#eskel/julian

[fanby-fckry]

Ciri: *angrily* ARE YOU-

Jaskier: *calmly* Fucking

Ciri: KIDDING ME?! YOU-

Jaskier: Fucking

Ciri: IDIOT!

Eskel: ...what was that?

Jaskier: Yen and Geralt banned Ciri from swearing, so I’ve volunteered to help her out.

[help-help-i-need-an-adult]

[fandom-junk-drawer]

What Jaskier sees while watching the Kaer Morons do repairs to the Keep.

[spielzeugkaiser]

[MASTERPOST] - [Previous]

Jaskier feels for Eskel too. And honestly, out of that bunch Eskel is the softest bean, next to Geralt. I think Jaskier hasn't met any of the other wolves before, but he has heard stories of them.

[spilledbutter]

alright back on my fae!jaskier bullshit

there are myths of fairies assuming the guise of animals

imagining jaskier in animal form acting as a companion for the witchers and helping them out in times of need

like lambert is getting stiffed by an alderman so jaskier turns into a magpie and starts pecking the shit out of the alderman and shitting in his hair until he drops his coin purse for lambert to take

geralt gets injured on a really difficult hunt and jaskier turns into a horse and hauls him bodily back to camp

eskel needs help getting information for a quest so jaskier turns into a mouse and sneaks into rooms and listens to conversations to help him spy and reports back what he's learned

but ALSO imagining him using his powers for evil

jaskier couldn't sleep all night and is up before eskel for once. he turns into a rooster and wakes him right the fuck up because he's bored

jaskier turning into a horse to talk shit about geralt with roach. they keep neighing and whinnying together and geralt gets progressively more and more annoyed. he will not tell geralt what was said

he and lambert need to cross a fast-moving river and the bridge is broken. jaskier, the little shit, turns into a fish and swims easily across. lambert has to figure out how to cross on his own

i could honestly keep going this is so fucking funny to me

[underpreparedbard]

Respond to this with a pick-up line Jaskier would use on the Kaer Morons

[solcorvidae]

Modern Witcher AU: My Headcanons (part 2 of ?)

Jaskier was put in a ton of winter sports as a kid. He knows how to ski and ice skate very well. He can snowboard but prefers skiing.

Geralt, on the other hand, never learned to skate. He and Eskel have not been able to find skates that fit their boot size since they were teenagers.

Geralt likes yard work more than other household chores. He likes maintaining the garden and arranging a nice living space to hangout in and Jaskier is very appreciative.

Jaskier is usually super busy in the winter months. He attends get togethers, dinners, parties, etc. Geralt does the opposite. He and his family head home for some time to relax and catch up with one another after being on the road. They don’t often do big activities or social events, mostly staying in the house with each other for the duration of their stay.

Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert shared a room until Geralt started to get into his teen years. Their childhood room had a bunk bed for the two oldest boys and a single bed for Lambert. Lambert eventually took over Vesemir’s office and it was converted to his new room. Now, they each have normal bed frames that sit on the floor.

Geralt wears a dark brown, felt, pinch front cowboy hat. He is very attuned to the etiquette and superstitious beliefs around wearing one.

Eskel and Jaskier are the same height (6’0)

Geralt is 6’3 but often people assume he’s shorter. He slouches when he sits and tries to take up as little metaphorical space in the room as he can. When he stands up, his posture is straight as a board and this adds to the surprise many people feel when they see how tall he really is.

Eskel is the opposite. He has a large but warm and inviting presence when he enters a room. He makes himself known and takes up a lot of space with his big personality. People often assume he must be taller than he really is and are often surprised when they stand next to him and see eye to eye.

Lambert is 5’11 and bitter about it.

Eskel has textured, somewhat oily skin but shockingly left his acne struggles in his teen years.

Geralt was blessed with little to no acne most of his life—including as a teenager.

Lambert hasn’t quite grown out of it and still gets the occasional (relatively mild) blemish. They usually appear when his disposable razor starts to get dull and begins to irritate the skin--Geralt tries to get him to invest in a safety razor, to no avail.

All three boys share a bathroom at Vesemir's house and Vesemir has his own tiny ensuite bathroom. He doesn't care if they trash their own space as long as it doesn't start growing mysterious molds…

Everyone having different hair colours (especially Geralt) meant that it was difficult to blame each other for hair left in the bottom of the tub/sink. But oh did Lambert try.

They are banned from using Vesemir's bathroom unless they absolutely have to. The shower however, is non negotiable. It is off limits altogether.

The only exception to this rule is when any of the boys are sick. When one of them is ill, Vesemir sets them up on the floor with blankets and a pillow so they don't have to keep running to the bathroom in the middle of the night. It also helps that he can keep an eye on them and monitor if they start getting worse or need to go to urgent care—Eskel was particularly bad for lying about not being sick for a long time.

As a child Geralt would wake up every night in the middle of the night from the dead of sleep and be afraid to fall back asleep on his own. He always climbed to the top bunk where Eskel slept and he felt safe. If Eskel wasn't there or he didn't want to wake him, Geralt would walk to Vesemir's room to fall asleep in his dads bed where he felt just as safe. It took him a long time to grow out of this habit.

Even though his boys are all grown up, Vesemir would never turn them away from any sort of "childish" comfort, especially when they're going through a particularly hard time. If they ever needed a hug or wanted to fall asleep in his room, all they had to do was ask.

[Modern AU Headcanon Masterpost]

[mylarena]

i really love that trope where geralt lends jaskier his clothes at kaer morhen without mentioning theyre his, and all the other wolves are endlessly amused and smug about it. geralt just scowls at them and their teasing and jaskier doesnt know what the big deal is or why they keep giving his shirt pointed looks- he thinks it looks great with the way hes styled it! over his years of traveling the path, hes thought up plenty of ways he can make the bland and dark clothing geralt wears look fashionable. he hasnt convinced geralt to let him style his clothes on him yet, but this shirt is close enough, almost exact, he thinks, so he’s testing out his ideas on himself now that he can.

geralt took his laundry to wash and he hasnt returned it just yet, which is a little annoying but the clothes hes given him to wear are fine for now. again, he has a lot of looks to try out. geralt probably managed to misplace it, or something. the keep is huge, after all.

what isnt fine, though, is the smug smirk lambert gives him every damn morning with no explanation. and geralts always so growly in the mornings, too! gods, youd think he’d be more at ease around his brothers, but its like hes always straight up snarling at lambert and glaring at eskel and coen. vesemir doesnt seem to get any of his ire, at least.

one day, while he’s lost exploring the expansive halls, a basket of bright, familiar fabrics catches jaskiers eye. when he pushes open the door fully, he’s a bit surprised to see all of the clothes he had handed to geralt to be washed- all in perfect condition, if a little dusty. he furrows his brow and deigns to ask geralt about it later- right now, all he wants to do is take his clothes back to his room and put on his favorite doublet.

and so he does! he looks fucking great,if he says so himself. and he does say so. after tousling his hair a bit to give it a charmingly disheveled look, he struts himself into the main hall, practically preening. hes hoping for some acknowledgement on his clothes, even if its just teasing from lambert.

but what he gets is silence throughout the hall. lambert is staring at him with an eyebrow raised. eskel is looking between him and geralt. coen knowingly snickers into his mug. geralt looks fucking devastated. vesemir is minding his own business.

jaskier opens his mouth to speak, but then lambert looks at geralt and bursts into howling laughter. geralt snarls at him and stands from his place at the table, brushing past jaskier as he stomps his way down the hall.

coen gives him a sympathetic look as he approaches the table they're seated at. lambert wipes away a fake tear of joy, giving jaskier a wolfish grin.

[random-apollo-child]

Jaskier geralt ciri yen and some other witchers walk into a town

Jask: I've been here before.... let's leave

Cöen: why do you wanna leave

Lambert: bard, what did you do

Jask: I- *scoffs* why in the world would you think I did anything

Geralt: jask what the fuck did you do

Yen: you very clearly did something

Jaskier the chaotic neutral bard: I may or may not have set a few building on flame

Ciri who thought jaskier was a lawful good person: *Spits out water* you fucking what??

Papa vesmir concerned: bard what the flying fuck

Jaskier the white wolf's bard: it happened like 7 winters ago

Eskel: what the FUCK

[fanby-fckry]

Yennefer: *Screams*

Jaskier: *Screams louder to establish dominance*

Eskel: Should we do something?

Lambert: No, I want to see who wins.

[help-help-i-need-an-adult]

Modern AU:

Kaer Moron’s Family Car

@0dde11eth @everything-but-the-not-natural @i-pet-spuders @fandom-junk-drawer @dancinginmyoldsatindress @thequeeninyellowlace

[fandom-junk-drawer]

Jaskier upon walking into Kaer Morhen's Great Hall and seeing that it is officially Gray Sweatpants Season!

[dapandapod]

Brave your neck to see the sun

Just another thing that lives in my head rent free that is half a fic, half an idea, that begs to be written, so here is the mix of it. And because who I am as a person, I slapped it on Ao3 as well.

(cw, lettenhove has fallen, sad stuff in general, loss of family, their spirits)

Because....

Cursed Jaskier.

I mean, he is immortal, and his home, Lettenhove, is but crumbled rock by now, and jaskier is tied to their ruins. 

And maybe madness is threatening in the corner of his eye, maybe the past is talking to him, maybe the stones remembered what they looked like in ages past.

And Jaskier cannot leave.

Maybe this is where jaskier goes after the mountain, because when he last was home, it was still standing.

But the land is fallen, burned, ash on his tongue.

Maybe there was a curse put on the stones rather than him, keeping what remains of the family bound to the ground, for the dynasty to defend against an army should they return.

And Jaskier is caught in the ruins, and the remains of his family and his childhood.

Geralt finds Ciri, and she dreams of Yennefer, yes, but she cant' stop dreaming of a land that was, and she feels herself pulled there, but it is too dangerous, because it is on the other side of the army following her.

When they finally go, the survivors in the gathering of houses on the outskirts of Lettenhove speak of a ghost, of lights as the darkness is falling, of the sound of crying, and singing, sometimes laughing.

It takes time for them to make it up there, the magic fighting them every step of the way, making it treacherous and dangerous.

Jaskier can hear them coming, but they are not the first ones attempting to seek the treasures of what once was, and he hides.

They find a lute, broken in what seems in a fit of rage against the stones. some of the strings are still connecting the neck to the body, and Geralt feels a pang of fear when he recognizes it.

Jaskier has had time to make many hiding spots, a routa of sorts, of small camps. There are weeds growing around the cracked stones, sticking up defiantly, baring their necks to see the sun.

Eventually Geralt finds Jaskier, hiding in one of the crumbled rooms, a half burned painting propped up against the wall, a little girl with one eye covered with yellow locks looking out, holding the hand of her older brother.

Jaskier holds his dagger out, until he realizes who it is.

Geralt doesn’t know how to break the curse, and it hurts Jaskier to leave. They can’t stay with him, and to not raise suspicion they have to leave him behind.

Jaskier watches them leave, and he knows that he won’t see them again. Why would Geralt come back after all, now that Jaskier finally can’t follow.

He waits until he can’t see them anymore, until he believes they can’t hear him anymore, and he screams out his frustrations, voice echoing against the stones.

Eventually Yennefer finds him, and she has the solution. Not a pleasant one, but one that allows him to leave.

His bloodline is tied to this place, imprinted on him when his fathers father brought him underground and a small child, and put his blood among his ancestors.

What Jaskier thought was madness was instead shattered remains of a spirit.

With the witch’s help, Jaskier’s mother’s spirit wakes, and she cries when she sees her son.

“Where were you?” She asks, she grieves, she screams, until her rage has run its course.

More spirits rise, and Yennefer keeps them safe in the middle of the courtyard.

The curse can’t be lifted, but they learn that Jaskier can be freed, can move on from his past if he lifts his imprint away from the stone.

A grave hag has taken residence below, her cackling and grunting traveling up the stairs, and Yennefer too must leave Jaskier, to bring a witcher to help.

Her magic is still fragile, and she places her hand on Jaskier’s cheek as he takes her goodbye, leaving him with the spirits of his family.

Eventually it is Eskel who kills the hag, keeping Jaskier company when he laughs a little too loudly, his eyes a little too wide with unrest and grief.

When Yennefer finally returns, she brings Geralt and Ciri once more, and they are surprised to see Eskel by Jaskier’s side, the hag dealt with.

Yennefer presses Jaskier’s cut palm against the cold stone of his ancestors, chanting as she recalls his blood, distangles his past from the stone.

Above, the ruins creak and groan, the spirits growing agitated. They shriek and they trash and they try to protect their home from the intruders.

When they emerge, Jaskier is quiet. He is quiet as he tests his first steps outside the ruin grounds, and he is quiet when he looks back to what was his home, and then his prison.

The ground is covered in weeds, slowly dancing in the wind, the spirits keeping their own company.

Lettenhove is no more, and the ruins remain unbothered. 

Sometimes Jaskier returns, just to speak with his sister. Sometimes he sings to his mother, and talks about the worldly affairs with his father.

Jaskier is not tied to the stone anymore, but his spirit will not rest until his family does.

Ciri doesn’t dream of the ruins anymore, but sometimes she gets a faraway look, takes Jaskier’s hand, and asks if he would take her to the coast.

Geralt and Yennefer never reconnected after the djinn. and eventually finds another djinn to break the wish.

She finds her own way, even if it is connected to Ciri’s, and she finds her own destiny in the shape of a Merigold.

It takes time for Geralt to build up what he broke. Takes time to figure out how friendship works, and even more so when Geralt figures out his own feelings towards the bard.

The bard is not the same man, how could he be, but he grows anyway. Grows like a defiant weed in the cracks of a stone, baring their neck to see the sun. 

[spilledbutter]

so you guys ready for s3 in july or what

i'm expecting a lot of very important plot developments, given everything we know so far:

jaskier wears eyeliner in every scene. no exceptions

bisexuality is canon. go buckwild, no exceptions to this either

gordon is upgraded from "guest star" to "main cast" (king)

new roach is upgraded from "guest star" to "main cast" (queen)

eskel didn't actually die, it was a doppler. yeehaw

something something cat witchers something lambden

evil!jaskier for real (come on, just one episode)(as a treat!)

[jaskierror]

in ways that can't be said — chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE — SNORES & SNORTS

Geralt, a very tired and very overworked librarian, finds an eccentrically dressed man asleep in the library right as they're about to close.

Jaskier, a very tired and very overworked educator at the local museum, accidentally falls asleep in a library whilst doing research for an upcoming exhibit and is awoken by a devastatingly attractive librarian.

---

By the time closing rolled around, Geralt really, truly, honestly just wanted to go home.

In general, Geralt preferred to not work closing shifts. The library stayed open until 7pm most evenings, but he liked to be home with Ciri as early as possible; Lambert was always happy to watch her until Geralt got off work, given that Lambert’s job in Dol Blathanna’s Public Works department wasn’t a traditional 9-to-5, but, well. Geralt missed his daughter, is all, and was perhaps a bit clingy when it came to her. Sue him for loving his kid.

Despite his reluctance to work past 5pm, Renfri had caught the flu, and Geralt had agreed to cover her shift while she recovered, meaning he would be at the library until about 7:30. Of course, by the time it was half past 5, he was itching to get home—by then, he would normally be pulling into his driveway in Upper Posada, and Ciri would be running outside to greet him while Lambert watched them with poorly disguised fondness from the front porch. He would pick his daughter up, balance her on his hip, ask her about her day at school and what she and her Uncle Lambert had been up to since she got home. He would get to kiss her on her forehead, and cook dinner (lately, she had become a big fan of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets), and—

Anyway. Enough of that.

The minutes and hours ticked by with relentless, deliberate slowness, and Geralt felt nothing but relief when it was finally,  finally time  to start closing. Zoltan offered to organize the information desk and the front seating areas while Geralt swept the shelves for any stragglers and re-shelved any books sitting around.

Geralt worked quickly, eager to finish up and return home—in the back of his mind, he wondered what Lambert and Ciri had eaten for dinner—and he was returning a book of traditional Temerian recipes to its rightful shelf when he heard…

Well.

It seemed to be somewhere between a snore and a snort, in all honesty, and Geralt could only sigh deeply and brace himself before rounding the corner.

He had been expecting any of a number of things, really. Typically, it was elderly people who would fall asleep at the tables, but in his years of working at the library, Geralt had practically seen it all.

Still, he was surprised when, in one of the cushioned wooden chairs, slumped down onto the round table and surrounded by a veritable pile of books, was a man with a mop of brown hair actively using an open book as a pillow. There was a peaceful expression on his face, features soft and neutral and relaxed, and he seemed to be drooling onto the book just a bit. His clothing was… colourful, mostly. He wore a pair of bright purple slacks and brown loafers. On top of a short-sleeved button down, he had on a sweater vest with a garish blue leaf pattern covering it. There was a well-made leather satchel slung over the back of his chair, and Geralt spotted an assortment of silver rings on his hand.

Right as Geralt finished looking him over, the man released another ungodly snore from deep within his chest, and Geralt had to resist the urge to snort in amusement as he walked over and shook the man gently by his shoulder. Almost immediately, he grumbled into the book and began to blink awake, and Geralt hastily removed his hand, waiting patiently as he got his wits about him.

After a quick stretch in his seat, the man twisted to face him, still blinking the tiredness from his eyes, and Geralt was shocked by just how blue they were as he stared up at Geralt. The man froze for a moment, looking a bit like a deer caught in the headlights, before he seemed to take in his surroundings and look properly embarrassed.

“Sorry,” the man grinned sheepishly, then paused to yawn and rub at his eye before continuing. “I must’ve fallen asleep. Do you, uh, happen to know what time it is?”

Geralt looked down at his watch, then back up at the man. “Five till seven.”

“Oh, fuck,” he cursed, standing up. (Geralt was slightly ashamed to admit that he hadn’t realized until just then that the man was of a height with him.) He began hastily stacking books and piling some in his arms. “Is there still time to check these out? I can come back tomorrow if not, but I was really hoping that I—”

“Calm down,” Geralt said, raising an eyebrow at the man’s hurried, panicked flurry of movement. “Go to the desk. Zoltan can help you. You can leave anything you’re not borrowing here.”

Relief and hope flashed though the man’s unnecessarily blue eyes. “You’re sure?”

Geralt just nodded stiffly, watching as the man thanked him profusely and gathered his things, carrying a handful of books with him as he rushed off toward the lobby. Once he’d disappeared and his shuffling footsteps faded out, Geralt rummaged through the rest of the titles he’d accumulated. They all seemed to be on art and music across the Continent—a book of Aedirnian folk songs, a history of Kerackian musical movements, an encyclopaedia of Kaedweni sculptors. Geralt hummed under his breath, then began the monotonous job of putting everything in its rightful place.

---

In his defense, Jaskier really hadn’t meant to fall asleep at the table.

Ever since he’d moved to Aedirn, he found himself exhausted more often than not. His life had consisted of a series of rather sporadic, spontaneous moves ever since he decided to leave his family home in Kerack to pursue the arts. He’d moved to Redania years ago to attend none other than Oxenfurt Academy, and had spent his summers gallivanting around the countryside with his schoolfriends. After three years of study, he graduated with degrees in Music Performance and Art History, and a year later, had earned a graduate degree as well. He had then promptly departed for a year of backpacking through Temeria, after which he’d returned to Oxenfurt to teach for a term. Most recently, he had uprooted his entire life to move to Dol Blathanna. He’d decided on a bit of a whim that he needed a change of pace—new places, new sights, new people. As soon as he had a job lined up as an educator and program developer at the Dol Blathanna’s Museum of Art and History—which, everyone had to admit, was truly a perfect fit for him—he had packed his things and been on his way.

That had been nearly two months ago, and Jaskier had been working overtime to establish a life for himself in the city. He’d always been a restless person, needing noise and hustle and bustle to keep himself sane, so he had signed a lease for a rather expensive apartment close to the city’s center. On the bright side, the location made his commute to work rather convenient, and he was near enough to nightlife that he had found a handful of bars and cafés he could play the occasional gig at. He’d also taken to offering music lessons on the weekends to help make ends meet. Between his musical pursuits, unpredictable work hours, and numerous side jobs, he was, well. Pretty tired, all things considered.

However, there was no time to rest! He had been tasked with a laundry list of assignments at work in order to prepare for the summer; the museum always put on educational programming and enrichment opportunities for children when schools were out of session, and Jaskier’s job was to propose and develop said programming. Thus, on one of his rare days off, he had gone to the library to do a bit of light research; he had a handful of ideas for some interactive exhibits, but he needed to flesh them out a bit more.

The research ended up being less light than he had planned, because of course it had, and soon enough, Jaskier had a pile of books around him. By the time he had finished flipping through the third book, he was becoming rather tired, and—

Okay, well. Look. Here’s the thing. Jaskier was tired, and he had been up until very early in the morning because he’d played a gig for some swanky hotel bar in the central business district, and the library was just cold enough that it was making him drowsy, and the sounds of people flipping through pages and trodding up and down the aisles was soothing him, and the books were, in all honesty, starting to bore him, and—

He fell asleep. He fell asleep, okay, and in his opinion, that was a very reasonable consequence given the clusterfuck of a headache his week had been.

Next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake by a man gorgeous enough that Jaskier, for a brief moment, froze in place and forgot entirely where he was. (He froze, which he never does. Julian Alfred Pankratz does not freeze, gods dammit, but sweet Melitele, who could blame him? The man was stunning.) He was tall and broad-shouldered, his long white hair tied messily into an updo with a few strands framing his face; he had honey-golden eyes, a strong brow and nose and jawline, and a few faint scars decorating his face. He wore a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a very flattering pair of black jeans. He also, much to Jaskier’s embarrassment, had a name-tag; in large letters, it read GERALT RIVIA, and underneath, in smaller text, LIBRARIAN . The library’s logo was depicted to the left.

A very gorgeous man, and a librarian to boot? Unfair.

Though he tried to appear smooth and suave and generally like a competent, put-together adult, Jaskier knew he fumbled through his interaction with the man, and he felt a bit like a fool the entire time. As he practically scurried off with his handful of books, his face and neck warmed with embarrassment. At the desk, he found the “Zoltan” individual Geralt had spoken of, a short, stocky man with a mohawk and full beard, and Jaskier hurried through the transaction before practically fleeing from the library. It wasn’t until he had returned to his apartment nearly twenty minutes later that he finally felt like he could breathe again.

He went through his evening routine of taking a scalding hot shower, changing into pajamas, and lounging on his couch with leftover takeout and a glass of Est Est. (Est Est was definitely beyond what he could afford at the moment; that particular bottle had been a farewell gift from Essi.) As he ate and drank, he flipped through the books he had checked out and wrote out ideas, notes, and questions in his work notebook. And if he occasionally remembered his downright embarrassing encounter at the library and then buried his face in a pillow as he tried to emotionally recover, that was nobody’s business but his own.

As the hours passed and the clock crept closer to midnight, he’d come up with more questions than anything else, which was. A bit of an issue.

Even with his extensive studies in art history, Jaskier didn’t know as much about Aedirnian artistic customs—his studies had placed a focus on traditions in remote, mountainous regions of Redania and Kaedwen. He could talk for hours about the production of Redanian watercolour paints, and had quite literally co-written one of the most comprehensive books on Kaedweni folk music, but he’d wanted the museum’s summer programming to have an emphasis on local arts, which meant that he’d need some help.

He then realized that this probably meant asking one of his new coworkers for direction, which he would, to be quite frank, rather perish than do, because he felt that most of them already thought he was silly and foppish and deeply unserious, with the way he was always running to and fro with his head barely attached to his shoulders, never seen without a cup of coffee and bags under his eyes. However, it was either facing his coworkers, all of whom had chronic cases of stick-up-the-ass-itis, or… going back to the library, and potentially facing the tall-gorgeous-intimidating librarian again. (Geralt, his brain supplied helpfully.)

Neither option sounded particularly appealing, and both avenues would undoubtedly lead to Jaskier making a fool of himself, so he decided that he would simply go to the library as soon as it opened at nine in the morning; he severely doubted that the man would be working from nine to seven on a daily basis, so he was probably in the clear.

…Probably.

---

AN: hey y'all! hope you enjoy chapter 1!! keep up with me on my ao3, found +here, and my twitter @nottveth. chapters 2 and 3 are already written and posted on ao3, but will be updated here over the next few days.

[dreamofbecoming]

bitten lips and broken hands

the incomparable @wren-of-the-woods tagged me in a totally innocuous wip ask game, and although i had no current wips, this apparently triggered my latent gifted child programming and i ended up staying up all night to write this

so thank you wren from the bottom of my heart, and i hope all y’all enjoy whatever the fuck this is

geraskier/implied pre-geraskefer

rating: t

wc: 6500

ao3

Geralt is drunk. Properly drunk, too, not just the lights are all brighter and the jokes all funnier drunk. Perhaps not quite oh dear, is that the floor? How did it get all the way up he- drunk, but certainly in the vicinity of I might not remember deciding to homestead in this ditch on the side of the road, but surely it was a good decision and I stand by it drunk.

In his defense, he’s quite sure he’s earned it. They all have, after everything. So many of his brothers dead, blood soaking into the stone floor again, throwing him back to the Sacking...he snatches the bottle from Lambert and downs another swig of White Gull to cut off that line of thinking. That’s why they’re getting drunk, to stop thinking about it. Getting maudlin, while on brand, defeats the whole purpose. Ciri is safe, gone to bed hours ago, and he got Yen settled into an empty room (near Vesemir’s, who promised to keep an ear out in case she tried anything unsavory) after supper before heading back down to get pissed with his brothers, so there’s nothing keeping him from what he’s definitely earned.

Vartok and Tolbert are already passed out, drooling on the floor in front of the fire, but Geralt and Eskel and Lambert have at least another bottle to get through.

“So whas- wash- what’s the deal with your bard, anyway? The fuck’d you bring him here for?”

“Lam, don’ be a fuckin’ prick, hey? Bard’s nice enough. Likes Lil Bleater! ‘s good people!”

“’as how I know he’s mad! Nobob- boby- nobody likes that bloody monster! Fuckin’ menace she is.”

“Don’ fuckin’ insult my damn goat, you ass! Yer jus’ cross she got into your room las’ year. ‘s yer own fault! Told you! Shut the door! Pass the damn Gull, Wolf, quit hoggin’ it.”

“Those were bran’ new boots! Fuckin’ beast! You still owe me new ones, ya prick. The fuck was I talking about anyway?”

Geralt is only half listening to the familiar bickering, so Eskel has to stop guzzling from the rapidly emptying bottle to answer. “Bard,” he nods decisively, going back to the bottle.

“Right! Bard! The fuck were you thinking, Pretty Boy? Fancy type like that, all, all frilly and shit, what good is he in a wisher- witcher keep? Tossing rocks about in the middle of fights? ‘ sides, dunno why he’s still hangin’ around you anyway, din’ you chase him off? Don’ belong here, that one.”

“I know,” Geralt laments. He does know. It’s why he never invited Jaskier here to winter with him, despite the many and myriad hints he pretended not to pick up on over the years. He knew from the moment he met Jaskier that this place, with its ghosts and bloodstains and drafty corridors and broken edges and broken witchers, was no place for someone like his the bard. Someone bright and vibrant and joyful. Kaer Morhen was none of those things. Even whole and full of life, it had been a cruel and a hard place. A place of dead children and frightened youths and cold men. No, he had never wanted to see Jaskier in these halls if he could help it.

“Din’ have much of a choice, y’know. Yen ‘s all-” He waves his hand vaguely about in an approximation of the chaos that was the days following the mess at Nenneke’s. “Hadta get Ciri back. Wouldn’ta brought him here otherwise.”

In hindsight, he’ll probably blame the drink for the fact that he didn’t register the familiar scent of sweat and parchment and almond oil, but the truth is, he’s so lost in thoughts of Jaskier already that he assumes it’s only in his head.

It is not. Eskel whaps him on the shoulder in alarm, trying to cut him off, but it’s too late. Jaskier stands motionless in the doorway for a moment before he whirls on his heel and vanishes into the hall, the tray of food he had obviously very thoughtfully prepared for them clattering to the ground behind him.

Geralt abruptly feels very sober. Jaskier’s face, eyes huge and brimming with tears, expression utterly crushed, is going to haunt him, he knows. It’s like the mountain all over again.

“...whoops?” Lambert tries, though he does look genuinely contrite, for Lambert values of contrite, anyway. Granted, he’s already out of his seat and gathering up the scattered food onto the discarded platter, shoveling a roll into his mouth straight off the floor, so Geralt takes his remorse with several grains of salt.

“G’wan, you hafta fix it! Go talk to him!” Eskel shoves him off the couch, gesturing frantically at the doorway where Jaskier disappeared from.

Geralt’s reflexes are slow, and his brain hasn’t quite caught up with the situation, but as the shock starts to wear off, hot shame followed by cold dread settles into his limbs, sending him stumbling down the hall towards the bedrooms. The molten pit of shame in his gut writhes even harder when he realizes he doesn’t know which room Jaskier has been staying in, hasn’t even gone to see him once since arriving, not even to check on him after the battle. Gods, he’s an awful friend.

Shoving down feelings that will do him no good right now, he tries to shake off some of the lingering alcohol haze not burned off by adrenaline and focus on Jaskier’s scent as it leads him through the winding corridors of the keep, tainted as it is by the scent of saltwater tears and moldy grief.

He finds him on one of the lower levels, in a cramped little room off a side hallway without even a hearth. There are no torches lit, but a magelight Yen must have cast sometime before supper glows over the desk, though why she would use her freshly-restored, still-regenerating power on something like that, Geralt isn’t sure.

What’s worse, Jaskier is packing.

To be fair, there isn’t much to be packed, but he’s carefully stacking notebooks into a satchel Geralt recognizes as dwarven design, which he assumes Yarpen and his people gave to him on the way across the Continent.

“Jas-”

“I hope one more night won’t be too much of an imposition,” he interrupts. “Yen’s already asleep, I checked, and after what she went through today, it seemed unchivalrous to wake her just to ask her for a portal off the mountain. You have my word I’ll be-” Jaskier’s voice, already thin and warbling from tears, breaks for a moment before he recovers, “I’ll be off your hands just as soon as possible. I never intended to intrude on a place I...I don’t belong.”

His back is to the witcher, and Geralt can see the quiver in his shoulders as he grips the desk with white knuckles, the strain of holding himself together causing him to shake where he stands. His choice of phrasing does not go unnoticed, hitting its mark like Geralt is sure it was meant to. It twists in his belly like poisoned dagger, burning and tugging.

“Jas that wasn’t- I didn’t- fuck. Fuck! I’m too fucking drunk for this.” He finds himself all at once overwhelmed, the grief and the shock and the guilt and the fear and the fucking White Gull and now the thought of the inevitable loss of Jaskier all running into each other and piling up and taking his legs out from under him. He sits down hard on the bed, his face in his hands.

There’s a long pause, then a rustling and a clinking sound he barely registers, before Jaskier’s voice, much close than before, says, “Here.”

When he looks up, the bard is standing before him, eyes red and cheeks tear-tracked, expression hard. He’s holding out a vial. Geralt takes it on instinct, body not needing input from his brain to trust that anything Jaskier gives him is safe to consume.

“It’s White Honey, not Wives’ Tears, but it should still help.”

“Where- why? How?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Guess I never got out of the habit of carrying the basics. Vesemir let me nick a few from the stores here, since all my things in Oxenfurt have probably been picked off by now.”

Bewildered, Geralt drinks the potion down. It isn’t as instantaneous as Tears would be, but alcohol is close enough to toxicity that he still feels his head start to clear. There’s so much he wants to address about everything Jaskier just said, but he has no idea where to start.

“Didn’t mean it like that, y’know. I swear. I didn’t.”

“Forgive me if that doesn’t make me feel better, Geralt. How the fuck did you mean it, then? How exactly am I meant to take hearing that I don’t belong here, and you wouldn’t have brought me if you had another choice?”

Fuck. That does sound really bad out loud. Geralt never meant for him to hear any of that, but that’s no excuse.

“’s not- ugh. It’s not that you don’t- it’s here, Jas, not you. Here doesn’t belong with...fuck. I hate this. You know I’m no good at this!”

Jaskier continues to lean against the desk, arms crossed. He raises one eyebrow, and Geralt knows no help is coming. He isn’t being let off the hook this time. He puts his face back in his hands with a groan. He almost wishes he hadn’t taken the Honey, maybe alcohol would loosen his tongue enough to help explain to Jaskier why he should want to get off this mountain as fast as possible, why belonging here was the last thing Geralt wants for him, wants for anyone he loves.

(He balks a little at the word, but inside his own mind, at least for now, it’s easy enough to ignore. And it’s not like he hasn’t know its true for years; its just one of the many things he decided a long time ago to pretend weren’t happening to him. The Child Surprise and the djinn wish came back to bite him in the ass, but surely it can’t hurt to ignore this lesson one more time, right?)

“You don’t belong in this place, just like- just like you don’t belong with me, ok?”

The moldy, rotten scent of grief and hurt swells so quickly Geralt almost sneezes. He looks up in alarm to see Jaskier staggering back towards the wall, away from Geralt, a look on his face like the witcher had just carved up his sister in front of him. He looks gutted. Fuck, that hadn’t come out right either, had it?

“Well, witcher, that certainly does clear things up. I suppose I should thank you for refraining from screaming my faults in my face this time. I apologize for having inflicted my presence on you for so long, then. Message received.” Geralt winces at the epithet, always before so soft in Jaskier’s mouth, so full of affection and admiration, now sharp and bloody on his lips.

“Wait, no, fuck, that isn’t what I meant!”

“No need to explain any further. You can go back to your brothers now, I’m sure they’re missing you. I can finish packing on my own. I’ll be gone in the morning, you won’t have to suffer me any further.”

“Jaskier, would you fucking listen to me? I don’t mean I don’t want you here! Of course I want you here! I always want you here!” Geralt is shouting now, desperation flooding him with adrenaline that feels remarkably like familiar, comfortable anger, and he leans into it.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You just told me I don’t belong here in your home, I don’t belong by your side, you only allowed me here because you had no choice, your brother called me useless and you flat-out agreed with him, how fucking dare you tell me you want me here! It’s cruel to toy with me like this, Geralt! You’re many things, but I’ve never known you to be cruel before, so please just go and let me take myself off your fucking hands in peace!”

Geralt feels frantic, out of control. Jaskier is slipping through his fingers and he doesn’t know which words to pick to stop it from happening. The thought that just an hour ago, he was planning out the best way to take the bard down the mountain as soon as the snow cleared, to send him back to a better, safer, happier life, a life without Geralt in it, doesn’t occur to him. Everything is blanked out by terror, leaving only the singular thought that he has to make Jaskier stop looking like that, stop smelling like that, has to fix what he keeps breaking.

“You don’t belong with me because you belong somewhere better, you fucking moron!”

Hm. Not quite the tone he was going for, but closer than before, at least.

Jaskier has stopped moving altogether, and is staring at him in something like shocked incredulity. At least he’s stopped shoving potions into his satchel, which is something.

Geralt can see Jaskier trying to formulate a response, emotions shifting rapidly across his face as his scent fluctuates wildly, pingponging from rage to hope to hurt and back again. Eventually he seems to settle on flat indignation.

“I’m going to need you to elaborate on that, Geralt. I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.” Based on the expression on his face, Geralt doubts that, but apparently being forced to articulate himself is his punishment for being an ass.

“You don’t- you aren’t- ugh. You’re good, Jaskier! You’re light and laughter and softness. You’re pretty silks and rich foods and shiny jewelry. You play for kings and queens, you have Oxenfurt panting after you every year to teach more classes, you’ve had half the pretty people on the Continent in your bed, and every one of them has begged you not to leave! I’ve known it since we met, Jaskier, you don’t belong on the Path. You don’t belong in the damp and the muck and the blood and the shit. You don’t belong with a fucking Butcher! I tried so hard, Jaskier, for so long, to make you leave. To make you see that you deserve more. Deserve better. I don’t know why the fuck you kept coming back, but I thought after the mountain I had finally done it, I had finally made you see. But I was weak and when Yen fucked me over I got scared, I came to you because you’re the only person I know who would keep coming back, who I could trust with Ciri because you kept picking me for all those years when I didn’t deserve it. But you were supposed to be gone! You were supposed to be safe! You should have been happy in Oxenfurt without me, and instead I dragged you back into this nightmare and almost got you killed and now you’re stuck in this horrible keep full of the ghosts of dead witchers and my idiot dickhead brothers and I can’t even get my shit together enough to be nice to you! Why the fuck are you here, Jaskier? Why the fuck do you want to belong here? It’s fucking terrible here! You should be somewhere better!”

Geralt collapses back onto the side of the bed, having gotten up to pace at some point during that monologue, most of which was less conscious speech and more “ripped straight out of his ribcage by some unseen force.” Fuck, he’s actually winded. He hasn’t shouted that much without stopping since the Trials, he doesn’t think.

Jaskier is staring again, eyebrows nearly touching his hairline and his mouth hanging open. Geralt very carefully does not think about Jaskier’s open mouth, in much the same way he has carefully not thought about Jaskier’s mouth for the last 15 years or so.

It takes a moment for Jaskier to gather his thoughts, and Geralt thinks it might be the longest moment of his life thus far. He fights the urge to fidget with his hands, a nervous habit he didn’t realize he had picked up from the bard until after the mountain, and thereafter made a deliberate effort to squash.

Finally Jaskier seems to come to some internal decision, and he nods to himself before meeting Geralt’s eyes squarely. “I have a number of questions, Geralt, but the first and most consequential is this: who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Wh- huh?” Apparently Geralt has spent all of the words he had available, which isn’t terribly surprising given the circumstances. That isn’t where he expected Jaskier’s reaction to go, though.

“I said, witcher, who the fuck do you think you are, to decide for me the company I should keep and the kind of life I should lead?”

Well, shit. “That’s not- I wasn’t-”

“Because the last person to try that was the Count de fucking Lettenhove, darling, and I assure you, it didn’t work for him, either.”

Geralt blinks. His brain latches onto the pet name, which seems like it must be an improvement over witcher spat with such vitriol, even if it still sounds distinctly like an insult in that tone. He fights to regain some of his footing in this conversation, which is rapidly changing directions to somewhere he did not expect and is not prepared for, to no avail. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, Jaskier isn’t done.

“Do you really think me so shallow? So soft? That I’m nothing but silks and sex and a pretty face? Do you think the university wants me to teach because I’m- what was it Lambert called me? Frilly? Do you know what I was doing in Oxenfurt before you found me? Because I assure you, dear heart, I wasn’t fucking lounging about on featherbeds drinking Toussainti wine!”

Geralt’s brow furrows in confusion, which seems to stoke the bard’s ire from embers to a conflagration.

“You fucker, that is what you fucking thought! You never even fucking asked, you utter ass! I was bloody tortured for you and you want to send me back because, what, you think whenever I’m not with you I’m fulfilling my life’s fucking purpose as a vapid, foppish little brat? You don’t fucking know me at all, do you? I can’t fucking believe you right now!” Jaskier’s face is flushed with anger, teeth bared and scent spiking burnt and bitter.

Geralt’s thoughts have all screeched to a grinding halt, the room fading out around him as his focus narrows completely to the man before him.

“Tortured?” His voice quavers in a way that would probably embarrass him if he could think about anything but Jaskier’s voice on a loop in his head, tortured tortured tortured. He’s had this nightmare before, a dozen times and more.

Jaskier seems to bring himself up short, confusion flashing briefly across his face. “I- yes? Yen said she told you...I thought that’s why you came for me?”

“She said. She. She said you were “in some trouble.” The guard outside the jail said you were locked up for peeping. I just assumed…”

Jaskier’s face has gone flat and blank again, and the rotten smell of hurt is swirling in the air again, mixing unpleasantly with the burnt anger smell and turning Geralt’s stomach.

“You just thought I had done something stupid and selfish and probably involving my dick, and never thought to question it or ask me if I was alright.”

“I- yes. I mean no, I- I should have- I- Jaskier, please, what happened?” He isn’t proud of the pleading note in his voice, but the longer he waits for answers the stronger the urge gets to throw himself off the tallest tower the keep has, or grab Jaskier around the middle and wrap him in blankets and never let him out of his sight, neither of which he thinks would go over well with the other residents.

A note of uncertainty creeps into Jaskier voice and demeanor, which Geralt finds somehow more painful than the anger. “I- there was a mage. He was looking for you. Well, I think ultimately he was looking for Ciri, but he knew he needed to find you first. And I guess I’ve done quite a good job tying our reputations together over the years, and I wasn’t exactly hard to track down, so I guess…”

A mage…“Firefucker.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh, a bitter, unhappy thing. “An appropriate moniker. I see you ran into him eventually.” He looks up in sudden alarm. “I didn’t- Geralt, I didn’t tell him anything. I swear I didn’t. I mean, I said you told me of a witcher keep, but I told him that the fortress in the mountains was a story I made up, and even if he took that and ran with it, I never even said which mountains! I promise, Geralt, I’d have died before I let him hurt you, or Ciri, I swear it.”

Geralt isn’t sure how many times his heart can break in a single day, in a single conversation. Surely it can’t be many more after this, can it?

“I...I’m not worried about that, Jaskier. In fact, if anything like that ever happens in the future, you tell them everything. Whatever they want to know. You tell them everything you know, before you let them hurt you, Jaskier, please, promise me you’ll tell them.”

Jaskier’s eyes seem older than Geralt has ever seen them, full of a boundless sadness he never wants his bard to have to feel ever again. “You know I can’t promise that, my dear. If I had to do it over, I’d do it all again. I’d suffer him burning my fingers clean off before I let him anywhere near you.”

Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s hand automatically, only realizing at the last moment that he might not welcome the touch. He withdraws his hand reluctantly, trying to subtly angle his head instead to see Jaskier’s fingers where they’re tucked under his crossed arms.

“Are you- did they- how-” Luckily Jaskier seems to have retained his fluency in Geraltese, and holds out his right hand for inspection. The skin is shiny and red, obviously burned, but definitely in the later stages of healing. There are no open sores or blisters, and he winces in discomfort but not pain when he stretches the mottled skin by splaying his fingers out.

“Yennefer was kind enough to take a look at them earlier, once we were sure none of you were being stoic idiots and hiding injuries. They’ll be alright eventually, she thinks. And it isn’t like I have a lute to play at the moment, anyway, so it’s no great hardship to rest them while they heal. I had some trouble writing earlier, but I didn’t put all that effort in school into being able to write with either hand for nothing. You needn’t worry about me, Geralt. I’m fine, I promise.”

Geralt is quite sure he isn’t fine at all. None of this is fine. Every part of this is setting off a screaming klaxon in his head of wrongWrongWRONG and he has no idea how to fix any of it. The choice of room suddenly makes a great deal more sense, though, as does the magelight. Geralt feels a sudden, fierce rush of gratitude for Yen. Even though he’s still furious with her, and it’ll be a long time before he trusts her the way he once did, she’s obviously been taking care of Jaskier where he has failed utterly in doing so, and he’s desperately thankful that at least his inattention hasn’t left Jaskier completely alone. He isn’t sure when the two of them got as close as they clearly are, but upon reflection, he finds no jealousy, only gratefulness and a hint of chagrin that he has so clearly failed where the two of them have succeeded in making each other happy.

Jaskier is still holding his injured hand out between them. Geralt moves slowly, waiting for any sign that Jaskier doesn’t want him near, reaching out to grasp it gently, careful of the inflamed skin. Jaskier lets him, sitting down beside him on the edge of the mattress.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier. I’m sorry I sent you away, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you from this. I’m sorry you were hurt because of me. This is the opposite of what I wanted. I hoped you would be safer without me. Happier. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“There you go again, martyring yourself on the altar of other people’s choices. When will you learn, Geralt? You’re so desperate to push away anyone who gets close, because you think you’re some kind of curse on our lives. That’s bollocks. We stay because we want to. We sacrifice because we want to. We risk danger because we want to. Because being around you is worth it. We’re not asking for protection, or saving, or glitz and glamor. We’re only asking to stay. Because we want to. Because you’re worth it, you unbelievable moron. Stop trying to make everyone else’s choices for them, for once.”

He isn’t sure he can wrap his head around that right now, so he doesn’t try, but he does tuck it close to his heart for safekeeping, to turn it over in his hands later like a precious stone. He’s still holding Jaskier’s hand, and he squeezes gently for lack of a better response.

“I am sorry, you know. For what I said in Caingorn. It wasn’t true. None of it. I shouldn’t have lashed out when you were just trying to help.”

“You know it was never about what you said, right?”

Geralt makes a questioning noise, and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“I’ve known you for 25 years, shithead, you don’t think I know how you get when you’re angry? You don’t think I can tell when you’re pissed at yourself and taking it out on whatever’s nearby? You think I haven’t heard worse insults from you than a bunch of blatant falsehoods and a melodramatic declaration of never wanting to see me again? Please, I got more cutting rebukes from my kid cousins growing up. Yes, it was shitty, and yes, it stung in the moment, but I never took it to heart.”

Fearing to know, but needing the answer all the same, Geralt asks, “What, then? I heard the song, you know.” The sharp intake of breath tells him Jaskier knows which song he means. “In Aedirn, in some backwater town. There was some nobody bard there, but even if he performed it terribly, I could tell it was yours. I had thought about looking for you once I got Ciri settled, but when I heard that song...I knew there was no fixing it. I knew you hated me properly, after that. So if it wasn’t what I said, what was it?”

Geralt hears the hitch in Jaskier’s breath and smells the salt of his tears, but he can’t bring himself to look up for this. He can’t bear to be looking into those blue eyes he loves so dearly as Jaskier explains how Geralt managed to destroy the best thing in his long, wretched life. He does hold his hand a little tighter, and hopes it’s enough to keep him here.

“I’m sorry for that. I needed to write it, but I should never have played it for anyone. I never meant to, really. You never should have heard it, and I’m sorry you had to. I was angry when I wrote it, and bitter, and...well. Heartbroken, I suppose. It’s no excuse, though.”

Geralt has a lot of questions about that, actually, but he still needs an answer to the one he already asked. “Why did you write it, then? If it wasn’t...what was it, Jaskier? What did I do?”

“You didn’t come back.”

He does look up then, confused, searching Jaskier’s face for clarity. He looks haunted, and desperately sad. He apparently reads Geralt’s need for clarification on his face, and continues.

“It was hardly the first time you got angry and took it out on me because I was the closest target. Not that that’s a great pattern in itself,” Geralt winces in agreement and apology, “but it wasn’t anything I wasn’t used to. I knew the routine- you get mad, you lash out, you cool off, you give me the biggest portion of supper or a sweetbun from the market or swing towards a town sooner than we have to instead of apologizing out loud, I forgive you, we move on.

“I figured I would head back to the camp, let you cool off for a few hours, and then try again. Of course, then I talked to Borch and got the bones of what had happened, and I realized it was bigger than I’d thought, and you might need longer to calm down, so when I realized you weren’t coming back right away, I managed to tag along with the dwarves on the way down. I grabbed the essentials out of Roach’s packs and set up at the inn at the foot of the mountain. I’m not sure if you noticed, but I left nearly all our coin with you. I only took enough for a night’s room and supper, since I was too tired to play after the hike down.

“I waited for you, Geralt. I stayed posted up there for three weeks. When you never came, I thought maybe you had just needed even more time alone, so once I’d overstayed my welcome there I started making my way towards Oxenfurt- the long way, mind, I swung all the way inland to Ard Carriagh, hoping to catch you on your way home for the winter. I made sure to be as loud and ostentatious as I could, so you’d be able to track me down when you were ready. Months I waited, Geralt. Months.

“I didn’t accept that you weren’t coming back for me until spring. That’s when I gave up.” Geralt’s heart cracks for what must be the dozenth time tonight, but he doesn’t dare interrupt. “I ended up at the Seat Of Friendship, looking for some kind of community, of purpose, to fill the space you left. That’s when I wrote- well. That’s when I wrote that song. And it was good, there. I missed you, I was hurt, but I felt safe, and appreciated, and understood. It was like being a student again, surrounded by other artists, all feeding off each other’s creative energy. And then…” He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and clutches Geralt’s hand tight enough to hurt anyone who wasn’t a witcher.

“It was a massacre, Geralt. It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I didn’t- I couldn’t-” He breaks off again, choking on a sob. Unable to stand it any longer, Geralt tucks an arm around his shoulders, pulling him tentatively closer. Jaskier crumples, collapsing into Geralt’s chest and clutching at his tunic as he sobs into his neck. Geralt rubs soothing circles into Jaskier’s back, like he used to sometimes when they shared a bedroll and Jaskier would wake them both with nightmares of a childhood he refused to discuss.

Long minutes later, Jaskier’s weeping slows, cries quieting to whimpers. He draws back from Geralt’s shoulder enough to swipe the sleeve of his doublet over his face, blotchy and red and tear-stained as it is. Geralt is reluctant to move his arm from around Jaskier’s shoulders, but luckily Jaskier only settles more comfortably into his side, still sniffling. Geralt savors the solid warmth of him against his side as he waits for him to be ready to continue.

“There was nothing I could do to save them. I barely made it out alive myself. I’ve never felt so fucking helpless, Geralt. So useless. I had to do something. I’d have gone mad if I didn’t. So, I took some of the coin from my father’s coffers, and bought a tavern in Oxenfurt, right on the pier. I managed to leverage my spywork to coax some more coin out of the Redanian Crown, and used that to set up a smuggling network with some old connections from my school days and a handful of likeminded survivors of Bleobheris, and I became the Sandpiper.

“The song was never meant to be public, truly. Right after I bought the pub, before the network was fully set up, I was...struggling. Owning a bar means pretty much unlimited access to alcohol and I...well. I don’t remember a lot of those first few weeks, really. I woke up one particular morning with no memory of the night before, until I was playing my set that night and people started requesting Burn, Butcher, Burn. Apparently I’d been feeling especially maudlin the night before and I played it while I was blackout drunk. There was a witcher in town, as I recall. Something about a monster in the sewers under the university, I was trying not to pay a lot of attention. He was a Bear, if the rumors were correct, but still close enough to set off unwanted memories, and send me to the bottom of several bottles.”

Guilt and resentment war for dominance in Geralt’s gut, churning violently. He wants to stop Jaskier, doesn’t want to hear any more, but he can’t, and he knows he shouldn’t.

“It was never meant to get out. My life’s work has been erasing the Butcher of Blaviken from history entirely. I was angry, Geralt, I am angry, but I never wanted to use that name against you. Never that. I am truly sorry for that.”

Geralt can hardly believe that after everything Jaskier has just explained, all the anguish Geralt had caused with his selfish, childish actions, that Jaskier is still apologizing to him. Sure, he hates that fucking song, but it isn’t like he hasn’t earned the name, both times apparently.

“You don’t- I’m not- You don’t owe me an apology, Jaskier. I would deserve it just for wounding you, now doubly so for not realizing just how deeply I had. I can’t...I don’t know how to fix it, Jaskier. I don’t know how to make it up to you. How can I fix it?”

Jaskier sits back, drawing his leg up onto the bed between them to better face Geralt head on. Geralt mourns the loss of contact, but holds Jaskier’s clear blue gaze with his own, hoping against hope that he’ll get to keep at least this, if nothing else.

“Are you going to send me away again?”

Geralt grimaces, but concedes it’s a fair question. “I thought it was the best thing for you, Jaskier. The safest thing. I only wanted you to be where you would be happiest.”

“That’s not your fucking call to make, witcher, and it’s not what I asked. Are you going to send me away again, yes or no?”

“No. Part of me still feels like I should, but I don’t think I could if I tried, anymore. I had been planning to, but when I came in here and you were packing, I...I’ve only felt fear like that when Yen took Ciri. Maybe it’s weak, but I don’t want to lose you again, Jaskier. I don’t want to be without you.”

Jaskier’s eyes are swimming with tears again, but his scent is full of cautious hope, telling Geralt he finally said something right.

“You’re a bastard and an idiot, and I want to stab you a little bit for that answer, but I’m going to focus on the positives because I’m fucking exhausted. We can deal with the rest tomorrow.” He pauses, uncharacteristically self-conscious. “Will you...will you stay with me tonight? I just- the nightmares used to be easier with you there, on the Path, and I thought, if you were alright with it, we could-”

Geralt takes pity and cuts him off. “I’ll stay. Do you...would you come to my room instead? The bed is bigger, there. There’s a hearth, but I can put it out if you need. It should be warm enough with an extra fur or two, with two of us in the bed.”

The sour smell of embarrassment fills the air as a blush creeps up Jaskier’s neck. “That obvious, huh?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Jaskier. You were hurt with fire, fear is a normal reaction. It should fade eventually, and I’ll help you in the meantime. We all will. You already have Yen wrapped around your finger, if she’s conjuring you magelights.”

The attempt at levity works, drawing a chuckle from the bard as he looks up at the light hanging above their heads. Geralt notes with vague interest that it apparently followed Jaskier across the room when he moved to sit by Geralt, meaning it will probably also follow him up to Geralt’s room, eliminating the need to make Jaskier anxious with torches. Geralt will have to track Yen down tomorrow and thank her, anger or not. She really has come through for Jaskier, and that’s a debt Geralt can never repay.

The newfound camaraderie between the bard and the witch raises some interesting possibilities for the shape of his relationships with both of them eventually, but that’s a thought for far, far in the future. He has bridges to construct and trust to rebuild with both of them before that’s worth thinking about, and Ciri will have to be all of their first priorities for a while yet, but it’s nice to have something to look forward to. Geralt had almost forgotten what being hopeful for the future felt like, he’s spent so long running from it or assuming he didn’t have one. It’s nice, he thinks. Strange, but nice.

But that’s for later. For now, he has a bed waiting for him, and a bard to fill it with him, and the promise of at least one more day without that bard fleeing Geralt’s brutish ways down the mountain. He has a daughter to train in the morning, and brothers to tease for their inevitable hangovers, and a father to thank for looking out for his bard while he couldn’t, and a witch to start to reconcile with.

It’s enough, for now. It’s enough.