to Geralt and offers the vial he is holding. The man takes it, his hand damp. Jaskier looks at his own feet, at his shoes which the witcher bought him, at his own pants which are starting to rip at the bottom, looks back at the witcher. The man is naked, and he is dangerous. He is a dangerous man with daisies in his travelling bags. That means nothing. Nothing. But Jaskier has a big mouth, and he cannot keep it shut, “You want some help?”

Just like he is dangerous, the witcher is gorgeous.

“With my hair?”

“With your hair”

“Sure”, Geralt says, watches with curious eyes as Jaskier steps closer and then crouches next to the wooden tub. It is old, and it is dark, and it is too small for the witcher. His legs are bent at the knees, barely fitting inside the water. Jaskier sees a washcloth hung on the side of the tub, takes it. Dips it into the water until it is drenched.  Keeps his eyes on his hands, on Geralt’s hands. Geralt is holding the glass vial in one of his hands, fiddling with it. He flips it with his fingers, looks at it and then leans over to put it on the ground next to the tub. His chest flexes terribly as he moves. Threateningly. Then he looks at Jaskier.

The man in naked, and he is in the tub, and his hand is right there, and if he just moved he could drag Jaskier into the water with him. Could hold him there. Could drown him, even.

Jaskier feels like he has been doused in freezing water, like he has been roughly woken.

Jaskier watches his hand tremble as he lifts it out of the water, too warm to not be heated. Watches the witcher watch it too, with his eyes glinting in the dim light. His pupils look wild in the late afternoon, look feral.

Jaskier presses the washcloth to the witcher’s head, right where the blood is. Forces his hand to still. He is a fool. He is a fool and he is hopeless and he is the dumbest person he has ever laid eyes on. He gives himself too much credit, to be able to do this, to trust himself and the alpha and to trust this damned village.

He kneels next to a naked alpha and thinks about his fate, thinks about his decisions. Wonders how he always makes the worst ones.

He does not look at the water. He doesn’t.

“Jaskier”, Geralt says, sounds weird, sounds like he is going to say something else. Something Jaskier doesn’t want to hear.

“What’s Kaer Morhen?”, he says, says and then gulps, almost swallows his tongue. Looks at the witcher’s eyes and then away, looks at his hand holding the cloth to the man’s head, looks at the water dripping down his neck.

There’s a moment where it seems like Geralt is going to ignore him and say what he originally intended to, and Jaskier blinks under the fiery pressure of the man’s gaze. He does not want to be seen, here, right now, doing this. Trembling, body and soul.

He is scared, but he is not, at the same time. He is and idiot, and he does not understand, himself and the witcher and this place. Does not understand his life, his nature. Does not understand how he came here, how he is kneeling on the hard wood floor, holding a wet cloth to an alpha’s head. He thinks he is insane, to do this. He is insane.

The alpha isn’t touching him.

He must be insane, too, then.

“It’s a witcher school”, Geralt says, finally, after what feels like an age, an eternity. Jaskier feels some tension leave the man’s body, sees him relax more fully into the water. He takes the rag and wets it again, presses it into the man’s hair and makes sure to wet the area well, “It was a witcher school. We go there, in the winter”

“Is it nice?”, Jaskier asks, because he does not know what to say, and because Kaer Morhen is not a town like he thought, but something else. Something full of ghosts.

Geralt swallows, and Jaskier’s eyes catch on the movement. The apple of his throat moves quickly, disappears into the skin. The man’s got a pretty neck. Some hair sticks to it, and Jaskier wants to reach out and move it, reach out and touch, for a moment. Just for a moment before he realizes what he is thinking about, feels his hand start to shake once more. Hides it by wetting the rag once more, taking some soap and rubbing it into the fabric until it foams up.

“It’s freezing in the winter. Up in the mountains”, Geralt says, but that is not an answer. Jaskier nods, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at the witcher.

“It’s a ruin. Some towers have fallen. Some hallways are sealed off”, Geralt says, speaks unprompted. Does what he never does and offers parts of himself.  He talks in an angry tone, a tone of lying. A tone Jaskier hears himself using often. It’s familiar, “There’s a risk of a stone falling on your head”

“You go every year”, Jaskier says, ignores the urge to smile because that would be dangerous, because he is not that much of a daredevil, rubs around a bit the witcher’s head with the rag. He thinks he feels some of the blood dissolving, thinks he feels the strands coming apart under the fabric. Lifts it to check.

“I have nowhere else to go”, Geralt says, and it sounds terrible. It sounds lonely and it sounds pathetic and Jaskier knows it and the witcher knows it too. Jaskier soaps up one hand and uses it to rub at the man’s head. Red stains his fingers.

“You could stay in an inn”, Jaskier says, but it is a lie.

“It’s expensive”, Gerals says, but that also is not the truth. It is expensive, Jaskier knows, but that is not the reason. Jaskier lies to himself, and the witcher does as well. It’s a good thing to know, Jaskier thinks as he uses the rag to drip some water onto the bloody hair. It’s unravelling messily but marvelously.

“I have to wet your head”, Jaskier says, looks around and sees a cup on the low table of the living room. Takes it and dips it into the water, pours it onto the witcher’s hair carefully. Does it once more, then soaps up both his hands. Buries them in the white hair on the man’s head. Thinks about how Geralt lets him touch his head so freely when he himself doesn’t let anyone do it.

The hair is soft, and it is long so Jaskier picks up more of it onto the witcher’s head to soap it up. It feels nice, to touch it like this, to touch him like this. To touch someone so freely, so nicely, so gently. Touch someone without pain, without fear, without expectations.

Wash someone else’s hair.

Jaskier blinks, curses his eyes for burning needlessly, scrubs Geralt’s head with a bit more vigour. Wets his hands so he can do it better, looks at the witcher for a moment. His eyes are closed, like he is enjoying himself, like he is relaxed, like his guard is down. He looks soft now, like he never does, like he is not someone who carries big swords and wears armour and sleeps on the hard ground most nights. He looks like he likes taking warm baths and getting his hair washed for him.

Geralt opens his eyes a crack, looks at Jaskier. His eyes are yellow and they are muted and they are stunning and there is water dripping down his chin and onto his chest. It rolls from his forehead and into the man’s eyes, makes him squint and blink, rolls down over his cheekbones and to his ear. His cheeks are a bit pink, a bit colorful, and bit more alive than they are, usually. His lips are brighter, too, pinker, and they move as the man speaks.

“What?”, he asks, looks just like a house cat lazing around the porch, has the tiniest frown between his eyebrows. Jaskier feels his lips twitch, shakes his head lightly.

“Nothing”, he responds, brings his hands out of the water and onto the witcher’s head once again.

Chapter Text

Jaskier gets his strawberries. For breakfast, there is oatmeal with fruit, strawberries and apples and cinnamon. It’s warm and Jaskier watches Aeda as she drizzles honey into his portion and he holds the bowl with care and treasures every bite. It’s heavenly.

Jaskier eats his oatmeal and blinks his sleep away, wonders where the witcher is. Wonder why is he not here with them, sitting at the dining table, eating. Jaskier drinks some juice too, the same one as yesterday, feels it prickle his throat.

“You like strawberries?”, Aeda asks over her bowl, looks at Jaskier with her curious, old eyes. Jaskier knows not what to think of her, feels all mushy and sleepy inside in a way he usually does not. It’s the smell of another omega in his space, he knows. It’s the safety, the familiarity, the closeness. Though they do not know each other, Jaskier knows that this woman is not going to hurt him.

There is very little in this life that he knows, but he knows that omegas are not his enemies. They are friends, when they are able to be, when no one is watching, when no one is listening. Like now.

“Yes”, Jaskier says, takes another bite of his breakfast.

Omegas are not his enemy, but this woman is strange. She is bold and strong and she looks at the witcher and does not lower her eyes. She speaks to him like she would to an equal, to an old friend, to someone who she knows would never do her harm.

Jaskier wonders if she is brave. He thinks she is terribly brave, and terribly foolish.

“Geralt went to the market. He needs herbs”, the woman continues, answers a question Jaskier didn’t ask though he wished to. She drinks her juice, and Jaskier watches her throat bob with the motion. Her skin looks like it could rip just from the movement, like it could just crumble open, “He’s going to use my kitchen to cook those damned potions of his”

“Potions?”, Jaskier blurts, can’t help himself. He’s fed and he’s safe and he’s sitting with another omega. It’s hard to keep his mouth shut.

“Yes. His little vials”, Aeda says, frowns at him like he just said something stupid, “Has he laid off them a bit? He should do that”

Jaskier blinks at the woman sitting opposite of him, blinks at his hand which is holding his cup. Lets the mint shock his throat. Looks at her again. He wants to ask but doesn’t know if he should. He’s seen Geralt fiddling with the little vials that he carries in one of his bags, seen him carefully thumbing them and checking the glass for cracks. Counting them. He’s never dared to ask about it, has never dared to ask about a number of things.

Like about the necklace the man wears. It was not there when the man was bathing, but Jaskier is sure it was somewhere close. It’s like the witcher’s swords, like his daggers, like his armour. Always on his person. Only that one of those things is not like the others. The necklace has no purpose. No apparent one, anyways.

“You don’t know”, Aeda deadpans, suddenly, looks at Jaskier with eyes that are younger than their years. The smile leaves her face, and without it she’s all made of hard lines. Old and terribly strong. Terribly seeing. Jaskier looks away.

“Is Lambert a witcher?”, Jaskier asks, because that is important, and because it changes the topic. Because the woman blinks and then leans back, looks at him with different eyes. She is intrigued.

Jaskier is intrigued too. He would have asked Geralt, had he dared, but he did not. Prodding about the winter abode of the witchers was enough for one day.

“Yes”

“And he is...?”, Jaskier starts, bold. Asks a question without asking one. He is prodding, and he is being rude, being unruly. He is being curious. More than what is advisable.

“He is my mate”, Aeda says, simply, keeps a straight face while looking at Jaskier. She is not joking. Jaskier knows little about this woman, about how she acts, but he knows that she is not joking.

She is a witcher’s mate. Jaskier feels chills go down his spine, feels his thoughts all splinter and mix together.

At once, he wishes he was not sitting here in this cozy cottage. He wishes he was outside, somewhere far away, somewhere he can understand. He wishes Geralt was here, so he can look at him for guidance, so he can keep his mouth shut and let the witcher talk.

Jaskier feels the door at his back keenly, feels like a witcher is going to walk through it while he isn’t looking, is going to come in without him noticing. Thinks that he is going to be nothing like Geralt, that he is going to be just like Jaskier thought witchers are like before.

He looks at Aeda, though, looks at her with wild and unseeing eyes, doesn’t understand. Her mate is a witcher but she is here, looking at him with stuborness in her gaze.

“What?”, she says, looks somewhat offended, looks annoyed. There is a deep frown between her eyebrows, and it looks like it was carved into her face with a knife. Her mouth presses into a thin line, dissaproving, and then she opens her mouth again.

Aeda’s mate is a witcher but she talks to Geralt like he is one of her own, like he is at her level, like he is an omega, even. Jaskier feels terror zip up his spine just at the thought. Saying something like that aloud could get both Aeda and him burned alive. He is going to keep it forever inside of himself.

Jaskier opens his mouth and feels the fresh air rush inside, closes it again with a click. Swallows. He has nothing to say. He has nothing to say.

He thinks about how it must be to mated to a regular alpha, thinks about how horrible it is. He has seen it, in the eyes of the omegas of countless towns and villages, in their bodies and their clothes and their silent death. Then he thinks about how much it worse it must be to be mated to an alpha witcher.

Then he thinks of Geralt. Blinks, confused.

“What? You think me too old, to be mated to a witcher?”, Aeda says, her jaw clenched. She looks angry, in a silent way. In a dangerous way. Jaskier gapes at her words.

“No!”, he says, feels the word leave him in something like a yelp. He takes a big gulp of air and tries to calm himself, tries to make some order of his thoughts, of his emotions. It’s a futile effort.

“Then what?”, Aeda says, and her glance is steely. Jaskier wants out of this room, out of this house, out of his skin. He has never wanted to escape the pressence of another omega like he does right now. It’s a strange feeling. Aeda is old and she cannot hurt him, but she is a predator. He is afraid.

There is a silence, for a moment, brief like the calm before a storm. Jaskier tries to breathe. Then, he watches as Aeda smiles. Her teeth are all there, all perfect, all white like the snow. Unnerving on such an old face. Too sharp, too. Sharp like they could bite if they wanted to.

“You think Lambert is a bad mate. You think witchers are bad mates. Bad people”, she says, calm. Like she has said this same thing a hundred times before. Like she has gotten into fights over it time and time again, like it is an old wound that has scabbed over one too many times. She looks at Jaskier like he is a pest under her shoe. Like he is a cockroach in the corner of her kitchen that she is going to crush with a spoon, “Does Geralt know you think of him that way?”

Jaskier thinks his head is going to burst. He thinks his fingers are going to break, from how hard he is squeezing them together, that the vein in his forehead is going to crack open and spill blood into his lap. He thinks that that would resolve some of the pressure he is feeling in his head.

He is looking at Aeda, who is looking at him like he is a horrible, terrible person and she knows it. Like he knows it too. It’s not helping, so he rips his eyes away. Looks down, at his lap, at his legs which are tense like he is going to start running at any second. He might.

He closes his eyes, breathes. Once, twice. Brings his head back up. Looks at the table, at one of Aeda’s hands which is gripping the table. Her knuckles are white.

“You mated... Willing?”

His voice is low, is almost a whisper, but still it rings like he is shouting. As soon as the words leave his lips, as they enter the space between him and the other omega, Jaskier knows he has said the wrong thing.

Aeda’s face looks like a storm, and Jaskier flinches. He has to get out, right now. He stands up abruptly, not hearing the harsh scraping sound his chair makes as he does so. Turns to the door and doesn’t even know what he is doing, doesn’t even know what he has done before he is standing outside in the sun.

He trips over the doorway and almost falls down, but manages to catch himself. Bursts into the front yard, feels the sun hit his face bright and warm. Closes his eyes, feels the sunshine on his eyelids.

Aeda willingly mated a witcher, he thinks, is forced to think because he cannot think anything else.

When he opens his eyes he sees the horses idling about in the yard. It is fenced in, however poorly, and the animals are trained enough not to make a run for it. Jaskier watches as his gelding makes his way to him, snorting once he is close. The horse doesn’t stop once he nears Jaskier, but almost plows into him head first.

Jaskier looks at the horse’s light colored hair as it nuzzles into his chest. He brings a hand up to rest on the animal’s neck. He thinks, then, that he is going to name the gelding Butter.

Aeda willingly mated an alpha, he thinks and rubs Butter’s neck, watches as his hair shines like gold in the sun. Feels the horse snort into his stomach.

Behind him, Jaskier hears steps but he does not turn around. It is childish and it is weak but it is what it is. He does not care. Not right now. He just lets the gelding comfort him. He feels his lip twitch at the thought. A fucking horse is comforting him.

“You left your breakfast, dear”, Aeda says, and she sounds different. Sounds queter, sounds weaker. Sounds like she does not know what to say, “There are more strawberries, if you want. I’ll wash them for you”

Bribed with strawberries, Jaskier thinks. Isn’t that fucking pathetic. A bit too pathetic, if you ask him. He lets his hand wonder down the curve of Butter’s neck and onto his spine. He is silk-soft. Geralt must have brushed him while Jaskier was sleeping.

“You know, it’s rude to make an old woman stand around like this. My legs hurt”, Aeda says then, her voice full of the notes of a lie. Jaskier turns his head to look at her, still petting his horse. She gives him a weak smile, “I’m sorry dear. Please come inside”

And Jaskier considers not listening, considers staying out here in the sun, in the breeze. It is comfortable, and it is calming, and he would like to do that very much. Aeda is old and she has no way to force him to come inside, has no punishment to dish out to him besides lack of food. And he can deal with that.

But Aeda is an omega, and she looks at him with kind eyes once again. She looks like an old woman, soft and worn. Jaskier doesn’t want to be a brat, doesn’t want to cause unnecesary strain between them. And he wants his strawberries, as well.

So he pats Butter goodbye and lets go of him, turns back towards the house. Aeda’s smile widens as he steps towards her, and she turns back into the house.

The inside is just as it always is, very cozy. Nothing like Jaskier almost had a nervous breakdown inside the very room a minute ago. Jaskier sits back in his chair, feels like he has run five miles instead of walked a few steps. His heart is trying to beat out of his chest.

He watches Aeda with wary eyes as she takes his glass and pours more juice in it, puts it back on the table. Jaskier drinks half of it in one gulp, feels the smooth water scrape his throat.

“Times have changed. I forget that sometimes”, Aeda says, and Jaskier frowns at her even though she has her back turned to him. She is busying herself with washing more strawberries. It seems like she is trying to find something to do with her hands, something to keep her on her feet and away from Jaskier, “When I was young..well, it doesn’t matter. What I wanted to say is..”

But it does matter. It matters terribly so.

“Tell me”, Jaskier cuts the other omega off. He needs to know. This is the oldest woman he has ever seen and he needs to know, “I want to know”

Aeda freezes in her movements, and then she turns around. Her eyes are sad.

“I was born in a village close to Kaer Morhen. It was cold, up there, but we thrived because of the school. Whatever the witcher’s couldn’t grow themselves they bought from us, and it was decent living”, Aeda says, and it is not what Jaskier wants to hear, but he listens still. The old woman sits down, takes her own glass into her hands but does not drink, “The boys from the school would come down to the village, when they were old enough. To buy things, to have fun. They would often mingle with the younsters. And with the omegas”

“Is that how you met..”

“Yes, that’s how I met Lambert. Some other girls were too scared to talk to the witcher boys, but I was not. They were a handsome bunch, you know. Tall and yellow-eyed. I liked that”, Aeda smiles, smiles like she is young. Smiles like she is sixteen and has a crush, “Lambert was confident, and he made me laugh, and he came down from the school to see me every chance he got. We fell in love”

Jaskier blinks, blinks some more. He feels like there is sand in his eyes, like he needs to wash it out with soapy water. He must be insane.

Omegas don’t fall in love with alphas. What is there to love?

“Love?”, Jaskier says before he even thinks about it. He grips his glass for dear life. Takes a deep gulp of the juice and almost chokes on it.

“Yes, love. You asked me how it was before. We could mate who we wanted. We could love who we wanted”, Aeda says, and she sounds sincere, she sounds like she is telling the truth but it can’t be. It can’t fucking be, “My parents weren’t too happy about Lambert being a witcher, of course. But they didn’t stop me from being with him”

Aeda keeps eye contact, and she looks so earnest Jaskier can’t take it. He looks down, at his own lap. Closes his eyes and then opens them. He thinks he is going to get a nasty headache.

“Jaskier, I’m sorry for how I reacted earlier. I forget how omegas...are treated now. I forget how things are”, she sighs, and at once she sounds as old as she is, “You.... were you hurt by alphas?”

Without his consent Jaskier looks up and at Aeda. He should say something, but he does not. He thinks his teeth are going to crack from how hard he is clenching his jaw.

“Oh, dear”, Aeda says, and her voice rings true. She reaches across the table, waits for Jaskier to give her his hand. Then she squeezes, stronger than Jaskier expected, “Oh dear, I’m so sorry”

Chapter Text

Jaskier gets to have a bath. The water is warm, not hot and steaming like Geralt’s was, but nonetheless it is warm. Jaskier has not had a warm bath in so long that it feels like never. That this feels like a wonder, like a miracle.

He thinks that Aeda offered him a bath because she felt bad, because she felt guilty. He hugs his knees, looks at the door leading from the woman’s room and into the living room, closed but not locked because there is no lock. He sits the wrong way in the bath, his head where it is obvious he should put his legs, because Aeda said no one would come in but that doesn’t matter. He has to see.

He has to see because maybe Aeda’s alpha is going to come back and he is going to be angry and he is going to come into the room. He needs to see because Geralt could come in.

Jaskier looks at the soap sitting precariously on the edge of the bath, ready to fall in any second. He doesn’t care if it does. He should wash, before the water gets cold. It was a lot of work to warm it and pour it all into the bath.

Aeda’s alpha, Lambert, Geralt’s brother, could come in, but he won’t, because Aeda loves him. she loves him and she is an omega so it must mean that he is not going to come in.

Aeda loves him.

Jaskier goes to grip the edge of the tub with his hands, knocks over the soap with his left hand. It falls into the water, makes a little splash. Jaskier watches it go, for a moment, and then rips his head back up. he needs to watch the door.

Aeda loves her alpha.

Jaskier grips the bath so hard his knuckles immediately start hurting, but he does not let go. He lets his back bow, hangs his head so it almost touches the water. Faintly, he sees himself in the reflection. His eyes look insane.

Aeda must be crazy then, he thinks, almost smiles at himself. She must have taken too many hits to her head, must have lost it somewhere along the way. To live that long, in such a world, it seems dreadful. A terrifying thing, Jaskier thinks and shivers. He hopes it doesn’t happen to him.

He lets go of the tub, feels his hands smart as blood rushes back into them, dunks them into the water. He splashes the water into his face, onto his head, lets his hands run up his head until they reach hair, tugs on it slightly. And then harder.

Aeda’s not mad, he knows, watches as water drips from his nose and then back into the tub, makes small little waves erupt. Aeda’s not mad.

‘We could love who we wanted’, is what Aeda had said, and, Gods fucking help him, Jaskier trusts her. He trusts her even though he should not, even though it does not make any sense, even though he knows it is a death sentence. How can he think that and still go on living? How can he think there was a time where he could have been free, and continue living here?

How can he think that there was a time where he could love?

Jaskier grips his hair so hard he feels his eyes filling with tears. He can’t take that, not now and not ever, cannot take himself being a little snivelling omega bitch, and so he lets go of his hair and presses his hands to his face. Presses his knuckles against his eyes so hard he sees red. Blood red and bright.

Tears spill beside his fingers, though. They find a way, find a crack, find a weakness. It’s easy to find a weakness when Jaskier has so very many of them, he thinks, resists the urge to dig his nails into the soft skin of his face.

Geralt would notice, he knows, and he would ask what happened.

When Aeda was young, omegas could be with who they wanted. They were free. They were fucking free, Jaskier thinks. They were free and Jaskier is a thing to be handed over, something to use, something to break.

Gods, he can’t travel on his own, he can’t make his own money. Can’t spend it, either, not much of it. He can’t do fucking anything.

A sob starts up in his chest and climbs up, almost leaves his lips. Jaskier grips his teeth so hard it hurts and doesn’t let it. he presses his fingers into his eyes so much he has to stop, drop his hands. He hugs his knees and looks into the water, his vision blurry.

He can’t believe omegas used to live like that. Like alphas and betas. He can’t believe that there was a time where they were the same, where they were equal, where he would not have had to have spent every last second of his life fighting for something. Fighting to be heard, to be listened to, to be respected, to not be touched.

He can’t believe, refuses that there was a time when omegas didn’t have to fight for these things. Can’t believe it happened and he wasn’t there, he wasn’t fucking there. This time, a sob does escape Jaskier, and it seems to echo around the small room.

Jaskier digs his nails into his knees, closes his eyes, and thinks something terrible. Thinks that he hates the omegas that came before him, the ones that got to have the good life, the ones that let it all go do waste.

Once the water is completely cold, Jaskier lifts his head from his knees and takes the bar of soap into his hands, now completely soggy. He starts washing up.

When Jaskier finally finishes up, the sun is already high in the sky, and he is shivering. It’s not cold, not outside, at least, with the sun high and shining, but the water was cold. The water was cold and Jaskier spent a long time in it, crying and sobbing and scrubbing. It’s miserable business, really, Jaskier thinks as he gets dressed, glad to once again have something between himself and the world. He doesn’t like being naked, not really, not a for a long time.

He looks at the water still in the tub, wonders what he is supposed to do with it. There is a window in the room, and he guesses it would be easiest to drain the tub from there, but he has to ask Aeda. He leaves the room, rubs his head with his hands to get it dry sooner.

He loves the feeling of short hair under his fingers, loves being able to touch his scalp without getting his fingers tangled. It’s a bit longer now, than it was back when he cut it, but he still likes it. He’s going to cut it again, he thinks, when it gets longer. He doesn’t think Geralt is going to mind.

“Jaskier”, Geralt says, voice calm, and Jaskier almost jumps out of his skin. The alpha is in the kitchen, is basically right in front of him, but Jaskier hadn’t seen him. Not at all.  

The man is sitting at the kitchen table, cutting up some plant into very even, very careful sections. It looks like a root of some sort. It’s quite bizarre.

“Hi”, Jaskier says, hand still on his head. He drops it when Geralt looks up at him, seems distracted with what he is doing. Geralt holds his eyes for a second, resumes working, and then stops and looks back up. Seems to be studying Jaskier.

“What’s wrong?”, he asks, all of a sudden completely focused on Jaskier, and the omega feels chills go down his spine. Geralt is looking at his face, at his eyes. He looks alarmed. Too alarmed.

Jaskier guesses he pressed against his eyes a bit too hard.

“Your eyes are red”, Geralt says, moves like he is going to stand but then visibly holds himself back, keeps sitting. He turns to Jaskier, a bit, so he’s facing him.

Jaskier feels very terribly observed.

“I’m fine”, he says, resists the urge to cover his eyes so the alpha cannot see how red they are. Blinks instead. His voice sounds scratchy, sounds like he spend half an hour sobbing in Aeda’s room. He clears his throat, “It’s nothing”

“You are...”, Geralt starts, but Jaskier cuts him off.

“It’s nothing”, Jaskier says, tries to smile as he steps forwards. Forwards, instead of backwards. He wonders how in the world that happened, and why. He doesn’t have long to wonder, though, because Geralt catches him by the arm.

They are close now, close enough to touch, and they are touching. Jaskier watches, completely dumbfounded, and Geralt’s hand grips his arm, just below his elbow. It doesn’t hurt.

For a moment, Jaskier expects the alpha to pull him in, or to squeeze, or to do something equally cruel, and then the hand moves. Goes to let go, as if frightened.

“It’s fine”, Jaskier says, unprovoked, feels immediately very stupid and naive, to think he can command the witcher like this. But the hand doesn’t move. It squeezes his arm comfortingly, over the sleeve of Jaskier’s chemise. Bizarrely, Jaskier kind of wishes it wasn’t there, so he could feel the callouses on Geralt’s hand.

“Hmmm”, Geralt says, and Jaskier looks up from the man’s hand and into his eyes. He’s still, as always, far too serious. He frowns at the omega, “Were you crying?”

Jaskier blinks, stops breathing and then starts back up, all in one second. He thinks he is going to go fucking insane.

“I’m just cold”, Jaskier says, lies like the coward he is, like the world has taught him to. Who is the world would say to an alpha that they have been crying? Or even worse, to a witcher? To what end. Does he expect to be comforted, instead of slapped for sitting around snivelling like a bitch. He blinks at the alpha, his eyes stinging a bit.

It’s because he pressed on them too hard, Jaskier thinks.

“Hmmm”, Geralt says again, and Jaskier thinks it’s a funny habit, that one. Thinks it’s funny and not endearing at all. Thinks it suits the witcher well. Feels, and then sees how the man moves his hand from his elbow down to his hand. Squeezes his fingers, “Your hands are cold”

Jaskier doesn’t look at the veins in Geralt’s hand as he gathers both of his own. He uses his big hands to press against Jaskier’s, to squeeze his fingers and rub the chilled skin with his thumbs.

Jaskier would think it’s some weird new way of immobilizing him, if he was able to think about anything else but how the witcher’s hands are warm.

Jaskier’s eyes sting something vicious, and he closes them for a few seconds. He needs to remember not to press against them so hard.

Very warm, Jaskier thinks, looks up at Geralt’s face. The alpha is looking at Jaskier’s hands like they are the most interesting thing in the world, and so Jaskier looks. At the slight dip between the man’s eyebrows, where there is still a little frown, at the straightness of his nose. And then, at the curve of the man’s neck, at the shadows where it meets his shoulder and chest.

It’s terribly close, close enough to touch, so close that Jaskier could take just another step and hide in the crook of the alpha’s neck. He kind of wishes he would, for a moment, wishes he would feel so warm not only in his hands but in his whole body. But that is childish, and it is too much, and it is too vulnerable.

Jaskier cannot do it. And he shouldn’t do it. So he decides it’s enough to get his hands warm.

Chapter Text

Jaskier can feel the sun on his eyelids. It’s warm and it glows orange in his mind and he feels his muscles relaxing one by one. He likes this feeling. He’s feeling lazy and sleepy and quite like one of those fat cats that lie on the roads on sunny days and people have to jump over them.

If he feels any more relaxed he might actually start meowing, he thinks, takes a big breath and feels like he has inhaled sunshine itself.

It’s quiet here, where he’s sitting on the grass, in a particularly bright patch of sun, beside Aeda who has taken a more moderate approach and is sitting in the shade. She’s fixing up Jaskier’s trousers, because she’s a seamstress, because that was a sewing machine on the kitchen table. Jaskier is a bit shocked that he hadn’t recognised it right away, but then again he is not. It was in a different life, that he used to visit seamstresses like lovers and wear colorful, silky clothes.

Right now, Jaskier is wearing Lambert’s trousers, because he gave his own to Aeda. When she saw him all red and wet after his bath, she’d taken one look at his clothes and frowned. Made him take it all off, dressed him in some of her mate’s clothes. Jaskier didn’t like it, not exactly, didn’t want to wear a strange alpha’s clothes, but he also didn’t want to wear ripped rags anymore.

So he put the clothes on, and they were fine. They were fine, though they were a bit big, around the shoulders and hips. They didn’t smell like the alpha, because that was important and Jaskier had to check. They didn’t, because ‘Lambie never wears them anymore’, as Aeda said, and it was the truth.

So Jaskier sits on the grass and listens to Aeda work on fixing up his trousers, only opens his eyes once in a while to search for the bowl of strawberries sitting next to him. Because he has snacks, now. Geralt is making his potions in the kitchen and he made Aeda and Jaskier leave, made then clean out of the house and had looked at them very sternly, told them they were not to come back in until he tells them.

It does not seem like a punishment, though, Jaskier thinks. It feels like a gift. He could do his every day, laze in the sun and let the light caress his skin until he gets wrinkles as deep as his scars. Until he looks like Aeda. He wonders how much time she spends like this, in silence, in peace.

He would be fidgeting, he knows, would be worrying, if she were not right there next to him. And had Geralt not told him to leave the house. He should be doing something, maybe, probably, but he finds he cannot. There is a tiredness, in his mind, in his limbs, that holds him down like steel. So he sits, and soaks up the warmth.

It feels similar, on his skin, as it did when the witcher touched him. Warm and homely, making a space for itself in his bones, in the hollows of himself he did not know he had. He looks at the orange reflected behind his eyes, and ignores the blush he can feel coming onto his cheeks.

The door opens behind him and Aeda, after some time, and he opens his eyes blearily. Geralt steps between the two of them carefully, avoiding stepping on Jaskier’s fingers which are carelessly splayed on the ground, making sure not to disrupt the low chair Aeda is perched on.

“You’re going to burn”, he says, looks at Jaskier seriously, and the omega blinks at him.

“Oh stop it”, Aeda says, letting go of her needles to swat at the witcher’s hand which is closest to her. Jaskier looks through blurry vision as the alpha turns to the woman, “You are like a hen. Let the boy live a little. And chop me some wood”

“Hmmm. Lambert didn’t do it?”, Geralt asks, and Jaskier would think the man does not want to do it, if he dares think such things. He does not. Instead, he blinks as the witcher walks a few more steps forward, looks to the side of the yard where a sizeable group of intimidating-looking logs is sat. They look quite big, Jaskier thinks. A bit big for one man to chop by himself.

“I can help”, he offers and straightens, shifts like he is going to stand before a hand lands on his head. Aeda pushes him down gently, ruffles his hair like one would do to a playfull dog. Before he blinks, the hand if off his head and back in her own lap.

He is too stunned to speak.

“Sit your ass down, boy”, Aeda says, not noticing anything strange about the way Jaskier has frozen mid-movement. She looks up at Geralt, “Of course Lambert didn’t do it. He only chops as much as we need at a time. He’s lazy”

As the words leave Aeda’s mouth, Jaskier feels like he has been hit on the head not once but twice. Lazy.

Aeda just called her alpha lazy.

“Yeah, he’s always been a lazy bastard”, is what Geralt says, but he is looking at Jaskier. He is looking at Jaskier.

The omega swallows, looks down when he can’t stand the force of the man’s glance anymore. He can’t bear to look at Geralt, nor at Aeda. It is like they are not of the same world, and he is tired.

“I’ll make you apple pie”, Aeda offers, from somewhere above Jaskier’s head.

“I’ll do it”

“I knew the pie would do it”, Aeda says, and she is teasing, joking, she is easy in all the ways Jaskier is not. He sits on the grass, feels the sun pinching his skin, and feels the roots of his hair ache. Brings his hand to touch.

The pain is phantom.

Geralt chops wood like he was made to do it, like he does it all the time, like his muscles are made for lifting too-large logs and bringing the axe down on them, instead for slaying monsters. Jaskier knows, and he is sure, that if this was happening anywhere else, in any other village or town, there would be people stopping and ogling, scratching their heads in confusion. It is a strange sight, a strange thing, to see a monster of a man doing such mundane work.

No one looks, though.

Jaskier looks at the passer-bys, at the road, at the sun that is beating down on Geralt’s head and making his hair shine like the finest silk in the light. It’s in a braid, now, which is suitable for the occasion, and is normal for the man, but somehow Jaskier wants to go up to the witcher and undo the constricting tie.

He wants to watch his hair loose, free, caught in the sunshine.

There is a lingering taste of strawberries in Jaskier’s mouth, and his tummy is full, almost too full, but he is greedy and he is spoiled, so he reaches and takes another one. The fruit dissolves on his tongue like sugar, tastes better than it ever could, as well. Jaskier revels in it, in the stillness and the ease of the moment and the silent but somewhat pleasant ache in his bones, in the ability to just sit here and feel.

Then he looks back up at the witcher, distracted, and sees that the man has taken off his shirt. His skin is alabaster, is like snow, is crisp like the first drop of rain of a thunderstorm. The witcher is so white he almost glows, his skin glistening with sweat. He brings the axe up over his head, and Jaskier watches, mesmerized, as the muscles in the man’s back and arms flex in sync. Listens to the harsh sound of the axe hitting the wood, splitting the log clean in half.

Jaskier guesses having the strength of ten men helps a great deal when swinging an axe.

“He’s always been the pretty one”, Aeda says, and Jaskier turns to her.

“What?”, Jaskier asks.

“Geralt. He’s always been the looker. White hair, cat eyes”, Aeda goes on, ignores the frown that appears on Jaskier’s face, “The omegas always liked him”

Jaskier opens his mouth, but he cannot speak. His heart is beating too fast, and suddenly the sun is not warm and comforting, it is burning, and his heart is beating like he has been running.

“It’s not like that”, Jaskier manages to say, but it is weak, and he sees that Aeda hears it too. She smiles at him, coy. Her eyes are mischevious, and that is dangerous, because Jaskier is not feeling mischevious about this, not at all, not even a little bit.

“Don’t try to fool me, boy. I may be mated and old, but I am not blind. I see the way you...”, Aeda starts, but she is being too forward, she is being too loud, because Jaskier knows Geralt hears well, too well, and she is not being quiet at all.

Geralt can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat, for fucks sakes. So Jaskier has no doubts about the man being able to head their conversation as well, even if he pretends not to.

“It’s not like that”, Jaskier hisses at the older omega, too upset to watch his tone, looks at her with his eyes wide and frantic.

He cannot have Geralt hearing them talk about this, thinking about this. It is an invitation, a green flag, it is just the same as if Jaskier had spread his legs right there in the summer sun and asked the witcher to mount him.

And he does not want that. He does not.

“I just meant...”, Aeda starts, looking confused, but Jaskier shakes his head at her vehemently. She closes her mouth, rakes her eyes over Jaskier’s face a few times until her expression softens. Softens, and then turns into something ugly, something Jaskier doesn’t want directed at him. Pity, “Jaskier, Geralt is a nice man. He would not be like the alphas you have....”

She goes to touch Jaskier’s shoulder while she is speaking, but Jaskier is upset and his heart is beating too fast and he does not want to be touched. He twitches before her hand reaches him, moves quickly out of her reach.

Aeda’s words die out like a candle that has been stifled out, and she looks uncharacteristically hurt. Her hand stays there for a moment more, before returning to her own lap, taking up the needle once again. She keeps on sewing.

Jaskier looks at his own lap, from that moment on, at the grass. He has let his eyes wander enough.

In the evening, after Aeda has gone to bed, Jaskier lies on the floor of the house’s main room. He and Geralt put the furs down, to soften the ground, and Aeda had contributed with a few blankets, but they don’t much need the warmth of the cloths. It is warm in the house, though it is not stifling. Summer is here, even up in the mountains.

Jaskier lies on his back and wonders why he is not asleep, wonders if it is Aeda that went to bed too early, or is it that he has not done enough today to be tired. He thinks it is neither of those things.

Jaskier is exhausted, deep in his bones, at the end of his spine and behind his eyes and at the roots of his hair. He is so tired he could sleep a hundred years, he thinks. It’s a different sort of tiredness than the one that comes from the road, from a hard day of horse riding and walking and doing chores.

It is not the body, Jaskier thinks, as Geralt tinkers with his vials to the right of him. The man is sitting, carefully packing the seemingly replenished supply of potions into a leather bag. One of the potions is bright blue, like the sky. It tinkles in the light of the candles.

Jaskier wants to ask about the potions, but also he does not. Sometimes, talking to Geralt is like prying nails out of hardwood floor. He has not the energy for it. So he keeps watching the man, has to angle his head a bit from his position to do it, because of how close to the witcher he is lying.

He set his furs a bit close to Geralt, he knows. He has been doing that, for the last few days. Not really close enough so they are sleeping together, but close enough that he could roll over in the night and touch the other man.

It is suspicious, and it is strange, and Jaskier himself does not understand it. He thinks, though, that some things don’t need to be understood. Geralt has not said anything about it, anyway, so he will not think about it. 

“I’ll put out the candle soon”, Geralt says, looks up for a moment and meets Jaskier’s eyes. The omega blinks at him.

“I can’t sleep anyways”, Jaskier responds, voice low, once he finally realizes what Geralt meant, “It’s not the candles”

It’s not the candles. It is the weight in Jaskier’s body, that has settled in so rapidly after the lightness of the afternoon. The laziness he felt in his bones, the languidity, turned to weighty stones in the matter of minutes, and now Jaskier cannot shake it.

He does not know what it is that is happening with him, but he knows that it is because he is selfish. Selfish and spoiled, to be feeling like this even though he has all that he needs.

“Hmmm”, Geralt says, seems to be studying Jaskier’s face for a few seconds before giving up, “You got a bit sunburned”

That’s not important, though, and so Jaskier does not respond. He keeps watching the witcher, as the man reaches back and starts undoing his braid. It unravels easily, the man’s hair clean and silky. Or at least Jaskier thinks it is silky, by the looks of it. He has not yet touched it not wet by either water or blood.

“I talked to Aeda”, Geralt says then, running a hand though his now loose hair. He puts out one candle, leaving the other to burn still. The light dims, and Jaskier frowns, moves his head so he can still see the witcher as the man lays down, “She says you can stay”

“What?”

“I asked her, about you staying here”, Geralt says, looks into Jaskier’s eyes, now wide. Mistakes his expression for confusion, “I knew she’d say yes, but I had to ask her”

Jaskier blinks, and then blinks again. He feels like the floor beneath his furs has opened, and he is free falling. He looks at the ceiling, a bit old and worn, breathes deep for a moment, and then looks back at Geralt.

“You want me to stay here”, he asks, but he does not, because it is not a question. He knows already. Geralt has travelled with him and he has gotten him here and he is going to leave him here.

Maybe he has been planning this all along.

“Aeda would love to have you. She’s getting old, and you could help around the house”, Geralt says, and then pauses, “It’s safe here. Lambert is here often enough that no one would dare cross you”

“And you?”, Jaskier asks, because it feels like that is all that matters though he knows, deep inside himself, that it is not.

He knows what’s important is him being safe, being fed. He knows, even though he has only known Aeda for a few days, that she would spoil him terribly. He knows that no one would hit him, that no one would fuck him, that he’d probably even get his own bed, at some point. He’d work in the garden and have fresh strawberries and tomatoes and apples and he’s have the hearth, in the winter. He could make jam, make bread as well, make his life full of little rituals.

“I’d visit”, Geralt says, but Jaskier hears the lie in the man’s voice just like he does in his own, sees it in his eyes as well. He would visit, once every few years, if the times allowed it, or he would not. It is not because he does not like Jaskier, it is not because he avoids him, but it just is. If Jaskier stays, he is going to see Geralt again, but he might be graying by the time he does. He is going to see Geralt, in five years, or ten, or never again and that seems like the worst punishment Jaskier has ever thought of.

“You...want me to stay here”, Jaskier says again, because he needs to say something, needs to let something out so it does not rattle in his head quite so violently, but has nothing of substance. His tone is harder now, more desperate, and he gets onto his elbows in a twitch, can’t bear to be lying on the ground anymore.

He can’t fucking believe Geralt wants to leave him here, and has decided to tell him so while he is lying down. The man might as well had done it as he was on his deathbed.

“Jaskier”, Geralt says, frowns, “You’re upset”

It’s so ridiculous Jaskier has a momentary urge to cackle, and he almost chokes trying to swallow that impulse down. Jaskier is more than upset, is more than confused, is completely disbalanced. He feels as though if someone pushed him right now, he’d fall through the floor.

He blinks at the witcher, at a complete loss as to how he should react, and also completely unable to read the other man. Some days he thinks he has it down, Geralt’s expressions and the lack of them and what they mean. Some days he is once again made certain, that he does not.

This is one of those days.

Geralt reaches over the distance between their cots, and grips one of the blankets Jaskier is lying on. Pulls it towards himself. Jaskier goes easy, too easy, like he is not a grown man lying on the floor, feels the multiple layers of blankets and furs moving with him.

Just looks at the witcher until they are close, close enough to touch, close enough that if Jaskier had been lying down flat and not up on his elbows his head would be inches from the other man’s. He sees Geralt’s pupils flickering, like they are trying to draw in as much light as they can, slitted and dangerous.

Geralt is not dangerous, though, has never been less dangerous than he is at this moment. He is on his back, hair splayed around his head, looking up at Jaskier with an open expression. He waits for Jaskier to say something, and when the omega does not, he speaks again

“I can’t guarantee your safety on the road, Jaskier. Here, I can”, Geralt says, swallows. Jaskier watches the apple of his throat move rapidly, “There will always be food here, the winters will always be warm”

Jaskier knows this. He knows this and he knows that this is what he is supposed to want, as well. He is supposed to be ecstatic, at the thought of finally having a place to call home, to not have to travel and sleep on the hard ground and follow around a grumpy witcher. To be grateful for the respite of alpha supervision, because he knows that even though Lambert visits the house that he is not there most of the time. He would have it all, if he stayed.

He would have it fucking all, if only he stayed.

Jaskier grits his teeth so hard he is surprised that he cannot hear them creaking. He is frowning, a scowl on his face, and he knows he should not, but he cannot control himself.

He does not want to stay here, and he hates himself for it. For the longest time, he was so miserable he was not even able to imagine up a heaven like this for himself, and here he is now, throwing it away. If this was the first place Geralt had brought him after they met, he is sure that he would have stayed, and been terribly grateful to the witcher, as well.

So what has changed?

Jaskier looks into himself, and finds nothing. Nothing that wants to be found, anyways.

Like he knows what Jaskier is thinking, Geralt frowns and then reaches up and touches Jaskier’s face. It is a light touch, just a hand cupping Jaskier’s cheek, splaying long fingers across the sensitive and vulnerable skin under Jaskier’s eyes.

Jaskier gapes, looks at Geralt like the man has lost his mind, almost moves back from the touch on his cheek, but does not. It is gentle, and it warm, and it feels nice.

It is so gentle and unexpected Jaskier feels like he is going to start crying, though, and that is bad. He though that Geralt was going to leave him, that he was planning to leave him, thought the man wanted to get rid of him, that he had had enough of his weak pathetic self, and then the man cupped his cheek.

The callouses of Geralt’s hand feel a lot more prominent, a lot more rough, like this. Jaskier finds he does not mind.

“Is it because of Lambert?”, Geralt asks then, completely oblivious. He uses the pad of his thumb to rub Jaskier’s cheekbone soothingly, and Jaskier’s brain shortcircuits. He can’t do this. He is tired and he is wired and the alpha does not understand him and he does not understand himself either, “He can be an ass at first, but I know that he would never hurt you. There is no reason to fear him”

Jaskier wants the witcher to stop touching him and he wants the man to pull him forward and hug him, and he wants to get up and scream. He has half a mind to get a blanket and draw it over his own head, hide from the world.

He wants it all to stop.

“I don’t want to stay”

“What?”

“It’s not... because of Lambert. I don’t want to stay here”, Jaskier says, brings a hand up to Geralt’s and pulls the man’s hand off his cheek. Better that he does it than the alpha. He thinks he would not handle that rejection well.

Geralt does not let go of him, though, though he lets him move his hand easily. The witcher tangles his fingers with Jaskier’s, soothes over his knuckles with the pad of his thumb.

Jaskier wants to cry, once again. He does not know if there has been a day, lately, that he has not spent holding back his tears.

“You want to keep travelling with me?”

“I don’t want to bother you”

“You’re not a bother, Jask”, Geralt says, and Jaskier thinks there is something akin to a small smile on his lips. He’s not quite sure. The hand holding his own gives a squeeze, and Jaskier squeezes back, “Not at all”

Chapter Text

“What do you think about the voice?”, Jaskier asks, after a whole day of thinking about it. He looks at Aeda as she clangs pots together, rearranging her kitchen area. Jaskier had offered to help, but she just shook her head at him.

“About what?”, the woman asks, distracted. She leans down and thrusts something into an already overfilled cupboard. The dishes inside it clatter threateningly. She does not look at Jaskier, does not lift her eyes from her work, does not see how he twists his hands together where they rest on the table.

Jaskier should not ask, he guesses. There are a lot of things he knows he should not do, but they are starting to get muddled in his head. Starting to get blurry, less defined, less dangerous. He should not ask Aeda this, but can’t come up with a reason why. There is no reason not to, especially now that he’s pretty sure that Geralt won’t be hearing this conversation.

The man is out in the yard, but he is fixing the fence, or going to buy more supplies, or brushing the horses. Point is, he’s busy, and he’s not listening, and Jaskier knows all of the windows and doors are closed.

So he dares to ask.

“The alpha voice?”, he says, and feels immediately foolish as soon as the words leave his mouth, because though he has experienced it, the mysterious rumbly voice the alpha used to calm him still feels like a fairytale. Like something that he dreamed, and then half-forgot.

Not like something he should be so blatantly dragging into the light of day. He does it anyways. He’s tired of burying everything inside his head.

“Ah, that”, Aeda says, closes the cupboard after she manages to stuff a few more things inside it. Jaskier thinks that they are going to fall out as soon as the cupboard is opened again, but he is not going to say anything about it, “I don’t like it”

Jaskier sits very still on his chair. He looks at the old woman in front of him, looks at her hands old but swift and thinks about her alpha mate.

“Uh..why?”

“I just never liked it”, she says, rinses her hands before pouring herself some juice. Jaskier’s own juice sits on the table, untouched. He feels parched, though, so he untangles his fingers and reaches for the glass, lets the minty tasting juice soothe his throat, “A lot of the other girls did, though”

Jaskier nods into his glass, though he does not know why he is nodding. He asked, wishing for some crumb of insight about the way he is feeling, about the way that he has been feeling, and he has gained none. He is searching, but knows not for what.

“Why?”, Aeda asks, then, as the sits down and sighs. Sighs like she is old and worn and like her back hurts. Jaskier feels sorry for not helping her, though she denied him. He blinks at the woman, at a loss.

“No reason”

“Huh”, Aeda says, just looks at the other omega for a moment. She studies Jaskier intensely, and does it often as well. The omega is not a fan, “You.. has someone used it on you?”

“Yes”, Jaskier says, tangles his fingers back together, squeezes until he can feel the sting and stretch. Until the skin gets red.

“And how’d it feel?”

“..Good”, Jaskier says, a bit quiet, feels his cheeks burning terribly, “Um, weird, I guess. But also nice and grounding. Warm”

“You liked it”, the old omega woman says, because she is allseeing, because she understands, far more than Jaskier wants her to, because she looks into him and sees all the vulnerable parts of himself he has tried time and time again to bury.

Jaskier says nothing, because she is right, and because he has already said it and he does not need to say it again, because one time is embarassing enough. To like such a thing, to want it, it ruins him.

And Jaskier does, want it. He wants it and he thinks about it and he remembers it when things get hard, when someone asks too many questions and his heart beats too fast and his head spins. When the ground is dark and unstable and the sky feels like it is sitting on his shoulders, he thinks about it.

About the way that he felt, on that horse. About the curve of the witcher’s neck, where it meets his shoulders. About the scent of him. About the man’s arm, around Jaskier’s waist. Just giving, giving, taking nothing.

Jaskier’s hands are shaking, on the table. He tries to still them, squeezes them together tighter like that is going to help, squeezes even more when it does not. His knuckles are white, now.

“Geralt, right?”, Aeda asks then, asks too much, drags too much of Jaskier out into the open. The witcher won’t hear this, but Jaskier did, and that is enough. That is enough because he is not strong like he wishes, like he should be, like he made himself to be. Carved out of his suffering, he thinks he ought to be made up of stone. He is not.

If Jaskier could take a knife into himself, and cut out those parts of him that make him weak, that make him needy, he would do it. Would carve out parts of himself until there was only a shell left, until he could stand tall and confident, until he does not need things like this. Would butcher himself savagely, without mercy, because there is not place in this words for meekness, for neediness. There is no place for being an omega, is what it is, and that hurts, and stings, but it is the truth.  

The omega swallows, and his throat is terribly tight. He is not sure if he could speak if he wanted to.

“You trust him”, Aeda says, and Jaskier reaches for his juice. His hand shakes, like he’s got a fewer high enough to take a life, like he has not drank water in days. Shakes enough that some juice spills onto the table, splashes over the edge of the cup and onto Jaskier’s fingers. He puts the cup down, lets go of it before it keeps clattering in his grip. He feels Aeda watching him, his hands and his tight lips, his wide eyes, but she says nothing of it. For that, he is grateful, “It’s not a wonder it felt good. It’s not a bad thing”

Jaskier blinks, looks up at the woman sitting across from him. She looks back at him, but this time there is no pity. Jaskier is glad for that. He has had enough of pity, and wants to cut it down every time it rears its ugly head. He has no need for it, no use for it.

There is nothing to pity, as well. Jaskier is just like a thousand others are. Should Aeda cry for them all? There are not enough tears in the world for it.

Aeda send him to the market, later on, when she can no longer bear to watch him moping in her kitchen. He is nervous, and he is disturbed, and it shows. He can’t sit still, and he can’t talk, is too in his own head to do anything but sit and think, sit and wallow.

And so Aeda goes into her room, comes back with a few coins in her hand. Puts them down onto the table, in front of Jaskier, looks at him sternly. Tells him to go buy her some cloth, so she can sew him a pair of pants and a new shirt. Shakes her head at him when he tries to tell her he has money of his own.

“It’s a gift, dear boy. Don’t refuse it”, she says, and then busies herself once again with washing the dishes. Looks at him over her shoulder, smiles in a way too wicked for a woman her age, “You thought you could come into my house and go away without a new wardrobe? You are a fool”

And so, properly chastened, Jaskier goes. He thinks about asking Aeda if Geralt is going to get angry about him leaving alone, about him wandering the village, but then thinks better of it. there is no need. There are things he learned, and one of those things is that Geralt does not want to cage him. It’s a comforting thought.

The sun is up and bright when Jaskier goes out, walks past the horses who sniff in his direction curiously. Butter snorts at him from across the yard, and Jaskier thinks if the horse could talk it would ask him where he is going. But Jaskier just shakes his head at the animal, leaves Aeda’s garden and steps onto the road.

Walks down the street, feeling the locals watching him as he passes. He looks at the people from the corner of his eyes, making sure not to make his interest too obvious. There are no mean looks in their eyes, though, no foul emotion that he identify, and so he goes on.

It only occurs to him, once he is already at a stall and looking at the different fabrics it offers, that this is the first time in a long time that he is out in public alone, without supervision. Sure, Geralt is somewhere close, maybe even close enough to see, if he looks around, but he is not standing over his shoulder, not talking to the stallkeeper in his stead. Jaskier is there, alone, holding coin in his hands, and the shopkeeper talks to him. There is no alpha, no keeper, no owner to check in with, to look at and analyze their reaction, to correct his behaviour for.

It’s a very strange, very alien thing, now. Though it used to be as normal as breathing air, now it is something precious, something new and cherished. Jaskier is a bit uncomfortable, a bit raw under the looks of the people around the market, but it is worth it.

“Come on, lad, Aeda would not visit my shop again if I let you leave with the cheapest cloth. Look at how rough it is”, the woman selling the fabric tells him, frowns at him over her stall as she takes the rough cotton in her hands and rubs it. she reaches over the table, like she wants Jaskier to touch it as well, to judge it. Jaskier does, because there is no refusing, and because there is no reason to, runs his hand across the fabric. It is rough, “What’s she going to make with it?”

“Pants and a shirt”, Jaskier says, brings a hand up and scratches his neck. He still thinks he should get the cheapest one. It’s Aeda’s money he is spending, and even if it was not, it would be Geralt’s, and the fabric is for him.

“For you? Or for your alpha?”

“..For me”, Jaskier responds, does not tell the woman that Geralt is not his alpha. The woman nods in response.

“You like green? Feel this”, she thrusts another cloth across the stall, something obviously more expensive and softer and colored a dark green color. The green is muted, and it is so dark it is almost black, but it is color.

It’s been years since Jaskier has put on anything resembling actual clothes, and not just shapeless rags. He knows that pants made from this material would look very nice, would hold up well with wear and tear. The fabric is thick enough for the road, is thin enough to wear until the end of summer.

Jaskier wants it, and he pulls his hand back.

“It’s too expensive”, he says, and the woman shakes her head at him.

“Just twenty coppers more”, she says, and folds both cloths back up, “I don’t want Aeda to come here and teach me a lesson. She is frightening, that woman”

Jaskier watches the woman, obviously a beta, confused but not shocked. He has already realized that this village is not like the others, that the people here respect omegas more, or just respect Aeda. Still, it’s strange to see. Strange to think about as well, though it is heartwarming.

“Listen, I’ll give it to you ten coppers cheaper”, the woman says, finally, like she has thought about this long and hard, nods at Jaskier, “Can’t let you take that table cloth to be made into clothes. People will think I do bad business”

Jaskier just looks at her, still confused, still thinking hard but thinking nothing at all. he wants the fabric, and it is just ten coppers more. What is ten coppers?

It’s a lot, for someone who has no real money of their own.

“I’ll take it”, Jaskier says, gives the woman her money, and takes the cloth she gives him in return.

“You drive a hard bargain, lad”, the woman says, then, smiles so her teeth show. They’re a bit yellow, Jaskier thinks, “Tell Aeda to come over for tea one of these days”

And with that, Jaskier has finished his shopping. He steps away from the stall, looks around, frazzled. Bargain? Not in his wildest dreams would he dare bargain with a beta.

You drive a hard bargain, lad.

Aeda had said that Jaskier should get himself a treat, as well, when she’d given him the money. She’d said it over her shoulder as he was walking out of the door, mumbled something about a candied apple, like she was his grandma. Like she was his mother.

Jaskier was too out of it back then to think, but now he does. About how she is so soft, so lovely, so welcoming. She is all that he has lacked, for all these years since his mother’s passing. Someone with a soothing smile and warm words and food that is always ready and plentiful at the end of the day. Someone that would not let him go hungry, that would give him extra blankets for the winter cold, who would bake his favourite pie just because he said he liked it once.

Jaskier likes Aeda very much, likes her so much his heart hurts at the thought of leaving her and leaving for the road once again with Geralt. But he wants to leave.

It’s a dissonance, Jaskier thinks as he swings his feet over the little stream that goes through the edge of the village. He’d found it, on accident, saw it from the main road, and could not hold himself back from approaching it. it was thing out of a fairytale, a little bridge going over a stream that could very well be jumped over, completely unneeded and yet so pretty. He’s sat down, on the edge of it, let his feet dangle over the water and let himself soak in the sun.

He should not dally, not too much, at least, but he could stay here a bit. No one would know. No one would care. No out would yell at him once he returned, or scold him for his selfishness and tardiness. He knew that, and yet he had to dig those thoughts out of his head with a great deal of effort and throw them down the stream. Let the water carry them away.

Something moves to Jaskier’s right, and he turns in a twitch, but it is just a cat. It looks very interested in him, though, purrs while looking at him like it is inviting him to pet it. It saunters up, completely unafraid and at ease, fed well with a big belly, brushes against his side and back as it circles him. He lifts a hand, and lowers it onto the cat’s head.

The purrs intensify.

“It’s nice here, huh?”, Jaskier tells the cat, though he knows talking to animals is a childish endeavour he should not indulge in. He lets his fingers drift through the soft fur on the cat’s head, between its ears, lets his touch drop onto the animal’s back.

The cat does not respond, but Jaskier does not care. The cat is soft, and it obviously likes him. It blinks at him slowly, and cuddles up closer to him before settling down onto the planks of the bridge.  

Jaskier wishes now, kind of, that he had gotten that candied apple, if only so he could share it with the cat. He doesn’t know if cats like apples, or sugar, but he thinks that this one might. He lets that thought go, like all the others, and looks down onto the water, focuses on how it runs over the rocks in its bed.

The stones are very pretty, Jaskier thinks. They tinkle, in the sun, and Jaskier kind of wants to go down to the stream and pick one out for himself, but he does not want to get wet and he does not want to get up. He keeps sitting.

“Spotty, there you are”, a voice says from somewhere behind Jaskier, and the omega flinches terribly before turning around. If he was sitting any closer to the edge, he would have fallen into the water.

There is a boy there, behind Jaskier, or a man, and he is looking at the cat Jaskier is petting. As Jaskier is eyeing the man behind him warily, the cat shifts from under his hand and gets up. It walks up to the man, only to easily get scooped up into the man’s arms.

“She’s always been a wanderer, this one”, the man says, and now Jaskier gets the uneasy feeling that he is no longer speaking to the cat, but to him. he says nothing. He does not want to converse with strange men over strange streams. Even if those men appear to be just about Jaskier’s age, and are holding a meek cat in their arms.

“You new here, omega?”, the man says then, looks at Jaskier, meets his eyes. Jaskier looks away, because he might be more confident than he has been in years but today has been full of new, tiring things, and he is not confident enough for this. Whatever this is.

“It’s nice to meet you”, the man says then, like he doesn’t notice that Jaskier has said nothing in response to him, that he is actively avoiding his gaze. That he has stiffened terribly, like a storm before it breaks. The man steps forward, and extends his hand, like he is going to touch Jaskier, to help him up or shake his hand or push him into the stream. Jaskier leans back.

Men don’t shake omega’s hands, not ever. Not even here.

“I’m Orlen”, the man says, as Jaskier gets up onto his feet in a twitch. The man is terribly tall from the floor, and he is taller than Jaskier even when the omega is standing. The stranger smiles at him, though a bit strained, “Where are you staying?”

Jaskier does not respond, because he does not want the man to know where he is staying. He is strange, with his easy stance and his cat and his bright eyes. He is strange but that does not mean he is good, and Jaskier is well beyond trusting strangers.

“...I have to..”, Jaskier starts, steps back a few times so he is out of the man’s reach. He knows how men handle rejection, be they betas or alphas. Usually it makes no difference. Actually, it never does.

“I just want to talk, omega”, the man says, and it sounds like he is trying to soothe him, but it is wrong, it is scary, because Jaskier is here alone and there is no one to save him from this, even in the light of day. Omegas without a bite are fair game, whenever and wherever, and they can just be snatched up if one so wishes. Can be taken, can be claimed, can be mated. No one will bat an eye. Jaskier wonders if he has it in him to fight back if the man tries to drag him to his house. He hopes he does, clenches his fists at his sides. He can’t fucking believe he thought he could just wander around on his own like this, sit above a fucking stream and launge in the sun. He is a fool, and a terrible one, “You’re pretty. We don’t have many....”

“Jeez, Orlen, can’t you see that the lad doesn’t want to talk to you”, another voice, this one deeper and older, sounds from behind Jaskier’s back. Jaskier wishes, terribly so, that he was back in Aeda’s cabin, safely tucked between her walls where no one dares to enter, “Piss off, will ya? And tell your ma’ hello from me”

Orlen looks terribly offended, for a moment, but there is something in whoever is standing behind Jaskier that quickly changes his mind about arguing his case. He nods, turns, and simply walks away. Jaskier watches with a muddled head, as the cat peers over the man’s shouder, and looks at him as it’s owner carries it away.

“Kids these days, fuckin’ insufferable”, the man, because it is a man, behind Jaskier says, and the omega turns around to face him though he does not want to. He has had enough encounters, enough conversations for one day. He wants to lie in his cot and pretend he does not exist, “The kid’s not bad, even, just thick as a fucking rock”

The man that saved Jaskier looks rough, to say the least. His hair is short and a mud brown, and his eyes are bright. Too bright. And familiar as well. Too known, too many times seen for Jaskier not to be stirred by their appearance. Geralt's eyes.

His face has a scowl on it, one that looks to be plastered there permanently, and currently he is frowning at Jaskier. The omega takes a step back, once again, feels like a mouse being played with by two cats, caught in a cruel game of prey. The man is wearing armour, or at least something like it. It’s leather, and it’s worn, obviously scratched in a few places, by a few harsh blows. There are two swords on the man’s back, very threatening, very big. Jaskier swallows, steadies his breath.

“Thank you”, he says, because he has to say something, to break the silence and the tension in his limbs. So he can pretend this didn’t happen, and cleanse his thought of what could’ve gone down if this man had not shown up. He looks into the man's eyes once once again, too frightened to continue studying his armour and his strange likeness with Geralt, and then speaks again, "Are you Lambert?"

Chapter Text

Aeda is by the hearth when they come in, and she turns towards them, her mouth open and words on her lips. She blinks, then, her eyes centering on the witcher, on Lambert, and she closes her mouth.

“You’re back”, she says, and there’s something terribly relieved in her tone, and a slight smile graces her lips.

“Hey, pretty”, Lambert says, from beside Jaskier, walks to Aeda in two big steps, and Jaskier watches in confusion as the man lowers his head, presses his forehead to Aeda’s, “Pretty, pretty. I missed you”

“Don’t call an old woman pretty”, Aeda responds, sassy as she always is, pats Lambert’s arm in something like reprehension, but then leaves her hand there, clutching his shirt, “It’s unseemly”

“I’ll call you what I want”, Lambert says. And the words would be threatening had he not said them while nuzzling the woman’s face. He hugs her, brief, noses along her hairline for a moment, seems completely different than the man Jaskier met on the bridge above the stream. Seems like he should not be in armor, like he should not be heaving those big swords on his back. It’s too soft for that, too homely and warm, and Jaskier feels like this is not something he should see, not something he should be watching with as much interest as he does. He can’t stop, though. He thinks it would take five men, right now, to drag him away from the cottage, “Never seen a prettier woman”

“Knock it off”, Aeda says, then, pushes Lambert away even as he tries to land a kiss onto her forehead. She smiles up at him, and then wrinkles her nose, “You stink, Lambie. Bathed in the kikimora’s guts, did you?”

“I did not! Fucken’ thing sprayed me all over when it was dying, though”

“So you did”, Aeda tsks, and Jaskier ignores the urge to tense. He does not need to. Nothing is going to happen, because Aeda would not be acting like this if it was. She would not be so carefree, so full of smiles and teasing words, if she felt threatened.

Jaskier feels his fists balled at his sides, needlessly. His nails are digging into his palm, grounding him. He’s not scared, exactly, but he is out of place, terribly so. This is something he has never, ever seen before.

“Go and take a bath”, Aeda says, as she turns from her mate to stir whatever it is that she is cooking above the hearth. It smells nice, now that Jaskier is thinking about it, “The stew will be done in half an hour”

“And a great cook as well! I missed your cooking”

“You’ve been gone for what, five days?”

“Don’t say that like you didn’t miss me, old woman”, Lambert responds, watches Aeda as she scowls at him, and then, to Jaskier’s horror, turns to him, “See how I bagged the best woman in the Continent, lad?”

“Don’t be crude”, Aeda says, but it is without any real sting, as she’s busying herself with dropping some more chopped onions into the boiling stew.

“Where’s Geralt?”, Lambert asks, then, asks Jaskier, for some reason.

“Uh...”

“He’s somewhere around here. You know he had to chop the wood, right? Because you’re a lazy bastard”, Aeda says, then, when Jaskier offers no asnswer.

Jaskier would be terrified, then, for the older omega, had he the chance to be. Had Lambert not smiled at him, ignoring Aeda’s insult. His teeth are white, if a bit crooked, and he looks menacing.

“And how’d that bastard manage to bag you, then? Was it his long hair?”, the witcher asks, his eyes burning holes into Jaskier. He is too intense, too forward, too quick to change topics. Jaskier feels like the insides of his head are spinning faster than he can track, his thoughts too fast to follow up on and understand.

“Don’t bully the boy”, Aeda says, from behind the witcher, straightens and takes the man by the arm, steers him in the direction of the bedroom, “Go take a bath, now. I will not have you stinking up my chairs”

And with another mishevious glance in Jaskier’s direction, the man goes, closes the door behind himself. Jaskier can hear some clanging then, what sounds like swords and armour hitting the floor, and wood dragging across the floor.

This witcher is very weird, he thinks. Very different from Geralt, in the ways that Jaskier had not anticipated, had not imagined.

Truth be told, he never imagined meeting the witcher’s brother’s at all.

Jaskier stands in the middle of the room for what feels like too long, for what feels like dawdling, and then forcefully shakes himself out of his stupor. Goes to help Aeda get lunch ready.  

Geralt appears just as Jaskier and Aeda are setting the table, walks in with a bag under his arm and looks at the two of them, leans his head to the side strangely, like he is listening to something.

“Lambert came?”, he asks.

“Don’t sound so surprised”, Aeda quips, in a cheery mood as she puts a spoon next to each of the dishes, looks at Geralt with mirth in her eyes, “This is his house, too, you know”

Geralt just looks at her, looks like he is going to say something, but then the door to the bedroom opens, And Lambert steps out. He’s visibly cleaner, scrubbed clean and almost dripping, obviously having dried off in a rush. He stands in the doorway, looks at Geralt for a breath, like he is sizing him up.

“It’s good to see you”, Geralt says, then, and Lambert cracks a smile. It’s juvenile, somehow.

“Too formal, bastard”, Lambert says, and walks to Geralt, a bit too fast, a bit inhuman, and hugs him. Jaskier watches, completely entranced, too filled with new information to think, just watches as Geralt winds his arms around his brother’s back, as he leans down, a bit, so they can properly hug.

They hug like children, Jaskier thinks, as the men break apart, Lambert smiling widely and Geralt with a more subdued expression on his face, but no less pleased.

Jaskier thinks, with the last shreds of sanity that he has, that he has never seen two grown men embrace like this. Not once in his life, not once during his travels, not in one of all the places he has visited. And certainly not two, sword-wielding, cat-eyed witchers that slay beasts for a living.

“I hear you’ve been bothering my old woman”

“Don’t call me old”, Aeda says, pulls a ladle out from the stew, steaming liquid dripping from it and back into the pot, and points it at her alpha, “You’re older than me”

“Only by a year”, Lambert says, though he sounds, bizarrely, properly chastened. He turns back to Geralt, “When’d you come? And who’s the pretty boy?”

“That’s Jaskier”, Geralt says, and then turns to him, at the same time as Lambert does. They are looking at him, now. Jaskier feels very silly, from his place by the table, and supresses an urge to step back. He is not frightened, just uncomfortable, he tells himself, “We’ve been travelling together for a while. Jaskier, this is Lambert”

“We’ve already met”, Lambert says, the smile on his face turning into a more cocky one, and then he walks towards the omega. Walks until he’s right by him, and then swings an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, like they are old friends, like they are equals, like this is normal. Jaskier tenses like he’d just stepped into a bear trap, but Lambert doesn’t notice, or he does not care, “And don’t try to tell me you’re just travelling together, you bastard. The boy stinks of you”

Despite everything, despite being scared and uncomfortable and uneasy, Jaskier feels a flush coming onto his cheeks. He’s been basically sleeping on Geralt’s furs for the last few nights, and he has been acting like no one knows about it, like no one suspects it. It hadn’t occurred to him that a witcher would be able to smell it.

He has the sudden urge to step away, to explain to the unfamiliar alpha that he is, most certainly, not sleeping with Geralt. Kind of wants to cry, too, at the realization that everyone thinks the witcher fucks him. Of course they do, of course they fucking do. An unmated omega as scraggly as him wandering the country with a strange alpha.

Everyone thinks it.

Jaskier is a whore, even when he is not naked on someone’s furs. He is an omega, and that is enough, that is more than enough. He has been a whore ever since Kilk first laid his eyes on him, first though that he should take him for himself.

“Lambert, don’t...”, Geralt goes to say something, that he and Jaskier really are just travelling together, or that Lambert should let Jaskier go, or something else, something crude, that Jaskier doesn’t want to hear, but Lambert just talks over his brother. It seems to be something he does often.

“I don’t need an omega, Lambert. Witchers aren’t made for that life”, Lambert says then, in a very sing-songy, mocking voice. He isn’t talking to Jaskier, doesn’t even seem to notice him, doesn’t seem to care that the omega has turned to a tense ball of nerves under his touch. He’s joking with his brother, and Jaskier is just the but of that joke. Jaskier tenses further as the arm around his shoulders moves, first a hand on his shoulder, heavy even over the layers of his clothes, and then quickly moving onto his head. The alpha cackles, amused, and rubs Jaskier’s head like he is a small child, or a naughty but beloved dog. The callouses on the man’s fingers catch on the short hairs on Jaskier’s head, and his world blinks out, for a moment, “Welcome to the family, squirt”

But Jaskier doesn’t hear what the man says, wouldn’t care about the words even if he had, because the man’s hand is in his hair, and it hurts, and he is laughing, at him, and Jaskier feels his eyes burn so badly he thinks he might’ve accidentally sprayed boiling oil into them.

One second he is under the alpha’s arm, and then he isn’t, and he stands a few steps from the man, shaking like he is going to fall apart, looks  at Lambert like the man is going to lunge at him, but then looks down. He hears movement, sees the alpha’s feet move, and steps back so forcefully he almost bounces off the wall.

“Don’t”, Geralt says, and it’s that hard tone he uses when something bad is happening, when someone has made a mistake. He doesn’t usually talk to Jaskier that way, but now is different, now his brother is here, and Jaskier has refused him, has humiliated him, even. He closes his eyes, for a moment, and then opens them right back up. He has to see it coming, whatever it is. He watches, wide eyes on Geralt as the mans steps forward, but the man is not looking at him, “Don’t touch him”

“But I just...”, Lambert starts, but Geralt talks over him.

“I know”

“What’s wrong with him?”, Lambert says then, and that Jaskier does understand, and it stings. He closes his eyes, then, flinches when he hears a smacking sound. Hears Aeda say something under her breath, “His heart’s all wrong”

“He’s fine”, Geralt says, and Jaskier opens his eyes, if only to watch the way Geralt’s braid swoops down the man’s back, “You eat first”

And then he turns to Jaskier, and the omega looks down so quickly he almost gets dizzy from it. He watches as the man’s feet approach, footsteps heavy and sure, as they stop in front of him.

“Let’s go outside for a while, Jask”, Geralt says, but Jaskier just looks at his feet. He can hear Lambert and Aeda whispering from behind the witcher, and he wants to run away from that, wants to escape that judgement, wants to get on Butter and ride away from all of this. But this is Geralt’s family. He needs to get it together.

A hand touches his elbow, light as a shadow, but Jaskier’s nerves are all stretched and out in the open, on the surface of his skin, and he flinches like he has just been hit. The hand falls away.

“Jask?”, Geralt says, and Jaskier thinks that the alpha was the one that touched him, the one whose touch he shrugged off. He feels terribly bad about that, for a moment, so bad that it mounts over even the pain in his scalp and the humiliation and guilt of what just happened, so bad that he feels the urge to reach back out and touch the alpha.

He does not.

“You want to go outside? Sit in the grass?”, Geralt asks, again, and this time, Jaskier nods. He does want to go outside, go somewhere where people aren’t watching him, aren’t seeing him like this. He keeps his eyes on the floor as he walks past Geralt and out the door the man holds open for him, looks up only when he feels the sun on his face. he walks out onto the grass, looks at the road just before the fence. There is no one there.

Geralt walks up to him, stands right next to him, and Jaskier tenses once again, just for a moment, before the alpha simply sits down onto the grass. Jaskier keeps standing, because that feels better, because that feels more secure. He’s watching the road when his horse lazily enters his field of vision. It seems to look at him, for a long moment, and Jaskier wonders why animals can’t talk, when they obviously wish to do so.

The horse trots to him, stops a few feet from him, seems unsure.

“The gelding has taken a shine to you”, Geralt says, as Jaskier walks the few steps forward, and brings a hand up to brush it down the horse’s neck. In response, Butter leans down and starts chomping at the short grass by its hooves.

It’s soothing, the terribly soft and shiny pelt under his fingers, parting like water under his touch. The horse is gentle, and it likes to be touched gently, as well. That, Jaskier can do.

“His name is Butter”, he says, after some time, doesn’t look at the alpha, but hears movement as the man moves his legs to sit more comfortbly.

“That’s a funny name for a horse”

“Roach is a funny name for a horse”, Jaskier responds, lowers his hand as Butter moves to munch on different, richer selection of weeds. He turns and walks to Geralt, sits down next to him. The grass makes for a soft landing, and Jaskier watches as immediately, a very big grasshopper climbs his leg,  “I’m sorry”

“There’s nothing to apologize about”

“I embarassed you”, Jaskier counters, because he has to, because he is at fault, here.

“Lambert’s the one who embarassed himself”

“I shouldn’t have...”

“He shouldn’t have touched you”, Geralt says, and there is something in his voice that makes Jaskier unable to argue. Something solid, “He’s an ass. I should’ve known this would happen”

“It’s fine”, Jaskier says, looks at the grass. Wonders if he is going to get tan, from all this frolicking in the sun.

“It’s not fine”

“It is fine”, Jaskier says, as he reaches up to touch his hair. It’s still there, despite his expectations, “He’s your brother. It’s fine”

Chapter Text

They stay at Aeda’s for two more days. Soon after Lambert’s arrival, it becomes clear to Jaskier, that the house is just too small for four people. Lambert is loud, and he takes up a lot of space, and even though he obviously tries very hard to be nice to Jaskier he is just the right side of lively to get on the omega’s nerves.

The man laughs loudly, and he shouts, and even though it is not in real anger but in irritation or just when he is trying to call someone, it still makes Jaskier uncomfortable. He can’t really sleep, not since he started sleeping away from Geralt once again, from shame and from fear and from other things he doesn’t understand as well.

To be honest, he can’t wait for them to leave, and he feels guilty about it, as well, because he thinks Geralt would stay, a bit longer, if it was not for him. The witchers go outside together, in the evening, or sit at the table, and they drink ale and they laugh. Geralt laughs more rarely, more obstinately, but he does. And it is a wonderful thing to see, really, to see the alpha comfortable and well fed and sleeping under a safe roof.

Jaskier looks at the two of them, so different but obviously so very close, looks at the way Aeda treats them, as well. Looks at the way they treat her, too. Geralt treats them both like younger siblings, somehow, and it makes sense, in some convoluted way, because Jaskier thinks he is older. He wonders how old, how many years, wonders if the man would tell him, if he asked.

And Lambert treats Aeda like nothing he has ever seen before. The morning when Geralt and Jaskier are to leave, Aeda is up early with the two of them, preparing food for the road and giving Jaskier’s new clothes the final stitching. She makes him try on the clothes, once and then once again, until it fits just perfect, until it is the most comfortable set of clothes he has had for a long time. Her smile when he tries on the pants and shirt is infectious, and so he smiles too, even as exhausted as he is.

Lambert wakes late, while Geralt is getting the horses ready and Jaskier is packing their bags, throws the door to the bedroom open somewhat haphazardly, his hair a mess. His eyes are half-closed still, and he stumbles across the floor to Aeda who is sitting at the table. He lands on her in a tangle of limbs, but it is all so very, terribly gentle, and Jaskier can’t help but gawk at the two in wonder as the alpha hugs and then buries his head in the crook of his mate’s neck. He’s sleepy, and he’s softer than he usually is, quieter too, and it is easier to observe him, like this, when he is completely focused on Aeda and not on Jaskier.

“You left me alone”, he says into Aeda’s neck, somewhat slurred, and then steps back when Aeda shrugs him off like an over-excited cat.

“You drank too much last night”

“I did”, Lambert responds, drops haphazardly into the chair next to Aeda’s. Looks, with squinted eyes, at what she is doing. She’s packing some food for the road, some pie and bread and a few strawberries, as well. Jaskier feels a pang, at that.

He thinks she’s packing the strawberries because of him, even though that is ridiculous, even though strawberries would never hold, on the road.

“So you’re going?”, Lambert asks, and now he’s talking to Jaskier, so the omega swallows and nods, stands up with his bags just as Geralt walks through the door.

“The horses are ready”, he says, unnecessarily. He glances at Jaskier, and then back at the table where Lambert and Aeda are sitting. Aeda wraps the food up, and offers it to Geralt.

“How come you don’t look like you drowned in a ditch last night?”, Lambert asks, frowns at Geralt ferociously, like it is his brother’s fault that he did not get as drunk as he was supposed to.

“You’ve got shit tolerance for a witcher”

“You were cheating”

“By not drinking a whole barrel?”, Geralt asks, and Lambert nods. Jaskier wonders how much exactly the witchers drank. Last night, they started at the table, drank while Aeda cleaned up after dinner and got ready for bed, and transferred to the garden once Aeda told them to knock it off.

They’d invited Jaskier, too, and Aeda, which was incomprehensible by itself. Nonetheless, they both declined. Aeda just said ‘I’m too old for that’, and Jaskier pretended he wanted to sleep. He did not want to sit with two alphas and drink, let them get drunk next to him and have to deal with the consequences. Whatever those consequences may be.

But Geralt didn’t get drunk, even though he smelt faintly of liquor once he finally returned to the cottage to lay on his furs, even though the witchers kept on with it deep into the night.

Jaskier was glad for it, even after everything, to not have to see Geralt drunk. Drunk men are different than sober ones, he knows. Much different.

“Jask, you ready?”, Geralt asks, then, and Jaskier nods.

“You could stay a few more days”, Lambert says, but he is already getting up as he speaks, walking to his brother to give him a hug. Once again, Jaskier watches with childish wonder, as they embrace.

“I haven’t even gone south yet”, Geralt says, shakes his head as they part.

“Down to the border?”, Lambert asks, and Geralt nods, “May the path be straight”

“May it be”, Geralt answers, and then hugs Aeda.

“Jaskier”, Lambert says, then, and for a brief moment Jaskier is convinced that the man is going to hug him, as well, considers how much of a disaster that would be, but the man just extends his hand. Jaskier takes it, “Safe travels”

“Thanks”, Jaskier says, feels terribly inadequate, but is saved by Aeda. She shoos the witchers outside, tells them to give them a few minutes. Then, she hugs him, as the door is closing behind the pair.

She holds him tighs, rubs over his back and arms like she is trying to remember him, like she is willing him to stay, just a moment longer. Then she leans back, just a bit, and looks up at him.

“You look tired, dear”, she says, and it is so very true that Jaskier wants to hug her again. He wishes, for a moment, that he is not so inexplicably linked with Geralt, so he could stay, so he can continue to be gentled and scolded and fed cheese pie.

It would be a lovely life, he knows. It’s a terrible shame he can not embrace it.

“I’m fine”

“Get rest, when you can. And eat. You are so thin”, she rubs her hands down his sides, and if it were anyone else Jaskier would have stepped away, would have hated it, but with her it is just soothing. It is like she is his grandma, for a moment, chiding him for not taking seconds at dinnertime, “And come back”

“I will”, Jaskier says, and it can be nothing but the truth, because he has to come here again, has to feel her presence again. She is like nothing he has ever seen, and he can’t so easily let her go like he has so many other people.

“You have to, boy. Or I’ll curse you”, she says, and then smiles. Steps back and puts her hands in his, squeezes, “There is always a place here for you”

And Jaskier blinks, because he knows what she is saying, what she shouldn’t say. That there is a place here for him, even without Geralt. He blinks, his eyes wet.

“Always, remember that”, she says again, like she is forcing him to remember it, like she is forcing him not to forget. Jaskier won’t. He could never.

“Thank you”

Jaskier’s ass hurts. But it doesn’t hurt so much that he isn’t just on the edge of falling asleep, despite being on a horse. Butter is a lovely, gentle horse, but that doesn’t mean that Jaskier is not going to bash his head in if he falls off its back. So he blinks forcefully, looks at the woods surrounding him, straightens his back until it almost hurts.

He hears a bird chirping, somewhere to his left, again and again, a lovely if boring melody, moves with the horse as it goes down a steeper bit of the road, wonders about how much ground they have covered today.

Geralt obviously wants to get as far away from the cottage as possible while there is still sunlight, and Jaskier has been watching the man’s braid swing down his back for basically the whole day. It’s good entertainment, actually, but still, Jaskier can’t wait for this day to be over.

Can’t wait to finally get off Butter, and spread his furs on the ground, and fall asleep.

“What’s that?”, Geralt asks, turns around in the saddle like Jaskier had said something, looks at him. Jaskier opens his mouth in response, confused, and realizes once he stops, that he had been humming.

The same tune as the bird, again and again, doing it as carelessly and unconsciously as breathing. Jaskier’s head spins, shortcircuits and then cuts out, all while he is still loking eyes with Geralt. Mercifully, Geralt turns back around, faces the road, and so he can’t monitor and puzzle over Jaskier’s expression.

“...nothing”, Jaskier manages, after a few too many seconds, looks at Geralt’s hair. Looks at how it shines in the dying sun.

“Hmmm”, is the response he gets, but he is listening to the bird, now quite a distance away and barely audible. So quiet maybe it is just his memory playing tricks, replacing the sound that was lost to the distance.

He can’t fucking believe he was humming. Can’t fucking believe it. He’s so shocked he can’t even be sad, can’t even be angry.

He just looks at Geralt’s back and thinks about anything, anything else.

He can’t bear to think about music, about birds and their vocal cords and his vocal cords, and how it has been years, years, since he has used them, really.

How it is going to be forever, until he uses them again, the way they are supposed to. Jaskier used to think he was made to sing, that he was born out of the void and into this world with one purpose, to go around the continent and sing and play his lute.

He was foolish, he was stupid and disillusioned and fucking dumb.

He was too weak to hold onto that life, too frail to defend it.

And so it has died, like many other things within him. He is not who he was, not who he was born as, not who he made himself to be. He is changed, irrevocably so, so much that the Jaskier from the years before would spit on him if he were to meet him. He would judge him, look down on him, think him weak. Because that’s what he is. He is nothing like Julian, like the travelling bard, who could hum the whole day long and compose songs and string his lute endlessly, tirelessly.

Julian is dead, and Jaskier is not going to sing again. Not while he is alive.

“How old are you?”, he asks, then, the coward that he is, because he can’t bear it anymore, the weight of his own head and the thoughts that rattle around inside it. Because he can ask now, the questions that he was too afraid to, because anything is better than thinking about his past.

There is no point in despairing over what has been lost, he tells himself. He has not been to his mother’s grave once, never returned to that wretched village, and he will not allow himself to return to Julian’s.

“A hundred”, Geralt says, waits a second, “No, a few years over”

“What?”

“Witchers are old”, Geralt says, like that fucking explains it.

“Yeah, I knew that you’re old, but...”

“But not a hundred?”

“Didn’t think you were ancient”, Jaskier says, and then cringes at the sound of his own words. He is shaken, and he is tired beyond his means, but that does not mean that he can be disrespectful. He doesn’t know what he expects, thinks that, at the least, Geralt is going to turn around again and look at him with mean eyes, but the man just chuckles.  

“We should find a place to set up camp”, Geralt says then, as he veers off the road. Butter happily follows, not even having to be directed by Jaskier. The horse trots after Roach until they reach a small clearing, and Jaskier watches as Geralt circles it on his horse before getting off, “It’ll do”

The ground is terribly solid and soothing under Jaskier’s feet after riding for the whole day, and he revels in it as he tethers Butter to a tree and gets to setting up camp. It’s easy to set up the furs, both for him and Geralt, while the man tends to the horses. Jaskier has noticed, more than a few times now, that Geralt pays a special sort of attention to brushing down and feeding the horses before he settles down for the night.

So he lets him do it. He takes out the food Aeda packet for them, settles it in between their furs. There is a distance between them, now, that wasn’t there a few days ago. But Jaskier can’t help it, and so he does not.

The tavern is lovely, and so is the crowd. It is a live thing, like one big organism, clapping and singing and dancing, occasionally, when the ale at a table was plentiful and overflowing. The lute in Jaskier’s hands is alive too, and so is he, more than he ever was, more than he usually is, and his voice rings clear and loud through the room.

This is what it is, he thinks as he starts a song, something old and worn and something every last drunk in the room knows, something everyone can sing by heart. It is a song of their parents, and their parents, maybe, known in every rundown tavern and inn and in every dusty corner of the Continent Jaskier has managed to poke his curious nose into. It is lovely, for late nights like this, for making more coins hit the ground before his feet, for making people get onto their feet and sing and dance, for making people smile and stand up.

‘ She smells like lillies

 My darlin'

To me never again’

Jaskier is just at the edge of a city, and he is going to go into it tomorrow, play for a bigger, more educated, more academic crowd. It is a university town, and it is lively, and Jaskier is looking forward to it, but tonight he is here, in this backwater inn so full of life.

The places filled with the most simple people can be the most fun, he has come to learn. He doubts the students of Oxenfurt are going to clap to songs like this, that they are going to be so lively.

‘Hey,

Here comes the dawn

I may pray’

These people have not seen a bard in years, and it will be a few years more until they see one again. They have welcomed him with honor, with grace that he has not expected, and so he is going to sing deep into the night.

Jaskier would sing one of his own songs, if he thought it would have the same effect on his audience. It would not. Sometimes, people want old things.

‘Birke has come

And I am not with whom I love’

Jaskier wakes with a twitch, on the cold ground. He can barely see anything, save for the shadows of the forest surrounding the camp. There is no fire, no embers of one to orient himself, no reason for him to have woken except the movement at his back, moving towards him.

Someone says his name, someone he knows, someone he hates. Jaskier is cold, and now he knows why, grips the greying sheet under his body with one fist, prays to the Gods which do not exist that the man is going to leave him alone, that he is not going to come over to his side in the middle of the night. Jaskier is tired, terribly so, as he always is, as he has been, for almost a year, and he can’t take taking Kilk into his poor excuse of bedding right now.

But Kilk is coming, heavy steps on grass and dry leaves. He calls again, and Jaskier twitches, closes his eyes, and then opens them again, though there is nothing to see. It could very well be a forest ghost that is going to take him in the night, because there is no light by which to see.

But Jaskier can’t do it, can’t do this right now, for he is too tired and he is too worn and he hurts already, terribly so, and when Kilk’s hand lands on his shoulder he turns around in a flourish and hits the man across the face.

The figure moves from where it is poised by Jaskier’s furs, falters and then straightens again. Looks at Jaskier, and Jaskier looks back. He is sitting still, not moving, not running away. There is no point in it, he knows, for he will be caught, and his punishment will only be made worse for it.

“Jaskier”, the figure, the man says, removes his hand from where it was pressed against his cheek. His hair falls around his face, long and a bit tangled from sleep, and his voice is terribly deep.

Kilk never called Jaskier by that name. It didn’t exist yet.

“You had a nightmare”, the man says, and Jaskier blinks once again, shaking and confused.

The night is not so dark as he thought, and his eyes adjust rapidly to the dim light of the stars and the moon. He looks around, his hear turning on a swivel, catching on the horses tethered at the edge of the clearing, at the furs under his body. The ground is warm, somehow.

“Geralt”, he says, his voice just above a whisper, as he looks back at the man next to him. The witcher’s eyes seem to glint in the dark, seem very big and serious. His hair is loose on his head, falling around his face like a curtain, darkening it, making it very hard to read the man’s expression.

“Yes”, Geralt says, like it needs confirming, and maybe it does, Jaskier thinks. He lets his hand fist in the furs he is sitting on, soft and silky and nothing like the rough and thin sheet he used to sleep on while he was with Kilk, “I had to wake you. You were tossing”

That makes sense, and Jaskier holds onto it. Little else does, right now.

“I hit you”, Jaskier remembers, realizes he really did lash out at the witcher, realizes he really did slap him across the face with all the strength he could muster. He gets up onto his knees, frantic, and reaches desperately for the alpha. His hands find the alpha’s face, and he runs his fingers across the soft skin of the skin under the man’s eyes, the prickling surface of his jaw. There is no sign of impact under his touch, no damage that he can feel, that he can see, but he knows that it is true. He hit Geralt, “Gods, I hit you”

“It’s fine”, the man says, brings a hand up and touches Jaskier’s underarm, wraps his fingers around it like he is going to pull the omega’s hand off his face, but he does not. His hand is very warm, and Jaskier touches the left side of the man’s face reverently, right where his hand connected, and his eyes burn.

“I hit you. Oh Gods help me”, Jaskier says, unable to help himself, feels the first tears leave his eyes and travel down his face like two cracks on a rock. He heaves, unable to breathe as he should, feels his hands shaking, pulls them off Geralt’s face, “I hit you. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry”

“Jaskier, it’s fine”, Geralt says, takes both of Jaskier’s hands into his own, now. But Jaskier can’t take it, right now, so he rips one of his hands out of the witcher’s grasp, uses it to cover his own face, shame and guilt burning in his throat like coals. He sobs into his hand, can feel his other hand involuntarily squeezing Geralt’s, “You were dreaming. It doesn’t hurt”

“It’s not fine!”, Jaskier responds, inconsolable. He hit Geralt, an alpha, did it with all of his strength, slapped him across the face like he himself has been so many times before, savage and violent. Hit the man that has only helped him, only gentled him, never once raised a hand to him.

The only person in the Continent that helped him, the only one, and Jaskier has raised a hand against him. he wants to cut his own hand off, wants to chew it off, wants to get up and run into the forest night so he does not have to look at the man sitting next to him.

“Jask”, Geralt says, always so fucking patient, as he rubs Jaskier’s hand with his own, “Please calm down”

“I can’t calm down”, Jaskier says desperately, wants the witcher to understand, to share his shock and disappointment and his rage at himself. He can’t believe he would do this. Can’t believe he’s capable of it. He wants to choke on his tears, “You never hit me. You never hit me and I hit you”

“It’s not the same”, Geralt says then, but Jaskier doesn’t listen. He presses his hand over his eyes, like that is going to stop his tears, like that is going to make anything better. Try as he might, he cannot hide from hiself. This he knows, “Jaskier, listen to me. It is not the same”

And Geralt is right, Jaskier knows, even despite himself. He is right because Jaskier hit Geralt and the alpha is fine, is just the same as he was, a few moments before. Is right because if Geralt had hit Jaskier the way Jaskier did him he would have broken his jaw.

That does not make it much better.

“I’m sorry”, Jaskier says once again, lowers the hand which was covering his eyes so he can look at Geralt. He meets the man’s eyes, his own vision foggy because of his tears which won’t stop flowing, “I’m really sorry”

“What were you dreaming about?”, Geralt asks, and Jaskier is so surprised he stops sobbing, for a moment.

“I, um... I was at a tavern, and I was performing, and it was a nice crowd and..”

“Performing?”

“Yes”, Jaskier says, surprised. Realizes Geralt doesn’t know, “Oh, I was a bard”

“In the dream?”, Geralt asks, and Jaskier kind of wants to laugh, but he is crying too hard to do so.

“No, I was a bard before”, he starts, and then has to stop, has to swallow, steady his voice so he can speak, “Before Kilk”

“Hmmm”, the alpha nods.

“And um, then I woke up, and Kilk was there”, Jaskier finishes, doesn’t say anything more even though Geralt is looking at him like he expects him to continue. The omega sniffs and tries to stop his tears, which have quieted down a bit but are still flowing down his cheeks, wipes his face with his hand. It feels like he’s just rubbing the tears in.

“You said you were a bard”, Geralt says, like that is important. Like he is interested, for some reason, and puzzled. Jaskier guesses he is. He hasn’t been very talkative since he met the man, “Did you have an instrument?”

“Yes”, Jaskier says, and it’s very quiet, and his eyes are burning again. He wants to sob once again, but he has no energy left and it would do him no good, no good at all. Crying just makes things harder, “I..I had a lute”

And he should say something else, should offer more information, because Geralt is asking and he is interested and he never asks anything. And Jaskier should be grateful that someone wants to know, that someone cares, but he cannot. He is so tired his bones ache, even though he does not know if he is going to be able to fall asleep, is more than certain he will not. He is going to lie down and he is going to look at the stars lining the sky the whole night long.

He is too worn and stretched thin, to talk about this, to think about it. he wants to close his eyes and not think, not exist, for a few hours, but that is impossible, that is a child’s dream.

“I’m tired”, he says instead, before Geralt has the chance to say  anything else, watches as the hand holding his own moves, thumb rubbing over Jaskier’s skin.

“Alright”, Geralt says, and he sounds weird, sounds worried, as Jaskier wipes his face again, uses his fingers to push the tears back into his eyes, “Do you want to sleep?”

“Yes”, Jaskier says, and then squeezes the witcher’s hand desperately when it starts to pull away, “No, I want...Can you..?”

“What?”, Geralt asks once it becomes clear Jaskier is not going to finish his sentence, can’t finish it because it’s embarassing, because it’s too much.

He would never ask for it, normally, would be too proud and too full of humself to even consider it, would hold himself back. But he is exhausted, and his heart hurts. He is going to stay awake the whole night, twitching at every sound and cricket, or he is going to fall asleep again only to have endless nightmares.

He can’t do that. He can’t fucking do that. He presses his hand over his eyes, presses into his eyelids until there is light there, until it almost hurts.

“Can you use the voice?”, Jaskier asks, swallows, ignores the urge to turn away from the alpha. He’s the one asking this, and so he does not get to act all embarassed, all uncertain, “The alpha voice. Until I.. Just for a bit”

There is a pause then, and it feels like Jaskier should look into Geralt’s eyes, like he wants him to do so, but asking has already passed his limit, and Jaskier can’t take anymore. He is weak, and he knows it. Tonight he will allow it.

“Of course”, Geralt says, then, and he sounds so fucking earnest that Jaskier has to look at him, parts his fingers like a child does and looks at the alpha through them. Watches as one side of the man’s mouth twitch into a small smile, at his antics, “Of course, Jaskier. Do you want to lie down?”

Jaskier looks at the alpha, looks at the way his hair frames his face, how he looks kind of elven, shrouded in darkness, only his hair and eyes glinting under the dim light. Looks at the alpha, and then nods, lies down onto his side, never lets go of the alpha’s hand. It’s easy, and familiar, after all this time, to hold Geralt’s hand. It is so very gentle, always, every single time, just rhythmic movement and soothing touches.

“Are you tired?”, he asks, and Jaskier nods. He is very tired, can feel it in hid bones, his whole body, the way he wants to sleep for a hundred years. He is very tired but he is very sad, even with the alpha sitting with him like this, even with the man holding his hand. He sniffles, blinks as another tear leaves his eye and trails down the side of his nose. Before he can reach to wipe it off, the alpha does it for him, his hand big and warm on Jaskier’s face. He watches Geralt’s face as he wipes the wetness under his eyes with his thumb, rough skin on tender ground. Jaskier should feel uneasy, probably, knows he did feel so up until a few moment ago. He doesn’t, though, feels like the waves under his skin have calmed, have subsided, “You’re still crying. Please don’t cry”

Jaskier sniffles again, because he can’t help it, just keeps eye contact with this man that is so gentle, so warm. He brings his other hand up and touches the one that is on his face, wants to feel it as much as he can. He is calmer than he was, pulled under the force of Geralt’s voice, but he is still there, more conscious than he was the other times, more aware.

It’s because he asked for it, because he initiated it, because he knew it was coming, he thinks, and then decides that he has thought enough. Geralt is there, and he is going to take care of this. He knows it.

“It was just a nightmare”, Geralt says, and it’s true, and Jaskier takes a deep breath at that. It was just a dream, just his mind being tired and worn and stressed. He is not there anymore. He is here, with this alpha. With this wonderful, strange man that has pulled him out of the two worst years of his life, out of hell, “Kilk is dead”

That is true too, and it is a comfort, no matter how tasteless it is. Jaskier closes his eyes, breathes deep and easy, feels his tiredness settle somewhere in the pit of his stomach. Then he opens them, looks at the alpha again.

It is a bit difficult to speak, when he is like this, his voice a bit quieter than it should be, a bit slurred, but Jaskier knows Geralt is going to hear it. He pulls on the hand he is holding, and opens his mouth: “Lie with me”

“What?”, Geralt says, and it is like a shout in a dream, loud and unwelcome, jarring. Jaskier frowns up at him, disapproving, “Are you sure?”

“Do you not want to?”, Jaskier says, too comforted by the man to say anything else, too tired to censor his words. He swallows, and then tries again, “You don’t have to”

“I want to”, Geralt answers,  and Jaskier blinks, pulled back under in a blink of a moment, and when he opens his eyes, Geralt is right there, his face inches away from his own. They breathe the same air, for a moment, locking eyes, and then Geralt speaks, “Are you sleepy? You are very tired”

Jaskier humms in response, beyond words, just lies there and holds the alpha’s hand and looks at his eyes. Wonders how the witcher’s eyes shine in the dark, how they shimmer like gems. He blinks, slowly, curls up a bit more.

“You can sleep, Jask. I’m here”, Geralt says, squeezes Jaskier’s hand, moves the other one from the omega’s face to his shoulder, squeezes it comfortingly, and like it was some sort of permission, Jaskier moves, moves so he’s in line with the alpha’s neck, and presses in there. He closes in until he can feel the wamth of Geralt’s skin on his own, until his scent envelops him. He breathes in deep, and lets his breath fan out over the witcher’s neck. He can see the other man shiver a bit, from the unexpected warmth, but he does not care. He hugs Geralt’s hand to his chest, almost possessive, cages it in the boundaries of his limbs. He feels the man’s other hand moving across his back, until it reaches the back of his neck. Long fingers rub circles in the sensitive skin there, brush along the edge of Jaskier’s hairline. The alpha breathes deep, like he too is getting ready to fall asleep, like he too, if Jaskier is not imagining it, is breathing in the omega’s scent, “Sleep”

And Jaskier does sleep.

Chapter Text

Being in a new city is always exciting, always fresh. Travelling with Geralt means Jaskier gets to poke his head into the more and less known stretches and nooks of the country, that he gets to see places he would not have travelled to even back when he was free.

This town, though, is not like that.

There is nothing new about this place, nothing to be learned. Except from how much Jaskier has changed since the last time he has been here.

They are not in Oxenfurt, not exactly, are in one of the more well populated villages that surround it, but still, Jaskier has been here, remembers being here, lute and silk shirt, purple doublet and coinbag plush.

Geralt walks beside him, like he knows where he is going, and Jaskier follows, looks left and right and frowns at the places that have changed over the years, that are not the same as he had left them. It is a betrayal, somehow, that this place that he holds so dear has changed while he was not looking, that it was not waiting for his return. He watches as Geralt walks up to an announcement board of sorts, something he has not noticed before, and proceeds to study it.

Geralt wears his hair loose today, for some reason, and Jaskier watches as the man tucks it behind his ear, thoughtful, as he reads the papers that are stuck to the board before him. Most of them are drawings of wanted men, robbers and murderers and things of the sort. There are also monster posters, though, Jaskier notices. Vampire in the east, two thousand crowns, drowner near to the border, no prize listed.

“Is this like a job board?”, Jaskier asks, unable to help himself, somehow amused by the though of witchers reading announcement boards in order to find their next job.

“Most of it’s old”, Geralt says instead, sounds irritated, though it is obviously at the papers and not at Jaskier himself. The man reaches out and takes a frayed paper that’s complaining about a kikimora near the mountains. He rips it off the board, and balls it up in one hand, “This one’s already been killed”

“Is there something new?”, Jaskier asks, just so, because he wants to say something, and because for the first time in a long time, there is no repercussions to doing so. No matter how much or how little he speaks, the witcher is the same.

“Hmm”, is all Geralt offers though, and Jaskier stares at him for a few moments before giving up, moves and stares at the board. It’s terribly boring, for some reason, and so he turns around to look at the buildings surrounding them, at the people that are passing by them without giving them a second glance.

“Oh”, he says, when he sees the store that is standing right on the other side of the street from them. He scratches his head, glances at the witcher once again, “I’ll be right back”

It’s a bakery, actually, but it smells a lot more like sweets than anything else once Jaskier steps in. It’s an old place, a hole in the wall, really, a place Jaskier stumbled onto after a drunken night that went too wild and too long. The cinnamon rolls he ate here are etched in his memory, like a first sip of water after a drought, like they were made of gold.

The woman behind the counter smiles at him, and hands over two cinnamon buns in exchange for a coin.

Jaskier feels like a child, coming outside of the bakery and walking the few steps to the witcher, holding his purchases like a prize. He wants to take the treat out and bite into it, but he also wants to wait until he gives Geralt his own.

“Geralt”, he says, once he’s back with the witcher, extends one of the buns to the man, “Here”

“What is it?”

“A cinnamon roll”, Jaskier smiles, watches the witcher as he looks at the sweet in his hand incredulously, like he has never had one before, like it is alien to him, “They’re the best cinnamon rolls in town. You like sweets, right?”

“You’ve been here before”, is what Geralt says instead, locks eyes with the omega as Jaskier bites into the pastry in his hand. It is very soft, obviously freshly made. Jaskier feels his lips trying to curve into a smile, because of the honey coating his teeth and the cobblestones under his feet which are so familiar and because of Geralt’s hair, which looks particularly pretty right now.

“Yes”, he answers, gestures for Geralt to bite into his meal, “Try it”

“You didn’t have to buy me one”, Geralt says then, and it’s annoying because he’s frowning like Jaskier did something strange, like he thinks it’s some weird act of servitude that Jaskier bought him a pastry. Bought him a pastry with money that is not even his own, to add to that.

“I wanted to buy you one”, Jaskier rolls his eyes, the movement coming to him terribly easy, smiles around his food as he bites down, “It’s more fun to eat together”

Jaskier waits, for some childish reason, for Geralt to have a big reaction when he bites into the pastry. He waits, but it is in vain, because the witcher is a stoic bastard and he does not smile over sweets like Jaskier does.

“It’s good”, he says, instead, already five bites in before Jaskier has the chance to blink. And that’s enough.

“You find a monster to slay?”

“The vampire”, Geralt responds, gestures to a paper at chest-height. It’s the one Jaskier saw before going into the bakery, “Two thousand crowns. That means it’s strong”

Jaskier humms around a full mouth, looks at the poster and then at the man beside him, at the single drop of honey slipping from the cinnamon bun and down the man’s fingers, pooling in the dip of his wrist. Jaskier swallows and reaches out, because it’s easy, and because the man’s hand is right there, slips his thumb across the honey on Geralt’s skin, feels the thin hairs of the man’s forearms tickle his skin.

Then he pops his thumb into his mouth, sucks the honey off it.

Geralt opens his mouth, and then closes it. Jaskier takes another bite of his food, and then realizes what he’s done.

“I’m sorry”, he says, because that’s the only thing he knows how to say, the only thing that feels fitting. When in doubt, apologize.

“No, it’s fine”, Geralt mumbles, attention already away and on the board. He reads the vampire announcement once more, and then turns away, “We should get there tomorrow”

And so they walk the town, or the village, that is going to merge with Oxenfurt in the next few years if the way it is spreading means anything. Jaskier thinks that maybe, he is sad that they are not going into the city itself. It is beautiful, and it is nostalgic.

Then, he thinks that maybe it is a good thing that they aren’t. He doesn’t want the streets and taverns to see him like this, even though that makes no sense, even though buildings and stone pathways aren’t sentient and don’t care for him either way, though they don’t remember him. He remembers it, though, and wants to remain a silk-dressed bard in the university city. He doesn’t want to sully it with what he has made of himself.

They pass by a hole in a wall tavern, a place that serves ale and nothing else, a place where Jaskier remembers singing for a less than polished crowd, where he remembers singing so much he lost his voice.

“I used to sing here”, he says as they turn into a new street, approaching the outskirts. Soon, they are going to be out of the village and the lane of memories Jaskier has uncovered, back on solid ground between old trees and crickets.

“Where?”

“In this village”, Jaskier responds, rubs his fingers together, now terribly sticky in the aftertaste of his meal, “In Oxenfurt, too. This used to be my favourite place to come and play. A few times, I wintered here”

“Fancy place to stay”

“Oh, the winter here is beautiful. And the crowds tip well”, Jaskier smiles, even though there is nothing to smile about really, even though he is talking about a life that is already done and over. He wonders if he would have done things differently, if he had known it would be so brief. He swallows, sees the forest at the edge of his vision, “This was the last place I played in, actually”

It feels like a terrible truth has been revealed once he says it, once he admits it. That it was here that he lost it all, that this city is a graveyard in itself. This is where Kilk buried him.

“Before Kilk?”, Geralt asks, and his tone is different now, like he knows he is walking across Jaskier’s remains, like he knows the bones of his life and aspirations litter the streets under their feet. Jaskier appreciates it, the softness of his tone, and he also does not. He wants to shake it out of the witcher, out of himself.

There is nothing to be sad about, nothing to mourn. Things already buries cannot be brought back into life.

“He..He knew I was an omega”, Jaskier says, brings a hand up to rub at his eyes viciously, though he is not crying, though he is not going to cry. He has relived the day it happened far too many times to lose it at the mere memory. Though he did not think he’d ever find himself back here, “I hid it so well. No one knew, Geralt. No one. How did he know?”

Geralt is silent for a moment, and Jaskier thinks he is not going to respond. He feels a flush coming onto his cheeks, thinking he is going to be left in silence after talking about the worst day of his life, that he is going to brushed off. Then, Geralt says something that makes him reconsider that.

“Maybe he didn’t know”

“What?”, Jaskier asks, rips his eyes from where they’re stuck to the forest in the distance and looks at Geralt, looks at him like he’s insane, like he’s speaking incomprehensibly.

“Maybe he didn’t know you’re an omega”, Geralt says, looks straight into Jaskier’s eyes as he says it, something strange and solemn in his own. Like he knows he is going to say something terrible, “Maybe he just saw something he liked, and took it”

Jaskier chokes, something between a laugh and a sob escaping his lips. He clamps a hand over his mouth before he can start laughing like a maniac, like he’s insane, because he feels like he is. Geralt is right. Geralt is right.

It makes so much sense, actually, that it makes Jaskier’s head spin, from how obvious and plausible it is, from how dumb he was not to realize it until it was pointed out to him.

Geralt is right, because it is true that no one knew, and it is also true that omegas aren’t the only people that get raped. In such a torrent of violence, it is easy to forget that it can happen to other people too, that it is not always because one if omega, but just because they are.

Jaskier smiles behind his hand, a twisted thing, all teeth and gums and bloodless lips, and thinks that Kilk just got fucking lucky. He thought he’d just have a rough night with a flashy bard, but he struck gold.

Most likely, it was just a chance of fate that landed Jaskier in that bastard’s hands. Not some superior intelligence, or some great plan, or whatever else Jaskier had assumed had predated his capture. It was just a fucking lucky strike for the man.

“Gods, I wish I could kill him again”, Jaskier says, voice shaking, but ringing true. If he could, he would kill Kilk every day for the rest of his life.