#jaskier *dramatic horrified gasp*

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

"I'm truly sorry, but I don't think we've ever met." memory loss angst? 👉👈🥺

anon... fam, this turned into an emotional rollercoaster and totally stole my braincell.

3.8k words. angst with a happy ending. 

tw: memory loss, minor anxiety, repressed memories, idiots to lovers, whump, angst with a happy ending, angst with a fluffy ending

---

It’s been three hours, five minutes, and forty-two seconds since the frigid breeze whipped Geralt’s angry words at him, shattering his fragile, stupid heart to pieces. Every syllable rings through Jaskier’s head over and over, slamming into him from all directions and crippling him with a bone-deep pain far worse than anything he’s ever felt before. The ache ebbs and flows, lancing through him with every step. Not even Geralt’s first frustrated blow to his abdomen had been this terrible.

Geralt… That’s the problem, isn’t it? He hadn’t been smart enough to get out of the gorgeous Witcher’s long, silvery hair soon enough. He’d overstayed his welcome, fallen in love in the meantime, and is now very out of sorts (and also alone in unfamiliar territory). The bard laughs but it’s a hollow sound. Jaskier has reached the edge of hysteria, his intelligent blue eyes now vacant and unseeing. Even as he stumbles through the underbrush, all he can picture is the snarl on Geralt’s face as the Witcher yells at Destiny to take Jaskier off his hands. 

Jaskier’s own hands are covered in sap and splinters from pushing tree branches away from his face as he traverses the darkening forest. His hair is full of debris and his clothes are torn and dirty; Geralt has all of his emergency supplies, still. Jaskier is pretty sure that his lute is still strapped over his shoulder but he realizes, with no small amount of surprise, that he doesn’t actually care.

He doesn’t have the capacity anymore. 

He can’t care… caring hurts too much.

If only Destiny had taken him off Geralt’s hands. Maybe then it would be okay. Maybe then, if Geralt was well and truly free of him and his irritating presence, the Witcher could be happy. He and Yennefer will surely come back around, they always seem to, and Ciri will be joining them soon enough it seems. 

There’s no need - no room - for a humble bard anymore.

Only five hours, thirty minutes, and twelve seconds after Geralt’s outburst at the top of the mountain, Jaskier’s delicate human body succumbs to the stress of the day.

He drops to the forest floor without a sound, grateful for the darkness.

---

Yennefer finds the bard in a heap a few miles away from the previous night’s elevated campsite. When she presses the back of her hand to his forehead she yanks it away almost immediately; he’s burning up, and his skin is clammy and sticky with sweat. The feathery bangs he flicks about and preens so much are stuck to his forehead and temples. He’s on the verge of shaking apart and Yennefer tosses her head imperiously, swearing.

“Damnit, Geralt. You and your incredibly foolish need to be alone all the time so you can brood and self-flagellate. Me, an ageless sorceress from one of the greatest magic schools on the Continent? I can handle a thorough tongue lashing. Fuck, I’m older than you and I’ve seen far worse but this… oh, you great lummox. You absolute bastard…” Yennefer mutters to herself as she assesses the bard’s deteriorating state of health, ranting to an invisible Geralt all the while. “You’re absolutely going to be hearing from me about this, Wolf.”

--- Three days, one hour, and fifteen minutes after Geralt dismissed him forever, Jaskier wakes up with a loud gasp and a violent shudder. He blinks slowly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the bright light streaming in through a window. Whatever he’s lying on is comfortable and the sheets smell fresh and bright, like lilac and freesia. A hint of gooseberry lies beneath it all, delicate and sweet. He glances around the space and finds it to be relatively bare; a guest room, perhaps. Maybe he’s a servant at some noble house? 

Jaskier only really knows that his name is Jaskier and that he plays music. He’s also rather talented with floral arrangements. 

Shortly after he’s finished purveying his (borrowed?) chamber, the very image of grace, beauty, and terror enters the room. The woman, whose coppery skin and enchanting violet eyes practically glow in the midafternoon sun, smiles down at him in a way that toes the line between Motherly and Shark-like. 

“How are you feeling, Jaskier?”

“I’m alright. And you?”

“Just fine. Geralt really did a number on us, huh?” she asks, a playful grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. He has the feeling that something isn’t right; she shouldn’t be looking at him so kindly. 

Her expression changes from friendly to horrified to confused in an instant, as soon as Jaskier manages to ask: “Who’s Geralt? And, pardon me, but I feel as if something is rather amiss. Who are you, my Lady?”

Whoever the gorgeous and terrifying woman is, she grimaces briefly. Then, as if by magic, the comforting smile returns. “I’m Yennefer, of course. I saved your life a few years ago, remember?”

Jaskier wracks his brain but cannot call the occasion to mind. “Unfortunately no, I don’t remember your no doubt heroic deed. Although I suppose that means I’m in your debt, doesn’t it? Do I work for you? Is that why I’m here?”

The woman blinks a few times, slowly, and then nods. “You’re my gardener and personal musician.”

Jaskier brightens, happy to have found himself in a safe environment. 

“But you’ve had a nasty illness and your mind is clearly fatigued. Rest another day or two and then we can see about getting you back into the fresh air.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” Jaskier nods.

“Yen is fine.”

“Thank you, Yen. I don’t know where I’d be without you,” he grins. 

---

Yennefer turns away to hide her pained expression. You’d probably still be with your beloved Witcher. 

She makes her way to the kitchen to fix Jaskier something to eat. He must be hungry after spending three days in a deep, healing sleep. She hadn’t been expecting the amnesia, though; it was an unexpected but not unsurprising turn of events. Heartbreak had done stranger things than a little bit of fever-induced memory loss. When she’d delved briefly into his mind she hadn’t seen any sign of Geralt. His face was absent from the bard’s consciousness; she would have needed to dig to unearth those memories. Whatever the Witcher had done was grievous, especially if Jaskier’s mind compensated with something as dramatic as burying Geralt completely to save itself from further harm.

No matter, she decides, the bard can stay here as long as he likes. It’s the least I can do for all the upset Geralt and I have caused him. Where is that idiot Witcher, anyway?

The sorceress quickly clears her agenda and her mind before returning to her guest room with a large tray of food, a bottle of Toussainti red under her arm. “Jaskier, darling, let’s get your convalescence started in style!”

---

2 months later

---

Jaskier watches a strange man ride up the long path to Yennefer’s manor, the hilts of his twin swords glinting in the sun where they’re slung over his shoulder. He has long white hair and the most devastating jawline the bard/gardener (or ‘bardener’ as he says to irritate his darling employer) has ever laid eyes on. He’s clad all in black, from his plain linen shirt to his tight leather trousers; Jaskier thinks he’d also look rather lovely in dark blue or perhaps forest green.

In front of him, wrapped securely against his chest by one strong arm, sits a little girl with ashen hair and frightened eyes. Haunted eyes. Jaskier’s mind fills with ballads, some familiar and some oddly dreamlike, their lyrics half-obscured and hazy. Ciri, he thinks for no reason. Her name is Ciri. And she is a Princess.

The brunette scurries from the garden alongside the house to the kitchen, searching for the familiar cloud of Yennefer’s strong perfume. “My Lady?” 

“Darling?” the sorceress replies, coming around the corner. She raises her perfectly maintained eyebrows and her lips quirk up into a smirk. “Did you sprint all the way from the west lawn?”

“There’s a- strange man- on the- drive!” he huffs. “White hair- horse!”

“Oh,” her eyes go wide with surprise. Then, in a split second, they narrow to slits. “Oh.”

“Do you, uhm, know him?” Jaskier asks, twiddling his fingers. “He’s rather handsome, Yen. Is he a former lover?”

“Unfortunately,” she growls. “I can’t believe it’s taken him two fucking months to get here. He’d better have a damned good excuse.”

By now Jaskier can breathe normally again and he straightens up, shaking his long, shaggy hair from his eyes. “He had a child with him. She looked scared, Yen.”

“Cirilla!”

Yennefer dashes for the front door and Jaskier follows instinctually. They’re always together and he can’t bear to let her confront this man alone. He’s spent every waking moment with Yen since he awoke that first day and she has grown to be his dearest friend; he’ll protect her even unto death. “Yenna, what’s wrong? Who is he!?”

“Geralt of Rivia,” she snarls. The name seems familiar; maybe from a ballad or story? Perhaps Yen has mentioned him before? 

“What about Geralt of Rivia?” a low, rumbling bass asks from the front hallway. Jaskier and Yennefer arrive in the doorway together and the man, Geralt apparently, takes a shaky step back. He recoils a bit, as if he’s been slapped, and Yennefer’s smile grows cruel. His voice, still incredibly low but now with a slight tremor to it, stutters out; “Wha- Yen, what is he- Jaskier? I only came to ask for help with Ciri, I didn’t know- I didn’t-”

Geralt’s stammered speech tapers off into silence and Yennefer’s brow furrows a second time. When the sorceress sets eyes on the child, who cannot be more than twelve years old, her expression softens again. Jaskier watches the most imposing woman in the world kneel, taking one small, pale hand in both of her own. “My name is Yennever of Vengerberg, former Sorceress of Aretuza. I am honored to meet you, Princess Cirilla. Geralt has come seeking protection, no doubt, and it is easily granted. I will do everything I can to help you.”

“Thank you, Lady Yennefer. And, uhm… Ciri’s fine,” the girl replies. Her voice is high and reedy, shot through with anxiety. She’s so young, Jaskier frowns. And yet she seems to have weathered an incredible storm.

“Ciri,” the bard bows from the doorway, low and dramatic. He sweeps his arm out to the side and bends his knees as awkwardly as possible, “I am Jaskier, private troubadour and gardener extraordinaire, under the employ of the magnanimous and dangerous Lady Yennefer, here. It is my greatest honor to make your very mighty and very royal acquaintance.”

“You’re silly, Master Jaskier,” the child giggles, hiding her mouth behind her hands. Geralt’s eyes grow wide and dart between Jaskier and the girl. Yennefer makes meaningful eye contact before nodding toward the door. Jaskier looks down at Ciri again when she asks: “Do you grow lots of flowers in Lady Yennefer’s garden, or just herbs and things for magic?” 

“I grow lots of things all over the property,” the brunette man steps forward and offers Ciri his hand, gesturing towards the front door with the other. “Would you like to come and take a look? I know all the scientific names, you can even quiz me if you like.”

“I know some,” she smiles shyly, accepting the offered hand. “May I go take a look at the gardens, Geralt?”

“Go ahead,” the Witcher nods dumbly. “Jaskier will take good care of you.”

“That I will. Now, let’s take a look at the flowers and let these silly adults have a chat,” Jaskier grins. He winks at Yennefer and disappears out the door, exiled Princess in tow. 

The two lively companions have toured through all the medicinal herbs and are halfway through Yennefer’s large collection of rose variations when the two other members of the party approach. Geralt looks sheepish, his eyes downcast. Yennefer looks triumphant; she is radiant in her victory as always. 

Geralt steps forward, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Jaskier, I’ve come to apologize for what happened when we parted.”

“Excuse me?” the bard chuckles, raising an eyebrow.  "I don’t know what you’re apologizing for, exactly.”

“When I yelled at you after the dragon hunt. It was only two months ago, Jaskier, surely you remember?”

Jaskier blushes, glancing anxiously between Geralt and his friend, whose violet eyes are stormy with emotion, “I'm truly sorry, but I don't think we've ever met."

Geralt gasps sharply and takes a step back, as he did in the entryway. Jaskier winces, seemingly on instinct, and shies away from the larger man. “You don’t remember me?”

“No…” Jaskier sighs. “I really don't. Should I?”

“You don’t… You don’t even remember Toss a Coin?”

“Oh, that ditty from town?” Jaskier perks up. “I know that song! It always gets stuck in my head.”

“You… You wrote that song,” Geralt’s face crumples. “About our first adventure together outside of Posada. With the elves and the sylvan...”

“I’ve never been to Posada,” Jaskier laughs, waving his hand dismissively. “They hate bards. They prefer troupes of traveling play-actors. Posada is far too serious for my tastes.”

Geralt seems to be in agony. His chest rises and falls unevenly, as if he’s on the verge of tears but unable to shed them. Can Witchers cry? 

How does he know that Geralt is a Witcher? Is it the two swords, the scars, or the strange eyes? How does he know that those are common Witcher traits?

His stomach lurches and he turns away from the group in case he needs to be sick. The ground spins and shivers in little ripples around him, unstable and impermanent beneath his feet. Yennefer is calling his name from somewhere far away and a pair of warm, strong arms are looped around his waist. Still, he can’t seem to breathe. Or focus.

There’s something missing. 

He starts to hum, trying to remember the words of that damned song.

The rest of the world fades in and out around him, finally disappearing altogether.

---

He’s gorgeous. 

Jaskier shoves another roll into his pocket. His eyes are focused on the man in the corner. He has long, snow-white hair and his shoulders are hunched forward protectively, as if he can hold the world out by sitting by himself. He’s glaring the table into submission, one fist clenched around his tankard. 

I want to write him a thousand ballads. I want to know what his hair looks like when he wakes up in the morning, before he brushes it out again. I want to know if he snores. I want… he stops himself. 

He makes his way across the room with eyes only for the stranger. “I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood.”

The man looks away and Jaskier notices that his irises are gold. “I’m here to drink alone.”

Gods, his fucking voice… Velvet and gravel all at once. Melitele, does Jaskier want. “Good, yeah. Good. No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance… except for you.”

The man, the Witcher, Jaskier realizes, rolls his eyes.

“Come on,” he wheedles, sitting down across from the gorgeous stranger. “You don’t want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting. You must have some review for me, three words or less.”

The man’s face stays stoic, expressionless. “They don’t exist.”

He realizes shortly thereafter that this man is not just any Witcher but the infamous Butcher of Blaviken, Geralt of Rivia. He could try to disengage himself from such a daunting character; he could easily make some kind of excuse and disappear back to the troubadour’s path, heading towards civilization, but it’s already too late. He doesn’t want to leave Geralt’s side ever again; he wants to write all those ballads he was thinking about earlier, when he glanced across the room. 

Jaskier has fallen head over heels in love. ---

Geralt cradles Jaskier against his chest and presses his nose deep into those chestnut brown waves. “Wake up, Jaskier. Come back to me, bard, it’s been too long.”

“Don’t you usually go all winter without seeing him?” Yennefer asks from the doorway. 

“It’s hell,” he replies easily. There’s no point in hiding his feelings from her. “I miss him every minute of every day.”

“Verbose this evening,” she remarks, taking a seat by the fire. “He’s dreaming, you know. He’s remembering you.”

“He’d forgotten?”

“He’d repressed it all,” she shrugs. “When I found him that day, feverish and nearly dead on the side of that godsforsaken mountain, he was barely coherent enough to open his eyes. He just kept asking for you, Geralt. Over and over he called for you, reaching his arms up, weak as they were. Gods, it was pitiful to watch.”

Geralt swallows. 

“I thought you were going to come back sooner. I was surprised when his memories didn’t resurface after two or three weeks. Short-term memory loss after a fever isn’t uncommon but repressing twenty years worth of feelings and experiences-” she whistles lowly “-it was impressive and tragic, all at once.”

“He forgot me?”

“Entirely.”

Geralt glances down, shame-faced. He adjusts Jaskier in his arms, holding him close and pillowing the bard’s head against his shoulder. “I deserve it, Yen.”

“He’s remembering now, though. He’ll probably be a little less than pleased to see you when he wakes up, but he knows who you are.”

“When will he wake?”

“Can’t say,” she shrugs again. “After I brought him back from the mountain it took three days for him to wake up. The first day was magically induced but after that it was just him… exhausted and heartbroken to the point of self-induced amnesia.”

“Fuck, Yen,” Geralt groaned, pressing his forehead into the soft warmth of Jaskier’s cheek. “How can I make it up to him?”

“Stay.”

“Hmm?”

“When he wakes up and he’s angry and upset, stay. Don’t stomp off or blow up or freak out,” she instructs. “If he asks you to leave, go, but otherwise… prove yourself, Geralt of Rivia. You wanted to be a knight once, didn’t you? Now’s your chance to play Prince Charming. Get down on your lovely knees and beg and apologize.”

“Hmm. How’s Ciri?”

“Fed, bathed, and put to bed. I’ll take care of her for as long as it takes you two morons to make nice again. Good luck, Geralt, I’m sure he’ll forgive you too easily for my tastes.”

She stands from her seat and leaves just as efficiently as she entered, carefully closing the door behind her. Geralt lays Jaskier back on the bed and takes a seat beside him on the mattress, kneeling just within touching distance, should Jaskier reach out for reassurance in his sleep. Geralt closes his eyes and slips easily into meditation. 

The Witcher is pulled from his trance a few hours later when Jaskier makes a startled sound and tries to sit up. Geralt opens his eyes and splays one warm, broad hand against Jaskier’s chest, forcing him back against the goose down pillows. “Stay still, Jaskier. You’re feverish and weak.”

“I’m still dreaming,” the bard grumbles, reaching to rub at his eyes with the heels of his hands. It’s adorable and Geralt grins widely, warmth spilling into his chest from some newly discovered fount of happiness. “You’re being too nice to me, Witcher.”

“I’m so sorry, Jaskier, for everything.”

“What’s everything, Geralt?”

“I’m sorry for pushing you away when I was angry and confused instead of communicating with you. I’m sorry for hurting you with my brash words and foolish actions; you have always deserved so much better and I’m so afraid that I can never give that to you. I take the wrong step at every turn, it seems, and yet you stay by my side. I didn’t want to risk hurting you the way I’ve already hurt Yen and Ciri, by tying us together against your will.”

“Darling Geralt,” the bard sighs. The Witcher scoots slightly closer and Jaskier lays a gentle hand atop his thigh. “It has always been my greatest pleasure to travel the Path with you and write of our adventures. I appreciate your concern for my agency and wellbeing, dear heart, but I am quite happy spending my entire human life in your presence.”

“Hmm,” the Witcher frowns. “You’re going to die someday.”

“And? So are you. So shall Yennefer, maybe.”

“Not likely,” Geralt jokes. Jaskier grins and the sight of it is so heartwarming that the Witcher wishes he could break down into tears. At least then Jaskier could see just how deeply his feelings ran. “I’m sorry, Jaskier, for blaming you for things that I brought upon myself. I love you dearly, and I hope that someday you can choose to travel with me again.”

“Excuse me?”

“I hope that you’ll-”

“No, the other bit.”

“I love you?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“Oh. Yes, I-” Geralt clears his throat and looks Jaskier in the eyes, gold and blue locked together, “I love you very much, Jaskier.”

“Fuck.”

“May I kiss you, Jaskier?”

“Yes,” the bard breathes.

And then Geralt is lifting him up into his lap, one hand cradling Jaskier’s skull so so fucking carefully. Geralt’s other arm supports his waist, holding him steady. Their lips come together softly, carefully, and Jaskier’s soul spirals up to the ceiling with joy, his body abandoned. He is merely a vessel for the happiness that comes with kissing his Witcher. When they pull apart, both men are grinning like fools. “Oh, dear heart.”

“Yes, my love?”

“Never stop calling me that.”

“I swear I won’t, my love.”

From downstairs, Geralt hears Yennefer mutter, “Fucking finally.”

It takes twenty-two years, seven months, and one day, but Geralt and Jaskier manage to figure things out.

[jaskierswolf]

*vibrates in Ace* I have so many prompt ideas but I don’t want to bother you. Can I have Ace/Aro Eskel with supportive family learning from Jaskier that it’s okay to not feel those things? (No, I’m not projecting, wdym)

You’re projecting, I’m projecting, we’re all projecting! Featuring Aro Jask and Demi-romantic Lambert. _______

The first time Jaskier came to Kaer Morhen the witchers were confused yet curious. They had heard about Geralt’s on and off bard friend a lot over the years and were, overall, delighted to meet him. Geralt had spoken of him highly with such open affection and fondness that Eskel had assumed the pair of them were in a relationship. Lambert had Aiden, after all, and Geralt had his bard.

Eskel had… well he had his goats. He’d tried relationships in the past. There was a part of him that longed for the company. Whenever someone was kind to him and didn’t immediately run for the hills, there was bubble of hope in his chest, that maybe this person would be the one that made him feel those warm overwhelming emotions that all the best poet’s sung about.

Every time he was disappointed. Even when his partners had said that they loved him, or kissed him in the early morning light. There was nothing. Objectively he could see they were attractive. He could see it in their smiles and in the way their eyes twinkled when they laughed. He could see it in the thick dark curls of their hair, or the way the sunlight bounced off golden waves that fell to their waist.

But he wasn’t attracted to them not in the way he longed for, not in the way they wanted of him. Kisses were alright once in a while but he didn’t like it when it developed past that. He felt so indifferent in comparison to his lover’s passion that he just…

He felt lost.

So when Jaskier had thrown his head back and laughed after Lambert had called him Geralt’s boyfriend, Eskel had just stared at the bard.

“Oh ho ho! No.” Jaskier gasped out between laughs. “I’m not. We’re not… we’re just friends.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and crossed his arms in front of his chest, ruffling Jaskier’s hair. “Don’t sound so horrified by the idea of it, Jaskier.”

“Oh shush.” Jaskier swatted him away. “I love you, you bastard, stop fishing for compliments.”

“You just said?” Lambert ran a hand through his hair and furrowed his brow. “Fuck.”

Jaskier sighed and put both hands on his hips. “He’s my best friend. Do you not love your friends, witcher? Fuck, no wonder Geralt took years to bloody admit it. I love him. I’m not in love with him. I don’t go in for romance.” Aiden cackled and swung his arm around Lambert’s shoulders, pressing a sloppy kiss to the redhead’s cheek. “Aww, he’s like you, wolf!”

“Shut up, kitten. Just takes me time. Not all of us fall in love in first sight. It’s gross fairytale shit.” Lambert grumbled but his cheeks lit up in a blush. Eskel frowned. He’d never heard Lambert talk about that before. As far as they’d been aware his relationship with Aiden had been romantic from the start. “What?” Lambert snapped.

“Nothing. Just didn’t know you felt like that.” Eskel grumbled as he scuffed his feet on the floor.

“The vast and beautiful spectrum of love!” Jaskier sang happily and leapt at Geralt. Geralt grunted but caught the bard in his arms. “Melitele knows it is a bard’s bread and butter.”

“Even if you don’t feel it at all?” Eskel muttered quietly.

Jaskier pouted and cupped Geralt’s cheek before jumping back onto the floor. He strolled over to Eskel with a tilt of his head. “Do you love your fellow witchers?”

Eskel frowned and nodded. “They’re family.”

“And the goats?” Jaskier smirked.

Eskel laughed. “Course I do. I’m their dad.”

“What about me? I know you don’t know me that well yet but I like to think we’re friends?” Jaskier looked up at him with wide eyes.

Eskel sighed at the bard’s dramatics. “Fine, yes. You’re not bad bard.”

“Not bad?! Geralt! Tell him.” Jaskier poked Eskel in the chest. “I’m a fucking delight, witcher!”

“Hmm.” Eskel rolled his eyes and swatted Jaskier’s hands away.

“The point is!” Jaskier announced with a flourish. “Love, sex, romance, it can be whatever the fuck you want it to be. Even if you realise that it’s not for you. You glorious witcher, you.”

Eskel offered Jaskier a broad smile and clapped him over the back. “Thank you, bard. That. That means a lot.”

Jaskier beamed up at him and patted him on the shoulder. “Anytime, my dear Eskel, anytime.”

[dirt-cup-draco]

Jaskier x Reader- Songbird and Dove

For love languages: Could I request Jaskier + Words of Affirmation, please? Thanks so much!!

Jaskier ran his calloused fingertips over the swoops and curls of every word. It felt unreal holding this cursed paper in his hand. He scoffed, trying to keep tears at bay. Geralt would have actually tried to see if the letter was cursed and Jaskier did wish it was something so easy to fix. Jaskier had to chew on his lip until blood welled up and shocked him back into a more stable set of mind as the iron hit his tongue.

He had a funeral to plan.

“And what’s a darling thing like you doing in a shit hole like this?” Jaskier had ambled over to your table where you picked at a stew, legs travel wary and mind numbed. No room for playful flirting with a drunk bard. 

“Trying to eat in peace,” You said softly, no real venom attached. You would have been all for a nice time with the handsome man but you were simply too exhausted to enjoy anyone’s company. 

What you weren’t expecting however was for the high energy man who had been tossing back another ale and belting it out on stage no more than five minutes before the sit down heavily beside you, his wide grin melting away to something far more gentle as he rolled his head on his shoulders to relieve some tension. 

“Now correct me if I’m wrong but-” He was cut off by two men who had gotten into a fight near the bar, their raised voices interrupting everything as they began to throw punches. Soon enough they were thrown out and you turned your gaze back to the now exhausted looking bard. “-but it feels nearly impossible to find peace here,” 

For some reason you felt like his words held more weight. It wasn’t just here that he was finding no peace. You got another drink and ordered one for him too, amused at the way his eyebrows raised to his forehead, gratitude and apprehension in his eyes. 

“Where do you go for peace then songbird?” You teased, nudging his leg underneath the table glad to see that the stranger who had fallen into a sober melancholy moments before had a smile ready on his face again. It seemed more genuine than the charismatic smile he had approached you with. 

“The name is Jaskier, feel free to wear it out,” He added almost like it was second nature and you rolled your eyes fondly. “But I’d let you call me anything,” You had to giggle. He was charming like this. Head thrown back as the impressing of his peers made him tired. His face gleamed with a layer of sweat but he wasn’t grimy like most of the patrons of the inn. 

“Alright Jaskier, seeing as I’m too young not to live life-” You stood, hand stretched out to him and it only took a moment for him to accept your offer- his seat screeching loudly against the rough flooring. “I’ll give you my company for the night on the condition you take me somewhere peaceful.” 

“Ah yes, waste your young years on an old man like me.” Jaskier winked playfully. He couldn’t be more than five years your senior so you couldn’t help but snort at the insinuation of his age yet envy burned in your heart and you had to stomp it out quickly before your own feelings of being in unfair world took over your mind for the night. 

Squeezing your hand with a comfortable level of affection the many surprisingly didn’t take you to his room at the inn but instead lead you out the front door. You went to the stables and you wrinkled your nose as you could smell the horses long before you could see them.

 “The stables?” You questioned. One hand in Jaskier’s, the other hovering near the dagger at your hip. He was a charming man with honest eyes and you had followed him this far yet you weren’t going to forget all caution. 

He glanced down to your hand and laughed softly. “Please dont gut me in front of Daisy, she’d be horrified,” 

“Daisy?” you puzzled. 

“My darling and dashing steed!” Jaskier dropped your hand to take two more long and dramatic strides to a stunning dark horse with expressive eyes, a white spot on her rear somewhat resembling the flower Jaskier had mentioned. 

He kissed her snout affectionately and she shook her head, making a fuss. “Attitude just like Roach I tell you,” Jaskier laughed but it seemed his words caught up to him and his shoulders slouched with a curious wait. 

You kept quiet as shadows of the past darkened his demeanor but a stomp of Daisy’s hoof at not being given attention had brought him back and he sent you a sheepish look. “Would the lady like to sit in front or behind me?” He asked, drawing Daisy out of her pen. 

You shrugged but then thought on it a moment before helping yourself onto Daisy’s back as Jaskier kept her calm and steadied. “I think I’d like to if you’ll only tell me where to go,songbird” 

Jaskier hoisted himself up behind you, his arm now soothingly tight against your midsection, your back relaxing against his chest. Your stomach did flips and you decided it was no waste to spend your time with this man even if you suspected it would only be for a night.

--

Jaskier ran his fingers down Daisy’s mane, a gash in his chest that he couldn’t heal. Oh how much simpler it had been to be Geralt’s companion when all he had to do was make coin, be a nuisance and slap a bandage on whatever bled whether it was him or his grumpy companion. 

He couldn’t place a bandage over his heart however and so he was steadily dying from the inside out. “I’d join her but who would take care of you?” Jaskier sighed, forehead pressed against Daisy’s neck, a smile twitching at the man’s lips as she let out a huff of air as if she was telling him he better not go anywhere. 

The letter stayed folded neatly in his doublet yet it felt like it had caught fire and was now burning away through him. Even as Daisy began to trot steadily Jaskier couldn’t come to terms with his destination. 

--

“Where next?” You skipped alongside Jaskier as he waded through a field- Daisy tied to a tree nearby- sometimes catching sight of an herb or flower he collected. You had noticed in the few weeks youd been traveling with him that he had a sharp eye that seemed out of place for such a silly man. 

However you had also found that Jaskier was far more than a bard. He was intelligent and quick and every night you two settled down too far away from an inn he’d be quick to get a fire going, food already caught in a trap he’d set. You’d asked the first night you’d stayed together where he’d learned such things but he had fallen silent before changing the subject to a certain star in the sky and you hadn’t tried again. 

Jaskier thought on it a moment, grabbing a daffodil before you trampled it. He paused for a moment and you lingered with him. “The coast maybe,” He mumbled, eyes searching yours as he tucked the yellow flower behind your ear his other hand warm against your cheek. 

“Will you be coming with me?” Jaskier hesitated to ask, eyes now focusing on the swaying blades of grass as a breeze swirled around you. You grinned wide, pulling him closer to you into a hug and resting your ear over his heartbeat with thumped wildly with his insecurities. 

“What would a songbird be without their dove?” You jested, having grown fond of the nickname he’d given you the night he’d taken you to a quiet spot in the woods declaring it to be his peace, his muse. You hadn’t realized then that you would follow Jaskier wherever he traveled. 

At your words he settled down considerably, pressing a warm kiss to your forehead that made your heart leap. There wasn’t need for words between you two as you walked hand in hand back to Daisy and began picking up. To the coast you would go. 

--

Jaskier never thought he would go back to the place that had been haunting him for four months. The small cottage was nestled close to the edge of a cliff that made way to sand that seemed to glitter in the sun at high noon, the water stretching endlessly into a view that he had missed and longed to return to. 

The daisies and daffodils you’d planted were now overgrown and took over the stone pathway to the front door and Daisy stomped impatiently as he approached the door slowly. Jaskier felt guilt tear at him. It was as if his steed was waiting for you to leave the home any second now and the three of you would go on another adventure.

His hands shook as he knocked on the door he had painted the day you two had settled in. 

“Y/N? I’m here.” 

--

You had never meant to grow so attached. Yet the months had melted away so easily in his presence and you couldn’t help it. Jaskier had become the whole part of you and you wished you could be whole for him too. You knew that would never be however as you excused yourself from your place at his side to wander into the woods. 

Traveling had made an easy excuse for when you had to go off on your own. With the guise of needing to relieve yourself you would walk until you couldn’t see or hear Jaskier anymore and then you’d finally let out the harsh coughs that you forced yourself to hold in when you were with him. You didn’t need him to worry and the crimson that had started to paint your hand when you pulled away would do just that. 

You wiped your hand on some grass, cleaning your mouth against a dark cloth you kept tucked away. “I’m back!” You called to Jaskier and your breath was stolen (before you could even really catch it again), from his beautiful grin as he met you halfway, picking you up and twirling you in his arms. 

“I didn’t think I was gone so long to get such a greeting,” 

“My dove, I need to show you something,” Jaskier said, peppering kisses all over your face until you were giggling but you had to step away before you were forced into a coughing fit. 

“Then lead the way,” You smiled, hand stretched out to his knowing that there’d never be a time where he wouldn’t take it.

You couldnt withhold your gasp as Jaskier led you with sweating palms to a beautiful cottage that sat atop a cliff. The sea was gorgeous and gleaming in the distance and you were overwhelmed with it’s beauty. 

“Oh Jask...” You sighed, looking back to your starry eyed lover. “It’s gorgeous but what are we doing here?” 

Jaskier cleared his throat, cheeks gone red as he squeezed your hand. You had come to recognize he did it to comfort you but also when he was nervous and you didn’t quite know which time it was now. 

“Y/N, I’m amazing with words as you know-” He began and you laughed, kissing his palm. “but I’m at a complete lost right now. You deserve poetry and songs and art all dedicated to you and your beauty. I’ve never met a more perfect soul and I want us to live here, together. I don’t care if we go in the right order, marriage could be next week or in five years or never. It doesn’t matter to me so long as you’re by my side,” 

Your heart sped up and you melted at the same time the blood turned to ice in your veins. You’d been lying to him for so long, you had lied to him not an hour previous as you’d hid your biggest secret from the person you loved most. 

“Jaskier...” You were speechless. 

“I know! It’s marvelous isn’t it? We’ve been hopping towns and sleeping on shitty bed rolls for far too long my love, and now we can have this,” 

“No, Jask- darling I-” You couldn’t formulate a straight thought and you could see his expression fall. 

Then with your next words you froze him to the core.

“This was never supposed to happen,” 

And there you left a shaking Jaskier with tears in his eyes and tears streaming down yours. 

--

“Come in,” Came your voice, gentle as always but more exhausted than the day he’d found you, slumped over the inn’s grimy tables. 

It took him another moment to open the door, but when he did he couldn’t combat the smile at his surroundings. This was how he’d pictured it, a home with you. Your shoes were at the door, the small space filled with flower pots and sunlight and his heart shattered as he saw sketches of Daisy and him scattering the walls. 

“In the bedroom,” You called out and Jaskier strained his ears once again to catch your voice. He didn’t think he’d felt warm since the day you’d left him at this very cottage. 

“Y/N-” He paused in the doorway, eyes wide and fists clenched at the sight of you. It was almost as if you were dissolving into the sheets and pillows around you. Your cheeks were gaunt, eyes sunked and skin gray. Your lips however were a rosy pink and Jaskier wanted nothing more to gather you in his arms and makeup for the time you two had been apart.

Makeup for not looking for you after you’d vanished. 

“Songbird,” You cooed fondly, eyes brightening and you sat up at the sight of him. Jaskier startled and went to you, helping you and fluffing the pillows against your back. You playfully swatted his hand away before keeping hold. Your hands were warmer than he thought. 

He sat beside you, free hand going to your cheek. You broke eye contact.

“I can sit up alone, I’m not weak- well too weak,” You laughed and it had a rasp to it he hadn’t realized before. 

“You came back,” Was all he could say and you nodded. 

“I think that’s what’s kept me going this long, imagining us here,” Your voice had gotten quiet and clipped and you were scared he couldn’t forgive you. “Once I realized the cottage was still under your name and that you were still paying to keep it I just...moved in. I know it’s wrong but I’ve been putting away payments so that if you can’t forgive me at least you haven’t lost your coin,” 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” Jaskier couldn’t help the anger as you started to approach the real reason you two hadn’t gotten the chance to make this a shared home. The tears were already falling and he had thought he’d been over them. “I-I thought you were just like him. Abandoning me because I’m too much, because I’m a problem and a nuisance and, and-” He was breathing heavily as the tears poured out and he slumped over, burying his face in your chest as you carded your fingers through his hair. 

“I didn’t want to chain you to me, I was dying Jask and you wanted to start a new life with me and I was scared of abandoning you after building so much so I left before the damage was more,” You explained once his sobbing grew quiet even though his tears continued to dampen your shirt. 

“I loved you, I love you,” Jaskier whimpered into the cotton. “We’ve lost the past- I could have been here before you- you... Why me Y/N? Why ask me here?” 

His baby blue eyes were burning holes into you and you cupped his cheeks with steady hands. “Who else would I want to be here? I love you and never stopped... I know it was unfair of me to leave after Geralt but you are everything to me songbird. You’re my moon, my stars, my peace.” 

“A-and thats it? You need peace?” Jaskier sniffled. “I haven’t heard from you in months and now you want me to be here so you can what? Move on peacefully?” 

“I’m ready to leave this chapter of my life, it’s been weighing on me for years and I need you to be by my side when I do. I want to start a new chapter with you Jask,” You croaked, fear cutting your air supply off as you began to fear he truly couldn’t forgive you. 

“You want to start-” He dropped off, looking puzzled. “But you’re dying Y/N.” 

Your laugh was clear as a bell and acted as a slap to the face. “Oh darling, of course you think I’m- well instead of explaining myself why don’t you read the back of the letter I sent you?” 

You plucked the letter easily from his doublet, having hoped he was still as sentimental as ever. He had mentioned he held things he cherished close to his heart and you had been praying you hadn’t lost your place. 

He took the letter from you immediately, careful hands gone as he pulled the paper from the envelope. You winced seeing the past’s tears staining the paper. Oh how your poor Jaskier seemed to have been grieving. 

“My songbird, please come to the cottage. I need you here with me” the front read and Jaskier had taken it as a clear sign that you were fading that he was startled to realize that he could see the faint outline of ink on the back of the page. It seemed with tear-blurred eyes he hadn’t noticed you’d written more on the sheet of paper. 

“You may be halfway across the country or maybe you’ve found someone who you want to settle with again. Maybe Geralt realized his loss and you two are off battling bruxas and chimeras. I have time however, my illness having been cured by a witch who had come to the town, promising medical relief to those who couldn’t afford it. Triss, her name was. A young boy in town who brings me my meals got her attention and brought her to me. She stayed for  two months working as hard as she could and I’m weak still but I’m healed Jaskier, I’m whole. Please come back to me, “ 

As Jaskier read this he couldn’t help but pull you into a more firm hug. You were going to be okay! And gods he was grateful you hadn’t had the chance to meet Yennefer. It seemed your faith in sorceresses was pure and he couldn’t let bitter years change that. 

“You want me?” He couldn’t help but ask. The opposite had been on his mind ever since youd left him. 

Your tears were renewed as you noddded fiercely, kissing the bard with more passion than ever before. “You are the best part of me Jaskier and I have never not wanted you. You are my muse even if I don’t think I’ll ever be able to compose a song or write a poem. I loved you then, I love you now, and I”ll love you forever. You gave me back life when I knew my years were running out. Now that I have time I want it to be spent with you,” 

The words stuck to Jaskier’s ribs and he felt it was hard to breathe as he was overwhelmed with love. Holding you closer he vowed you two would never be parted again whether your sickness returned or not.

You were his and he was yours, after all what would your songbird be without their dove? 

[dhwty-writes]

A Health Hazard

This took a lot longer to write than it had any right to. The first 1.5k words were written in under 2 hours, the rest in thrice that time. I'm done with today and this prompt. Written for day 3: Reading by the fire/cuddling by the fire of @witcher-and-his-bard‘s winter prompts Have fun!

Summary: Geralt of Rivia is bored. This hasn't happened in forever. Literally. He learns to understand Jaskier's whining a lot better. 

Warnings: none, besides the fact that this is unedited

Read on AO3

All things considered, it had taken a surprisingly short time for the impossible to happen. Apparently, all that it took was three weeks. Three weeks cooped up in Jaskier's generously-sized lodgings in Oxenfurt with nothing to do and lo and behold, Geralt of Rivia was bored. Bored! Could you imagine that?

It hadn't been so bad in the beginning. After five days he finally hadn't felt the need to rise with the sun and had let Jaskier kiss him goodbye, running late for a lecture, while he turned over and slept in. He couldn't remember when he had last done that. Truth be told, he couldn't remember if he'd ever done that.

Certainly not since he'd gotten to Kaer Morhen; there was no slacking in the witchers' keep. He briefly wondered if passing out after a fight and waking up days later could count as sleeping in. Probably not.

No, sleeping in was something for the safe and comfortable, and for the first time since he could think Geralt could count himself among them. All thanks to Jaskier, of course, who did his best to spoil his lover rotten. All on the cost of the Oxenfurt Academy, naturally.

The Academy spared no cost or effort to ensure the comfort of their lecturers—and Jaskier wasn't just any lecturer, he was probably the most popular bard on the continent. Geralt had first realised that Jaskier was rich when he had seen his personal study, stocked with books right up to the ceiling. Most of them were beautiful leather-bound tomes, written by hand with detailed pictures. He had felt a bit faint when discovering that some of them were in the second row.

No matter what Jaskier said about gifts from colleagues and magical innovations called a printing spell, books were immeasurable luxuries. And the bard owned close to a hundred of them. Personally.

Still, Geralt had been hesitant, at first, to make use of the private bath that came with the four-room apartment, or to call upon a servant to fetch him things. That was until Jaskier had told him outright how much they paid him for a single lecture, let alone several of them each day for months. If they were willing to pour that much money down the drain, he couldn't really feel bad about it.

So, the following days and weeks Geralt allowed Jaskier to teach him how to enjoy himself. He learned how to sleep in, indulged in almost daily baths, spent his days reading novels and poems out of Jaskier's personal collection. He didn't protest when the bard ordered too much food. Didn't comment on the overabundance of sweets—he even admitted he liked it. And when Jaskier asked for too exotic spices he only raised his eyebrows.

Once he had even ventured into the extensive Academy library—Geralt had never seen so many books in one place in his entire life—to find a collection of chivalrous legends Jaskier had told him about. He had been welcomed by an overly polite librarian, who had gone ahead to recommend him a dozen other books with the same topic, complete with annotations noting upon all the different possible interpretations. And if that hadn't been enough, he had been offered to take them with him. All of them. At once. As long as he liked. With no credentials but the name "Pankratz". He couldn't fathom how the library hadn't been robbed empty yet. When he had told Jaskier so, he had only laughed and kissed him gently, calling him a silly witcher.

It all had culminated when later that day, after Jaskier had ordered their dinner to be brought up to their rooms, it had been Geralt to stop the servant by the arm and ask for a bottle of wine.

"Right away, sir," the servant had answered. "Do you have any preferences?"

"Umm-" After a quick glance back to Jaskier, who had smiled encouragingly, he had added: "Est Est?"

He had half expected to be reprimanded, but the servant had only looked at him as if that had been obvious. "The year, sir. Do you have any preferences for the year?"

"I hear 1260 was especially good," Jaskier had piped up and that had been the end of that. They had had a very nice evening and an even nicer night, albeit neither of them had gotten a lot of sleep.

The problem was that since then over a week had passed. Geralt had read through all the books he had borrowed and leafed through a number of volumes of Jaskier's personal collection. He wasn't feeling like reading anymore. He had visited several taverns to play Gwent, but that too was interesting only for so long.

He had taken Jaskier up on his offer and accompanied him to a few lectures, but that had grown boring, too. Of course, he could talk about his adventure and the content of the poems, but that wasn't what Jaskier and his students were talking about. Instead, they lead very heated discussions about rhymes and metaphors and what Jaskier called a meter ("It's like a rhythm, Geralt."). But in the end, he didn't care if the rhyme was a pair or not, or if the rhythm was an asbestos or a dromedary or something.

He flopped down on the couch with an uncharacteristically dramatic sigh. Jaskier had returned from his last lecture an hour ago and was now holed up in his study doing... something. As if him being away all day wasn't bad enough, he had to continue working afterwards!

Geralt sat up with a start. Shit, was that how Jaskier felt all year round on the Path? It was a horrifying thought; no wonder the bard was so whiny all the time. Well, Geralt was different. He certainly wouldn't stoop so low. No, he definitely wouldn't whine.

 ~*~

 "Jaskier," Geralt whined from his place on the extra armchair they had acquired the previous day. "Are you done yet?"

The poet mouthed some words along while he frantically scribbled them down on yet another snippet of parchment. "Almost, darling, give me a minute," he muttered absentmindedly just like he had half an hour ago.

Geralt threw his head back and groaned loudly. He was going mad; he was sure of it. It was not normal for people to go such a long time without someone charging at them with swords or claws or dirty underwear. It could not be healthy. "D'you think I should talk to Shani?"

"Yeah, yeah," Jaskier mumbled under his breath, flipping through the hundreds of pages of notes he was keeping.

"Hmm." So Jaskier agreed that boredom was a serious health hazard. He drummed his fingers on the armrest. Maybe he should go do it right away?

He got to his feet and was almost at the door when he halted. No, it was late already, sundown a few hours past. He walked back to the armchair. But maybe-

"Geralt," Jaskier said with a heavy sight and put down his pen. "Love. You're pacing." 

"Really?" The witcher grit out. "Wouldn't have noticed."

"Can you just-" He rubbed at his temples. He looked incredibly tired. "I'm sorry, five more minutes, alright? Then we can do whatever you want, what d'you think of that."

"Hm." Geralt thought that was bullshit and that Jaskier should take a break.

But the poet was too engrossed in his own mind to even hear it.

'Alright then,' he thought and sat back down, arms crossed. 'Five more minutes.' He could manage five minutes of meditation. Easily.

He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, waiting for the calm to settle over him. What followed were probably the longest five fucking minutes of Geralt's life.

No sooner were they over that his eyes snapped open and he rushed over to his bard, holding him close from behind and nuzzling against his neck.

Jaskier chuckled softly. "Hello there. Five minutes over already?"

"Yes," Geralt said resolutely. "What're you writing anyways?" he asked, trying to peer over his bard's shoulder.

Still scribbling, Jaskier answered: "A novel, dear."

"A novel?" he replied and pulled back a little. "Since when?" Jaskier never wrote novels. Songs and poems, yes, and on one memorable occasion a play, too, but they had both agreed that it was horrid and that he should stick to shorter stuff.

He shrugged and slammed the piece of paper onto one of the piles. Apparently, there was an order to the chaos. "The day before yesterday, I think? Didn't really pay attention."

Geralt snorted. That went without saying. "Please tell me you didn't write all that in-"

Jaskier gasped softly and pulled up another sheet of paper. "Shh, give me a minute, love, else I'll forget this sentence. Oh fuck, this is so good-"

He bared his teeth. "You said-"

"Please, Geralt," Jaskier begged. 'Fuck.' The cursed bardlet knew damn well that he couldn't resist him; not with the pure desperation in his voice.

So, Geralt contented himself with grumbling displeased and pressing his nose against Jaskier's neck, while he waited for the scratching of the quill on paper to finally subside.

Thankfully, it didn't take too long for Jaskier to slam the quill down and forcefully push the paper away. "Done," he declared, exhaustion plain in his voice. "I'm done for today."

He raised his eyebrows. "You sure?"

"Y-yeah. I'm sure." The tiny pause was enough for Geralt to know that, no, Jaskier wasn't done in the slightest. If not for him the poet would probably stay up until the early hours of morning, crafting one masterful line after the other. Until he'd inevitably collapse from the exhaustion, smudging the ink of his uppermost sheet of paper all over his face.

He couldn't fathom how much self-control it cost Jaskier to turn around and ask: "So, what is bothering you so terribly, my beloved witcher?"

Geralt glared at him defiantly. It took him all of three seconds to cave. "I'm bored," he complained and frowned.

The effect was instantaneous and his expression grew soft. "Oh, my dear, I'm terribly sorry."

There was something about Jaskier's voice, something about his touch, about the way he brought Geralt close for a gentle kiss. Something that made him go from wanting to believe his words so badly to actually believing them.

The smile on his bard's face was nothing short of adorable when he asked: "Anything I can do about it?"

"Hm." Well, he could think of quite a few things to bide their time.

Before he could voice any of them, though, Jaskier continued: "Yeah, that's what I thought." He stood up and took his hand. "Come on, Geralt, I'm dead on my feet. Let's get somewhere more comfortable, then we can figure that out."

He gladly let himself be led. As long as it meant spending time with Jaskier, he was hardly about to object. The poet flitted around their apartment, collecting pillows and blankets, while he sent Geralt off to heat the kettle and get them some tea, all the while humming with excess energy.

Not fifteen minutes later Geralt found himself on the floor in front of the fireplace with a lapful of bard who was cursing quietly whenever he sipped his too-hot tea and inevitably burnt his tongue. Geralt couldn't help but smile as he cradled his Jaskier closer to his chest.

"What's your novel about?" he whispered into his ear.

"Oh, it's a romance!" he replied cheerfully.

Geralt pulled back, a horrible thought dawning on him. "Jaskier...," he growled. "Please tell me you're not writing a romance novel about us."

"Well," the poet drawled and Geralt groaned. So that was a yes. "I am not writing about Geralt of Rivia, the witcher, and Jaskier the bard."

"But?"

"But it might be that the two protagonists are a chivalrous monsterslayer and his loyal painter companion."

"Jaskier...," he pleaded even though he knew it was useless.

"What? In my defence, it was you who dragged in the knightly ballads!"

"Hm." That was a shit defence and they both knew it. Unwilling to start an argument, though, he just pulled Jaskier closer against his chest and leaned his forehead against his shoulder. "Tell me more."

And tell him more he did. Thank the gods it was so easy to get Jaskier rambling. He told him about the two protagonists, Eric and Dandelion, who had met shortly after the artist had abandoned the court; he had been living at, to find real inspiration out in the world. He was, apparently, entirely insufferable and a notorious womanizer-

"What?" Geralt interrupted him with a quiet chuckle. "Next you tell me he set out into the world to draw nude portraits of all his lovers."

"Oh no!" He felt Jaskier tense up before even the lament had left his mouth. "Oh, fuck, Geralt, that's brilliant, I-" His mouth snapped shut. His eyes flitted around nervously as he was obviously contemplating what the worse fate was: abandoning his lover or risking the loss of an idea.

Geralt quickly made the decision for him as he opened his arms. "Go on, bard," he said with a soft smile. "Write it down before it's gone again." He had lived with Jaskier long enough to become well acquainted with all of his sorrows.

The smile he got in return was almost worth it. "You're the best, I love you, I'm so sorry," he blabbered, scrambling to his feet. He pecked him on the mouth with a quick: "Be right back."

'No, you won't,' Geralt thought adoringly as he watched him bolt to his desk. "Just bring something to write with when you do!" he called after him and leaned back against the couch. He couldn't quite bring himself to wipe the lopsided grin off his face.

It was going to be a long winter. But he wouldn't have it any other way.

[seanfalco]

(More Than Just) Travel Partners - Part I

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Jaskier x f!Reader Word Count: 2.1k Rating: T (for now, will ramp up to E in later parts) a/n: okay so, I promise this is a reader insert.  There is a plot relevant reason why the reader is introduced with a name, you just have to find out why.  :3

[ Masterlist ]

——

The tavern was almost stifling with the press of so many bodies; nearly every table full, though you supposed you couldn’t blame them for piling in on a night like this.  The townsfolk, mostly miners from up in the mountain were drowning their cares in a mug of ale or mulled wine; taking the chill off and unwinding after a long day.  

Most of them clapped or stomped their feet in time with the music of your fiddle, and some even raised their voices drunkenly to join with yours, if they knew the words.  Nothing could bring you greater joy than a room full of people brought together in song, forgetting their troubles, if only for a while.

Scanning the room as you played, your fingers danced nimbly over the taut strings as your bow pulled each sweet note of the lively reel to life, mixing with the chorus of raucous voices that filled the tavern to the rafters.  A stranger in the crowd caught your eye and something about him held your gaze.  Perhaps it was his flash of blue eyes or his dazed grin, so intent as he leaned forward in his seat to watch you.  Whatever the case you couldn’t seem to look away, at that moment playing only for him amongst the sea of people. 

It wasn’t until after the song ended that you noticed the neck of a lute poking over his shoulder as he sipped his ale and your curiosity piqued further; making up your mind to speak with him after your set.

Several songs later you bowed graciously to the cheering audience before stepping down from the small raised stage to return your fiddle to its case amidst a few scattered calls for another song.  Soon however, the crowd quieted, returning to their ale and conversations when it became apparent that their requests would not be fulfilled.

Approaching the counter you caught the barkeep’s eye and he nodded, slipping you a pouch of coin for your songs and pouring you a pint before catching a serving maid by the arm and whispering in her ear.  Soon the girl returned from the kitchen, a steaming bowl of stew in hand and you took it with a smile, pressing a ducat into her palm before weaving through the packed tables til you found the one you were searching for.

The blue eyed man from earlier who had watched your performance with such fascination now sat, idly tracing the rim of his half empty tankard, pretending he hadn’t just been sneaking glances your way as you stood at the bar.

“May I sit?” you asked, biting back a grin as he jumped at your sudden presence.

“I - yes, please!  Please, sit,” he exclaimed haltingly, half rising before grimacing briefly at his own eagerness and schooling his expression.  As you sat across from him you could practically feel him studying you with interest and you quickly brought your drink to your lips, hoping to hide the telltale heat you could feel rising to your face.

“That was quite the performance,” he remarked as you set your mug back on the table and picked up your spoon.  “I haven’t heard such captivating music in a long while.  Well, I mean, other than my own,” he added offhandedly, to which you couldn’t help but snort softly.

“Look, what I’m trying to say is that I enjoyed it thoroughly.”

“I could tell,” you replied with a calculated arch of your brow, your eyes flicking up to his face and enjoying the shift in his expression.  “No one else stared quite as much as you did.”

Clearing his throat, the man’s cheeky grin returned momentarily.  “Yes well, I believe you were staring just as much,” he pointed out smugly.

Unable to dispute his words you ducked your head to take a bite of your supper.

“Where did you learn how to play like that?” He asked suddenly, taking you by surprise.

Swallowing slowly, you shrugged.  “Just here and there.”  The answer, though vague, was true enough.  You just didn’t care to elaborate where the here or there were.

The man stared flatly however, not convinced in the slightest.  “Alright then, be mysterious,” he exclaimed throwing up his hands when you didn’t respond, “but with your level of technical skill I warrant you’ve had professional training somewhere.  I just don’t understand why you’re playing in taverns when you could be entertaining in a king’s court.”

Taking another bite of the hearty stew you instead changed the subject, not wanting to have to explain your choices to a stranger.

“I couldn’t help but notice your lute,” you said around a mouthful of meat and potatoes, calling his attention to the instrument slung across the back of the empty chair next to you.  Upon closer inspection you noticed it was rather finely wrought, if not a trifle worn, with beautiful ornate detailing running up the neck and circling the body.

“Ah yes, you like it?”  The man asked, a fondness to his tone and pride in his gaze as he turned his eyes to the instrument as well.  “It was a gift from Flivandrel, king of the elves… I mean, after one of his people so rudely broke mine.”  He grumbled the last part, frowning at the memory.

Something about his story tickled your own memory and you chewed your lip as you wracked your brain, trying to remember why that should sound so familiar. 

“I’ve heard that story…” you mused, once more turning your eyes on the man across from you with newfound interest.  Smiling broadly he merely waited, raising his brows expectantly.  

Your stew all but forgotten in front of you, a snatch of song surfaced in your memory, bringing with it recognition as you began to hum it softly under your breath.  That song had become so popular a while ago you couldn’t believe you had actually forgotten it.  No matter where you’d traveled back then, you couldn’t seem to escape it, the damned thing stuck in your head for weeks.

“Are you really Jaskier of Lettenhove?”  The question slipped out unbidden and you worried for an instant at insulting him with your disbelief.

Instead his smile only seemed to broaden.  “The one and only.”

“The bard known to travel with the witcher, Geralt of Rivia?” you pressed.

Jaskier’s proud grin slipped, his expression souring.  “Traveled would be the accurate word,” he grumbled, abruptly taking a long draw from his ale.  “I’m… taking a short break from all the… action,” he explained, as if trying to convince himself.

“Oh,” you replied, uncertain what else to say, acutely aware you’d struck a sore spot and mentally noting to avoid further mention of said witcher.

“Not to worry, it’s all water under the bridge,” Jaskier exclaimed, rather unconvincingly before sighing dramatically.  As soon as his eyes returned to yours, however, his alluring grin returned.  

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.  You know who I am, but I am tragically bereft of the pleasure of knowing your name.”

Not ready for the sudden burst of charm you mentally cursed at the way your face heated readily.  It’d been quite a while since anyone had had such an effect on you, though you realized you didn’t find it entirely unpleasant.

“Aevryn,” you answered shortly, your lips almost twitching to a grin.  

The false name rolled off your tongue easily now and though you doubted Jaskier had any ties to the man you’d been running from for the past two years it didn’t hurt to err on the side of caution.

“Aevryn,” he repeated, as if savouring the name —you wondered briefly what your real name would sound like on his lips and the thought sent a shiver down your spine.

“Of course your name would be as beautiful as you are,” Jaskier continued smoothly, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips, his blue eyes holding yours.

The compliment twisted something deep inside and you fought to keep your smile from slipping as his lips brushed your knuckles.  A shaky laugh trembled from your lungs.  “Flatterer.”

Jaskier merely shrugged.  “Guilty as charged.”

“So,” you begin as he released your hand, pausing to gulp down some ale to calm your nerves.  “Where are you headed from here?  No doubt to chase down more glory and encapsulate it in song.”

Jaskier chuckled, his eyes darting down to his hands for a moment as he fidgeted with the thick signet ring on his finger.  “Actually I was about to ask you the same question.”  Clearing his throat his gaze swung to his lute.  “As I was listening to you perform, well I, I couldn’t help but imagine how much fun it would be to play with you.”

Brows climbing at his choice of words the deep flush that suffused your face was entirely impossible to banish as your thoughts leapt unbidden to what else his minstrel fingers could play and a horrified look crossed Jaskier’s visage at your reaction.

“Ohhhhfuckthatcameoutwrong,” he hastily exclaimed, tugging at the collar of his doublet.  “I meant as in play our instruments and-and sing together,” he revised, swallowing thickly.

You gaped at him a moment longer before an amused laugh burst from your lips and you nearly doubled over in your chair, tears of mirth pricking your eyes.  

“Oh is that what you meant?” you couldn’t help but tease, gasping between peals of laughter.  A few of the remaining patrons glanced your way, but you were past caring, your amusement only growing the redder Jaskier’s face became.

Clearing his throat rather awkwardly and glaring over his shoulder at those as were still staring, his head whipped back around to you as the last of your laughter died down.

“Now that we’ve all had a good laugh,” he grumbled, “I truly meant it when I said I’ve not encountered someone as talented as you in a long while.  And…” he hesitated a moment longer, his piercing blue eyes studying you.  “As it so happens, I happen to be sans a traveling partner recently.”  Eyeing you hopefully Jaskier arched a brow.  “So… what do you say?”

Biting your lip, you considered what he was getting at.  You’d been traveling alone for so long now, always glancing over your shoulder, always on the lookout… it was getting tiresome, and to be completely honest, it was lonely.  You’d almost forgotten how nice it was to have some company, especially company as charming and entertaining as Jaskier.  You hadn’t laughed that hard in, well, you couldn’t remember when.

He made you feel…

“What would you get out of this arrangement?” you ask, quick to sidestep that line of thought.  True, the bard wasn’t as infamous as his witcher friend, but he was known, to put it nicely, to be a bit of a player —although what bard wasn’t, you thought.

...Be that as it may, that was a game you wanted nothing to do with.

“What do I get?” he asked, a touch scandalized.  “Why, the pleasure of your lovely company, of course.  And-and!” he exclaimed, holding up a finger, “ the opportunity to perform with someone of your caliber.  I mean, the whole crowd was singing along, completely under your spell, Aevryn.  Just imagine what we could do together.”

The earnestly in Jaskier’s voice and the light in his eyes swayed you, nearly leaving you speechless.

“Am I really that good?” You scoffed.

“Oh you are, love.  You are.”

Stunned, you took a deep breath.  “Alright,” you answered simply.  “Looks like you’ve got yourself a new traveling partner, Jaskier.  In the morning we set out.”

If his words alone hadn’t stolen your breath, the grin he flashed then certainly did the trick.

“Oh lovely!  Wonderful!” he announced excitedly, following suit as you stood and quickly grabbed his lute before trailing along behind you as you climbed the stairs to your room.  “You, um, you have a horse, don’t you?” he asked as you stopped in front of your door.

“...Yes,” you answered slowly, frowning slightly, wondering what he was getting at.

“Oh good,” he sighed, “I was getting really tired of walking everywhere on foot.”

Rolling your eyes you unlocked your door, pushing it open slowly.  Turning to face him, you patted his cheek lightly.  “Good night Jaskier.  I’ll see you in the morning.”

Leaning forward as you stepped backward into your room, your hand slipping from his face, his lips parted as if to say something more, but whatever it was would have to wait.  You smiled at him once more before shutting the door softly in his face, not ready to open that can of worms.

“Yes, uh, good-goodnight then.”  You heard him call through the door before his footsteps faded down the hall, leaving you with much to think about.

[dhwty-writes]

Chapter 9 - A Broken Contract

Well, Geralt is not having a good time in this one! But I promise you, it's in a fun way, not in a whumpy way :) Have fun reading!

As always, my chapters are betaed by the amazing @persony-pepper, thanks so much for that!

Summary: Geralt is away on his contract - the first one since he and Ciri arrived in Lettenhove. It is not going great. In fact, it is going very shitty.

Read on AO3

Part 1 | Part 9 | Part 11

Geralt of Rivia was feeling miserable. He was tired, soaked to the bone, and freezing. But of fucking course destiny wasn't done with him despite all that he had been through in the last four days. Why would She be? He grunted annoyed. This whole fucking contract was a bloody mess.

"Ho!" he said and lunged for the ripped reins that dangled from not-Roach's bridle. Lightning lit up the darkness and thunder roared above their heads. The wet leather slipped through his hands when the horse reared up, whinnying in blind panic.

"Fuck," he cursed and swiped his drenched hair out of his eyes just in time to see her wheel around in an attempt to flee. "Oh no, you don’t," he grunted and moved his pinkie and ring finger downwards. "Stay," he commanded and she did.

He sighed in relief and walked over to her, stroking her muzzle to calm her further. He always preferred to talk to the animals instead of using the signs. But sometimes there just wasn’t another way. "A whole pack of ghouls won't faze you," he murmured disapprovingly, "but a bit of lightning and I have to Axii you?"

He picked up the reins and inspected the damage. They were torn and the leather was frayed where she had ripped herself loose from the tree, he had tied her to. The missing piece was still flapping in the wind. 'Shit,' he thought. Normally he wouldn't have thought much about it, just stitched it up again. Roach’s reins had been torn in more than one place. But he reckoned Jaskier would have quite a lot to say about that.

'Jaskier'll have quite a lot to say about everything,' he mused as he saddled not-Roach. Somehow, he wished he was here now. It felt wrong to weather such miserable days without the bard’s constant complaining. ‘Fuck,’ he thought and tried to push the feeling away.

Dawn had finally come, not that he could see it with the unrelenting downpour. It was the fifth day since he had left Lettenhove, and he was still half a day's ride away from Saltwall - in the wrong fucking direction. "Fuck," he told not-Roach gently, "Jaskier will have my head for this."

The mare snuffled and nudged at his shoulder.

"You're completely right," he grumbled, "Ciri'll gladly serve him my heart on a platter." He groaned internally. Shit, Jaskier had rubbed off on him with the dramatics.

There wasn't much he could do about it, though. So, Geralt miserably began his day, leading not-Roach while he himself waded through the mud. He could only hope that the muck was the washed out remains of the dirt track that would lead him back to Saltwall and not another path entirely.

His hope was growing slimmer with every passing minute, though. Even after a whole day of walking he still hadn't reached the small brook he remembered as a landmark. He was pretty fucking sure he'd lost his way somewhere. And it was still raining.

It was getting darker, though, so he stopped for the night. He freed not-Roach from her saddle but didn't even attempt to rub her dry. There wasn't anything dry to dry her with left. He cursed as he discovered that even the loaf of bread had gotten drenched. So, it was mouldy bread from now on if he couldn't hunt anything. Sulkily he tossed the bread back into a bag without the decaying ghouls' heads. The rain didn't make them smell any sweeter either.

He tried lighting a fire with Igni and was even halfway successful: there were flames, at least. For half an hour. With a stream of filthy curses that made even not-Roach move further away from him, he settled down against a tree and tried to sleep. When that failed, he managed to meditate for a few hours.

At least the pouring had reduced itself to a drizzle when they set out again in the morning. A small mercy, he thought.

Two hours passed and he nearly missed the brook. 'Miss' wasn't quite right. Rather, he nearly turned around again. Because what had been a gentle rivulet trickling merrily through the countryside three days ago was now a raging torrent.

"Fuck!" he cursed loudly when he picked up a splintered plank of what must've belonged to the wooden bridge he had crossed. It had been old, creaking with each of his steps, so it wasn't like he was surprised. Still. "Fuck," he repeated for good measure.

Childishly he kicked the plank into the stream. He knew that it was no use but he didn't care. "Of fucking course," he roared and not-Roach reared her head in agreement. He decided then and there that he despised Redania.

"I'm never taking a contract here again," he grumbled grouchily and tugged on not-Roach's reins turning upstream in the hopes of finding a passage there. "I better hope the pay's good at least."

In any other case he might've considered walking into the opposite direction, payment and reputation be damned. He always could find another contract elsewhere. But that just wasn't an option. Unlike any other time, there were people waiting for him to return. They were waiting for him to return before sunset, to be precise.

He knew that it was impossible. He'd known it from the moment it had started raining. Still, it was frustrating to spend the better part of one day trying to find another ford and then the rest of it to try and get back to the direction he was actually headed. Geralt cursed every higher being in this world for his terrible luck.

At least it had stopped raining.

The next morning it was raining again. It had begun in the crack of dawn with a mean drizzle that prickled like needles and had varied between light rain and full on downpours for the better part of the afternoon. And the ghouls' heads were reeking. By now Geralt was seriously considering throwing them away, skipping the pay, and just returning to Lettenhove straight away.

He was just contemplating this again when a young distressed voice distracted him: "'Scuse me! 'Scuse me, mister! Please don' go walkin' on!"

"What?" Geralt growled and turned to see a small child running towards him, almost as drenched as he was. "What do you want, boy?"

"I'm no boy!" the girl answered. "An' I need your help! My Pa's wagon slipped off the road, straight into the ditch, y'know, an' we can't get it out again."

"Hmm," Geralt made.

"Please, mister, we've been here for hours! My Ma'll be so cross at us, she'll shout an' everythin' if we're not home at sundown."

He scowled as angrily as he could. He had no time for backwater farmers whose wagons broke. He needed to get home himself and he knew he could count himself lucky if there was only one shouting person waiting for him. But instead of backing off the girl drew closer and tugged on his hand. "Please, mister," she said again.

'Fuck,' he thought. "Where?" he asked.

Her face lit up and she tugged on his hand again. "Over there! Come, mister, I'll show ya!"

He hesitated for a moment, calculating his chances that there was a band of robbers waiting around the bend. 'Fuck it,' he decided. His life was miserable enough already, he might actually enjoy killing someone if they tried to mug him.

To his surprise, they did not. When he followed the girl, there actually was a man struggling with a cart. "Pa!" the girl shouted and let go of his hand. "Pa, the mister says he's gonna help us!"

The man tugging at the bridle of the farm horse let go and wiped sweat and rain from his brow. "Well done, Mara. Now, see here, mis- oh."

His gaze flickered over the medallion resting against his chest to the two swords on his back. "Hm," Geralt made and steeled himself for the vinegar sour stench of fear that would surely come. "You want my help or not?"

"I heard a witcher lifts twice as heavy as a normal man," the farmer said.

"You heard right."

"Jolly good! Then we'll have the cart out in no time!"

Geralt quirked a sceptical eyebrow at the odd behaviour of the man and his daughter but didn't say a thing as he tied not-Roach to a tree. "Stay," he ordered and jumped down into the gutter.

"How's it look down there?" the farmer asked.

"Well enough," Geralt answered. He knew little of carts but as far as he could tell neither the wheels nor the axle were broken. The wagon was just stuck in the mud and the horse couldn't pull it out by itself. "I'll lift it, then you should be able to get it out."

"On three," the farmer agreed. "One." Geralt jammed his shoulder underneath the cart. "Two." He pressed his feet into the mud. "Three." With a groan he lifted it.

He couldn't tell what the farmer was doing but there were some very angry words, a horrified gasp from Mara, and then the cart was gone and Geralt fell face first into the mud.

"Fuck!" He shouted loudly as he got up.

"My Ma says-" Mara began but her father put his hand on her shoulder.

"No, sweetie," he interrupted her gently, "today’s the day for cuss words."

“Really?” she asked with wide eyes. “Can I say one, too?” When her father nodded, she shouted as loud as she could: “Bollocks!”

Geralt wiped the mud from his face with his equally muddy shirt and growled in frustration. "Guess your load is ruined," he said as he looked at the goods strewn around him.

"Pity that," the farmer said and offered him a hand to climb out of the gutter again, "but at least we didn't lose the cart. And not everything fell off. My name's Anton, by the way."

"Geralt," he answered.

"Geralt," Anton repeated. "Thank you. And sorry for the-" he gestured at all of him.

"You look worse than Sam! And smell jus' as bad," Mara helpfully offered. "That's our pig," she added at his confused look. "Sam the Ham."

"Hm," Geralt hummed.

"Pa says I shouldn' name him, cos we've to eat him. But I did it anyway! I named our chickens, too, and-"

"Mara," Anton said softly and, thankfully, she shut up. To Geralt, he said: "Stay with us for the night? In exchange for your troubles."

Geralt blinked stupidly. "I'm a witcher," he informed him.

Anton snorted. "I know. That make you waterproof?"

He scowled in confusion. "No."

"Then stay. Can't offer you a bed but a barn for you and your horse, a hot meal, and a fire to dry your clothes."

"Hmm," he sounded, contemplating it. He probably shouldn't, he'd lost enough time already. If he hurried, he'd still get paid today. "How far from here to Saltwall?"

"Three hours if you're lucky. But not with this weather." He crossed his arms. "You got a room there?"

"No."

"Then it's settled." Anton went to sit on the cart. "Come here, Mara."

Mara didn't move. "Can I ride on your horse?" she asked with wide eyes. "I've never ridden a horse before. Only Sam the Ham and he’s a terrible horse, y’know?"

"Don't be impolite, Mara," Anton said the same moment that Geralt answered: "Not mine."

"Still. Can I ride it?"

"Her," he answered as he untied not-Roach's reins. He glanced at her father, who nodded slowly. "Come here," he told her and she ran over eagerly. She squealed as he grabbed her around the waist and deposited her in not-Roach's saddle. "Hold onto the horn," he ordered her and shortened the stirrups. "Don't squeeze your thighs. Don't move your legs at all." She wanted to grab the reins and he quickly pulled them back. "No."

Mara pouted but didn't say a thing as they made their way down the washed-out road.

"A mighty fine horse you got there," Anton remarked.

"Hmm. It was a loan."

"Has she got a name?" Mara asked eagerly.

"Not from me."

Her face fell and her father quickly carried on: "And what sort of friend you got to give you that kinda loan?"

"The Viscount de Lettenhove." He hesitated for a moment. "Not a friend, though."

"Master Julian?” Anton asked eagerly. “Is he well?"

"He is. You know him?"

"Ran away as a lad once. We found him after two days o' walkin'. Famished, poor boy's never gone hungry before. Our kitchen table's as far has he got before his Lordship's men found him."

Geralt frowned. "So, I'm back on Lettenhove soil?"

Anton laughed heartily. "Barely."

"Hmm," Geralt made but the farmer kept on talking: "Just over the border, we are. It's a nice place, though, innit? Y'should see it in spring. That's how we found the lad, that is. He was sittin' here with his lute, singin' away. Head in the clouds, that one, more luck than common sense. He was 'admirin' the wonders of nature and turnin' them into songs' or somethin'. Always was weird like that, the lad, he was. Ne'er quite at home up in the Hall."

"Hmm." Geralt wasn't about to dispute that.

"You've known him for long?"

"Sixteen years."

"Cor..." Mara said. "That's a lot o' years."

"He ever found that home he was lookin' for?" Anton inquired.

Geralt shrugged. "Suppose not. He's back, isn't he?"

"Still composing? Still wishin' to be a bard?"

'No,' he wanted to answer. 'He doesn't need to wish for what he already has. Half a dozen gross of ballads he’s written about me, and I repaid him with scorn.' Instead he said: "Rarely."

"Pity. He wasn't half bad. What were you even doin' out there?"

"Killed the ghouls in the woods. On the other side of the river."

"Really?" Mara leaned down eagerly and he quickly caught her by the shoulder to keep her from falling. "You can do that?"

He shrugged. "It's my job."

"Cor... How'd you do that?"

"With my sword."

"All on your own? How much were there?"

"How many," Geralt corrected without thinking. All three of them gaped for a moment when they realised what he had just said. Not-Roach snickered.

"Well, how many were there?" Mara crossed her arms defiantly.

Geralt sighed in defeat and began telling the story. 'No use trying to resist.' He had plenty of experience with impertinent brats after all. This one wasn’t a noble one at least.

The sun set when Anton finally interrupted the never-ending stream of questions from his daughter. "Ho!" He pulled on the horse's reins and pointed at a pitiable house. "Well, this is us. Ida!" He jumped from the cart as Geralt helped Mara from not-Roach's saddle. "Ida, come outside."

A portly woman stepped outside who promptly began fussing over Geralt. She quickly herded him inside and made him accept a dry set of clothes from Anton that almost fit. She made a pouting Mara scrub the dirt from his shirt while he himself scrubbed himself clean with a bar of crude soap.

In the end he was glad that he accepted the invitation. Ida was not what he would call a great cook, but he preferred any hot meal with ale to mouldy bread and rain water. He slept in the barn with not-Roach, the horse, and Sam the Ham. But, the hay was soft and the spare quilt Ida had forced on him was warm and dry. He couldn't complain. He shouldn’t complain, truly. But still, curled up in the hay, he found himself wishing for Ciri to be there. ‘Or better yet,’ his mind supplied, ‘Jaskier.’

He surely would have him smiling by now with his exaggerations and his songs and his japes. ‘He also would keep me awake,’ he thought grumpily. And, somehow, he missed that, too.

The next morning, his clothes were still warm from drying over the fire the whole night. Despite his protests, he was sent on his way with breakfast and a fresh loaf of bread.

"Nonsense!" Anton insisted. "I won't hear no complaints about our hospitality from no-one."

"Especially not Master Julian," Ida added. "Say hello to him from us, will you?"

"Tell him he can come visit!" Mara pleaded. "He can sing about our trees again."

"Hmm," Geralt made. "I will. Thanks." He wanted to turn and climb into the saddle when the little girl leaped forward and hugged him impulsively. He patted her head awkwardly until she let go.

"Goodbye, Geralt-Witcher!" Mara called after him as he rode away. "An' thanks!"

He reached the miserable hamlet that barely deserved the denomination town at midday — still dry by some miracle.

He stopped the first person that walked past him and brusquely asked: "The alderman?"

The quivering man pointed him in the general direction of the biggest house in the town. Geralt didn't bother with knocking and just followed the scent of fresh food. He found the alderman at lunch, the table groaning beneath the heavy platters.

He grunted in disgust and tossed the bag with the ghouls' heads straight onto his plate. "I'll have my pay now."

"Witcher!" the alderman yelped and leapt to his feet. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I'll have my pay now," he repeated. "And then I'll be out of this shitty town."

"You can't-"

Geralt growled and the alderman quickly took some steps backwards.

"R-right," he stammered, fumbling with the coin purse on his belt. "Here!" He threw it onto the table.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Geralt growled and stared down at it. "That's all?" He didn't need to count it to know that it was nowhere near the agreed payment.

"It's all we have to spare," that lying, cheating bastard of an alderman said, standing before his table that was almost breaking beneath its heavy load. "It was only a couple of necrophages. Besides, you're late, witcher."

"It wasn't only a couple of necrophages, it was a whole fucking nest of ghouls I cleaned out for you."

The alderman crossed his arms defiantly. "Be on time next time, and you get your full pay."

Geralt was half of a mind to tell him that there wouldn’t be a next time. That no witcher of the school of the wolf would ever come to sort out his problems again. But he couldn't risk aggravating Jaskier's neighbours against the viscount. That was no way to thank his host. "I wouldn't have been late if the rain hadn't washed your decayed bridge away."

"Now don't get cocky with me, witcher," the alderman bristled. "I'm not scared of you."

"Hmm," Geralt made and stepped closer.

The man shrunk back a bit. "It's almost winter. You can't rob a man in winter."

With an annoyed grunt he snatched the purse up and left the house again. "Come on, not-Roach," he grumbled and tugged on her reins, "back to Lettenhove." He had gotten paid less for more, so he really shouldn't complain. It wasn't like he needed that money at the moment anyways. 'Still would have been nice to not set out dirt poor in spring.'

The ride back to Lettenhove went better than expected, all things considered. Well, at least better than the rest of his journey. The road was slowly drying up again, so they made better time. Still, he hadn't even reached the main road before the darkness forced him to make camp.

Come morning there were finally no storm clouds looming overhead anymore. Geralt rode at an almost leisurely pace and found himself enjoying the last warm sun rays of the year.

He had no illusions of reaching Lettenhove before the next day. One and a half days, it had taken him to get to Saltwall — with good weather. He knew he might make it if he pushed not-Roach and himself to the point of exhaustion and beyond. But he was already late. A few hours would make no difference, he figured.

When he woke on the tenth day there was a thick layer of frost covering the floor. The cold seeped through his bedroll and he had no qualms about getting up and moving.

He hadn't gotten far when the rapid sounds of hooves alerted him. There was another rider coming his way, bent low over his horse’s neck and pushing the poor animal to a breakneck speed. 'Poor thing,' he thought.

He tried to pull not-Roach out of the way but to his surprise the rider slowed his horse right in front of him. "Geralt!" he exclaimed.

Geralt blinked. "Jaskier?" he asked dumbfounded. Then, relief washed over him. If he hadn’t been in not-Roach’s saddle, he would have hugged him. Instead he smiled at him.

"What are you doing here?" they asked at the same time.

The viscount regained his voice first: "What the fuck, Geralt? You were due to arrive back home almost a week ago!" Anger was plain on his face, yet the vinegar stench of fear overpowered any spicy rage. Geralt’s face fell as he remembered that the Jaskier he had longed for was gone. "Where were you? What kept you? Shit, Ciri is worried out of her mind for you! I-"

"It wasn't my fault!" Geralt interrupted him sharply. "I can't control the damn weather, can I?"

"Ten days, Geralt! Ten fucking days! You said four, five at most! It was necrophages you're fighting, not a griffin or something. You can kill those in your sleep!"

"Had wrong information," he grumbled.

"You- I- what?! From whom?"

"The alderman. He said two or three ghouls. Got a dozen of them."

"Fuck," Jaskier muttered.

"Hm," Geralt agreed.

The viscount sighed and ran a trembling hand across his face. The stench of fear grew fainter. "Well, let's head back, shall we?"

Geralt said nothing in response but simply nudged not-Roach forward in the direction Jaskier had come from. He knew the questions would come soon enough. They always did.

After half an hour of silence he discovered that the questions did not come. After an hour he decided that the quiet was just as maddening. "The rain started on the fourth day," he informed him unbidden. "Was awful. Took the whole fucking road with it. Next day I nearly missed the river because the bridge was gone too. Took me one whole day to walk around. Then, I found a farmer with a cart stuck in the mud. Told me to greet you. Anton, his name was. And he had a wife. Ida."

Jaskier nodded. "I remember. They were kind to me."

"That's about it," he concluded.

"Sounds like quite the journey." Geralt turned to look at Jaskier, expecting to see the same wistful look in his eyes that he always had when Geralt spoke of his adventures without him. Instead, he was stone faced.

He didn't understand why that hurt so much. "It was."

"Well," Jaskier sighed, "Janina will be glad that you returned Dancer safe and sound to her."

Geralt frowned in confusion. "Who's Dancer?"

That got a reaction from him: "Who- I- the horse!" Jaskier stammered. "The horse you took without consulting me first, you moron!"

"Hmm," he made and tugged on not-Roach's reins to catch her attention. "Could've told me," he said to her. To Jaskier he said: "You said to take any I want."

"Yes, of course, but- wait, what have you been calling her if not Dancer?"

"Not-Roach," he replied. To him that was obvious.

Jaskier gaped. "Unbelievable," he muttered and laughter bubbled from his lips before he bit down hard on his lip. Geralt smelt blood.

“My lord,” he said slowly, “I am sorry.”

“For being late?” He scoffed. “You better be.”

“No.” He hesitated. “Well, for that, too. I’m sorry for what I said before I left. You- you were right. It was dangerous. I should’ve taken better care of Ciri.”

Jaskier gaped at him. “Huh,” he said surprised, “Never thought I’d see the day… Well, anyways," he sucked the blood from his lower lip. "I trust that you were justly compensated for your inconvenience?"

"Eighty crowns." He had counted them after all.

Jaskier tugged sharply on his reins. Not-not-Roach snickered in protest but stood still regardless. "Excuse me?"

He brought not-Roach to a halt, too. "Got eighty crowns from that bastard."

He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "Now that just won't do."

Geralt snorted quietly. "Don't trouble yourself, my lord. It's not worth it."

Defiance gleamed in Jaskier's eyes. "Oh no, witcher," he said icily, "you don't get to order me around anymore." The bitterness in his voice made Geralt flinch. "Sixteen years I held my tongue when you were denied pay, bed, and board alike. Do not think that that was easy."

He couldn't restrain himself: "Held your tongue? I seem to remember quite a lot of first fights and tavern brawls with your involvement, my lord," Geralt said and ducked his head to hide his smirk.

"Don't flatter yourself, witcher, they were hardly about you."

He scoffed. They both knew that was a lie. "What are you even going to do?"

Jaskier clicked his tongue and began to ride again. "I suppose that entirely depends on how he chooses to answer my first letter."

A smile danced around Geralt's lips. "My lord?" he called after him.

He turned in the saddle. "My witcher?"

"Please don't kill him."

Jaskier wrinkled his nose as if the simple request were a terribly foul meal. "I'll consider it," he said and spurred his horse into a trot. "Don't get your hopes up, though."