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ahh-fxck · 1 year

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Warrior’s Blues Chapter 16: When The Wind Tears Down The Leaves

HOLY SHIT it’s finally done. I am so happy to present to you (with trigger warnings) the next chapter of Warrior’s Blues! My life has been upside down bananas, but @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog the inestimable and incredibly awesome, has stuck by me through it and helped me get this chapter edited and ready for all of you. Thank you so much for your patience!! I literally could not wait until morning to post this.

Without further ado:

Chapter 16: When the Wind Tears Down the Leaves

Tags/warnings: Geralt whump, graphic car accident, PTSD flashbacks

Beta: @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog

Ao3: When the Wind Tears Down the Leaves

Comments welcome, and AS ALWAYS please let me know if you want to be added/removed from the tag list!

“I don't need the details, just tell me the next most likely direction to look in," she interrupts, scowling at a fork in the tangle of roads.

“There are a few back roads up near-”

“Northeast or Northwest,” she snaps, aware that she’s being rude and well past the point of caring.

“Northeast,” he fires back, his own fraying temper sparking off. “Now listen here-”

“No you listen,” she says. “There’s a limited amount of shit that I’m going to take from a man who can’t remember to bring his own fucking towel out into a rainstorm-”

The rain sheeted down as they ran single file through the darkness. The trees loomed over claustrophobic, clinging undergrowth. His heavy pack became more boulder-like with every step, the straps cutting into his shoulders and forcing the muscles along his spine to work overtime. The pain had been manageable at first but as the night wore on it fused into a solid ache from his temples to his fucking knees. His lungs burned and the only water he'd had for hours was the water sheeting across his face. Even so, each searing lungful was tinged with a peculiar gratitude- he was still alive.

In the distance, the eerie moan of a motor broke through the downpour. A ripple of fear ran through the line and they sped up, a wordless agreement passing amongst them as they veered away from the threat. They’d been running for hours now. They’d run for hours more, if that’s what it took to escape.

There is a screeching sound he can't place...

There is a screeching sound he can't place and it's getting closer. His heart trips and begins to hammer against his ribcage as he lifts his head and shakes the rain from his face, eyes briefly focusing on the white line he is running parallel to. The screeching is all around him, swallowing his world whole-

Impact.

A car’s rear end whips into him sideways as it fishtails up the road, flicking him into the air like a child's toy. He has a brief moment of crystal clarity as the blow lifts him from his feet, watching the vehicle careen up the road flinging leaves and water in its wake. He realizes that the soul-devouring screech is coming from the car's brakes and tires, and that he's just been hit- then his world turns upside-down.

He flies with the debris through the dark, dizzy and weightless. Lights smear across his vision, and then the ground comes up to meet him. He hits it at speed, his shoulder catching on a lump of earth and flipping him into a tumble that flings sprays of dirt and dry evergreen needles. He finally comes to a halt at the foot of a tree and lays there, too dazed to process the pain that lurks on the horizon. The fragrant needles cling wetly to his skin, the musty breath of the freshly torn earth wafting across his face as he lays there panting.

In the distance the fishtailing vehicle pulls into a spin, horn blaring as it whirls into bright beams of light. This is followed by a loud BANG! Crushing, shearing metal joins the squealing of rubber and a frantic welter of water and light twirls up the road, almost elegant, as if the cars are dancing. There is a brief lurch of eternity, and it seems for a moment like they will spin forever. Then there is a shrieking crunch as they slam into the trees on the other side of the road.

Afterward, the silence gapes like a maw. Geralt trembles as he feels it surrounding him, stalking him, until it feels like it could swallow him whole. His eyes are fixed on the entangled wrecks across the road, unable to tear them away. One headlight remains lit, dangling at an odd angle. It throws an eerie, swinging glow across the scene. He watches it sway, floating in a hazy cushion of shock.

Then, he hears the cry.

It’s a terrible, ululating sound. It rises and falls in an unsteady staccato, climbing in volume and strength until it becomes a full-chested shriek. Geralt’s blood turns to ice as he listens to the sound of a stranger in mortal agony, helpless terror freezing him to the spot-

Burning diesel, the smell of an engine choked half to death by dust. The chatter of his men around him as the transport bumps over the rocky terrain. The acrid stink of the nearby battlefield is getting closer...

Yennefer hangs up the phone again. Another hospital, another dead end. She’s running out of places to call, and it’s getting late. Rain taps the window over the dead air conditioner, curtains hanging limp and dead. The hiss and bubble of the coffee maker is weirdly loud, threatening to break her focus. Undeterred, she turns on the bed and spreads her hands across the map of the state, taking some small solace in the feeling of the paper crinkling under her hands. Then she settles in to stare at it, willing the paper to yield some secret that it has not yet divulged. The tangle of streets and neighborhoods stare back, stubbornly unyielding. When her cell phone buzzes next to the map it’s almost a relief, despite knowing who’s on the other end.

“Hello?”

“What now, Julian?”

“For the last time, I told you my name is J-”

“Any sign of him?” she cuts in briskly, taking some small solace in how soggy and irritated he sounds.

“Well, thank you so much for your interest,” he replies sarcastically, slightly out of breath. “No, I can’t find hide nor hair of him in this howling wilderness. Did you know they have the brass fucking balls to call this hellscape a park? I swear the fucking raccoons out here are the size of pickup trucks!” In between his complaining his car door thuds shut and the sound of the wind abruptly cuts off. There is a clatter, which she imagines is his flashlight being tossed aside and bouncing down onto the floor. “And of all the mother-loving fuck-forsaken things I could have forgotten, it was a towel for me. I might as well be Swamp Creature! I’m never going to get this seat dry!”

“Suck it up, buttercup,” she snaps, rolling her eyes. She’s been on the phone with indifferent hospital staff and recalcitrant morgue technicians for hours, and these charming conversations have been interspersed with long-winded bouts of Julian's damp and ill-tempered wittering. She’s been putting up with it, but she’s nearing the end of her rope. He scoffs, and she can hear in his voice that he’s about to go off again. Her annoyance surges. “Listen up, Skippy, I didn’t pick up the phone to hear a sob story. You're out there to help, so shut the fuck up and help.” She pauses to look at her map again. “Do you think he went up towards the reservoir?”

He puffs indignantly, but her pointed reminder deflates him. "Ah-" he pauses, embarrassed and trying to re-set himself mid-whine. "Well, ah, I don’t think so. There’s a tennis court up that way, and then a great big-”

“I don't need the details, just tell me the next most likely direction to look in," she interrupts, scowling at a fork in the tangle of roads.

“There are a few back roads up near-”

“Northeast or Northwest,” she snaps, aware that she’s being rude and well past the point of caring.

“Northeast,” he fires back, his own fraying temper sparking off. “Now listen here-”

“No you listen,” she says. “There’s a limited amount of shit that I’m going to take from a man who can’t remember to bring his own fucking towel out into a rainstorm-”

“If you hadn’t been such an insufferable witch when I was getting ready, maybe I wouldn’t have run into one without thinking!”

“Oh, so now I’m the one to blame for you not keeping your head screwed on?” she replies, a dangerous note of pleasure entering her voice. “No one told me I was signing up to be your mother, you nancy little prick, and if you think that’s where this is headed then you’re about to be sorely disappointed.”

“Ho! Oh!” he gasps, taken aback, “So that’s how it is, is it? Puh-lease, you she-devil, don’t think for a minute I’d take you as my mother-”

-CRACKle-crack-crackle-

Their bickering is interrupted by the police scanner coming to life. There is a spitting and hissing, then a half-comprehensible male voice rattles out numbers over the staticky line, followed by something that makes Yennefer’s heart leap into her throat.

“There’s also a possible 10-45 Bravo, large adult white male with white hair, sending EMT to assess…”

Julian gasps in her ear as she jots down notes at lightning speed. When the radio yields a location at last, she feels a fierce rush of relief. They have a lead at last.

“Was that what I just thought it was?” he asks, and in the background is the sound of his engine starting.

“I think so,” she replies, animosity momentarily forgotten in her rush to re-examine the map. “Do you know where Burned Swamp Road is?”

“Oh holy hell, he’s all the way out there? Yes, yes, it’s out near a country club my cousin used to go to. I know exactly where that is, I’m on my way.”

“Get the lead out, he’s not going to be there for long.”

“I drive like a bat out of hell, darling.”

After the explosion, the world was still. He lay pinned to the dusty earth, something jagged cutting into the meat of his back and an unimaginable weight pressing down on him. With every breath there was pain. Over the liquid, bubbling screaming from one of his men, he could hear the rest of his unit advance. There was the sound of engines in the distance, the feeling of tires grinding over rubble vibrating his aching bones. The pop-pop-pop of gunfire drifted above the ringing in his ears as he choked on smoke.

His fingers go cold, his lips, his face. When the flickering lights of emergency vehicles come into view he stares at them like he is made of stone, vision partially obscured by the pine needles under his dirty cheek. The only part of himself that he can feel moving is his heaving chest.

From out of the blurred field of moving lights emerges a figure. They’re wearing a uniform he can’t place for the life of him, and a flashlight bobs in their hands. Geralt squints instinctively against light as it pans over him, making his aching head ring like a bell. The figure leans over. Their face is a smeared jumble; all the features are there but they just don’t make sense. Their mouth is moving... perhaps they’ve even said something, but Geralt can’t process it. Their mouth continues to move and they hold up their hands in a peaceable gesture before kneeling down to inspect him. Geralt groans, too frightened to understand what’s happening and too frozen to do anything about it.

Then the wind shifts towards him for the first time since the wreck, and with it comes the unmistakable scent of blood, a coppery reek that not even the burning chemicals can obscure. Something about the smell galvanizes Geralt as if he’s been struck by lightning. He jerks away as the figure reaches towards him, scrambling away from the blood, away from the wreck, away from the suddenly shouting stranger struggling to their feet to chase him.

Despite the stiffness some distant part of his mind realizes is pain, Geralt gets his feet under him and sprints off into the night. He ducks and weaves between the trees, fleet-footed in his panic, breath heaving in his lungs until all he can taste is bile and heat. It’s only a matter of minutes before the shouting ceases, the flashlights fading into the night. His legs churn, oblivious to the foliage he crashes through. Now that he’s started running again he finds he can’t stop, his raging adrenaline demanding everything he has to give. He goes until his stomach hurts and his breath is ragged. Until he is staggering, and finally, until his legs can carry him no more.

Despite Jaskier’s lead foot and casual disregard for local laws he still has to get halfway across the tiny state. The weather eases as he drives, clouds scudding away before the wind. By the time he arrives, the rain has stopped completely and rich moonlight radiates through gaps in the clouds. A lone cop car sits near the wreck, headlights flooding the road. The single headlight has long since been extinguished.

When Jaskier gets out of the car it strikes him how eerie the quiet is. All he can hear is the crunch of the police officer’s shoes on the gravel as he paces the scene finishing his notes.

He gives Jaskier a flat look of exhausted disinterest when he approaches, barely even bothering to raise his head. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Ah, I’m looking for my friend, he was out having a run and got caught in the storm. Perhaps one of you gentlemen might have seen him? About yea tall,” he holds his hand slightly above his head, “short white hair? He’s hard to miss.”

The cop grunts. “Big guy? Weird uh, weird eyes?” He waved towards his face descriptively.

The corner of his mouth pulls down, and Jaskier feels his hackles rise at the disgust in the cop's expression. Despite that, he's filled with a surge of relief and excitement. “That’s him!”

The officer shrugs and gestures over his shoulder at the shadowy forest across the road. “He was down when we got here, but uh… Took off like a shot when the EMT went to check him out. He went that way. We figured uh, he can run, he can take care of himself. Good luck, pal.” And with that he turns away, clicking his pen pointedly and looking back down at his clipboard.

Jaskier fumes at the casual dismissal. His chest swells as a hundred imprecations jump to the tip of his tongue, but that's not what he's here for. With unusual restraint he swallows his anger, pressing his lips together and turning. He walks stiff-legged back to the car, slamming the door behind him.

It takes a while for him to stop seeing red, and a moment longer before he knows he won’t unload on Yennefer the second she answers the phone. He scrubs his hand across his face and takes a deep breath, then dials her number. “Yennefer?”

“Is there any sign of him?” she snaps, impatience lending an edge to her tone.

He grimaces, shaking his head. “He's not here,” he says, "But I think he can't be far." He relays the conversation with the cop to her. When he finishes, she spits a hearty curse. He sighs, palming his face. “I’m sorry, I should have pressed him for more. I should have told him off! Something.”

“No. You shut the fuck up exactly when you should have,” she says drily, a touch calmer now. “I didn’t think you had it in you. Listen, how is your cell battery?”

He holds the phone away and pulls a face at it before putting it back to his ear. “I’ve got about half left. Why?”

“Because this time I want you to stay on the phone with me while you look for him.”

“Fuck,” he swears under his breath, but he leans over and starts hunting around for the flashlight that’s rolled under the passenger seat nevertheless.

“What was that?” she asks sharply.

He winces. “Nothing, ah, just-” he leans further over, straining for the flashlight at the edge of his fingertips. “Bloody buggering fuck. Ha!” He straightens, flashlight in hand. “Sorry, I ah, I lost the flashlight under the seat. I’ve got it now. Shall we?” And with that he gets out of the car, praying that she’ll buy it, or at least let it go by.

She huffs, unimpressed. “Make up another lame excuse for swearing at me and I’ll make you eat your shoelaces next time I see you, got it?”

“Right you are,” he replies with false bravado, scanning the clearing. “I’ll make sure to keep some marinara handy, darling.” She scoffs, and he shakes his head. He knows he shouldn’t be squabbling with her, he knows better, but it’s hard when there are a hundred fears crowding the back of his mind. He clicks on the flashlight, stepping away from the car.

The night is balmy despite the breeze. The clearing is deserted. All that’s left is the wreck across the way. Small plastic ties flutter from each antenna, and when the breeze washes across the road it carries a strong chemical stink. He shudders and turns away, pointing himself in the direction of the woods.

“All right, I’m heading up in the direction indicated by that rotten squirrel fart in a uniform. I don’t see much, yet.”

“Just try. What kind of trees are there? What kind of dirt? I need to be able to visualize where you are.”

“Evergreen trees with long needles,” he notes hesitantly. He pauses and squints at the ground near his feet, scuffing around to see better, “and it’s sandy.”

“Is it still raining out near you?”

“No, and about fucking time,” he says, inching forward and playing his light back and forth across the ground.

“Good.”

“And you?” he asks.

“It’s almost stopped here.”

“Wait,” he says. His voice tenses. “I see something. Boot prints and a big scuff in the soil.”

“Thank fuck you found something,” she says. “What else? Is there blood?”

He can hear fear in her voice, and it sets his heart to racing. He leans down, inspecting the dirt more closely. “Not that I can see. There’s some deep prints gouged out of the moss uphill, though, and and they cross through the uh.. Scuff thingy.”

“What else? Keep talking.”

Jaskier darts his tongue across his lips, gathering his thoughts, then begins tentatively to describe the scene in front of him. He can hear the scratch of her pen as he talks. She hammers him with question after pointed question, and he stumblingly answers them.

Finally, she stops him. “Enough. Which direction do those deep prints go? Can you follow them?”

“The uh… Yes, they- Yes. I can follow them. They’re going uphill here.” He inches tentatively deeper into the forest, which is far denser than the park with the raccoons. The trail is easy to follow at first, footprints leading deeper and deeper into the forest. He picks his way through the undergrowth in moon-scraped darkness, surrounded in the wet green fragrance of summer leaves. “There had better not be any poison ivy back here,” he complains, overcome with an urge to fill the lonely darkness with something human, if not friendly.

She lets out an unladylike snort. “Cope. Now tell me what you’re seeing.”

Together they navigate deeper into the murk of the woods, following the signs that Geralt has left behind. Jaskier directs a steady stream of information and sotto voce grizzling at Yennefer, who can’t help picking on him in return. Nevertheless, between them, they make a good team. Even as the trail gets more subtle, Yennefer’s field experience pairs well with his quick eye for detail. They progress slowly, following his erratic tracks over rocky outcrops and through gulleys, hoping against hope to find him in one piece.

Then Jaskier sees something that makes him pause. His stomach sinks and he inches forward, getting quiet.

“I found something,” he says. “There's exposed soil on the edge of the bank up ahead. It looks like he might have climbed up.” His flashlight catches something reflective in the darkness. He pans back over it and recognizes a muddy sneaker caught in a nearby tree root. “Yennefer-” he says, his voice sharp.

"What?"

"It's his shoe. It's stuck in some roots here. It's filthy, bloody hell, I didn't even recognize it at first-"

Yennefer’s breath catches in her throat. She pauses to gather her composure, then says, “He can’t be far, then. Go slow and be quiet. Stop as soon as you see him and don’t make any noise, don’t startle him. Got it?”

He gulps around the hard lump in his throat, gathering himself, then nods. “Got it.” Skin prickling with apprehension he resumes creeping forward, slowly panning his light back and forth. The evergreens have faded into deciduous forest. The maples and oaks that surround him shiver in the moonlight. The leaf litter is sallow and wet, sickly leaves that have been knocked down by the storm. The trail is muddled, as if Geralt had been staggering. The footprints terminate in the shadow under a huge oak tree hunched in a rocky hollow.

He cautiously rounds the tree, and there he stops, his heart leaping into his throat.

Caught in the round light of his flashlight beam is a muddy foot with a ragged, torn sock hanging off of it. The foot is disturbingly still. Panning the beam, he sees Geralt’s bare leg, scratched bloody and spattered with mud and bits of soggy leaves. He lays on the ground unconscious, his limbs in an ungainly sprawl. Biting back a noise of sorrow and fear, Jaskier beats a hasty retreat back to the lost sneaker near the gully.

“I found him. I think you’d better get here immediately.”

Tag List: @astouract, @smolpoe, @yes-im-the-violin-girl, @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde, @ladyknight-keladry, @your-lordsherlockholmes-posts, @thepassifloradiscord, @flightsfancy22

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ahh-fxck · 2 years

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Warrior’s Blues Anniversary Repost Event!

Welcome readers, new and old! Today is the second anniversary of the first fic I ever posted in this fandom, a fic that is still, to my shock, going stronger than ever 2 years later. This story was written in response to Geraskier Pride Week 2020, and over time it has become a love note to all those queers who fought and bled for us to be where we are today. I think, especially in these times, that remembering our history (and writing fiction about it!) is important.

So without further ado... the first chapter of Warrior’s Blues!

Chapter 1: Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

Beta: @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog

Tags/warnings: Internalized homophobia, mild blood, mild Geralt whump, alcohol, PTSD

Ao3 link in reblog!

“Ouuuuwww!” A man howls joyously, and his attention snaps in that direction. In the distance he can see someone leaning against one of the ubiquitous red brick storefronts that line the old city streets. Turning, he heads towards him, the only thing that currently seems real in the blurred landscape around him. As he gets closer, he sees that the tall man is grinning hugely, his eyes hidden behind huge round sunglasses with sequined rims. A fall of artfully cut short brown hair drifts around the frames. He is wearing denim shorts that barely qualify as more than a few ratty pockets and belt loops, the curve of his ass hanging out of them and dragging on the brick wall behind him. On his hairy chest is a cropped white t-shirt, with a huge rainbow heart in the middle of it. Emblazoned in sequins on the chest is the legend ‘COCK.’ Astonished, he pulls up short, his feet rooting to the spot.

The road is shimmering with heat haze. Stretching before him long into the distance, a line of cars clots the highway. Leaving the military base had proved simple, but it was turning out to be the only simple thing about his day. His ancient truck growls and rumbles in the heat, beginning to give off a warning whine as it inches along the blacktop. His fingers alternately clutch and tap at the steering wheel, jaw working as he desperately scans for a way to get off of the highway before the damn thing breaks down altogether.

He hasn’t driven it in years; Hadn’t honestly expected to see it again so soon, much less be forced into the damn thing so quickly. As the truck whines and sputters up the road he cranes his neck, trying to see up ahead. Finally, just as the engine is beginning to well and truly overheat at the near-idle pace he’s been forced to keep it at, he sees an exit up ahead. He hesitates for a moment. After a lifetime of loyal military service, the prospect of breaking traffic laws still gives him pause.

But.

That is no longer a factor. The fat sheaf of papers sits in the cab behind him, rustling in the blasting heat coming out of the blowers he is running in a desperate attempt to keep the damn truck going for just a few more miles. Dishonorable discharge. Might as well be dead, as far as society is concerned.

Fuck it.

A determined expression settles over his face, and he shifts the truck into gear. It coughs, gives a roar, and he pulls haltingly out into the breakdown lane. Sweat drips down his cheeks in the soggy, relentless heat as he cranes his neck again, scanning the road for police officers one last time. Seeing none, he guns the engine, the truck bucking into motion at long last. He bowls his way up the breakdown lane, barrelling towards the exit, pulling onto it with a thump and a screech of tires, horns chorusing around him. Something about that causes his fraying temper to snap, and he sticks his middle finger out the window at the irritated drivers as he barges his way back into traffic.

To be perfectly honest, off the exit is even worse than the highway. The cars are gridlocked as far as he can see. What the fuck could have locked down the city like this? He growls in frustration, pulling back out of traffic and forcing his truck over a curb. It goes over it with a thump, starts rattling, coughs, and then bucks forward through a parking lot onto a side street. All he wants is to get to his damn storage unit, but it is all the way across the city and the main streets are proving to be impassable. The truck blessedly settles into a lower rumble as he drives along the narrow alleys and back streets of the city. It is cooler here, shaded with drooping maple trees that are limp and listless in the heat. Before long, he is hopelessly lost and his temper is spiraling out of control.

When the truck finally dies on a hill not far from the center of the city, his boiling temper overflows. “FUCK!” he shouts, slamming his hand on the dash. Seething, he uses the slope of the hill to inch his truck into a parking space, cranks the emergency brake hard enough to nearly break the shaft, and bursts out of the truck.

He spins and wallops the trunk of a maple tree nearby with a closed fist, splitting the skin on his knuckles instantly. Snarling in pain and rage, he strikes it, again and again, until his hand is raw and bloody and his rage and grief are momentarily spent. Panting, he shakes the sweat from his eyes and wipes his undamaged hand over his face, smearing the sweat droplets up into his short cropped white hair.

What now?

Staggering back from the tree, he turns and leans against his truck, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as he tries to gather himself. The stinking heat gnaws at him, impairing his every attempt to form a coherent thought. His cheeks are red and hot, and he knows if he doesn’t find some sort of shelter soon he is going to become ill. Realizing he had better start moving no matter what, he turns to open the truck door. He might not have a plan, but he did know that he wasn’t going to accomplish anything by allowing dehydration or heat stroke to take him down. That meant finding water, a cool place to collect himself, and, with any luck, some kind of a damn map.

Reaching across the back seat, he grabs his camouflage print khaki backpack and pulls out a water bottle. It is mostly empty, but he drinks the last of it as he eyes the discharge papers. He doesn’t want the folder with him… but even worse, he doesn’t want the papers to be towed away if he isn’t able to return to his truck in time. He knew there was at least a chance they would find the truck after discovering he’d been kicked off base. While he can’t bear to face them, not yet, he doesn’t want them worrying that he is dead. His body hums with tension as he looks at the papers, twisting the water bottle back and forth in his hands.

Finally, his shoulders set as he comes to a decision. He grabs them and stuffs them roughly into the bag, zips it, and flings it over his shoulder. Then he pats the truck apologetically, feeling obscurely guilty for losing his temper, turns, and begins to make his way downhill towards the heart of the little port city. He cradles his bloody hand close to his chest, keeping it above his heart, trying to keep the swelling from robbing him of its use altogether. As he walks away from the truck, away from his last clear means of returning to them, his heart sets up a gnawing ache in his chest.

It is some time before he exits the industrial district he has left his truck in, and as he does so, he feels a strange sensation in his stomach, in his bones. As he approaches the main street, the sensation resolves into a pounding bass rhythm that he feels more than hears. That’s fine, he can handle the pain of it, but when he turns the next corner he feels like he has walked into an absolute wall of color and sound. He freezes, eyes wide, as he takes in the sight before him.

Rainbow flags adorn every available surface. Children in nylon faerie wings chase each other screaming around a nearby fountain, and in the distance, a few streets away, a parade is in full swing. People of every possible description are out in the heat, dressed in glitter, dressed in leather, towering drag queens and tiny leather dykes mingling comfortably on the summer streets. His heart plunging, he suddenly feels desperately out of place in his sweaty green t-shirt and camouflage print pants.

He is too hot, too overwhelmed, and too heartsick. His whole body feels raw with grief as he looks upon the scene. Everything he has lost is thrown into a mocking highlight, reminding him that all he has ever loved has been stripped away because of one fucking stupid mistake. The organization he has spent his entire life serving had rejected him for the very thing these people were celebrating, and seeing it is like slamming into a brick wall. The world whirls around him, heart rallying and heading for his throat now as a feeling of overwhelming despair and panic begins to overtake him. His eyes flutter shut and his adam’s apple bobs as he fights for control, fights for breath, the world fading from around him until there is only oppressive heat and the hammering of his heart. He clutches his injured hand against his chest and focuses on the weight of the sack on his back, trying to block out the spinning. It isn’t the first time that he has abandoned himself so shamefully. It likely will not be the last.

Gradually, as time passes, the world begins to trickle back in. Glimmers of noise and color flit across his awareness, beginning to cohere into a solid impression once more. The sound of the nearby children laughing swims to him as if from underwater, followed by an arc of glittering light floating between his partially opened eyelids. As he tips his head forward and opens his eyes, it resolves into a huge pink and silver banner being dragged by laughing men a few streets up, floating in the air like a kite. He feels his chest spasm, and he finds himself stepping back unbidden. Then, blindly, he begins walking up the street that runs parallel to the parade, breath coming in short huffs and gasps.

It would be impossible to tell how many blocks his feet have carried him before his mind starts to come back to him. He could have been miles from his truck, for all he knew. And at this point he couldn’t have said more about the little park than that it had had children in it, little winged fairies dancing in the noise and light. Disoriented, he lifts his head and looks up around him, trying to get his bearings.

He drops his injured hand to his side as he scans the nearly empty street, feeling the heavy backpack shift on his back. His hand gives a slow, distant throb, barely felt in the depths of his daze. The street is scattered with wrappers and glittery garbage, feathers, fluttering bits of paper twisting slowly in the humid breeze. The parade has already passed by here, and the few remaining hangers-on are dispersing as he watches. He licks his dry lips, searching for familiar landmarks as he tries to orient himself. His concentration is broken by a piercing wolf-whistle from about a block and a half up the nearly empty street.

Before him, the man bites his lip and lowers his sunglasses slowly, sweeping his eyes from his head to his feet unhurriedly. The shock as their eyes connect on the way back up runs along his entire spine, leaving his head vaguely tingling.

“ Hello, there,” the man hums merrily, his eyes glittering. It is only then that his eyes focus fully, and he realizes that the man has a long white popsicle in his hand. His other hand rests on a quietly whirring portable freezer, whose power cable snakes back into the dimly lit building door at his elbow.

“Uh?” he says, feeling his already sweaty face turn a deep red.

With a flick of his hand, the man stuffs his sunglasses into a barely adequate pocket, revealing sparkling blue eyes that crinkle in amusement, and then gestures to the freezer. “Would you like one?” he offers. “You look hot.”

Eyes traveling down the length of the other man’s arm, he realizes that the freezer must be full of more popsicles. Dumbly, he nods, not entirely sure he understands what’s happening. With a little flourish the blue eyed man opens the freezer case and steps aside to allow him to look inside. He steps forward, feeling as if his head is wrapped in cotton balls, and peers into the depths of the little case. As he leans, he holds his bag steady so that it doesn’t knock his elbow as it shifts.

At the bottom there are boxes of plain-wrapped popsicles, one indistinguishable from another in their white plastic wrappers. He can feel burning scrutiny along his back as he leans over to swipe one from the freezer, and a low heat pools at the pit of his stomach even as his head swims. As he turns around, he finds the man a respectful distance away, innocently gazing up at the clouds as if assessing the weather and sucking on his white popsicle. Feeling off-balance, he turns and paws the freezer closed before opening the flimsy wrapper on his own cold treat. It turns out to be green, and the frozen sweet tang of lime on his tongue is sharp and grounding. He brings his bloody, mangled hand up to wipe his face, and the other man hisses in sympathy.

“Oh, darling. That looks like it hurts.”

Bewildered, he stops and looks at his hand. The pain swims back, pulsing vaguely in time with his heart, as he stares at the injury like he’s never seen it before.

“Let’s get you inside and take care of that.” Tutting, the man sweeps up behind him and ushers him through the door, into the cool sanctuary within. He’s too out of it to protest. Once inside he stares around the room, eyes wide and bewildered, feeling lost. The high walls are raw wood, scattered everywhere with tiny, colorful pieces of artwork.

He finds himself installed at a bar in the far dark corner of the place before he has time to protest. It is silent and empty at this time of day. Remembering the popsicle in his hand, he tentatively licks at the drip of lime forming on the base of it and waits for his blown-out pupils to adjust to the relative darkness. The straps of his bag are starting to cut into his shoulders, and it is difficult to sit comfortably in the chair, but he can’t rally his faculties enough to take it off.

He can hear bustling noises close by, clinking glasses and running water. It’s too hard to focus yet, so he doesn’t try, closing his eyes and letting the noise and heat of the street finally begin to bleed off of him. He curls his mangled hand back above his heart, trying to ignore the throbbing pain that pulses in time with his heartbeat. His awareness of the popsicle in his other hand fades away, along with everything else, as he sits at the bar and breathes in the quiet. There is a wall at his elbow, and utter silence behind him, the large room all the more reassuring because of the hugeness of its emptiness. No people. No crowds. No sounds.

A damp thunk near his wrist causes him to open his eyes. The dark haired man is right in front of him, his face kind and curious. He stares in confusion as the room filters back into his consciousness. As his gaze comes into focus, he notices exactly how blue the man’s eyes are, a rich cerulean like rippling coastal waters in sunlight. His heart stutters in his chest and he quickly looks down, feeling even the tips of his ears begin to burn. Right near his arm is a tall glass of ice water, droplets already beading on the outside in the mercilessly sticky heat. The popsicle droops in his fingers as he stares at it for a long moment, trying to find his tongue.

Clearing his throat, he eventually manages a hoarse, “Thanks.” He grabs the glass in his injured hand and hisses in pain as the cold touches the sore, swollen underside. Undeterred, he takes a large swallow before raising it to run across his forehead and cheeks, trying desperately to cool himself.

The other man vanishes only to return a moment later. He delicately pries the forgotten popsicle from his hand before placing it in an empty cup on the bartop. Startled by the touch, he looks down at his sticky hand in confusion before glancing back up into those soulful blue eyes again. Something at the bottom of his vision moves and his gaze drops. The brunet extends a towel towards him, a gentle little smile playing about his lips. He puts down his glass and takes it between numb fingers, tentatively beginning to wipe the sticky green syrup off of his hand.

“Wait a moment, I have some hydrogen peroxide around here somewhere…” the man has already bustled out of sight again, leaving him in peace to inspect the damage to his right hand more closely. He probes it tenderly with the wet cloth, and hisses as it comes away red. As he focuses, he realizes that the blood has run between his fingers and snaked up his wrist, clotting on the knuckles and fingertips where it dripped when he had dropped his hand to his side.

In front of him, he hears a gentle tut. Turning, he finds that the man has returned with a bowl of warm water and a surprisingly generous first aid kit, which he lays out on the bar unhurriedly. He opens it, glances across the bar at him, then holds out his hand.

“May I?” he asks.

Dumbfounded, he nods, allowing him to draw his hand across the bar to inspect it more closely. Any other day, any other time, and he would have probably picked up and left. But right now, dazed and heartsick, it is easier to say yes. He is lonely, far from the only people he knows, full of gnawing grief and sadness. The unaccustomed gentle touch as his hand is lifted and cradled leaves him dizzy, feeling guilty for how suddenly and deeply he craves it. The sudden impulse arises a moment later to yank his hand away, but the man glances up at him with deep blue eyes just before he does. His stomach flips hard and he subsides, allowing himself to be tended to.

The man bends over his hand carefully, chestnut brown hair falling over his eyes as he does so. He shakes his head slightly to dislodge a few inconvenient hairs, then begins very gently to clean and dress his wounds. Silence stretches between them, strained and intimate. The man finishes and withdraws to put away his medical supplies before returning to his guest.

As he waits, unsure of what to do next, he empties his tall glass of water and crunches on the ice cubes at the bottom. The jarring cold of them, combined with the relief of having his hand finally wrapped, brings him back to himself fully. He blinks, cautiously withdrawing his bandaged hand, studying the man in front of him with more focus now.

“There you are,” the man says warmly, cocking his head to the side and studying him right back. He has lovely, almost elfin features, high cheekbones, and a delicate nose. He is younger, slightly shorter, broad-shouldered, with a lean and rangy frame that is enhanced by his daring clothing. His lips are expressive, currently pursed as he eyes the older man with unabashed curiosity. “Hello, darling. Now. What’s your name?”

He is pretty sure he has never been called darling this many times in a conversation before… maybe not even in his life. Very few people have called him pet names of any sort. Pulling his glass in front of him awkwardly, he hesitates, then says roughly, “Geralt.”

“Hmmmm. Well, Geralt,” the other man says with a quick grin that sets his pulse racing, “Why don’t you take off that backpack and relax a moment? I’ll make you a quick snack.” Without waiting for a reply, he snatches the cup out of his hand and spins away to refill it with ice and fresh water.

Geralt gulps, startled, and stammers out “I, uh, I can’t-”

“On the house,” he says, turning back and placing the cup in front of him, alongside a tall pitcher with some sliced lemons dropped into it. Shocked back into silence, Geralt nods and carefully pulls the glass back across the bar to hold. His fingers trace droplets up and down the cold glass as he watches the man vanishing into the back of the bar. He notes in surprise that across his broad back, the crop top is decorated with a pair of glittering sequin wings.

As the clatter of kitchen implements begins somewhere out of his line of sight, Geralt slowly relaxes back into his seat. His bag bumps against the back of it and he startles, finally remembering it. Standing, he slings it under the counter at the base of his tall bar stool before resuming his perch. The blessed silence settles down across him, frayed and sizzling nerves finally beginning to quiet. He presses the cold glass to his forehead and closes his eyes once more, falling into a fuzzy exhausted numbness at last.

It is some time later that a plate of food being plunked down in front of him announces the return of his host. It is simple fare but generous; a thickly stuffed roast beef sandwich with some sort of pink dressing, potato chips, and a generous helping of julienned pickled vegetables. He glances over the plate at the handsome man, who fixes him with a sunny smile and leans back against the counter behind him, bringing his foot up to rest on one of the shelves as he relaxes.

“You look like you’re new in town. Reassigned to Fort Morhen?” He inquires, eyes following Geralt’s big, scarred hands as he picks up the sandwich.

Geralt hesitates, thinking, then takes a huge bite. He hums quietly in pleasure. Then he nods, opening his eyes to see his host’s face. To his surprise, those bright eyes are soft, crinkling slightly at the corners.

“On leave?” he inquires, picking up a toothpick and beginning to toy with it. Geralt is beginning to get the impression that the other man is rarely still, watching as the toothpick flickers back and forth between long, capable fingers.

“Ah… no.” Geralt says after he swallows, chasing the mouthful with a generous gulp of water. He grimaces before taking another bite. He takes the time to chew before answering. “Was just discharged.”

The younger man’s face falls, and he drops his foot back to the ground. “Oh, no, I’m sorry.” His eyes flick up and down Geralt’s body again, softly curious. “Medical?”

With a grunt, Geralt jerks his head in a short ‘no.’ He mechanically takes another bite. “Dishonorable,” he says around the sandwich, avoiding eye contact, seeming to collapse in on himself. The younger man falls silent and still, and Geralt feels himself wishing that he could sink away through the floorboards. Bad enough that he betrayed the only people he loves. Now this man can hate him too.

Eventually, the man behind the bar grabs a glass and begins to fill it with beer from one of the taps. “Did someone ask,” he asks, very quietly, “...or did you tell?” He is careful to keep his eyes on the glass in his hands, waiting patiently for Geralt’s reaction.

Geralt’s throat constricts into a stunned knot as he stares at the sequined wings on his back. They glitter softly with every shift of the man’s broad shoulders. “Uh…” he chokes out after a long pause. He had been expecting to be kicked out of the bar, or for the man to scoff... had been expecting literally anything but that question. Caught off balance, he reels.

The other man peeks over his shoulder, a sad smile playing about his lips. “I own the gay bar nearest to the base, darling,” he explains, turning back around and placing a frothing tankard of beer next to Geralt’s plate. Geralt’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth to protest again. With a flap of his hands, the man cuts him off. “On the house,” he reminds him with a soft, bittersweet smile. “Everything’s on the house for you tonight. Stay as long as you like.” He turns away again, becoming absorbed in preparing the bar for the rush due in a few hours.

Geralt’s gaze follows the glittering wings back and forth behind the bar as he eats, descending into thoughtful silence. He’s still thrown, but he feels strangely warmed by the man’s quiet acceptance, which gives him a dizzy, fizzing feeling in the pit of his stomach. After a while, surprised to find himself speaking, he volunteers, “Didn’t have to tell. New security camera did the job for me.”

The man pauses, rag in hand, and glances over his shoulder at Geralt. He is grinning, eyes sparkling. “Oh, my ,” he says. “Caught doing the good stuff, hmm?”

Geralt feels like those inquisitive blue eyes are pinning him to the spot as he reddens, then nods shortly.

“Mmm. Well. At least you went out in a blaze of glory,” he hums pleasantly, resuming wiping down the counters behind the bar.

Geralt chokes on his beer, sputters, and puts the glass down on his coaster. The shorter man laughs easily, tossing him a rag to wipe himself with. Geralt paws the rag off of the bar and begins to dab at himself. Something is nagging at him, and as he wipes the beer off of his green shirt, he finally puts his finger on it.

“What’s your name?” he asks, placing the rag back on the bar. The man’s whole face lights up as he turns back towards him, holding a stack of glasses.

“I was wondering when you’d finally ask,” he grins. “My name,” he flourishes a little bow, glasses clinking, “Is Jaskier.”

This is met with silence. So much silence that he straightens from his bow a little hesitantly, giving Geralt a queer look. Geralt gives him one right back, a slow half-grin creeping up his face. “...Jaskier? That cannot possibly be your real name…” he takes a long, slow swig of the beer out of his tankard. “Buttercup.” Amber eyes glitter over the edge of the glass, watching Jaskier light up with laughter.

“Yes, yes! Where are you from, Poland? I thought I detected a little accent…”

“Mm,” Geralt grunts around the edge of his tankard, draining the cold beer. “No, but the colonel always spoke it at home.”

“Ooh,” Jaskier trills. “Army brat?” He continues bustling around, now chopping lemons and limes for drink garnishes.

Geralt nods, putting the empty tankard back on the counter and twirling one of his remaining potato chips between his fingers. “Lifetime on the bases. Yeah.”

“Father an army man?” Jaskier continues, swiping the empty tankard on his way by and refilling it.

“Mm.” Geralt hums an affirmative, taking the tankard from him with a nod of thanks. He half-drains this one, too, grateful as the warm numbness of the alcohol begins to soften all the jagged edges inside of him. “He died when I was a baby. Got adopted by the colonel.” He drains the rest of the beer in one gulp.

“No mother?” Again, the tankard vanishes, and again it appears, refilled. Geralt pulls it close, sipping at it, slower this time. The beer is good, yeasty and bitter and cold. He shakes his head, leaning his elbows on the bar, slowly beginning to relax.

“Nope. AWOL in Korea, never heard from again. Happened a few months after my father died.” He sucks some of the foam off the top of his glass, licking the bitter treat from his lips. “Never lived as a civilian before,” he adds, then pauses. “You still haven’t told me your name,” he reminds Jaskier, who laughs easily, tossing his hair out of his eyes.

“No, darling, I haven’t. I suppose that’s a bit rude of me, but I don’t tell many people. Julian is just so…” he flaps his hands expressively, searching for a word, “boring.”

Geralt laughs, genuinely amused. “So you went with ‘Buttercup?’” he asks dryly, tilting his head to the side, his eyes dropping to follow the swaying of Jaskier’s ass as he moves about behind the bar.

“Not everyone speaks Polish, you know,” Jaskier trills, unphased. “Besides, they’re my favorite flower. Say the name of your true love while a buttercup is under your chin, and it will light your chin up yellow. Hmm. I loved playing that game as a child. So romantic!”

Geralt smiles lopsidedly, charmed in spite of himself. “That’s just a children’s game,” he rumbles. “No truth in it.”

“Ah, who needs truth when you can get kisses?” Jaskier says easily, moving out from behind the bar and heading to the entrance of the club. His shoes, it turns out, are sequined the same color as his sunglasses and wings. With practiced, efficient movements, he hauls the freezer back into the darkness of the building and rolls it across the floor, past Geralt, and into the kitchen beyond.

Mesmerized, Geralt watches him go, picking at the pickled vegetables and following the motion of Jaskier’s muscular legs. He tries to think of a time he’s ever spent around a man this flamboyant and easygoing. Wracking his brains, he draws a blank. Even the few dalliances he had allowed himself were very discreet in the way they presented to the world, never flaunting themselves like this man did so easily. He is dizzy with the newness of it, unable to distinguish the metallic tang of full-body fear from the arousal pooling low and hot at the base of his spine. Jaskier either didn’t notice, or didn’t care, fully absorbed in the task of setting the club up for the night.

It was some time before Geralt found the means to speak again, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “What… ah… what was that event outside earlier?”

“What?” Jaskier says, muffled, from the back room. “Oh! You mean the Pride parade?” He comes out of the back room carrying a load of boxes stacked precariously in his strong arms. Walking over to the seating area out in front of the bar, he delicately negotiates around the tables until he reaches the largest one, directly between Geralt and the empty dance floor. Setting them down, he begins to sort them out and pull decorations out of them, fairy lights and rainbow streamers and more, cascading out until there is a giant pile. To Geralt it looks like chaos, but the man seems unruffled as he goes about beginning to decorate.

“...The what?” he asks, genuinely confused. He swivels his stool around so that he can face Jaskier fully, curiosity bubbling.

Jaskier looks over his shoulder at him, lips parted, eyebrows drawn up quizzically. “Pride…? You know, once a year when all the queers come out and…” he flaps one hand, searching for a descriptor, “riot with giant speakers playing the Village People and glitter bombs?” Seeing Geralt’s obvious confusion, he turns to study him. “Seriously not ringing a bell, darling? How long have you spent overseas?”

Geralt’s face feels numb, his tongue dry, and it takes him a moment to even move to finish his beer. He swallows the last of it awkwardly, rolling it around his mouth and trying to find his words. The man’s piercing gaze is rooting him to the spot, and as he looks at him, beautiful and lanky in the half-light, he thinks that he has never felt more out of his depth than he does right now. “Uh,” he says.

Jaskier shifts, lifting a long hand to brush hair out of his eyes, and Geralt feels a wave of hot prickliness wash over his body. “Uh… Long time. Most of my life.” He gulps, realizing belatedly that he is starting to get hard under the lovely man’s penetrating stare. Leaning forward, he shifts his hips subtly in an attempt to adjust himself without drawing any further attention to his predicament. A small, knowing smile flickers across Jaskier’s face for just a moment, quick enough that Geralt isn’t sure that he actually saw it, and then the other man is turning away again and resuming the task of decorating. As he does so, he speaks.

“Pride started out as a riot, love. We got sick of being beaten by the police, so we started fighting back. It lasted four nights, and… well, it changed the way people talked about us. This was in the 70’s…” he makes a little buzzing, humming noise as he thinks, “Mmm, no, tell a lie, it was 1969. And the next year was the first march.”

Geralt shifts again, taking the opportunity to get more comfortable, turning his stool back so that he is no longer facing the lithe man so directly.

Jaskier begins running the fairy lights along the base of the wall, unspooling and untangling them before hanging them. “And every year since, in June, cities have held marches.” Backing up carefully, he navigates around a corner with the mess of cords, and continues, “Every year, more and more cities have had them. We’ve had ours since 1976, and we have gotten quite good at them.” He smiles, squinting up at the ceiling as he considers a dodgy looking fastener above him. “And tonight, is the busiest damn night of the year for the Pegasus…” His eyes slide sideways to meet Geralt’s again, flashing him a sly smile full of teeth, “Affectionately known as the Peg.”

Geralt doesn’t know what that means, but the look makes his cock twitch uncomfortably in his trousers. Hurriedly, he turns back to his last few pickled vegetables, feigning great interest in them. “Hmm,” he says, around a mouthful of julienned carrot.

Behind him, Jaskier watches him for a moment, eyes considering. Then he withdraws, retreating into the back room once more before emerging with a ladder. He seems content to let Geralt sit in silence at the bar now, letting him finish eating in peace.

Geralt’s head whirls. His whole life has been the military. Early mornings. Strict obedience to the chain of command. Upholding the code of conduct as a professional at all times, even off base. Sodomy was strictly forbidden, as codified in military statutes written well before he was born. The fact that there is not only a whole club, but a whole culture, a whole country full of people who live this way is… unimaginable.

He crunches through a potato chip slowly, dragging the salty pieces across his tongue and focusing on them to keep himself from sinking too deep into numbness. His heart feels ragged and raw as he looks around the walls, focusing on the artwork for the first time. Many of them are little squares of stark black-and-white imagery, queer men and women captured in moments of impeccable geometry. The squares are bordered in frames, obviously handmade, covered in sequins and glitter, feathers, even funny little toys from gumball vending machines. He peers at the one closest to him, and at the bottom there is a legend with the name of the artist and title of the piece.

Robert Mapplethorpe - “Smutty,” 1980 New York, New York.

Geralt gapes at the image, eyes wide and lost. He doesn’t even notice at first when Jaskier slides up in front of him, pushing a shot glass full of clear spirits across the bar towards him. When he clears his throat, Geralt startles out of his reverie, spotting first the shot glass by his elbow and then, eyes traveling upward, finds Jaskier regarding him kindly again. He picks up the shot glass in numb fingers and sips. Vodka. The liquor burns warmly across his palate, making his tongue curl and his cheeks flush. The welcome sear of the alcohol turns into a dull spreading heat inside of him. It blurs the ragged, churning ache he is desperately trying to escape.

“This is all rather a lot for you,” Jaskier observes quietly, eyes flickering over Geralt’s stiff face and hunched, unsure shoulders. Looking into his glass, Geralt nods, then slugs back the rest of the shot with a grimace. The lovely man’s face softens into a look of thoughtful concern, and he drums his fingers on the counter as he ponders something. As he comes to a decision, his fingers make a decisive tap. “Look. Do you have anywhere to be right now?”

A ‘yes’ comes rushing to Geralt’s lips, seeing an opportunity to flee the situation, but then those blue eyes fix him with such a look that he is rooted to the spot. A look like that, Geralt gets the tingling feeling that he’d know the lie the second it got out of his mouth. He swallows it.

“...No,” he admits reluctantly, his voice husky and quiet.

Jaskier nods, taps firmly again on the counter, then straightens up. He emerges out from behind the bar and stands before Geralt, long and tall in the half-light. Geralt’s head tips back, and he eyes him uncertainly. “Come with me,” Jaskier says. “I have to open in about an hour, and it’s going to get very rowdy out here…” A sly smile spreads across his face. “And a beautiful man like you won’t last a minute before some little twinkle-toed little horndog comes sniffing for you, darling.”

Geralt gapes at Jaskier, who reaches out a hand, gently but firmly pulling him out of his chair in a manner that brooks no argument. His whole body lurches at the touch, the feeling somehow nauseating and exquisite all at once.

“I have a bed in the backroom, in my office. I use it sometimes if I stay too late doing the books,” he explains. “You look like you need a rest.” He smiles, tugging Geralt along. Stunned, Geralt stumbles after him, remembering at the last minute to swipe his backpack from under his seat on his way by. A sure, strong hand pulls him across the floor of the club and into the storage room. Too exhausted to resist, it’s all he can do to keep his feet as he’s pulled along. They pass stacked kegs, boxes of paper towels, cleaning supplies, and at the back of that room is a nondescript steel door. Jaskier pulls keys out of his pocket, unlocks the door after only a moment of fumbling in the dim lighting, and slips inside to turn on the light.

As it flickers on, he blinks, looking around. The office is tiny, smelling mostly of stale brick and old wood. There is a tiny wooden desk that looks older than the building crammed right towards the front of the room, stacked high with ledgers and bills. Behind it are two filing cabinets, and at the very back, a rumpled bed with some raggy but comfortable looking blankets crumpled at the end. Jaskier steps forward and flicks on the little lamp on the desk, turning out the overhead and significantly dimming the light in the room. Then he begins jerkily clearing away the ledgers and bills, muttering to himself.

Geralt stands dazed in the doorway, backpack swinging from his fingers as he observes Jaskier’s chaotic movements. Then, his eyes drift to the bed, and upon seeing it his body feels suddenly crushed with exhaustion and sorrow. He can barely stand under the weight of it. His soul aches, and all he wants to do is forget for a few hours.

When Jaskier looks up, he sees the lost and haunted look in his amber eyes. He pauses mid-motion, laying the papers slowly back down on the desk, as if being careful not to rustle them. “The bed’s back here. Sorry, I guess I don’t need to clean up all the way right now…” He grins awkwardly, fluffing the back of his short hair in a nervous motion. “Uh. I’ll be out bouncing at the door if you need me, once things get in full swing. The bartender’s name is Lars. If he tries to charge you anything, come get me and I’ll set him straight.”

Geralt nods to show that he has heard, but finds himself locked in place, struggling to figure out what to do next.

Jaskier looks him over in concern, then purses his lips and hums softly. He advances on Geralt, taking him by the shoulders and gently, ever so gently, guiding him to the back of the cramped little office. He can feel Geralt’s shoulders stiffen under the contact, and with a sad look that Geralt can’t see, carefully withdraws his hands. “Sleep,” he suggests. “I’ll be back to check on you later if I don’t see you.”

Geralt nods again, a moment too late, the door already closing behind him. His body is still snapping and crackling with the unexpected touch, the imprints of Jaskier’s hands burning on his shoulders through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Dropping his backpack, he heaves a heavy sigh before sinking to the bed. The cheap springs of the metal frame shriek under his weight, and he grimaces as the sound rakes across his raw nerves. The drinks have mellowed him, though, and the room is blissfully cool and quiet.

While he feels like he really ought to leave, ought to go anywhere else, it is beginning to sink in that he has nowhere to go. Even if he gets to his storage unit, what is he going to do? Sleep in it? He can’t load anything into his dead truck. There is no place to take his few things to. He has no place to sleep. The money in his bank account won’t last him long. And he’d broken the last safe place that he was supposed to have, long ago. This latest episode of stupidity was only the final nail in the coffin. He can’t even bring himself to call them. Not yet. The future stretches out before Geralt, an unreadable mass of uncertainty that makes his stomach churn. He’d never not had a plan before. The military had provided him a life of strict routine, a clear future, stability. Maybe even a nice little grave with a flag at the end of it all. Now, he didn’t even have that to look forward to.

Finally, heaving a sigh, he awkwardly unlaces his boots and lays down. He pulls the covers over himself and settles onto the battered pillow. The whole world is too much, and he just can’t process it anymore. As he nestles in, he notices that the whole bed has an oaky, musky scent, fresh soap and sweat and Jaskier. His head whirls with it as his body begins to relax, then, abruptly, turns off.

Tag List: @astouract, @smolpoe, @yes-im-the-violin-girl, @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde, @ladyknight-keladry, @your-lordsherlockholmes-posts

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ahh-fxck · 2 years

Text

Warrior’s Blues Repost Event part 3! In which Jaskier can’t leave well enough alone when he realizes Geralt needs a safe place to rest.

Chapter 3: Private Entry

Tags/warnings: see Ao3

Beta: @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog

~Ao3 Link~

He nurses his beer quietly while the staff clears up and clears out, the high of the evening settling back into a gnawing numbness while he drinks. When he finishes, he sits spinning his bottle around and around, fingering the label without actually feeling it. A warm hand right above the small of his back wakes him from his reverie with a start, and as he looks up he finds Jaskier looking pleasantly back down at him. His cheeks heat as he feels the warmth of the man’s bare stomach near him, eyes flickering down to take in the dark line of hairs on it before meeting his gaze again. The base of his spine tingles as he feels Jaskier considering him in the dim light. The hand at his back burns, the unaccustomed touch almost searing.

“Well, darling. You certainly made an impression tonight.”

The rest of the night passes in an absolute whirlwind. Yarpen, working at his elbow, is by equal measures competent, flirtatious, and incredibly sarcastic. He moves quickly about behind the bar, keeping Geralt oriented and making sure ingredients are near to hand as he needs them. Despite Geralt’s inexperience they quickly find a working rapport, hustling in the soggy evening heat as the orders fly in. Geralt has no idea what to do with the flirtation, but does know how to handle being around a man with a competent personality, and despite his troubles he finds that he is slowly relaxing. The quick-witted bar-back is easy company even in the worst of the rush, and the challenge of the work gives him something to focus on.

The tips are slow at first. Geralt is terse and stiff, avoiding eye contact and moving with sparse efficiency. But, drinks go out, drinks are drunk, drinks are appreciated. By the end of the night, the jar is stuffed full, and the bar is finally empty. Geralt sighs, wiping the last of the drips off of the bar. He tosses the towel in the hamper, then allows Yarpen to shoo him out of the way as he begins to clean.

As he goes, Yarpen presses a cold bottle of beer into his hands. “You earned it.”

Geralt takes it, glances at Jaskier advancing, and uncertainly nods his thanks. His bandaged hand, long-forgotten in the rush, is beginning to ache again.

Jaskier winks at him and then slides past him to lean on the counter near where Yarpen is working, nabbing a cherry and popping it into his mouth. As he does so Geralt retreats to the bar stool he had been on at the beginning of the day, the wall at his elbow.

“So. Yarpen,” Jaskier says, eyes twinkling merrily, “How did he do?”

“The man’s a machine. We need three more of him,” Yarpen crows, giving a wicked grin as he sprays the counters down with disinfectant. “Do they make more like him? I want one.”

Jaskier tsks, exasperated, waving Yarpen away. “Get your own.” He grins and cuts a quick glance at Geralt before ducking around Yarpen and going into the kitchen.

Flustered, Geralt fumbles around for the bottle opener on his key chain, grateful for the chance to avoid making eye contact with Yarpen.

Laughing again, the wiry man comes over to the counter. “Hey. Let me show you how to divvy up the tips.” Geralt’s head comes up and he half-smiles, nodding. Yarpen empties the jar out on the counter, gives a low whistle, then sets about dividing the bills and coins. Geralt watches in mute fascination as Yarpen explains the proper percentages, how many back of house staff get a share of the tips, and how that relates to their wages. When he finishes, Geralt takes the proffered bills and coins with a small nod of thanks, then sags back into his seat as Yarpen hustles off to pay out the kitchen workers.

“Well, darling. You certainly made an impression tonight.” Breaking away, Jaskier plunks two cold beers onto the bar top and slides into the seat next to Geralt with easygoing grace. “Thank you for stepping in when you did, you saved my night.” He lifts his beer and tips it at Geralt in a little salute before taking a long drink.

The corners of Geralt’s lips tug, a smile playing about them despite the churning of his stomach. “...It was nothing,” he says, groping for the right words. His back buzzes and tingles where Jaskier’s fingers had brushed it a moment before, making his heart race unpleasantly. Jaskier’s eyes glitter in the dim light, watching Geralt over the rim of his beer bottle. Sucking in a deep breath, Geralt quickly drops his gaze to the bartop.

Jaskier shifts, leaning back comfortably. His gaze lingers on Geralt, his expression mild. “It’s always nice in here, after they all leave. Quiet,” he says, after a long pause.

“Mm,” Geralt agrees, taking a long swallow of his beer. He glances out of the corner of his eye at Jaskier, who is still regarding him frankly. A long quiet stretches between them, awkward but also kind. Finally, Jaskier speaks again, his voice very soft indeed. “Do you have any place to go? Tonight?” Geralt’s lips twist, thinning. He looks down and away, avoiding his gentle expression, shoulders tensing up.

Jaskier waits in respectful silence for a moment, and seems just about to take a breath to speak when Geralt finally says, “My truck. If I can find it. I’ll figure out someplace to be tomorrow after I wake up. It’s fine.”

A frown furrows Jaskier’s brows, and he rolls the beer bottle’s rim thoughtfully along his lower lip. After a moment of thought, he speaks. “...No. No, I don’t think so. I think you,” he says, and leans forward, fixing Geralt with a most stunning smile, “Are coming home with me.” Geralt gapes, puffing, and begins groping for a way to protest when Jaskier cuts in. “I have a loft apartment above my house. It’s not much, no kitchen, but it has a bed and a shower… and a private entry. You’ll have to come downstairs in the morning to get breakfast, I’m afraid,” he brushes his fingers lightly over Geralt’s shoulder, pulling away respectfully when Geralt startles, then, slowly, putting them back as the man stills and looks back at him from beneath his lashes.

“Private entry?” Geralt asks, his voice low and rough. Jaskier squeezes his shoulder and withdraws, gentle as a breeze.

“Private entry,” he confirms. “I’ll give you the key so you can get in and out in the night if you feel cooped up. The uh, the door locks automatically behind you, I don’t want you to get locked out.” He stands up, extends a hand, and pulls Geralt out of his seat. Geralt rises awkwardly, standing over the lovely man and studying his face, captivated by the shadows pooling around his features in the dimness. It reminds him of one of the Mapplethorpe photos on the walls, and he feels a sudden sharp pain through the whole of him as his eyes trace the sweet curves of Jaskier’s cheeks and lashes.

Jaskier sighs, reaching up to brush his hand kindly along Geralt’s cheek, then turns away and begins to lead him toward the back of the bar. Geralt hesitates painfully, weighing his options, his cheek tingling and his heart pounding. His feet, not waiting for his mind to catch up, begin to move of their own accord. He drifts in Jaskier’s wake like a lost soul, following him to the office. They retrieve Geralt’s bag and Jaskier’s car keys, then set out to lock up the bar. Jaskier pats the door affectionately before turning to smile at Geralt, beckoning him to follow. They walk together up the street to find Jaskier’s car, side by side in the dark.

Tag List: @astouract, @smolpoe, @yes-im-the-violin-girl, @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde, @ladyknight-keladry, @your-lordsherlockholmes-posts @thepassifloradiscord

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ahh-fxck · 2 years

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Warrior’s Blues Masterpost

Warrior’s Blues is a modern AU set in 1995. Geralt is an ex soldier who was cast out of the Army under Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. Jaskier is the owner of a gay bar. When Geralt’s car breaks down and he wanders into Jaskier’s bar, neither of them have any idea how much their lives are about to change...

First of all, a thank you to the co-creator and beta of this fic, @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog. They’ve helped turn this into a really fun story to read, and I rely on them to keep me on track! This fic wouldn’t be here without you friend, thanks a million.

Warning: This fic is explicit. PTSD, Alcohol, Whump, Suicidal thoughts/tendencies, and other triggering topics can be found within. Specific tags on Ao3

There is also lots of found family, smut, and love.

Pairings: Geralt x Jaskier, Geralt x Yennefer, Geralt + Yennefer (You’ll see what I mean)

Rating: E

Status: In Progress

Ao3 link: Warrior’s Blues

CHAPTER LIST AND IMAGES BELOW

Some brief notes before we begin:

Warrior’s Blues started as a response to Geraskier Pride Week 2020. I thought it was going to be a short, relatively easy fic to write when I first cracked open that fresh, shiny new word document. AS IT TURNS OUT I WAS WRONG. This story has evolved into a meditation on Pride, on otherness, healing, love, and found family. I’ve done my best to feature gay and queer artists of yore in the story, so you’ll find the occasional vintage photo tucked amongst the pages. In fact, all of the research I’ve done has split the seams of this story at this point so I’ve decided to include some of it in the #warriors blues tag. If you search it, you will come across hidden gems of queer tumblr in amongst the story chapters. I will also occasionally post about pieces of media that I discover as I research. Those can be found in my #warriors blues media stream tag.

I am a giant nerd and I am hoping someone else enjoys all the shinies I’m racking up as much as I do. In that light, I sincerely hope you enjoy the extras.

Now. That being said... onward!

Chapter 1: Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 2: Do I Look Like I Have A Permit? Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 3: Private Entry Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 4: I Need a Hospital Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 5: Fire Island Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 6: I Wanted to Get Lost, So I Got Lost In You Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 7: Fire and Ice Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 8: I’ve Met Your Idiot Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 9: Mockingbird Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 10: Glass Windows Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 11: What Would I Do Without You? Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 12: A Chance Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 13: A Choice Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 14: Yes is Just The Beginning Tumblr - Ao3

To Be Continued...

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #witcher fic #witcher fanfiction #geraskier modern au #geralt #jaskier #yennefer #modern au #witcher modern gay bar au #warriors blues #warrior's blues masterpost

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ahh-fxck · 2 years

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Warrior’s Blues Reblog Event day 2, in which Geralt reveals a hidden talent and Jaskier... well, swears a lot.

Chapter 2: Do I Look Like I Have A Permit?

Tags/warnings: Alcohol

Beta: @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog

Warming to the topic, he feels more sure of himself as he begins to list ingredients. “Dark and Stormy. Two ounces of dark rum, five ounces ginger beer, garnish with a lime. Long Island Iced tea. Half ounce gin, half ounce vodka, half ounce rum, half ounce tequila, half ounce triple sec, two tablespoons fresh lemon juice, spoonful of sugar, ice cubes, cola, garnish with a lemon wedge.” Geralt begins, slowly, to grin. It feels good to surprise Jaskier, to show him that he’s competent. “I can keep going.”

“How…?” Jaskier finally asks, mystified.

He awakens an unknown amount of time later to a rhythmic buzzing that shakes the bed frame subtly. As he lifts his head, the sound resolves into a thumping bass beat that reverberates through the whole building. He sits up, swinging his legs off of the bed, and scrubs his face tiredly. His stubble scrapes against his palms, his bandages, his injured hand beginning to distantly throb as he awakens. His head is still swimming faintly, and the sensation of his aching hand doesn’t feel quite real. The humid air is cooler now, taking on a clammy quality in the old brick room, and it smells faintly of the night.

He sits for a long moment with his face in his hands, trying to pull himself together. The sleep has helped, but the clarity it brought carries with it unmistakeable despair as well. Staring numbly at his boots, he feels a wave of shame creep up his body as he remembers again what he’s lost. He eventually fumbles them on, desperate for something to do with his hands, some way to feel less vulnerable and lost. The process is hampered by his injured hand, but he manages it eventually. He barely has time to steal another guilty look at the phone before he hears the bang of the back room door slamming, followed by raised voices.

“...Kids, Lars! I swear to fucking Jesus Christ on rollerskates, you absolute asshole, if I get shut down because of you I will find you. You always check ID, especially on 18 and up nights! ALWAYS.” There was a mutter, and the louder voice cut it off, “I Do Not Care if it was dark, you absolute fucking dumpster fire of a human being! This is literally what I pay you for. NO! That is what I paid you for. Get out! Out, out, out! You’re fucking fired, and if I catch you anywhere near any of those fucking boys, I will personally see you to the fucking hospital!” The last word is roared, loud enough that Geralt startles on the bed. The springs creak as his body jars and as he is beginning to stand the door to the office bangs open. Jaskier, alight with fury, barges into the office and seizes a rolodex on the desk, flipping through it with short, sharp motions.

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fucking bag of cocks, FUCK!” he swears. Abruptly he stops, stormy blue eyes coming up and fixing on Geralt standing awkwardly near the bed. “Ah, fuck me. I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t wake you,” he says, pulling a face. “I ah, just had to fire my bartender in the middle of the rush.” His gaze drops back to the rolodex, still flicking furiously. “Fuck me, I don’t think any of these assholes are even going to be near their phone at this time of night. Not on fucking Pride…” His voice shakes with stress as he pulls out a few cards, tossing them onto the desk. Geralt watches silently as he begins to dial, shifting from foot to foot.

“Selling drinks to minors?” he asks quietly, as Jaskier hangs up the phone with a heartfelt curse and picks it up to dial again.

The younger man nods, lip curled in a snarl, punching the buttons on the base of the phone as if he could slake his rage on them. “Fucking ass cocking cheerios, yes, and of all the nights-” There is the sound of a voicemail beeping coming out of the handset, and Jaskier snaps, “Julia, if there’s any God in heaven right now you will pick up this damn phone. I need a bartender yesterday. Call me if you get this tonight.” He slams the handset back down onto the base and presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, slumping down to sit on the desk.

Geralt shifts awkwardly again, eyes playing over Jaskier’s graceful body as he hunches in thought. His eyes drag over his sequined shoulders, linger on the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. The skin on his chest pulls hotly and prickles as he studies them, searching for words. “Uh…” he manages, throat tight, then grimaces. “No one else to call?” His insides feel like they are fizzing, the sensation making it hard to think clearly.

“Mmph,” Jaskier mumbles, flapping his hand at the cards in irritation. “No. No, my staff isn’t very large, and I’ve never… never had to call back up on Pride.” A quick grin, more a snarl, flitted across his usually soft face. “Tips are too good. God’s cock, Lars is a fucking idiot. I swear if I see him again I’ll-”

“Do you need help?” The words tumble out of Geralt’s mouth before he can think them all the way through.

Jaskier groans out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Oh, darling, do I ever. But what could you possibly do? Bounce? Bartend? Have you even been behind a bar before?” He drops his head into his hands, soft chestnut hair falling over his face as he rubs his eyes. “Fuck me,” he adds as an afterthought, muffled between his hands.

“...I think you underestimate the amount of time servicemen spend in bars,” Geralt finally says, a lopsided smile creeping across his face. “I can make most drinks in my sleep.”

Jaskier’s head comes up, and he eyes Geralt suspiciously. “Drinking is not nearly the same thing as mixing, dear heart,” he says doubtfully, but Geralt can tell from the way he is hesitating that he is at least listening.

Sighing, he steps away from the bed and goes to lean against the wall in front of Jaskier, crossing his arms across his chest in a confident gesture. Here, at least, he is on solid ground. He may have lost everything, but he knows drinks. “Old Fashioned. One teaspoon simple syrup, two dashes Angostura Bitters, orange peel, two ounces of rye or bourbon, one maraschino cherry.”

Jaskier draws back, tilting his head to the side as he listens with a little furrow between his brows.

“How…?” Jaskier finally asks, mystified.

Geralt’s grin widens, and he finds his eyes traveling down Jaskier’s half-naked body, then dragging slowly back up again. As their eyes meet, he drawls, “Always had a good eye for proportions.”

Jaskier sits back a little further, small spots of color forming on his cheeks, but then narrows his eyes at Geralt. “What about a Cuban Rose?” he asks, suspicious but also intrigued.

Geralt replies promptly, “One and a half ounces white rum, three-quarters ounce orange juice, and a dash of grenadine. I can do more.”

“Dark N’ Fluffy,” Jaskier presses. He is still eyeing him doubtfully, but his eyebrows shoot up as Geralt replies.

“Two ounces marshmallow vodka, two ounces chocolate liqueur, one ounce cream, garnish with mini marshmallows and cocoa powder.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Tastes like an easter egg kicked you in the teeth, but to each their own.” He can feel his body beginning to relax as he speaks about the drinks, feeling on firmer footing at last.

Jaskier sucks air between his teeth thoughtfully, then says, “Mai Tai.”

“Hmm… That’s a trick question. Do you want the Trader Vic’s version, or the crappy one?” Geralt fires back.

Laughing, Jaskier raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Fine. Got a server’s permit?”

“Do I look like I have a permit?” Geralt retorts, dryly.

Jaskier tosses his head back and barks out another laugh, then shakes his head. “No. No, I suppose I can’t have everything.” He hovers on the edge of his desk, hesitating, then throws up his hands. “You know what? I can’t think of a better way out of this. You’re hired for the night.” Pushing upright, he bustles out of the office and into the dimly lit storage room beyond. “Come with me, let’s get you started.” He flings his arms out in a broad gesture, declaring merrily, “If I’m going to go out of business for breaking the law, I want it to be with drinks all around.”

“Hmm,” Geralt drawls, finding himself oddly charmed by the showy way Jaskier moves. Pushing off the office wall, he follows him into the storage room beyond.

Jaskier gestures around, pointing at necessary supplies. “Beer kegs, cups, napkins. The bar back knows where everything is, but don’t let him touch the cocktail shaker, the man is a menace. Mm, let’s see, straws… Yes. Alright, let’s go, darling, out front. It’s going to be loud, are you ready?” He pauses, blocking the doorway, turning an appraising eye on the big man behind him.

Drawing up short, Geralt also pauses as he reflects on the question. Normally, he would have scoffed and barged right past Jaskier out into the club, but he was still frazzled enough from earlier that the question merits a moment of consideration. Finally, he nods. Fierce blue eyes rake across him, and this time he meets the gaze steadily, unflinching. That seems to satisfy the younger man, and he gives a quick nod.

“Well, then, let’s be off!” he cries, pushing through the door and into the noisy, crowded club.

A wall of sound, scent, and colorful light hits Geralt like a truck as he steps out behind Jaskier onto the dance floor. Booming bass in a disco style beat thrums through the bodies as they dance, and a woman’s voice threads out from the speakers. “Take a chance, my love is like no other, on the dance floor getting down,” she sings, Jaskier weaving along the wall towards the bar. “Hold tight, I'll never let you down, my love is definitely the key. Like Boyz II Men I'm on bended knee, loving you, not like your brother, aw yeah, I want to be your lover…”

Geralt sets his shoulders and puts his head down, following quickly after Jaskier, trying not to look too closely at the people he is passing. The scent of sweat and cologne and sex is thick on the air, making him dizzy. It is with palpable relief that he ducks behind the bar, glad to put a solid piece of furniture between himself and the beautiful, gyrating people on the dance floor.

Over closer to the bar it is much quieter, even with the growing crowd queuing for drinks. The bar itself is surrounded by small tables, places where little knots of people gather to sit and drink together off of the main floor. He feels a little lost as he watches two men lean together, tongues sliding into each other’s mouths. Heat races across his shoulder blades and pulls at his groin, mingling with a sharp twist of fear. He is relieved when Jaskier begins to speak, half shouting over the music.

“Okay, darling, here’s how it’s going to work. I will show you where everything is, you show me your chops, and you get to keep the tips. Make sure to split them with the kitchen and bar staff, or they will hate you for life, I warn you now!” He begins bustling around behind the bar, identifying taps, pointing out hidden locations of necessaries like maraschino cherries and clean towels, then steps back. “Okay, I think that’s everything. Questions?” Geralt looks around the bar carefully, memorizing the locations of everything. Someone calls a complaint out to Jaskier, who holds up his hands apologetically. “We’ll be right with you, gorgeous! One moment!” His gaze returns to rest on Geralt, who is cracking the knuckles of his uninjured hand thoughtfully against his bicep.

Finally, Geralt shakes his head “I think I’m all set. Who’s the bar back?”

Jaskier grins, turning to shout back over his shoulder. “Yarpen? Where the fuck are you? It’s slammed out here!”

Around the corner of the kitchen door, a short, wiry man with a bald head and a full ginger beard appears almost immediately. “Here, just replacing the orange sli- hello,” he breaks off, taking in the towering figure of Geralt standing behind Jaskier. “Why, aren’t you fine!” The man’s green eyes twinkle playfully, his teeth flashing in a crooked grin. He is dressed in jeans, a leather harness adorning his spare, muscular torso, and a nipple ring winks up at Geralt in the dim light of the bar.

Rolling his eyes, Jaskier steps out from between the two of them. “Yarpen, this is Geralt, our new bartender for the night. Play nice, he’s new in town. Geralt, this is Yarpen, my bar back. Don’t let him get to you, he’s an idiot.” And with that, Jaskier smacks Yarpen’s muscular shoulder lightly. “If he needs to know where anything is, show him. Run the register. Keep an eye out in case he misses anything.” Turning to Geralt, he taps the man’s broad chest, “And check. Every. ID.”

Geralt grins easily down at Jaskier, studying his cerulean eyes, taking in his soft handsome face as it sets in a ferocious expression. His golden gaze lingers for a second on his thinned lips before flicking back up, eyes locking with Jaskier’s. “Got it. Check IDs, don’t fuck it up.” His body hums with the nearness of the other man, blood still fizzing like champagne. He feels better now, confident, almost forgetting to be afraid and heartsore as his eyes travel across the face in front of him.

Jaskier’s tongue flicks across his lips briefly as he considers Geralt, then seems to shake himself, nodding. “Exactly. Don’t fuck it up. I’ll be at the door if you need me.” He whirls, making apologetic noises to the deepening crowd at the bar. “Sorry darlings, had a minor emergency. Meet Geralt, your new bartender!” And with that, Jaskier flits out from behind the bar and races back to the front door of the club, relieving a man in a cook’s apron. The broad-shouldered man has bedraggled red hair and an ominous frown, but as he approaches, Geralt sees that most of the lines on his face are from laughter. He moves aside, noting with surprise that the cook is even bigger than he is as he slides around him and passes into the kitchen. Then he turns to the crowd. “Right. Who’s first?”

Tag List: @astouract, @smolpoe, @yes-im-the-violin-girl, @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @ladyknight-keladry, @your-lordsherlockholmes-posts

18 notes · View notes

ahh-fxck · 2 years

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Warrior’s Blues repost event, part 4! In which there is morning light, grief, and an inadvisable encounter between fist and wall. When Geralt’s host tries to help, will Geralt let him?

Chapter 4: I Need A Hospital

Tags/warnings: Injury, PTSD

Beta: @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog

~Ao3 Link~

His heart aches as he tries to meet his own gaze, finds that his stomach churns when he tries. Worse, his face is littered with white stubble, making him look grizzled and unkempt. Untrustworthy looking, he decides; undesirable. Still, he realizes as he gingerly flexes his injured hand, there is no way he can safely shave with his straight razor. With a disgruntled sigh, he tosses the shirt back onto the toilet and begins to clean up after himself.

By the time he is done, there is a tentative knocking on the outside door. Feeling his whole body contract with sudden tension, he stops dead in his tracks halfway to the bed. The little loft is suffused with light and warmth, a peaceful heat that sinks deep into his bones. He stares about the little room, searching for answers as he tries to figure out how to react.

“Geralt?” A muffled voice calls from outside of the door. Geralt recognizes Jaskier’s voice instantly; Would recognize it anywhere, even though he’s only known him for a night. A flush creeps across his whole body as he dithers, damp towel clutched tightly. “Geralt? Is everything all right?” Jaskier calls again, sounding worried. “Just, it’s two o’ clock in the afternoon… I thought you might be hungry. May I come in?”

Above Jaskier’s house was a small attic studio. It was painted a mellow sky blue inside, with white moulding, furniture, and decorations. It consisted of one room divided into two parts. First, there was a sitting area on a white tiled floor, with wicker chairs and a wicker table with a clear glass top. On a shelf below a windowsill there was an electric kettle and a box of rather rumpled looking tea sachets in their paper envelopes. Mugs were visible on the lower tier, stored neatly upside-down. Behind a half-wall, there was a sleeping area with a twin-size bed and two small dressers emblazoned on the sides with painted cornflowers. By the dusty, empty smell, no one had been up here in some time. There was a bathroom in the corner, with a full sized bathtub and a little sink above which a white mirror hung with makeup lights sat. There was only one entry, a simple white door that led to a steep staircase wrapping around the outside of the blue house and terminating in the driveway.

The light in the room turns to grey, dim fingers of it penetrating through the windows to caress the simple wicker decorations on the low half-wall separating the sleeping area from the main room. In the bed, Geralt breathes deeply, head lolling awkwardly where it rests halfway on his pillow, his injured hand resting on his chest.

By the time he had arrived here last night he had barely been able to hear Jaskier explain the little apartment over the roar of exhaustion in his ears. He had fallen into bed, fully dressed save for his boots, and had moved only once during the night to pull the creamy blue and white duvet over himself when the temperature had finally dropped. He had barely even managed to get his head on the pillow.

Now the temperature creeps back up again as the dawn light warms, turning a rich buttery color as the sun comes up over the horizon. Geralt’s eyes flicker open, habit and light conspiring to rouse him from slumber. He glances around, disoriented, then closes his eyes again quickly. The blue and white room is frighteningly unfamiliar, friendly colors and new smells crushing up against him as he begins to wake. It stirs half-remembered guilt and shame, burning feelings that he would much rather escape. Dimly realizing that he is no longer on a schedule and doesn’t have to wake, Geralt heaves a heavy sigh. Rolling over, he puts his arm over his head and curls softly under the covers. His arm blocks out the light and he retreats into the warm hollow that his body has made in the blankets. With a yawn, he drifts back to sleep.

This process repeats several times, until the room is bright and hot and Geralt’s bladder is achingly full. Each time the guilt and the shame press harder, a growing static that gnaws at him even in his sleep. Finally he is forced to open his eyes. As he lays there with his arm over his face, squinting out at the hot light of the attic, he hears a stereo turn on below him. It’s muffled, too quiet to pick out the words, but the beat is happy and strong. His heart speeds up and stutters as he tries to parse the addition of the music to his already overwhelmed senses, and his lips pull back to show his teeth. He growls in irritation and sudden tension races along his arms, whipcord strong and hot as lightning. His hand lashes out, bandaged knuckles slamming into the wall before he can think. The world vanishes for a moment in a brief, hot flash of pain that whites his vision out.

The wall reverberates, and below, quiet footsteps pause. A moment later the stereo volume lowers, and the rhythmic sounds of daily living resume. Geralt shakes his head to try and clear the cottony feeling away, tries to shake off the stars exploding behind his eyes from the pain in his hand. Rolling, he staggers out of bed and cradles it to his chest as he limps towards the door he faintly remembers Jaskier indicating as the bathroom.

The little room is clean and quiet, with very little to say for itself aside from an empty towel ring and a plastic basket full of half-used toiletries sitting on a back shelf. As he passes the mirror he spots his stubbly reflection out of the corner of his eye and remembers that he needs to shave.

After relieving himself he retreats to his backpack. Squatting down, he eyes the khaki sack critically and braces himself to confront the contents within. His mouth tastes like ashes as he reaches out and tugs open the zipper. The discharge papers tumble out, pages upon pages of his career sifting to the carpet like dead leaves. Pages of reminders of what he has lost. He can feel his face go numb first, then his tongue, a wave travelling outwards until it robs even his feet of sensation.

His eyes go blank as he paws automatically through the rest of the sack, retrieving his last pair of clean fatigues, his socks, underwear, straight razor, and soap. He sets these aside jerkily on one of the dressers, then turns and kneels, gathering the papers back into the folder. His movements are sloppy and disjointed as he fumbles the papers together, scanning them without really reading them, placing them back in order on autopilot. Then he shoves the folder under the bed, right next to the sack, and straightens. Below him there is still the faint sound of music, and someone’s voice, presumably Jaskier’s, breaks out into a muffled song. In a fog, he grabs his things off of the dresser and heads for the shower.

After he is clean he gets out, dressing himself. The music has stopped by now, and the bathroom has descended into dripping silence. The soggy bandage is still on his hand, but he’s not ready to confront it yet. Instead, he takes his dirty shirt to the mirror, scrubbing some of the steam away. He eyes his reflection critically, then the makeup bulbs, giving them a puzzled grimace. Turning, he retrieves his shaving implements from the shelf next to the plastic basket, coming back to the mirror only reluctantly. The last of the fog from his shower is beginning to clear, and he eyes his reflection uneasily.

His white hair is shaved short, too short to be mussed by sleep and showering. He has a handsome face. It is pale, with high cheekbones, a square jaw, and lips that have a surprisingly lovely cupid’s bow. Under his wide amber eyes there are shadows though, dark and hollow. The lines of care in his face are graven deeper than usual, darkened by stress and tight with pain. His heart aches as he tries to meet his own gaze, finds that his stomach churns when he tries. Worse, his face is littered with white stubble, making him look grizzled and unkempt. Untrustworthy looking, he decides; undesirable. Still, he realizes as he gingerly flexes his injured hand, there is no way he can safely shave with his straight razor. With a disgruntled sigh, he tosses the shirt back onto the toilet and begins to clean up after himself.

Geralt turns to look at the door, seeing the lanky shadow of the handsome man through the shade. He rasps, “I’m fine.” The words seem to unstick him. He strides across to the bed in a swift, efficient movement, drops the towel, and calls gruffly, “I’ll be right there.” He tucks the rest of the items back into his bag in a neat roll, followed by the discharge papers. His injured hand flashes with bright hot pain as he stuffs the papers into his bag, and he growls under his breath. Then he rises with a quick movement and opens the attic door for the man waiting patiently outside.

He is met by a charming, crooked smile as Jaskier greets him over a little tray holding two coffees and a couple of open faced bagel sandwiches. There’s sugar, even cream, each in little bowls that bear a buttercup motif. Jaskier himself is dressed in a loose yellow tank top and denim shorts, though unlike yesterday these hang down to just above his knees. His face is lightly stubbled; he hasn’t bothered to shave yet today. Seeing this, Geralt isn’t sure whether to be irked or charmed by how informally the man comports himself.

“There you are,” Jaskier sighs happily, tilting his head and fixing Geralt with a wide smile. “Breakfast?” As Geralt steps stiffly aside to let him in, he nudges past him and into the loft, humming, “Well, I suppose it’s more like lunch, but never mind that. How are you today?” Bending over, he places the tray on the little table, then straightens and glances over his shoulder at Geralt.

Geralt is still standing in the doorway, studying the other man with quiet intensity. While he’s been around civilians before, he’s never seen one quite like Jaskier up close, never seen a man so perfectly comfortable in his softness. It makes him want to bark him to fuck off, it makes him want to run away… it makes him want to sit and eat and never stop looking at him, ever again. He clears his throat as he feels Jaskier’s gaze upon him, closing the door with a little soft ‘thump’ that he half-feels, half-hears.

Jaskier turns and sits himself down in one of the wicker chairs, gesturing an invitation at the other one. Giving the chair a long stare, Geralt weighs his options. He is right next to the door; all he has to do is turn and walk away. It’s not like he needs anything in his backpack, not really. Even the documentation proving his identity is practically worthless now, and what isn’t, he can eventually replace.

As if sensing Geralt’s thought process, Jaskier carefully picks up his coffee cup and leans back in the chair, fixing him with a gentle but frank look. “Breakfast makes vanishing into the wild blue yonder a little easier, Geralt. At least have a bite before you go?”

Geralt fixes the younger man with a look of guarded astonishment. His injured hand twitches on the doorknob, then slides down to rest at his side. It gives a dull throb, but he crams the pain down, ignoring it with practiced skill. Rumbling doubtfully, he rocks back and forth once on his sock feet before tentatively advancing towards the empty chair. His ears burn as he realizes that he is so disoriented that he was genuinely about to run out the door without his shoes, and subsides into the chair across from Jaskier with a sheepish grimace.

“There, now,” Jaskier says, pleased, and pushes the coffee towards Geralt. Geralt takes it gratefully, humming with pleasure as he picks the warm cup up gingerly in his left hand. He leans his elbows on his thighs and blows on it, feeling the pleasure of the warm steam and rich scent playing across his lips. Unlike the coffee available on base, this smells lively and rich. He takes a tentative sip and raises his eyebrows, impressed. Jaskier beams and pushes the sandwich towards him, too.

Geralt tentatively tugs the sandwich towards himself with his bandaged hand, cradling the coffee mug in the other. Jaskier’s eyes flicker as he grimaces in discomfort, his gaze dropping to the soggy bandage that Geralt is still wearing.

A little furrow appears between his brows, but instead of addressing the pain Geralt is obviously in, he says, “Normally at this time of day today I’m off at work, but luckily for us, I have the day off.” He fixes Geralt with a sunny smile, picking up his bagel and taking a bite out of it. “Which means I’m at your disposal for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Day job?” Geralt inquires, his voice thick and a little hoarse. He grimaces again and takes a swig of coffee to clear his throat.

Jaskier nods pleasantly, chewing. He watches Geralt’s sore hand out of the corner of his eye thoughtfully as he continues, “Mmhm! I’m an adjunct professor at the college a few blocks from here, get to ride my bike to work on nice days. It’s summer so it’s only office hours and faculty meetings once a week right now, but in fall it picks up.”

Geralt tilts his head to the side, considering this information, trying to conceal his surprise. “What do you teach?” he asks, after a moment, then picks up his bagel and takes a bite. There’s ham on it, lettuce, tomato, cheese, even a fried egg. The mayonnaise has hints of garlic and rosemary, sharp and delicious. Probably not store made, then. Impressed despite himself, he eyes the sandwich, then Jaskier.

“Medieval music theory!” Jaskier proclaims, eyes twinkling. “Terribly arcane, I’m afraid, but I simply fell in love with it as a young man, and now here I am.” He sips his coffee and licks a drop of it off of his lower lip reflectively. “At least it helps pay the bills. Worse things could be said for a passion.” Shrugging, he sets the cup back down and takes another bite of his sandwich. “Do you have any plans for the day?” Despite himself, he finds his eye straying back to Geralt’s bad hand, watching with concern as the other man painfully cradles his bagel.

“No.” Geralt replies shortly, taking another bite of his sandwich. Now that he’s started eating, he can finally feel how hungry he is, and he makes short work of the food.

Jaskier watches in fascination as the bagel vanishes in only three or four big bites. Geralt finishes by unceremoniously draining his coffee cup. Jaskier searches for something to say, settling on, “Well then. Let’s at least take another look at that hand of yours, darling. I have a first aid kit downstairs.” He puts his half-eaten sandwich back on the tray, along with his empty coffee mug, and stands. “I’ll meet you down there. Do you remember where the front door is?”

“Yes.” Geralt says, who doesn’t remember anything of the sort. He was far too tired to remember what his name was last night, much less the exact location of the front door of the house. He figures it won’t be hard to find, though, and he is desperate for an excuse to be alone for just another moment while he tries to collect himself. Jaskier nods and heads for the door, beginning to fumble with the tray in an attempt to get the doorknob. Standing hurriedly, Geralt steps around him and pulls the door open. It puts him face to face with Jaskier, and when he turns another thousand-watt smile on him Geralt feels like the floor has dropped out from under him, leaving him in free-fall.

Jaskier studies Geralt’s face for a moment, kind blue eyes tracing the contours of his scarred cheeks and square jaw. He lingers briefly on his lips, chapped and cracked from dehydration and stress. A quick sad expression flits across his face, and he turns away. “All right then, I’ll see you in a moment Geralt.” As he turns and exits, the tension humming between them snaps and dissipates, leaving the air of the attic feeling oddly empty in its wake.

Geralt closes the door behind him as he leaves, slow and soft, like he half doesn’t want to shut it. He steps back from the door bewildered, feeling his hand pulse and ache with the sudden pounding of his heart. Reluctantly, he glances down at it. The bandage is beginning to dry again, a stiff, disgusting brown from where the blood has soaked into the gauze. His hand itself is swollen and red, far worse than it was yesterday. Running his eyes across it, his lips pull back in a grimace as he notes the mangled skin peeking out from where the bandage has peeled back. He would take care of it himself, Jaskier be damned, except that he doesn’t have any medical supplies. Deep down, he knows that an infection isn’t worth his pride.

After a further moment of delay, he returns to the bedside and sits next to his wet towel, staring at his leather boots. They are worn but well-cared for, stained, a little thin around the heels on the inside. He ponders how to get them on, as his hand is becoming stiffer by the moment. The pain is growing from a distant misty throb to a full blown, gnawing ache, which makes it difficult to think properly. Gritting his teeth, he decides to just grab them in his good hand and shove them on. The laces he pulls carefully tight. He fumbles with them for a long moment, trying to tie them, but his injured hand is so stiff that he can’t manage proper knots. Grumbling with frustration, he shoves the laces into the top of his boots and stands.

He looks around for the keys to the attic, spotting them on top of one of the dressers where he tossed them the night before. Those go into his pocket before he heads for the door. But, as he reaches it, he stops. His heart constricts in his chest as he hovers there, feeling the weight of his vulnerability pressing down on him. The idea of going into yet another new setting, of sitting across from that unbelievably kind man and letting him touch his hurting hand, is too much to handle. He feels like the oxygen is going out of the room as he stands there with his fingers on the doorknob, unable to move forward, unable to retreat. The room fades into a blurry blue and white impression as he begins to pant, lips numbly tingling. He steps back from the door instinctively, staggering to one of the wicker chairs and sinking into it.

Time swims as he hunches in the chair, awkwardly pulling his hand in close to his chest and huffing short breaths. Shame sweeps up his body, his posture collapsing as he tries to fight his way out of the panic. When he was young this never happened to him, but recently it had been coming on more and more frequently. He begins quietly, subtly rocking in the chair, pressing his face into his arm. The warmth of it is grounding, the smell of his skin bringing him slowly back into himself. In the end, he stills, leaning back into the chair with a heavy sigh as the tension in his body begins to run out. A fuzzy haze settles over him, and he closes his eyes as the numbness sweeps up and blankets him in darkness.

He becomes dimly aware of footsteps on the stairs some time later. Stirring, he sits slowly up in the chair, gold eyes focusing on the door as the footsteps come closer. The tall shadow of Jaskier shows through the curtains again, and he hears a gentle knock. “Hey, is everything ok?”

It is not ok, but Geralt doesn’t know how to say that, so instead he calls thickly, “M’fine. Got distracted.” Outside, Jaskier is silent for a moment. Then he says, “I brought my first aid kit upstairs. Would you mind terribly if I came in and looked at your hand?”

Geralt sits stiffly, hand cradled along his collarbone, feeling uneasy and a little trapped. Even his closest friends had rarely treated him with such persistent kindness; had rarely needed to. He was not a person who made himself vulnerable easily, and had gone to great lengths to keep his distance from anyone who might see him that way. On one level, he knew that accepting the man’s kindness was fine. Sensible, even. On the other, all he wanted to do was run until he found someplace dark and quiet to hide and never emerge from, ever again.

Outside, Jaskier sighs. “Geralt, are you sure you’re okay?” His voice carries a little worried note in it this time that makes Geralt flinch.

Geralt is tempted to lie again. It comes right to his lips, but stutters and stops before he can speak it as he watches the little movements of the man outside. Feeling oddly light, he stands to walk across the room and opens the door. He steps aside and looks down into Jaskier’s uncertain face, his own expression unreadable, then gestures shortly for him to enter.

Jaskier does so without argument, ducking inside before the ex-soldier has a chance to close the door on him again. He places the first aid kit on the little glass table and sits, making himself smaller immediately, and Geralt feels himself relax. Seated, the man looks softer, less demanding. He notices that his face is cleaner, too, all the stubble shaved away. Geralt’s bright gaze rakes over him sitting in the wicker chair, taking in the gentleness of his posture, the frank kindness that he regards him with. Stomach still churning uneasily, Geralt notices that he is nevertheless warmed by the gaze fixed on him. He feels his own face soften from a glare into an expression of uncertainty, eyes flicking between Jaskier and the empty chair.

Jaskier makes no movement whatsoever, his body language quiet and gentle as he continues to watch Geralt in the doorway. He can feel the man’s hot golden gaze searing across him, feels the weight of his attention as he considers what to do. He is hummingly aware of how dangerous the tall man looks, his toned body alert beneath his fatigues. Despite that, he finds that he is unafraid. He slowly leans back, sweeping his hand towards the first aid kit.

“I won’t touch you if you don’t want help. I just thought you might need this.” He feels his heart constrict a little in his chest as Geralt obviously relaxes, his uncertain expression easing. All he wants to do is stand and push him into the chair, to lavish him with gentle affection, but he gets the sense that this could cause him to shut down or worse, lash out. So he holds still, exquisitely still, allowing Geralt to come to his own conclusions.

Geralt relaxes as Jaskier leans back, offering him the first aid kit. He feels by turns ashamed and relieved, his throat tight and his cheeks burning. Flexing his good hand slowly, he pushes at the numbness that is trapping him, urging it to abate. Feeling begins to return to the tip of his tongue, his lips, slowly spreading until he finds himself able to move freely again. Clearing his throat, he walks to the empty wicker chair and sits without further comment. Rummaging through the first aid supplies, he pulls out what he needs in silence.

Jaskier watches as he bends to the task of caring for his hand. When he peels the bandage off, he leans over to the side and grabs a small wastebasket from near the tea shelf. Jaskier extends the basket to Geralt, and Geralt flicks his gaze briefly to him, nodding an acknowledgement as he tosses the bandage into the bin. Then he begins to methodically clean his wounds, face tight and wooden as he wipes them clean with cotton balls soaked in soothing antiseptic.

Jaskier inspects the wounded hand from a distance as he does so, finally able to get a clear look at it for the first time since yesterday afternoon. The skin is raw and ugly around the knuckles, pitted from the impacts with the tree. His fingers are curled thickly inward, held in place by swelling that makes his whole hand look angry and bruised. There is a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as Jaskier realizes that these are no mere abrasions that he’s looking at. Not anymore, at least; unless he’s missed his guess, Geralt’s hand looks broken.

Silence stretches as Geralt cleans, wraps, and tapes his hand. Then, he looks up and flicks his eyes to Jaskier’s for just a moment before cutting off to the side. “I need a hospital for this,” he rumbles, his deep voice cutting through the silence.

Jaskier’s thinned lips pull into a grimace of dismay and he nods, unsurprised. “There’s a hospital not far away from here. I can drive you.”

Tag List: @astouract, @smolpoe, @yes-im-the-violin-girl, @ladyknight-keladry, @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde, @your-lordsherlockholmes-posts

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ahh-fxck · 2 years

Text

Warrior’s Blues repost event part 7! In which the morning after hits like a truck, certain recollections bubble to the surface, and a job offer is made.

Chapter 7: Fire and Ice

Tags/warnings: PTSD, alcohol, smut

Beta: @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog

~Ao3 Link~

He snags the towel and rubs himself dry with it, listening to the rustles and scrapes of Jaskier in the main living space. When he is dry, he wraps the towel and around his waist, leaving the bathroom. What he sees causes him to draw up short, depression snapping suddenly into irrationally potent rage. On the floor near the foot of the bed is a box, marked “Clothing.” On top of it are the attic keys.

“Jaskier!” He barks out, his voice cutting across the house like a gunshot. “What the everloving fuck is this?”

Morning creeps into the room. Slow lazy fingers of light brush across the rumpled quilt, the clothing tangled on the floor, the soft blue, yellow, and white braided rug covering the wood floor. Daylight also reveals an antique desk underneath a window, piled high with unruly stacks of handwritten documents. There is a trashcan next to it which contains mainly crumpled paper, a few wads of which sit on the carpet forlornly nearby, having not made it in when they were unceremoniously tossed. Towards the back of the messy, quiet room is a large closet whose doors are currently closed. This is probably for the best, as there are visible lumps of fabric peeking along the very bottoms of the white folding closet doors.

In the bed two figures sleep, their naked bodies entwined. At some time during the night Jaskier had moved and was now curled loosely in the curve of Geralt’s body, spine pressed comfortably to Geralt’s ribs, waist trapping his arm. Geralt is curled softly around him with his face nestled up near the back of Jaskier’s neck, his breath stirring the fine hairs there with every exhale. The sweet scent of his skin and soft, heavy warmth of his body weigh Geralt down, making it difficult to want to waken. A warm haze enfolds him, protecting him, blunting the harsh edges inside of him. He drifts, avoiding consciousness.

Jaskier stirs some time later, as the room begins to warm and become bright and sweaty in the summer heat. He turns his head against his pillow and yawns, snuggling into the welcome feeling of bare skin at his back.

Geralt startles a little at the movement, eyes popping open, noticing that he is not in a familiar environment. As consciousness filters in he feels the heavy warmth of the other man on his arm, along his side, sees the soft brown hairs at the nape of Jaskier’s neck, watches them shiver as he breathes. His heart skips a beat and he frowns. Half frightened and half fascinated, he leans forward to brush his lips along the hairs, feeling the prickle of them. He revels guiltily in the warmth of Jaskier’s skin against his lips, his heart twisting as he takes in the soft oaky, soapy smell. The world is trickling back in faster now, and with it, bleak sensations of sorrow and fear.

“Ah, fuck,” Geralt sighs, without any real rancor. He drops his head back against the pillow and rolls onto his back, his side still pressed up against Jaskier’s skin as if he can’t quite bear to part from him.

Jaskier lifts his head sleepily. “Hmm?” he murmurs, voice thick. He lets out a yawn and stretches, then rolls over and puts his chin on Geralt’s chest, looking up at him from under his lashes. Despite the morning stubble he looks younger in the morning light, face smoothed by sleep, his fine hair unruly. He combs his fingers lightly through it as he asks, “Everything all right?”

Geralt looks down at him, terror and profound fondness twisting around inside of him as he gazes into those wide blue eyes. Hesitantly, he runs experimental fingers through the soft short hairs at the back of Jaskier’s head, down along his neck, feeling them tickle on his fingertips. As he does so he gropes for words, golden eyes searching Jaskier’s face as if he will find answers there.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he grimaces, voice low and rough with sleep. He clears his throat, shaking his head and breaking away from Jaskier’s gaze, glancing to the side to see out the window. There’s not much to be seen through the lacy curtains, just the driveway, Jaskier’s car, and a neighbor's high wooden fence. “This is what got me in trouble in the first place.” He takes his hand off of the back of Jaskier’s neck and scrubs his face with it. The other hand he keeps close to his chest. It aches fiercely, and the bandages on his knuckles need to be changed, but it is far less painful than it was the day before.

Tilting his head to the side, Jaskier studies his face. “What, being in my bed?” he inquires gently, full well knowing that’s not what Geralt meant. He gets more comfortable on Geralt, unselfconsciously splaying his hand across his lover’s chest, careful not to jostle his injured hand.

“No.” Geralt grumps, annoyed at Jaskier’s deliberate obtuseness, but obscurely enjoying the gentle touch that accompanies it. The warmth of it is intoxicating and weirdly painful, making his heart ache. He wants to bury himself in it and vanish again, but in the bright light of day it is so much harder to do that. Instead he grimaces, struggling to sit up. “Fucking around like this is what got me fired. I shouldn’t be here.” He pushes the sweet heat of Jaskier away from him even though his skin silently cries out at the loss. Jaskier reluctantly lets him, sliding off to the side and pulling the quilt in around his waist. Concerned eyes watch the big man as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed and rubs his hand across his white hair, his two day stubble, his pale face. The silence stretches, and Geralt can feel Jaskier behind him, can almost feel him choosing his next words carefully.

Normally, Jaskier wouldn’t cut right to the chase like this, but he suspects that the ex soldier is about to make a break for it. Praying his words won’t be received the wrong way, Jaskier asks, “Geralt, I hope you won’t mind me being impertinent, but… Is that really true?" He knew that the Army had a long and storied history of coming down on gay soldiers far more harshly than others; Jaskier had seen it too many times, one way or another. Not that Geralt hadn’t done anything wrong; if he had gotten caught with another man in front of a camera, he’d clearly been out of bounds. However, it wouldn’t surprise Jaskier if he had been excessively penalized for something that might have been otherwise swept under the rug.

Geralt turns to glare over his shoulder at him. “That’s none of your goddamn fucking business,” he growls, face hardening.

Jaskier spreads his hands out, putting them up in a gesture of surrender. “My mistake,” he says, but he sounds more exasperated than apologetic. “Just… you would not believe the amount of inappropriate sex stories I’ve heard at the bar. People get caught doing stupid things all the time. I just wondered…” He cuts off abruptly as Geralt growls again, a deep, unfriendly sound that makes the hair on his arms stand up just slightly.

Geralt glowers at the tousled man sitting on the bed behind him, then down at his fatigue pants on the floor. He wants to get up and walk away from this conversation, but the idea of putting on another pair of fatigues right now actively makes his heart hurt, so he hesitates. Behind him, Jaskier slowly subsides, thankfully silent for another moment.

It gives Geralt time to think, really think, which he hasn’t given himself much chance to do since being discharged. His eyes trace the folds and contours of his pants on the floor, rage, guilt, and sorrow boiling the inside of his body raw. The untold story sits on his tongue like a lead weight. And at his elbow the steady warmth of Jaskier’s body radiates, warm and reassuring. After a life of service, that warm presence is the only one left. No one else to talk to, no one else to lean on. A sudden surge of loneliness spikes through him, cutting through his anger, and he visibly deflates.

Darting his tongue across his lips, he hesitantly begins to speak. He’s surprised to find himself telling Jaskier the truth, but some part of him so badly needs to hear the words said aloud that he almost can’t stop himself. “I knew better. I… I should have never let him do. Uh. What he did. It was my own fault.” He presses his knuckles against his thick thigh and cracks them nervously. “I deserved to be fired.”

Jaskier’s face flickers as he processes this and he bites his lip, trying to feel his way across the minefield of a conversation in front of him. He scrubs his own hand across his face sleepily, wishing deep down that this could have waited until after coffee. On some level, though, he knows he brought it on himself. Closeted older men like Geralt didn’t always do well the morning after, even in the best of circumstances. And this? This definitely was not the best circumstances.

“Mm… that sounds like a very impulsive thing to do,” Jaskier muses delicately. “But was the… uh, sex, really the thing that got you fired?” He leaves this hanging in the air, trying desperately not to push Geralt too hard, not sure if he is succeeding. It is very difficult for him to see him beating himself up like this though. The sheer outrage he feels about the way the Army treats its queer servicemembers is making it very hard for him to hold his tongue or act with discretion. He flinches very slightly as Geralt snarls, but then he steadies, watching Geralt intently. He notices that Geralt begins to flick his fingers rhythmically against his thigh as he thinks, and that the motion seems to calm him.

Geralt gropes for words, feeling like the air is getting sucked out of the room as he searches. After a long silence, he speaks, his voice thick and low. “You’re trying to ask me if I was fired for...uhm. For being with who I was with. Or if I was fired for being inappropriate. Right?”

“Yes, love. That’s what I’m asking,” Jaskier replies gently, wanting more than anything to reach out and run his hands over Geralt’s shoulders and back, to soothe some of the pain away. The man’s body is humming with tension though, nasty sparks of it crackling in the air between them, so instead Jaskier sits back slightly to give him room to think. He can see Geralt’s jaw working, clearly uncomfortable to be confronted with the question so baldly. Slowly, Geralt shakes his head. He looks defeated, and Jaskier aches to see his sadness.

“I don’t know,” he admits, and he sounds bone-weary. “I wish I knew, but I don’t.” The words are heavy in his mouth, difficult to get out. In a strange way, as angry as he is, he is also grateful for a chance to talk about it. A lifetime of choking silence feels like it is giving way to something new, though he doesn’t quite understand how yet.

Jaskier sighs, nodding, then tilts his head to the side and runs his eyes over Geralt’s back again. His heart sinks as he notices for the first time that there is a massive map of thin horizontal scars criss-crossing his back, from his shoulders all the way down what is visible of his buttocks. They are faded, old. Probably from childhood. Tears spring unbidden to his eyes, and he looks up at the ceiling quickly to stop them from spilling over his cheeks.

When he regains control, he swallows a few times, then says, “You’re not bad for… wanting… who you want. The world very much wants queers to think we’re bad for loving the way we do, but there’s no… no inherent harm in being interested in other men. No more than there is being interested in women, or anyone else.”

“Tell that to my commission,” Geralt snaps, still staring at his pants.

Jaskier grimaces, clenching and unclenching his hands and trying not to let Geralt’s anger throw him. He knows it’s not personal, but he is so upset about how unjustly Geralt has been treated that it is hard for him to retain his center. Wrestling with his own discomfort, he looks for something kind to say, and settles on, “Okay… yes. I’m sorry. I just… I don’t want… I don’t think anyone should ever think they’re bad for being queer, Geralt. It’s just not… it’s not fair. It’s not fair to you, it’s not fair to anyone else.” He pauses, then adds softly, “I didn’t choose to be the way I am, did you?”

Geralt’s shoulders sink until he is hunched down, cheek held lightly against his splinted hand, all of the remaining anger draining out of him and leaving him feeling icy and frozen inside. Slowly, slowly, he shakes his head ‘no.’

The way he unconsciously pulls in after he shakes his head, like he is expecting to be hit, makes Jaskier’s stomach plunge. Unable to help himself, Jaskier reaches out to Geralt, but he twists out from under Jaskier’s hands with the speed of instinct. Jaskier leans back immediately, guessing how deeply upset the other man must be given how badly his own heart is racing. His lips thin in frustration and sadness. He pulls his hands back into his lap, eyes tracing over the scars on Geralt’s back helplessly as he thinks.

“Well… I didn’t either. And neither did Yarpen, or any of the people you worked with or served in my bar. I don’t know who told you what, Geralt, but…” Jaskier sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Look. In my house, you’re safe. No one’s here but me, and I’m not going to terrorize you. Ok? You can work out the rest later when you’re ready.” He slides his legs over the side of the bed, sitting carefully next to Geralt without touching him. Giving the other man an awkward little smile, he adds, “That is, if you don’t run away screaming. Was this all too much for you?” He gestures vaguely at the bedroom, including himself in the gesture, recalling the intimacy of the night before.

Much to Geralt and Jaskier’s mutual surprise, Geralt begins, quietly, to chuckle, a hollow painful sound. He puts his face into his hand, covering his eyes, and shakes his head. “Oh… I don’t know, Buttercup,” he groans, Jaskier smiling slightly as he hears the nickname.

“I feel like I’m going fucking crazy,” Geralt confesses. “I feel like I died and just haven’t stopped walking yet, and I’m wondering when I’m going to drop. I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me anymore.” He presses on his eyes until he can see stars, trying to process everything he’s feeling, feeling like he’s drowning in icy water instead. He sits, caught in a whirl of gnawing guilt and profoundly lonely hunger. Everything he’s ever thought he was is falling out from under him, leaving him disoriented and desperately craving safety.

Feeling powerless, Jaskier sits at his side, wishing that he knew the magic words to make it better. He’d make it all go away in a heartbeat, if only he knew how.

After a moment, Geralt heaves a deep sigh and continues, “And I know I should regret…” he pauses, groping for words. He settles lamely on, “Last night. I know I should regret you. But I… Hmm.” And he reaches out suddenly and grabs Jaskier’s hand, surprising himself. He feels like he’s tearing in two, but he craves a return to the sunny warmth of Jaskier’s touch so badly that it doesn’t matter. The heat of Jaskier’s hand in his own makes Geralt’s hungry skin sing. Jaskier startles, but not unpleasantly. Then he lightly squeezes his hand back, a crooked smile lighting his face. Geralt grimaces, guilt and shame and desire causing his cheeks to heat and his heart to freeze, but he doesn’t let go.

“Thank you, I think?” Jaskier laughs softly, and Geralt ducks his head, embarrassed. “For what it’s worth, I very much do not regret being with you, either.” He gives Geralt a frank, curious look, running his finger over Geralt’s knuckles. Geralt twitches and pulls away, but when Jaskier stops rubbing, he allows his hand to fall back into Jaskier’s. He lifts his head slightly, watching his kind lover out of the corner of his eye, his expression guarded.

Jaskier catches Geralt’s eye and smiles at him, warm as the morning sun. “Thank you for your trust, dear heart. For your body, for your… mm, everything.” His eyes flicker fondly over Geralt’s naked, scarred body beside him, and his smile widens ever so slightly. “I so very much want to do it again sometime.” He gives Geralt’s hand a little squeeze, and Geralt feels warmth race up his arm, making his heart skip and flutter despite the gnawing icy ache.

“Maybe some coffee and a shower first, though, hmm? And we’d promised we’d have a bit of a talk,” Jaskier gently releases Geralt’s hand and stands up. “You’re welcome to use my shower, love, it’s right through that door. I’ll go put towels out for you and get some coffee going.” Stepping carefully around the tangle of clothing on the floor, Jaskier snags some boxer briefs out of a dresser.

Geralt watches as he hops into them awkwardly, taking in the long muscular lines of his body as he wrestles with his undergarments, oddly charmed by his gawky movements. He twists between shame and longing as his eyes linger on Jaskier’s strong hips and firm ass, finds one part of himself craving the soft heat of his skin once more even as another quietly insists that he is broken for wanting it.

Jaskier, oblivious, slips through a door near the foot of his bed that Geralt hadn’t noticed in the dark. There’s sounds of rummaging, of running water, and then Jaskier emerges and flashes Geralt another brief smile before vanishing out the bedroom door.

Geralt watches Jaskier go, at a loss for words. His hand is still warm from Jaskier’s touch, tingling and prickling where their skin was in contact. He flexes it thoughtfully, eyes turning to the door of Jaskier’s bedroom, listening to the distant sounds of bustling coming from the kitchen. The heat of the man’s presence is like sunlight, and without him the room feels colder, empty.

He turns his head to take in the messy bedroom, finally registering all of the crumpled laundry on the floor, the paper outside the wastebasket, the lumps of fabric peeking out from under the closet door. The mess makes him feel itchy under his skin, and he glowers. He wonders silently how Jaskier lives like this, with socks scattered on the floor like leaves. His own crumpled clothing lies near his feet.

Giving it a guilty grimace, he picks it up and smooths it out, folding it and placing it on the bed in a neat pile before heading naked over to the half-open master bathroom door. After military school, much less the Army, walking bare in a stranger's room barely phases him. What does bother him, though, is his skin. It pulls where come has dried on it, and he brushes his fingers over his hip musingly as he walks. The touch conjures a little flash of memory, of Jaskier's head thrown back in the moonlight. He flinches and draws his hand back, overwhelmed.

The first thing he sees in the surprisingly clean bathroom is a white sink under a mirrored medicine cabinet. It is fitted to a blue tiled wall. The cleanliness is a welcome contrast to the chaos of the master bedroom, and Geralt finds himself relaxing slightly. Immediately next to the sink is a tall white cabinet with several small doors, dividing the sink from the tub. The tub itself is huge, both deep and long, more than large enough for even a big man like Geralt to sink into and get a good soak. Draped over the edge of it is a large light blue towel, soft and fluffy, with a hand towel, a washcloth, and a fresh unopened plastic razor sitting on top of it. At the very end of the bathroom, built between the large tub and the wall, is a shower stall enclosed in rippled glass. It is steamed over, the water inside already running.

Geralt takes all this in numbly, feeling like his insides are slowly becoming one great big block of ice. The gnawing feeling that this isn’t where he should be sets in deeper now that he is alone, feeling out of context in this cozy, welcoming bathroom. Still, he needs a shower, and a shave, and he can’t think of a better way to go about getting them. So he goes over to the towel and picks up the razor. Every step he takes across the bathroom sees him sink deeper into chilly, crushing depression, an uncomfortably familiar part of washing a lover off of his skin.

He barely sees the inside of the stall, tuning it out as he goes through the motions of cleansing himself, careful to keep his injured hand as dry as possible. He uses the little mirror hanging on the wall to clumsily shave his face. The inability to perform his usual shaving routine makes him feel so tense that his shoulders and stomach physically ache, but the idea of the stubble overtaking his face is far worse, so he fumbles his way through until he is finished. When he is done he is nicked in several places, but finally feels clean. Heaving a heavy sigh of relief, he rinses and exits the shower.

As he exits, he hears music playing in the other room, far quieter than yesterday, upbeat and cheery. “Roam, if you want to…” he hears a woman sing, “All around the world…” The song is unfamiliar, but pleasant enough. He snags the towel and rubs himself dry with it, listening to the rustles and scrapes of Jaskier in the main living space. When he is dry, he wraps the towel and around his waist, leaving the bathroom. What he sees causes him to draw up short, depression snapping suddenly into irrationally potent rage. On the floor near the foot of the bed is a box, marked “Clothing.” On top of it are the attic keys.

“Jaskier!” He barks out, his voice cutting across the house like a gunshot. “What the everloving fuck is this?” His jaw clenches as he stares at the box on the floor. He hears a muffled swear from the other room, indistinct through the music, and then Jaskier’s feet thumping rapidly across the wood floor to the bedroom door.

Jaskier opens it and gives Geralt a worried look, unsure why he’s been yelled at. “Geralt! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you, I just thought you wouldn’t want to put your dirty clothes back on…” he trails off, visibly withering under the weight of Geralt’s thousand watt glare.

“Don’t. Touch. My. Things.” Geralt grates out, standing stiffly over the box. “Did you touch anything? What did you touch?” He rounds on Jaskier, and Jaskier shrinks back, face going from worried to ‘oh shit,’ blue eyes wide and startled.

“Oh god nothing, I’m really sorry, I promise that’s the only box I touched,” he gabbles, looking a bit panicked. Seeing the tension in Geralt’s body, he brings his hands up in a gesture of unconditional surrender. “I swear, I didn’t even look,” he promises. “I just grabbed the one box and came straight downstairs, I haven’t even looked inside it. I promise I was just trying to help.”

“Don’t help me,” Geralt snaps, turning away from Jaskier. He considers the box for another moment, weighing his options. Though he is furious, rationally, there is no real harm in what Jaskier has done, providing that none of his other boxes has been touched. He settles on snarling, “Get out of here. I need to get dressed. And…” he turns back, giving Jaskier such a menacing look that Jaskier takes a step back, “If you so much as fucking touch anything else of mine without my permission, we will have a fucking problem. Got it?”

“Got it,” Jaskier gulps. “I’m really s-”

“Go!” Geralt barks. Jaskier startles and exits quickly, cursing under his breath. Geralt grumbles and kneels down, picking up the box and setting it on the bed, catching the keys as they slide and setting them back on the neatly folded pile of his fatigues. He feels obscurely guilty for the amount of rage he took out on Jaskier, but also quite justified in telling the spoony little bastard to stay away from his personal things.

Still muttering, he opens the lid to the box. As he pulls it aside he falls silent. Inside are his clothes from his first few years in the Army, undisturbed as promised. They look like they will still more or less fit him. White, crisp, short-sleeved button down shirts. Plain khaki pants. Belts. Even some rolled up dress socks that he had barely worn but felt bad about discarding.

A jet engine roared behind him as he strode confidently off of an air strip, dispersing from a column of men and heading for a steel door on the side of a tan building. Over his shoulder was thrown a duffel sack, and on his head was a neat black beret. Gold bars shone on his shoulders, showing his rank of Second Lieutenant. It was his first day on the foreign base, and he was reporting for duty.

As he approached the door, it banged open. From within the building emerged a slight woman with a mass of curly dark hair trapped in a neat braid, an exasperated-looking man at her heels. She was dressed in an impeccable black blazer and slacks with a white blouse underneath, a pass pinned to its lapel that identified her as press. And as she barged around him, snapping, “Move it, boot!” he could see that her eyes were a startling shade of violet. He stumbled back, surprised, making way for her and her companion.

The man following her was broad-shouldered and brown, with a closely shorn head of dark hair. He had an easygoing-looking face with a short beard, pockmarked cheeks, and kind eyes. He was wearing fatigues, and had the same press pass as the woman clipped to his tan shirt. Over his shoulder was slung a black bag, and over his neck hung a worn camera case. As he passed Geralt, he gave him a friendly wink.

Geralt turned, watching them head across the tarmac, feeling like he’d been hit between the eyes with a hammer. Never in his entire life had he seen a woman like that, one that made his heart race just seeing her. And in the air surrounding him was the smell of lilac and gooseberries.

He feels a lump rising in his throat as he reaches into the box, fingering the empty shoulders of his white shirt where the insignia used to be pinned. The anger is draining away, turning back into something cold and weary as he looks over the old clothing. Then he pulls the shirt out, flaps it once to unfold it, and begins putting it on. It is very slightly tight across the chest and shoulders, but still fits. He reaches next for pants, lost in memory.

As he stumbled into the darkness of the building, feeling caught off balance, a voice snapped from down the hallway, “Rivii! Is that you? Get your dumb fucking ass in here!” His stomach plunged with a sudden sensation of dread. That was an ominous way to be greeted by a commanding officer he hadn’t even met yet.

“Yes, sir!” he called down the hallway, speeding up to a neat trot and coming to a halt in front of the older man glaring in an open doorway. Snapping off a crisp salute, he said, “Second Lieutenant Rivii, reporting for duty, Sir.” The older man’s lip curled, and he grunted, stepping back into his office.

“You’re late,” he said to Geralt, who was not, in fact, late. Geralt suppressed a grimace, keeping his face carefully wooden as he watched the Captain stride across the room and sit behind a desk with an expression like a sour bulldog. “Well?” he barked.

“Sorry, sir, won’t happen again sir.” Geralt replied cautiously, not sure exactly what was expected of him. This was not how he wanted his first day on the job to look. He planted his feet and placed his hands behind his back in parade rest, eyeing the other man stoically, waiting to see what was in store. What was in store for him turned out to be the lecture of a lifetime. The Captain chewed into him like a buzzsaw, taking him pre-emptively to task for every fuck-up he was likely to make as a green officer, plus a few unlikely ones that left him quietly impressed at whoever must have come before him. He made a mental note to find out what an ibex was.

As the Captain wound down, he pulled his attention back in, hands still held behind his back, shoulders thrown stiffly back. “...And the last thing,” the Captain barked. “Is that you will be taking that bitch from the AP off my hands. She is now officially your problem, Rivii. You keep that woman so happy she’s shitting rainbows, or I will have your commission. Got it?”

The sinking feeling that Geralt had been experiencing this entire conversation turned to cold dread. That woman was… the least happy looking woman he had ever seen. Oh fuck. “Yes sir,” he replied, carefully impassive.

“Good!” Snapped the Captain, turning to the papers on his desk. “You’re dismissed. Report to the barracks.” He gave Geralt a nasty smile. “Then, you better track that press bitch down before she wreaks havoc around here. Now get the fuck out of my office!”

He pulls on his pants, also a little tight around the hips but not unbearably so. They won’t do for long, but they will be fine until he can buy some civilian clothing. Out in the main room he can hear something sizzling, and the smells of good coffee and breakfast cooking are starting to reach him. He finishes dressing, slipping on the belt and socks, before sitting back down on the bed next to the box.

“Oh, you’re here to keep me happy?” The woman’s lip curled. “Might have to kiss that shiny new commission of yours goodbye, pretty boy. I guarantee I am about to make your life a living hell.” She turned away and Geralt started to follow her awkwardly, not sure how to handle this situation. “Oh for the love of-” she snapped, turning back to face him. “If you follow me around this whole base, how am I supposed to get anything done?”

“I’m supposed to help you, ma’am.” He looked embarrassed, and the dark haired man standing behind the woman grinned, clearly enjoying his discomfort. “I uh, can’t leave you unsupervised.”

“Fuck.” She muttered. “Fine, then, follow me. I have people to interview.” And before he could protest, she snapped an itinerary out of the bag at her hip and shoved it in his face, where he could see the official Army seal and a scribbled signature. “Don’t start. Where’s the Major?”

With a sinking feeling, Geralt gestured up the hallway. The woman took to her heel immediately, the man with the big bag falling in behind her. Geralt hesitated for just a moment. “Let’s go, Skippy! We haven’t got all day! ” the woman’s voice cracked out, startling him into motion. He jogged to catch up, swearing under his breath. His upbringing had led him to expect a hard life in the service, but this? This he was not prepared for.

“Fuck my life,” he grumbled.

Slowly, he rummages through the rest of the box, checking to make sure everything is still in place. His anger has cooled considerably now he is sure that everything is in order. He relaxes slightly, sighs, and rubs his hand across his face again. The lack of stubble is an enormous relief, the sensation of his shaved skin under his palm serving to soothe him further. Placing the lid back on the box, he stands and pockets the attic keys, then grabs his shoes. He quietly slips out of the bedroom and heads for the front door without Jaskier noticing. Fumbling on his boots, he ducks out the door and into the hot summer morning air.

The wet New England summer hits him like a soggy, steaming blanket as the door closes behind him. Grimacing in disgust, Geralt heads around the side of the house. By the time he reaches the top of the stairs, he feels like his shirt is already sticking to him. He opens the door to the attic loft, feeling his stomach twist nervously, half expecting to see his things scattered all over the attic. Much to his intense relief, however, he can see that everything looks absolutely untouched. The box of letters on the bed is still closed, hasn't moved an inch. Every other item is still where he put it.

He heaves a quiet sigh of relief and drops the box of clothing next to the dresser. Then he snags his bag, fishing out his deodorant and a clean pair of underwear from its depths. As he paws through it, he sees the sheaf of letters that he keeps carefully tucked at the back, and hears the jingle of his dog tags at the bottom of the sack. He’d taken them off when he was discharged, stuffed them in his bag. Not ready to confront either of these things, he leaves them in their places and heads to the bathroom.

When he is done, he grabs his dress loafers out of their box before he heads back downstairs. He slips them on as he heads out the door. They are stiff and shiny, but they are also significantly easier to don than his boots were. His anger has faded by now to a faint buzz of frustration, barely noticeable over the background of icy depression which has resumed its grip on his body.

As he slips in the front door music washes back over him, the house filled with the pleasant sound of people singing in chorus, “If you need me, let me know. Gonna be around, if you've got no place to go, when you're feeling down…” He eases the door closed, disliking the “thump” it makes when closed normally, and toes his loafers off next to Jaskier’s unruly collection of shoes. Then he crosses the house, heading towards the kitchen and its coffee smells, towards Jaskier, who is singing and dancing in his underwear and bare feet while he watches something on the stove.

Jaskier is holding a coffee cup which he sips occasionally between snatches of song. He lifts the lid of the pan on the stove, curses as he burns himself on the steam, drops the lid and sucks his fingers, then tries again. This time he is apparently more successful, because he nods in satisfaction. The steam smells good, eggy and rich.

Geralt approaches on habitually silent feet, coming to rest at the corner of the kitchen island. He clears his throat, trying not to startle Jaskier too badly. This… utterly fails. Jaskier’s hands fly up, coffee mug dropping to the floor and shattering, hot coffee splashing all over the kitchen floor.

“Fucking Jesus! Geralt! Where the hell did you come from?!” he gasps, putting his hand over his hammering heart.

Geralt, nearly as startled as Jaskier, gives him a wide-eyed look, eyes traveling between Jaskier’s face and the shattered coffee mug on the floor. “Um,” he manages awkwardly, at a loss for words. Coffee drips from the hair on Jaskier’s legs, and his bare feet are surrounded by little ceramic shards. Embarrassed, Geralt kneels down and begins picking them up. Jaskier goes to move and Geralt makes a curt hand gesture, indicating that he should stop before he cuts himself. The look Jaskier gives Geralt is a little wild-eyed, but he complies, holding still while Geralt gathers the worst of the shattered cup up off of the floor.

“Sorry,” he rumbles apologetically. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” He stands with easy grace, moving around the other side of the kitchen island to where he saw Jaskier stow the trash can near the back door last night. “I’m quiet on my feet.”

“You are… not wrong,” Jaskier gasps, gaping at his dripping legs. “Fucking hell! How did you even get that quiet?!” He grabs the dish rag off of the stove and begins to gingerly wipe his legs off, trying not to move his bare feet and step on any of the shards. Then he shakes his head, muttering, “Sorry, stupid question, I just…”

Geralt kneels down in front of him carefully, trying to get in his line of sight before making eye contact. “Sorry,” he apologizes again, lips quirking in a little half-smile. He holds his hand out for the towel and Jaskier hands it over to him, still slightly flustered. Geralt very carefully wipes the last of the broken cup away from Jaskier’s feet.

Jaskier watches him kneeling there, broad shoulders moving beneath the white button down. Darting his tongue across his lower lip and trying to restart his brain, he stutters, “It’s ok. Um. Jesus fuck, I’m going to have to put a bell on you.” He breaks out in a flustered grin, watching as Geralt rises and goes to the bin. He shakes the towel out as best he can and sets it on the counter gingerly, then goes to wash his hand in the sink. Jaskier rakes his hair out of his eyes and looks him over.

“Are you ok? No cuts?” He turns back to the stove, returning his attention to the pan.

“I’m fine. Are your feet okay?” Geralt asks, keeping his eyes on his hands.

“Fine, thanks to you,” Jaskier hums pleasantly, cutting a frittata apart in the cast iron pan and beginning to serve it. “And… look, about your stuff-”

“Stop.” Geralt scowls. “It’s over.”

“I just wanted to ap-”

“Stop! Just don’t touch it again,” Geralt snaps, shaking his wet hand off and looking around for a towel. With a slightly wounded look on his face, Jaskier fishes one out of a drawer and hands it to him. Geralt takes it, his face falling a little when he sees the look on Jaskier’s face. His habits of speech could be anywhere from rough to downright unfriendly, especially when he was upset, but he hadn’t meant to hurt or scare him. He grimaces and dries his hand off, passes the towel silently back to Jaskier, and goes to sit down on the stool he picked the night before. Settling onto it, he fiddles with his bandage, feeling guilty and wrong-footed.

Jaskier eyes him uncertainly for a moment, looking like he’s about to say something but then biting it back. Instead, he brings him a fresh mug of coffee and a plate with a quarter of ham and green onion frittata. There’s cheddar on top, and Jaskier pushes over salt and pepper grinders so that Geralt can season it. After serving himself and getting a new mug, he settles in on his own stool and eyes Geralt warily.

Geralt avoids his eyes and digs into his breakfast, embarrassed. After the MREs he has been subjected to, the eggs are just this side of heavenly. He tries to eat this meal a little more slowly than the dinner of the night before, forcing himself to slow down and chew. There’s no rush, and although everything feels desperately unfamiliar, he also gets the sense that he is genuinely safe.

“This is really good. Thank you,” Geralt mumbles, poking a piece of egg around with his fork, still embarrassed.

Jaskier looks up over his mug and the corners of his bright eyes crinkle. He takes a long sip of his coffee, gaze softly roaming over Geralt. He seems more relaxed now, the dangerous tension mostly gone from his frame, and Jaskier finds himself slowly relaxing too. “You’re very welcome,” he responds, warming back up. “I really enjoy having the excuse to cook, I let myself get lazy being on my own. Too many frozen pizzas after the bar,” he drawls, and chuckles. “They’ll be the death of me but I love them.”

“Don’t you get home at three or four in the morning?” Geralt asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, don’t judge me!” Jaskier laughs. “Sometimes pizza and wine is the only way to wash down coming home at that ungodly hour.” He pauses and takes a sip of coffee, waving his long hands about. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my bar almost as much as I love breathing, but the schedule can be awful when the books come due.”

“What, you do them in the middle of the night?” Geralt shakes his head, forking up the last of his frittata.

“Well of course! Best time, when it’s all quiet and I don’t have any excuses to run off and avoid them,” Jaskier laughs. “There’s too many better things I could be doing during the day.”

“Hmm,” Geralt chuckles, shaking his head again in disbelief. “Sounds like a terrible plan.”

“Well, when you start running the bar, I’ll take your opinion into account,” Jaskier teases, a grin playing about the corners of his mouth. “Speaking of which… What are your plans, now that you’re back in the States?”

The smile falls off of Geralt’s face and he looks down at his mug. As he flashes on the boxes upstairs again an icy rush of guilt rolls across him like freezing water. Jaskier eyes him, then stands and takes Geralt’s plate back to the stove. He refills it with another portion of frittata and pushes it across the island to Geralt, before settling back in with his coffee to wait for his answer.

Geralt takes the plate back, grateful for something to focus on other than Jaskier’s inquisitive look, simmering with shame and disquiet. Using his fork to poke at the frittata, slowly pulling it apart, he waits for words to come. “Uh... “ he sighs deeply, shaking his head. “I don’t have any plans yet. I need to find my truck, I need to renew my US driver’s license…” he shrugs uncomfortably. “Need to get a hotel room or something. Find a job. A place. Figure myself out.” His stomach turns sharply as these words leave his mouth, feeling like they burn his lips. The future stretches out in front of him in painful relief, new and alien and empty.

Jaskier nods, rubbing his coffee mug back and forth absentmindedly on his lower lip. He takes a drink, then sets it down. “Your truck’s been towed by now, I should imagine. I have a phone book you can use. I think I even remember which tow service the city usually uses.”

Geralt grunts, nods, takes a bite of his frittata. It’s cheesy and warm, deeply comforting flavors that help anchor him to the here and now. He chews in awkward silence, studying his plate. To be perfectly honest, he has no clue how he is going to land a job with a dishonorable discharge on his record. People who would take an older veteran like himself on faith were thin on the ground, as far as he knew. He starts in surprise when Jaskier speaks again.

“You’re welcome to stay in the attic while you get your legs under you,” he tells Geralt, gesturing to the house with an open hand. “No need to waste money on a hotel. Not forever, mind you, but I should think a few days won’t hurt. My house is a little too quiet with just me in it anyway.”

Geralt lifts his head and looks at Jaskier, surprised and a little wary. “You don’t know me. Why would you do that?”

Jaskier cocks his head to the side, pondering his answer. He runs his fingers over the edge of the coffee mug, back and forth, back and forth, then puts it down and leans his elbows on the counter. “Because I can. Because it’s a nice thing to be able to do for someone.” He smiles again, tossing his hair out of his eyes. “And because I like you.”

Geralt flushes and looks away. He grabs his coffee and takes a long drink, grounding himself by rolling the hot bitter liquid across his tongue. He feels grateful, confused, even a little alarmed by the offer. And there’s nowhere safer to go, not with everything he’s lost. Besides… The idea of being near Jaskier longer feels inexplicably good, despite all of his misgivings. Warming. Groping for words, he settles on grunting into the mug, “It’s your funeral.”

Jaskier laughs at that, unphased. “It’s my pleasure, darling,” he corrects mildly. He falls silent, watching Geralt as he eats. Then he says, “You should consider getting your server’s permits, too.” He nudges Geralt lightly with his toe. “I was really impressed by how you handled the bar during rush. People who’ve been serving for years don’t stay as cool-headed as you did. How did you learn to mix drinks?”

Geralt blinks, not sure he heard Jaskier properly. “Server’s permits?” he asks dumbly.

“Server’s permits, that’s what I said! Food and drink! I can take you down to the city center to get the process rolling, it’s not far from here.” Jaskier replies. “I still need a server down at the Peg. Maybe you could try it… even just for a few weeks. Until you find something better. It’ll give you something recent on your resume, if nothing else,” he points out, then rises, asking, “More coffee?”

“Please,” replies Geralt, grateful for the opportunity to process what Jaskier just said. He holds out his cup and Jaskier refills it, then his own, with nutty, fragrant coffee. Taking another long swallow to clear his head, he reflects upon Jaskier’s offer. After a few beats of silence, he speaks again.

“I um… didn’t like most of my co-workers very much, so I spent a lot of time in bars when I wasn’t working,” Geralt reveals, flashing his canines in an unpleasant smile. “Got to know the bartenders. Finally got a mixology manual from one of them because I was asking so many questions, and I got hooked.” He shrugs one muscular shoulder, looking out Jaskier’s kitchen window at the shady, ratty yard out behind his house. “Memorized that one when I was in Israel. Next one when I was in Lebanon.” Taking another long sip of coffee, he continues. “Gave me something to focus on that wasn’t... I don’t know. Wasn’t death, I guess. And,” he pauses and shakes his head with a little shrug, "it gave me something to talk about with the bartenders. They make better conversation than most soldiers do. Better friends, too, as far as that goes."

Jaskier tips his head to the side, listening. “Sounds lonely,” he muses, rubbing his foot against his ankle and playing with his coffee mug. Geralt snorts softly into his own mug and nods.

“It was,” he agrees, watching the dark liquid swirl in his cup as he turns it. After a long silence he queries, “What makes you think I’d be a good employee? I just got fired from my last job.”

Jaskier frowns. “Why wouldn’t I? Did you have any other major interruptions in your career?”

Geralt glances up at him, surprised. “No…” he admits, eyeing him.

“And how old are you, mid-forties? No, don’t answer that, it’s not important,” Jaskier waves his hand, taking a quick sip of his coffee and then continuing. “Point is, I guarantee you I’ve never had anyone else with a job history as stable as yours working in my bar, darling. Unless I’m missing some terrible secret, I’d hazard a guess that you’d be a wonderful asset to our little crew.” He gives Geralt a friendly look. Geralt looks back at him in bewilderment. He is accustomed to many things, but being trusted so immediately and so deeply is not one of them. It’s disorienting. Much to his horror, he feels a deep blush creeping up the collar of his shirt and making a bid for his cheeks. Turning his attention back to his coffee, he tries to get his bearings. Jaskier watches him kindly, turning his mug in his hands.

“I don’t understand,” Geralt settles on saying, looking down at his plate. He feels so warm under that gaze that it makes it hard to think, much less answer a question like that clearly. Jaskier smiles gently as he replies.

“I’m trying to hire you, Geralt. Was I not being clear?” Jaskier teases lightly. To his surprise as well as Geralt’s own, Geralt cracks a smile. The white-haired man shakes his head, still staring into his coffee.

“Let me think about it?” he says finally.

“Ah, of course, darling!” Jaskier exclaims warmly. “Do you still want me to take you to get the permits? Just in case?” He forks up the last of his frittata, then stands and takes his dishes to the sink. While he waits for Geralt to answer he begins to rinse the dirty dishes and prepare them for the dishwasher. Behind him, Geralt licks coffee off of his lips and watches Jaskier move, eyes playing over the bare skin of his long back and broad, muscular shoulders.

“Sure,” he says, finally, and downs the last of his coffee. What the hell. His life has gone to fucking hell in a handbasket. While he feels too vulnerable to just say yes, the offer at least holds up some kind of hope. His future is otherwise alarmingly blank.

He shakes his head and pulls his plate close, cleaning the last of his breakfast off of it hungrily. "I'm going to get fat if you keep feeding me like this," he grumbles, standing with his dishes and rounding the island to take them to the sink.

Jaskier takes them with a sunny smile, tilting his head to catch Geralt’s golden eyes with his own. “I somehow doubt that,” he says, a little playful purr at the very edge of his voice. Geralt looks quickly up at the ceiling, not sure how to react but enjoying the feel of his warmth nearby. He gently elbows Geralt, smiling to himself as he rinses the dishes.

“The phone book is right next to the phone, darling.” He gestures to the area between his bedroom door and the kitchen, where there is a low wooden bookshelf with a phone sitting on top. “I think the towing company’s called Meehan’s.” Teetering somewhere between gratitude and embarrassment, Geralt nods his thanks and crosses to the telephone.

What follows is a frustrating and instructive hour in the vagaries of municipal administration. Jaskier was right about the usual tow company’s name, but it turns out they were not the ones contracted for the industrial neighborhood Geralt had abandoned his truck in. Grumbling, Geralt takes down a few numbers with the pad and pen next to the phone, then begins his hunt.

By the time Geralt has found his truck, he is boiling with frustration. The rest of the morning and much of the afternoon is consumed with visits to various government buildings to deal with paperwork. The evening is taken over by the ordeal of retrieving Geralt’s ancient truck, which obliges eventually to start at the tow yard. Geralt drives it all the way back to Jaskier’s home with the heater on high and the windows all the way open, a grueling trip in the thick summer evening heat.

By the time they arrive back at the house, Geralt is miserable and covered in sweat, and Jaskier is running late to get to the bar. While Geralt showers upstairs and changes into fresh clothing, Jaskier quickly reheats some dinner for Geralt. By the time he comes downstairs, Jaskier is dressed in clean clothing and is pulling his shoes on by the door. He pauses before he leaves to squeeze Geralt’s arm fondly, indicating where dinner sits on the kitchen island and letting him know that he is welcome to pour himself some wine and make himself at home. Then he flits away, leaving Geralt standing in the entryway.

Geralt watches the door close behind him, feeling a little at loose ends. He trails through the darkened house, coming to rest in the pool of light that is the kitchen. The meal is leftover chicken and potatoes from the night before, still delicious the second time around. He hunts around in the kitchen drawers for a corkscrew, helps himself to some wine, and settles in at the island to eat his meal. The house feels smaller somehow, less full of life without Jaskier in it. His depression, which he has been holding at bay for most of the day, now returns to quietly envelop him as he eats.

The bottle of wine and the food both vanish silently in the cooling emptiness of the kitchen. When he is done, Geralt carefully rinses the dishes and places them in the dishwasher, then seeks out the recycling and dumps the wine bottle into it. This done, he dithers in the kitchen. The upstairs loft and its bed beckons, but he isn’t tired, and the idea of spending time in the company of reminders of loss and failure makes him feel like he can’t breathe. He can’t ever go home, and he doesn’t want to think about that right now.

Instead he scans the house, searching for something to do that won’t leave him feeling like he is choking on cold water. The books, normally a draw, look like too much effort to read. The CD player looks a little out of his league, and after browsing Jaskier’s music collection (heavy on ABBA, light on the hand drumming Geralt prefers,) he gives up on that, too. Finally, his eyes settle on the television. There was almost always one running somewhere on base. While he’d never particularly gotten into watching it, he knew that sometimes it could be oddly soothing. Opening another bottle of wine and grabbing his glass, he brings them over and sets them on the little end table near the couch, grabs the remote, and flicks it on.

There isn’t much to watch at this time of night, and he ends up settling on some awful show he can’t follow about a kung-fu cowboy. It’s meaningless, and numbing. It’s something he can at least drink wine to while he watches it. The depression settles slowly into a gnawing background torment, and in it, he eventually finds a kind of quiet. After the show ends, he finds something else. When that ends, he eventually settles on a late night Looney Tunes rerun, which is at least familiar. He empties the wine bottle slowly as he watches, and when he is done, he disposes of it with care and washes his glass before returning to the couch.

Jaskier finds him there some hours later when he returns from the bar, the television still flickering across his sleeping face. His injured hand is cradled against his chest, and the shadows under his eyes are deep in the pale light from the screen. Tsking softly, Jaskier turns off the television and brushes his fingers carefully over Geralt’s left wrist, waking him without startling him.

“Hey,” he whispers, hair falling in his eyes as he looks down at the exhausted man on the couch. Geralt wakes as Jaskier touches him, eyes wide and lost. He looks like he is drowning in icy water, frightened and alone. As their eyes meet, Jaskier feels like a great shard of ice leaps between them, burying itself in his heart. He reaches out on instinct, gently drawing Geralt up off of the couch. He's seen dying men before, seen the look in their eyes, and his skin prickles coldly as he sees the way Geralt is looking at him. There’s no way he can leave this man alone tonight. He wasn’t intending to get this close with Geralt this quickly, but that look… it fills him with a quiet, abiding fear. Without another word, Jaskier leads him to his bedroom across the house.

Geralt follows him quietly, trailing in the wake of Jaskier's warmth like a moth seeking a flame. The wine has worn off in the intervening hours, leaving nothing to blunt the emptiness and pain he is feeling. But there in the darkness is Jaskier, all warm skin and good smell and kindness. He doesn’t really understand why he undresses next to him in the dim of his bedroom, doesn’t know why he can’t just walk away and go upstairs to sleep. But, as they slide into bed together in the thick darkness of 3 am, he knows that the heat of Jaskier’s skin on his skin brings welcome relief to the desolation inside of him. He knows that the heavy weight of Jaskier’s head on his chest is oddly peaceful, that the sound of his breath in the silence is music. Laying in the darkness, he tentatively brings his arms up around the handsome man curled along the length of his body, and is rewarded by a contented sigh. Jaskier sinks heavily against him, and before long, he is asleep. Soothed, Geralt soon follows him.

Morning comes slowly, in pieces. First, a sensation of pressure, heavy warmth holding him to the bed. Movement, the minute feeling of his rising and falling chest pressed against another breathing person. Scent, the smell of sweat and skin and linens. And as he wakes more fully, the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is Jaskier. The elfin man is lying fully on his chest, stomach resting between his thighs, quietly studying his sleeping face.

When his eyes open, Jaskier’s thoughtful expression transforms into a sleepy smile. “Good morning,” he hums affectionately, stroking his hand across Geralt’s broad chest. The warm weight of him is alien but also deeply soothing, and Geralt’s arm instinctively tightens where it has come to rest around Jaskier’s waist. Geralt can feel his heart speeding up as a tangle of longing and confusion and deeply-ingrained fear wells up in him.

Atop him, Jaskier firms his strokes across his chest, starting at the center and kneading outwards, providing deep, calming pressure. Geralt struggles with the fear while those soothing hands work. As consciousness trickles back in he realizes that, unlike most of his life, there’s no one here to discover him in bed with a male lover. No reason to be afraid, or to run. Safe.

He shivers a little as Jaskier looks up at him from under his eyelashes, feeling a spike of heat run from the crown of his head to the base of his spine, breaking up the icy grip of the fear. And when Jaskier darts his tongue over his lower lip before he leans up to catch Geralt’s mouth in a kiss, Geralt groans helplessly with pleasure. Feeling like he’s falling off of a cliff, he uses his good arm to draw Jaskier in closer. Their legs tangle and he shivers again, heartsick and dizzy with desire.

Jaskier gives a small murmur of pleasure into Geralt’s mouth and Geralt feels his mind melting, the soft little sound washing away his worries in a flood of sudden hunger. He parts his lips, instinctively inviting, and Jaskier slides his body up a little more so that he can softly tongue into Geralt’s mouth. Geralt can feel himself getting hard where his cock is trapped against Jaskier’s stomach, pressed against firm, warm skin. Jaskier purrs and shifts, releasing it so that it’s in a more comfortable position, then delicately lowers his body again. His own cock brushes against Geralt’s thigh, hardening as they kiss.

Geralt hums a delirious little groan, pulling him closer yet. Jaskier follows willingly, deepening their kiss, pressing his cock into the crease of Geralt’s hip as he shifts. Geralt takes a stuttering breath, the last of his mind vanishing as he feels velvety heat brush over his sensitive skin. He spreads his big hand across Jaskier’s lower back to keep the pleasurable sensation close, craving more of it.

Jaskier gives a soft chuckle into their kiss, experimentally rocking his cock against his lover’s sensitive skin again. He is rewarded by a soft, deep moan of startled pleasure, a sound happily captured between their hungrily moving mouths. Jaskier rocks more firmly this time, drawing another sweet moan from Geralt. They begin moving together, tentatively at first, mouths and tongues and hips seeking a rhythm. As they discover a good pace, they begin to move more confidently.

The hot sensation of Jaskier’s cock rubbing along the exquisitely sensitive crease of his hip is driving Geralt crazy. It’s all he can focus on, all he can feel, and soon he is trembling with desire. His body, unused to being able to relax into a lover’s embrace, is singing with unfamiliar tension and hunger. He finds a soft cry of disappointment escaping his lips as Jaskier lifts his hips away and draws back. It only takes him a moment to realize why, however. Jaskier breaks their kiss and winks at him, then leans over him and reaches out to fumble open the drawer in the small table right next to the bed. Inside, from what Geralt can see from his vantage point, is a stash of condoms and a blue-and-white bottle of lube.

Jaskier paws into the drawer and grabs one of the condoms, flourishing it playfully between two fingers before sitting back between Geralt’s thighs and smiling at him. Geralt gapes back at him, bewildered and so aroused he can barely feel his own face. He watches as clever fingers unwrap the condom, discarded wrapper falling to the side, watches as Jaskier reaches out and firmly grasps Geralt’s cock. A shock goes through Geralt’s body as fingers close around the base of it. He’s so sensitive that he jolts, but Jaskier is a quick study. He knows now that he has to hold firmly for it to feel good, and he does so with one hand, using the other to slide the condom skilfully down over Geralt’s aching erection.

Geralt watches this silently, a flush of pleasure creeping up his pale cheeks. When Jaskier slides back and ducks his head down, his eyes widen, his hand instinctively coming up to hold Jaskier’s shoulder. And when Jaskier’s mouth wraps around him he growls pleasurably, a deep bass sound. Jaskier moans in response, lowering his head and taking Geralt deep. Geralt gasps, his eyes fluttering shut, and he loses himself in the wet heat of Jaskier’s hungry mouth.

Taking his own weeping cock in hand, Jaskier begins to quickly stroke himself even as his mouth works its magic upon Geralt. His eyes roll back in his head as Geralt’s hand slides from his shoulder to wind in his hair, surprisingly gentle. He was expecting the big man to fist his hair firmly, but the way Geralt holds his head is soft, almost reverent. Tender, even. That gentleness sends a spike of hot arousal all the way through Jaskier’s body, and he moans deeply around Geralt’s cock.

Geralt cries out at the feeling of vibration, his hips unintentionally bucking. He gentles his hold slightly on the back of Jaskier’s head, not wanting to choke him, but his lover just moves with him, taking the thrust like he barely even noticed it. Jaskier bobs his head as his tongue works, skillfully pulling another cry from Geralt, another bucking motion of his hips. His hand comes up and wraps firmly around the base of Geralt’s erection and then he leans forward, fist pumping his own cock rapidly as he gulps Geralt deep into his mouth again.

“Ohhh, fuck,” Geralt gasps, hand spasming on the back of Jaskier’s head, feeling a hot twist deep inside of him. “Oh fuck, oh, oh,” he pants, half leaning up off the bed, his body curling into a knot of humming tension. Encouraged, Jaskier bobs his head faster, tongue swirling. With a sharp, sudden cry, Geralt comes, his whole body shaking with the force of the release.

Jaskier whines happily around his cock, moving easily with Geralt as his body twists and shakes. Jaskier’s own hand works harder, faster, his breath coming in short little pants as his tongue works Geralt’s cock all the way through his orgasm. It only takes a few more quick strokes to bring himself over the edge, too. As he comes he releases Geralt from his mouth and throws his head back, releasing a ragged cry that sends a wave of hot prickles across Geralt’s skin. His seed spills between his fingers, dripping onto the sheets in the sticky, stunned silence that follows.

Geralt drops slowly back to the bed, breathing heavily. Between his legs Jaskier lets out a breathless laugh, wiping his hand on the sheet and shaking his hair out of his eyes. Geralt rumbles out a delirious chuckle of his own, bringing his hand up to cover his face as he tries to regain his senses. Jaskier leans over to the bedside table again and pulls open the drawer, fishing out a pack of wet wipes from the depths. He wipes his hand clean, then, delicately, pulls the condom off of Geralt’s cock and knots it. Geralt twitches and shudders, reaching out to grab Jaskier’s shoulder again; Not to stop him, but because the sensation is so strong.

Jaskier smiles dopily, giving Geralt’s thick thigh a kiss before he rises to dispose of the trash. As he does so he passes a wipe to Geralt, who cleans himself gingerly as he watches Jaskier walk across the room to retrieve the wastebasket from beside his desk. He brings it back and sets it near the bed, then crawls back up, laying himself along Geralt’s side lazily.

Geralt tosses the wipe into the trash and leans back, making room for Jaskier to lay himself out along the length of his body. The warmth of all that skin pressing against his own is delicious, and he finds himself feeling greedy for more of it. He carefully rolls and tangles himself in Jaskier, pulling his lover up against him until his chin is resting on top of Jaskier’s head and his arms are draped around him, holding him close. Jaskier hums contentedly, wrapping his own arms around Geralt, and together they drift into a sleepy daze. Geralt is quietly stunned, but the heavy satisfaction he feels spreads warmly across his body, wiping away some of his fear and shame, dragging him slowly down back into sleep.

Tag List: @astouract, @smolpoe, @yes-im-the-violin-girl, @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde, @ladyknight-keladry, @your-lordsherlockholmes-posts, @thepassifloradiscord

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ahh-fxck · 2 years

Text

Warrior’s Blues repost event part 11! In which Jaskier is not the paragon of emotional grace and coping well with shit, and we meet one of his dearest friends.

Chapter 11: What Would I Do Without You?

Tags/warnings: Grief, discussion of original character’s death, alcohol, smoking

Beta: @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog

~Ao3 Link~

Something about the wide-eyed, guilty glances that he keeps shooting her makes him look sixteen again. She smirks. “I think you wanna tell me but you’re embarrassed, so how about I start making guesses?”

Going pale, Jaskier groans. “Why are you so hell-bent on pushing my buttons?” The last thing he wants is Julia making guesses about what is bothering him. She has a terrible habit of being accurate and she has a memory like an elephant.

“Because you’re not a dumbass kid anymore and you haven’t shown up drunk in years. You missed an important meeting! What the fuck, Jaskier? Don’t make me call you Julian, I swear to fucking god I’ll break out your birth name.”

“Julia…!” Jaskier protested. “I d-”

“Julian Alfred P-”

“Fine! Stop! Oh my god, you are merciless!” Jaskier cries.

On the day of Yennefer’s visit, Jaskier arrives at work on a bicycle. He’s late and on a bicycle for the same reason, which is to say, he is drunk and cannot drive his car. He is drunk because he’d been so full of mixed emotions after Yennefer left that he’d sat down to eat the rest of the fruit and whipped cream. Somewhere in there, it had seemed like a brilliant idea to pour half a bottle of bourbon after it.

It was not.

Luckily for him, the person working the bar tonight is Julia.

She is a stocky woman in her mid-forties. She has tawny skin and skeptical hazel eyes, and there’s a kind twist to her lips that she often hides. She has a tuft of cropped blue hair and wears a denim vest with a white t-shirt. Even though she is exasperated when he staggers through the door, she feeds him a sandwich and coffee while she fills him in on the meeting he missed. From there, she lets the crew in for the night.

Jaskier feels like the whole world is an itchy sweater, even after the sandwich and coffee. It’s like his brain is on fire, and he can’t quite settle into the usual friendly chatter that his job requires. He passes an irritable and lonely night out by the door. By the time it’s time to clock out most of the staff is eager to clear out from underfoot; Jaskier is a good boss, but when his good humor runs out he can be a real asshole.

The only one who doesn’t give a fuck is Julia. She knew from the second she saw him wheeling in the door that it was going to be a late night, so she lets the rest of the staff out before pouring herself a big glass of gin. Then she settles her elbows against the bar, watching Jaskier mop the dancefloor. He is flailing wildly with the mop, clearing the floor with brutal inefficiency. Internally she begins to count down the time until he knocks the bucket over. Sure enough, a moment later he does just that. She nods in satisfaction- still got it.

He throws his head back and lets out a shout of pure frustration as his poorly-contained feelings boil over at last. Julia smirks and grabs a bunch of towels, then ambles over to him and starts tossing them on the floor to soak up the mess.

As she does so she says nothing, but the look she gives him makes him feel transparent. Jaskier avoids her eyes as he tosses some towels down onto the puddle.

She gives a little harrumph, unimpressed, bending to help him clear the towels away. They right the bucket and clean the floor in silence. When they’re done, she turns to him and gives him a long look.

“So… What’s eating you?”

“Nothing,” he grumbles as he straightens up. He hauls the bucket away, fills it with water, and returns. Without making eye contact he begins to mop again.

Julia hums, crossing her arms. “Yeah, and nothing made you stink like bourbon, too. Cough it up.” She leans against a nearby wall, giving him a skeptical look. He looks at her from under the fringe of hair that has fallen over his face. Something about the wide-eyed, guilty glances that he keeps shooting her makes him look sixteen again. She smirks. “I think you wanna tell me but you’re embarrassed, so how about I start making guesses?”

“Julia…!” Jaskier protested. “I d-”

“Julian Alfred P-”

“Fine! Stop! Oh my god, you are merciless!” Jaskier cries. He stops and holds the mop for a moment, blowing his hair out of his eyes as he gathers his thoughts. He’s burning with embarrassment, but deep down it’s good to know that she cares enough to needle him. He starts pushing it across the floor again, more steadily this time. Using his muscles feels good, gives him something to focus on. “I’m sure you heard about the man who rescued Pride this year.”

“Heh, I feel like I’ve met him. Yarpen won’t shut up. Heard from him recently?” She narrows her eyes at him, sure that she’s about to hear some sort of horny idiot story.

Jaskier blushes hotly, confirming Julia’s suspicions. “Well, funny thing about that.”

“What did you do now?” Julia asks, smirking. She retreats to the bar and picks up her tumbler of gin, then lights a cigarette.

“We-e-elll…” he wavers, hot spots of color blossoming on his cheeks.

Julia gives him a long look, and he folds.

“Um, so I might have brought him back to my house after Pride.”

Julia barks a short laugh. “Color me not surprised. What’s the problem? Is he why you were wearing that birdy when you came in?”

Jaskier’s flush deepens. “I meant to take that off before his wife showed up. After that my day got all sort of… muddled.”

“You mean you got chewed out and then got drunk, right?”

“No! You know what, Julia? She yelled at me when I met her in the hospital, but when she came to my house she was…” He pauses, seeing the bewildered look on Julia’s face. “All right, let me back up and explain. He broke his hand, and I had to take him to the hospital. Two weeks later we go for his followup appointment and his wife is there waiting for him. Tracked him down all the way from fucking England! Got the third degree from her there, naturally, but the wildest part is, she showed up at my house the next day to talk. About me dating him.”

Julia laughs again, harder and longer. “What the fuck, Jaskier?”

Despite himself, Jaskier breaks into a rueful grin.“Right? Seriously though. This strictly between you and me, got it? All of it. He’s in the closet and no one else here needs to know any of this.”

“You got it. No gossip. Your secrets are my secrets.” Julia smiles crookedly, sipping at the last of her gin. She’s been keeping Jaskier’s harebrained shit to herself since he was a teen. At first, it was out of a desire to not get involved, but by now she genuinely likes the dingbat. He’s dumb but sweet, and he’s been good to her even when she didn’t deserve it. “So what’s the deal, kiddo?”

“So what it all boiled down to is that she’s not mad at me for sleeping with him, she’s mad I slept with him so fast. She’s ah… she’s okay with me seeing him again.”

Julia puts her glass down on the bartop, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Okay, that is a new one on me, I gotta admit. What’s the story there? She into watching or something?”

A surprised laugh escapes him. “No! Oh no, and thank fuck because I don’t think I’d survive. This woman… oh Julia, you should have seen her. She’s like, five foot four inches of lightning in a bottle. A total force of nature. I think she could snap me like a twig.” A wry twinkle comes into his eye as Julia’s eyebrow goes up.

Smirking, she taps some ash off of her cigarette. “Sounds like a hell of a woman.”

He snorts, cutting her an amused look. “She is, but I don’t think you’d get very far with her. She’s asexual.”

“Oh? The plot thickens.” Julia grins wolfishly, leaning her chin on her hand. He had a way of getting up to his neck in crazy situations, and it had become a spectator sport for her.

Flushing with embarrassment, a crooked grin flickers across Jaskier’s face. “Yeah, well.” He turns his glass in a full circle. “So it turns out, they uh… have a kid together. And I want you to understand how terrifying this woman was because there was no way in hell I was going to ask for more details. But. What she told me was this. They got married because of their daughter, but Geralt… her husband, the man I was sleeping with… He’s gay.”

“Oh man, you really have a way of finding them, don't you?" This is top-notch Jaskier fuckery, it really is. She’s glad she’d stayed to get the story out of him, even though she knew it meant that she’d be dragged into his shit sooner rather than later.

“I really do,” Jaskier agrees with a little groan.

“What’s her name?”

“Yennefer.”

“Hm. Nice names. Yennefer and Geralt. So she got mad at you for sleeping with him so fast, and then what?”

“And then, Julia! And then! She told me that she’d always known that he might find someone special. She looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘maybe someone like you’ and I just lost my mind. Just-!” He makes an exploding gesture out from his head with his hands with accompanying sound effects, then shakes his head and returns to mopping.

“Wow. That was not the reaction I was expecting.”

“Yeah. Yeah! No kidding! So… then she hits me with the next thing, and you’re not going to believe this.”

“Oh yeah?”

“She said he’s been free to choose his lovers, always has been, but he’s never wanted to bring one home before.”

Julia lets out a low whistle, her eyebrows going up. “So he likes you, likes you. And his wife is… okay with this?”

“I don’t think she likes me very much. But! She gave me the phone number to their hotel room. Says I should have a real talk with him before I think about dating him.” He stalks past her into the kitchen to dump out the dirty mop water.

“Just like that?” Julia laughs, leaning in the doorway.

“Threatened to bury my dead body if I didn’t treat him right, in those exact words,” he calls over his shoulder.

Shaking with mirth, she leans against the doorframe. “Oh my fucking god.”

“I know!” Jaskier cries, flinging his hands up. “This is absurd! And you know what’s even more ridiculous? I really think I could fall for him, I really do. He’s just so…” He sighs, tossing the mop and bucket in their corner and washing his hands.

“Yeah, Yarpen wouldn’t shut up about him. Six feet plus, white hair, amber eyes, stacked? Sounds very striking,” she drawls, eyebrows arching.

“No, Julia- Well, I mean, yes, but…” He walks back out to the bar, flopping onto one of the tall stools.

“But what?” she smirks, returning to the bar and tapping out her ash.

“Well, I was gonna say beautiful, but I didn’t mean it like that.” Jaskier puffs, drumming his hands on the bar top, trying to find a way to put it. “Like… ohh, I sound like a fool, but he feels like a warm hearth. I just wanna curl up next to him with a book and a cup of tea and fall asleep because I feel so good around him. Safe. And don’t you go telling me he’s a stranger-” Jaskier breaks off as Julia rolls her eyes and opens her mouth to speak. “I know that! I know, and that’s what makes it so weird, Julia. But like, good weird.”

Julia hums thoughtfully, tipping her head to the side. Jaskier has been getting more self-aware as he ages, and for once, she’s inclined to believe that he remembers this guy’s a stranger. “Have you called your therapist yet?”

“For once in my life, yes. I called her before I came in. Hopefully she’ll have gotten back to me by the time I get home.”

“Good for you. So this is why you came in here drunk off your ass this morning? This whole mess?” She pours him a shot glass of rum and passes it to him.

He takes it with a nod of thanks. “Yeah… I guess I got a little freaked out after his wife grilled me this morning, didn’t cope with it well.” Taking a sip, he frowns. “Julia, I’m in over my head. I don’t really know what to do here. He’s never had a boyfriend before.”

Letting out a low whistle between her teeth, Julia stubs out her cigarette. “Ain’t he about my age?”

“Yeah… He’s… I guess he never let himself have one, he was protecting his career. That’s what his wife said.” Jaskier worries at his lip, blue eyes wide as he shoots her a glance. His glass scrapes on the bar top.

Annoyed by the sound, Julia tosses him a coaster. Then she hums thoughtfully, swirling the dregs of gin in her glass. “That’s a long time to be lonely.”

Puffing out a long, slow breath, Jaskier nods. He draws the coaster over and sticks it under his drink with a guilty look. “Yeah.” Slumping to the bar top, he puts his chin on his hands. “She said… if I cheated on him it would crush him. She said… ‘Please don’t make things worse by being irresponsible with his very fragile heart.’” Putting his face into his arms, Jaskier gives a little groan.

Julia sucks in a breath, watching Jaskier crumple in front of her. He’d at least grasped the concept of fidelity by now, but until recently his romances hadn’t been particularly stable. Heart going out to him, she finds herself walking around to the other side of the bar to stand awkwardly by his side, her stocky frame only coming up to his shoulder where he sits on the stool. She awkwardly pats said shoulder, then gives it a squeeze. “That’s gotta feel pretty big to you. How are you doin’ with it?”

“I’m feeling massively intimidated, Julia. He’s gorgeous and I really want to date him, but I’m really afraid I’m going to be bad for him. I don’t exactly have the most amazing track record.”

Julia hums, sucking her teeth thoughtfully. She rubs a gentle circle between Jaskier’s shoulder blades, an unusually affectionate gesture. “Kiddo, you know I wouldn’t say this normally, but you’ve put a damn ton of work into yourself. I trust the man you’ve grown into, and I think you should try trusting yourself for once. See how it works out for you.”

Jaskier sighs, leaning into the touch. “I know. I worked so hard, and Rue didn’t even get to how good things got. I hope she’s proud of me.”

“She’d be proud of you all ‘round, kiddo,” she says, grief tightening her throat. Her partner Rue had passed two years ago, but the pain was still fresh and hot for both of them. Rue had been more than a friend to Jaskier, she’d been his absolute favorite person. He missed her almost as dearly as Julia herself did. “You’ve really shaped up,” she adds. “Hell, you stepped up when I needed you.” She gives Jaskier a little shake. “You might be a dumbass, but it matters that you try to get things right. It matters more that you do your best to fix it when you don’t, and you do that now. That’s all anyone can do.” Julia’s hand moves back to his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “You’re a good man, and I think she’d tell you that, too.”

Jaskier nods, swallowing hard. As her hand closes on him he realizes all of a sudden how much he misses Rue. His heart contracts with terrible grief. “Oh!” He gasps, surprised by the abruptness of the pain. Reaching back to squeeze Julia’s hand, he murmurs, “I feel really lost right now. She’d know what to do.”

A crack appears in Julia’s heart. She nods and steps closer to Jaskier, reaching around his hip and pulling him close. Jaskier leans into her and she grips him tightly with her strong arm. Her cheek presses against him and she squeezes her eyes shut, nodding. “Me too. I miss her like hell.” As she grips Jaskier, silent tears dampen his cheeks. Before long, Julia’s eyes begin to well over too. Jaskier wraps his arms around her as well, and for once she allows him to squeeze her close.

Rue had been the center of both of their lives. Julia had been in love with her since they met one hot summer on Coney Island as teenagers. They had kissed in the rain under one of the piers, and that had been it for her. By the time they’d moved in together as adults, Julia would have gone down on one knee and married her in a heartbeat.

Every summer they took a long vacation on Fire Island, where Julia would pick up part time work as a bartender. They’d met Jaskier one summer there when he was just sixteen years old. He’d been a disaster of a baby queer, but gregarious little Rue had seen something of herself in him. She had taken him under her wing, and he had thrived.

When Rue was diagnosed with ovarian cancer four years ago, it had been at a quiet time in Julia’s life. Jaskier had gotten a therapist a year before and was finally out of her hair. The bar was thriving. Rue and Julia had settled into their home just the way they’d liked it, tea settees and all. Julia remembers looking at this yellow, gold, and cream-colored doily on their tea table after they got home from Rue’s diagnosis. The little sunburst pattern had seared into her mind as she sat in shock.

The following two years had been hell on a plate. The bar came closer to folding than it ever had as both Julia and Jaskier bent themselves completely out of shape trying to get Rue the care she needed. In the end, that had meant hospice and a funeral. Jaskier had ended up having to plan it for her, and he’d stepped up to the role with a seriousness that she hadn’t thought him physically capable of. It changed something about his personality. Julia watched him go almost overnight from a happy-go-lucky kid to a closed-off and responsible adult. The only exception had happened shortly after Rue’s death.

When the fuss from the funeral had died down, Jaskier had disappeared for the better part of two weeks. Scheduled everyone in, made sure payroll was cued to go properly, and just… vanished. He’d come back with a bloody lip and fear in his eyes, and Julia had been too heartsick to ask questions. That night they’d grieved Rue together, sitting next to one another and crying their eyes out. Jaskier had fallen asleep on their dinky little couch, and she’d tucked one of Rue’s crocheted blankets over him before she went to bed.

Since then Jaskier had been eerily quiet. At least, until Pride. After that his mood had been so pleasant that it was making Julia downright nervous. She’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Now, at last, it had.

Jaskier takes a few napkins out from under the bar top, passing them to Julia. They wipe their faces in sticky silence, and afterward, Julia pulls out a smoke and hands him one too. The click of her lighter is loud in the silent bar, echoing off the far walls.

“Can you imagine what she’d say about this mess?” he asks, a soft huff of laughter escaping him as he shakes his head. His wide blue eyes turn up to take in the fairy lights over the bar, the smoke twisting among them.

“Oh! I can just imagine.” Julia chuckles damply, shaking her head. “She always said you found love in the strangest places.”

Jaskier smiles crookedly. “She’s not wrong.” Smoke drifts from the cigarette between his long fingers, swirling eddies forming as it rises.

Julia nods, then blows a slow, lazy smoke ring. “She’d say… don’t listen to your heart anymore. Don’t listen to your head. You’ve heard enough from them for now. Go find someplace quiet, where the silence can slip in through the cracks of you and fill you up. Sometimes the answer slips in alongside the silence."

The damp groan of chagrin that escapes Jaskier makes Julia smile. "That's right,” he replies, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And I would say, I hate silence, it makes me nervous."

Julia nods, amused. "And she would say-" Jaskier's voice joined Julia's and they finished together, "There's your problem right there."

With a damp chuckle, Jaskier shakes his hair out of his eyes and blinks away the last of his tears. “Oh lord, Julia. I’m glad you’re still here. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Suffer.” Julia jokes, knocking back her gin. “Suffer and die, probably.”

“Crash and burn, at the very least.” Jaskier snorts. He knocks back his glass of rum, then rises at last from the bar. He stubs out his cigarette as he rises. Then, with a soft clinking, he gathers all the glasses and takes them back to the sink to wash. A hush falls over the room, broken only by the splash of water against the metal sink.

Julia turns to watch him, leaning her elbows against the counter. Her head tips to the side as she watches Jaskier dry the dishes, then start scrubbing at the already-clean sink. He takes sanitizer and sprays it on a towel, then starts trying to evict the microscopic grit left around the base of the faucet. After a while, she stirs. “You think this guy might be it?” she asks, her eyes soft as she tips her head to look at her friend.

Jaskier looks down at the wet towel dripping in his hands. “I don’t know. I just… he’s different. I feel really different around him. I think I want to try, but I’m trying to just...” He grimaces, tossing the towel into the bin with a little too much force. “Take a minute to look before I leap.”

Julia breaks into a wry smile, hazel eyes sparkling with gentle humor. “Good for you. Does that mean I’m gonna be staying late a few more nights?”

“Could you? I could use the company.” Jaskier looks at her out of the corner of his eye, moving on to wipe the counter.

Julia scoffs, but there’s a playful note in her voice. “Fine, but you gotta cough up those kreteks you've been teasing me with. You owe me.”

“Oh! I actually have those back at my house, thank you for reminding me!" Jaskier exclaims, smacking his forehead. "I can't believe I forgot. I’ll bring them in tomorrow, I got you a whole case. They came in from Indonesia last week and I just spaced out about them what with everything else going on.”

Eyes lighting up, Julia socks Jaskier affectionately on the shoulder. “Hey! My man! That’s what I’m talking about.”

He laughs, rubbing his shoulder. “Anytime. It's the least I can do.”

She takes one last drag off of her cigarette, then turns to stub it out. “Listen. You want a ride home? It’s late.”

Jaskier wavers, then turns to look at the storeroom where his bike is. It’s a long ride home in the cold and dark, and he’s heartsick as all hell. It’s hard to turn her down. “Got room in your trunk for my bike?”

“Yep. No sweat. I’ll pull the car around front while you shut down.” Julia pats her pockets, making sure that her wallet, keys, and cigarettes are all in place.

By the time she’s parked in front, Jaskier is locking the door of the bar. They wordlessly wrestle the bike into the back of the car together, working with the ease of practice. In the car, Julia flips on the stereo and pops in a Patti Smith cassette. Patti’s smoky, dry voice floats through the car, twining through the bouncing and jangling guitar riffs of the opening song of the album. Oh, she looks so fine… I’m gonna uh-uh, make her mine…

They drive home in comfortable silence. Julia pulls up behind Jaskier’s car and parks. She eyes the white truck in the driveway silently, finishing her smoke as she considers it. Jaskier sits beside her, making no move to get out of the car. Finally, she stubs out her smoke and says, “Is that his?”

Jaskier nods. “Engine keeps overheating. He knows what’s wrong with it but I don’t have the tools for him to fix it, so it’s gonna stay there until I can get them for him. Honestly I don’t have the faintest idea what he wants, it all goes in my ear and then out the other. If he’d just let me take him to the store it would be fine but no-”

Putting her hand on the door, Julia eyes Jaskier kindly. “Kiddo, I don’t need every single detail. It’s his truck, I get it. Let’s go in.”

Jaskier puffs as he’s thrown off track. Then he smiles crookedly, face catching in a bar of orange light from the streetlamp outside. “Sorry. You go on in, I’ve got to bring the bike around back.”

Flourishing her keys, Julia nods. She ambles around the front of Jaskier’s house and unlocks his door, letting herself into the dark entryway. Flicking on the lights, she looks around. The place is uncannily clean and stinks of floor wax and furniture oil. Jaskier’s home usually looks a bit rumpled, like a bed that’s been slept in and then had the covers thrown back into place without being smoothed or tucked. Not dirty, precisely, but not clean. Lived in. This, though… she gives a low whistle under her teeth. Her friend had been understating the distress he’d been experiencing. His home didn’t get this tidy unless something really got under his skin.

She kicks her boots off and heads to the kitchen to get a pot of coffee going, then snags a pudding out of the fridge. As she’s digging around for a spoon, she hears the jingle of keys announcing Jaskier’s arrival through the back door.

He notes the pudding cup in her hand and the very corner of his mouth turns up, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he slips past her to drop his bag in his bedroom. When he returns to the kitchen he smiles at her, leaning against the fridge.

“Better?” she asks, tearing open the plastic lid.

“Better,” Jaskier agrees, eyes dancing with a teasing light. “Still like the taste of stolen pudding?”

“Tastes better if you swipe it,” Julia grins unrepentantly. She settles on the stool with her pudding. “Gonna cough up those kreteks?”

He grins. “You’ve got it. Just a minute, darling. I have to figure out where I put them.” He turns on his foot and bounds off, rummaging around until he remembers where he stuck the package. It turns out it’s still next to the front door in plain view, hidden on a shelf amongst the other oddities it’s stacked on. Jaskier’s house may be unusually clean, but it isn’t that clean. Making a triumphant noise, he grabs it and heads back towards Julia.

Pleased, Julia opens the case up in a few quick movements and takes out a carton. She flicks it open, smelling it with great satisfaction. The rich smell of clove and tobacco wafts up to her, and she sighs in contentment. “Ah, that’s the good shit. Thanks, man.”

“You’ve got it. I’ll order more tomorrow, you deserve them.”

Julia laughs. “Man, I’m earning them signing up to listen to your shit like this. Go check your message machine, I ain’t subbing in for your therapist.”

Jaskier huffs a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Fine, fine, I’ve got it.” He pours himself a cup of coffee, then ambles over to the message machine and picks up the receiver. He punches in a code and waits, then jots something down on a pad of paper next to it with a brief smile flashing across his face. He turns back to Julia, wiggling the notepad at her. “Got an appointment tomorrow before I go to work. She shoehorned me into her lunch hour.”

“Huh,” Julia grunts, amused. “Better bring that poor woman lunch, she’s a saint for taking you back like that on short notice.”

Jaskier looks chagrined. He settles himself back on a stool with his back to the refrigerator. “Yeah, you're not wrong. Best kind of saint. I thought I’d bring her Thai from that place up on Market street. You know the one with the little golden treasure bag dumpling things?”

“Man, she gets treasure bags? Do I get some?” Julia teases.

“If you come hold my hand tomorrow, you can get anything you want.”

“Mm, no dice. I’m doing enough hand-holding as it is. Speaking of which, you could still bring it to me at the bar...” she grins over her mug, eyes sparkling playfully.

Jaskier rolls his eyes and sighs. “Extortionist.”

“You love me,” she snorts.

“I do,” he breaks out into a smile, leaning against the island top with his elbows. “Thanks for running me home.”

Julia shifts in her seat and sighs, leaning forward onto her elbows and giving Jaskier a frank look. “I got you, it’s no problem. It’s not every day you get blown out of the water by something like this. You gonna be ok?”

Jaskier considers his mug with a thoughtful moue, then nods. “I think I am, Julia. I’m sorry about this morning, it won’t happen again.”

Smirking, Julia shrugs. “Just do better.”

Fluffing the hair on the back of his neck, Jaskier nods. “You got it.” He takes a thoughtful sip of his coffee, then asks, “How are you doing?” His voice is gentle as he asks the question, sensitive to the ongoing nature of her pain.

Julia shifts uneasily, squinting at her mug. “I dunno. I’m making it. Don’t wanna look for a new place yet, but I know it’s gonna be time soon.” She casts a short, hard-to-read look at Jaskier. She appreciates him asking, but she’s also not sure how much she wants to talk.

“When’s the lease up?” he asks, his eyes soft.

“Uhm…” Julia cleared her throat. “June.”

“Julia!" Jaskier gasps, exasperated. "That was over a month ago! You didn’t just sign a new one, did you? Why didn’t you talk to me first?”

“I didn’t wanna talk about it,” Julia growls, scowling.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Oh, don’t get all growly with me. You’re miserable there! Rue is all over that place, darling! I can barely turn around twice in there without bumping into something that breaks my heart, I don't know how you go and live there every day."

Julia presses her lips together, tapping her carton of kreteks between her fingers. She shrugs. "I can't imagine being anywhere else. All I have left is there."

Heart breaking a little, Jaskier sighs. He regards her kindly. "You can't hold on like that forever."

Scowling, she shrugs. That might be true, but she didn’t have to like it.

Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Jaskier looks her over for a moment. He hesitates, then says, "Why don't you just start looking? There's no harm in at least checking the paper…" he nudges her gently. "Worst that can happen is you don't fall in love with the first place you see. No harm, right?"

Julia shuffles uncomfortably, taking a big gulp of her coffee. She frowns at her cup, then looks out of the corner of her eye at Jaskier. “I can’t afford to break the lease.”

“Nonsense, you’ve got plenty of savings to cover shit like that,” Jaskier replies, still exasperated. “Besides, even if you didn’t, I’d cover you. You know that!”

“I know…” Julia grumbles, “But-”

“So what you mean is, you’re still stuck and you’re not ready to go yet.”

Julia scowls. She wants desperately to argue with him, to lash out and protect herself, but the impulse passes before the words can even form. She shrugs. “Maybe so.”

Jaskier sighs. “Julia darling, I’m convinced there’s a place in the world for you. Somewhere that will feel good and be just for you. Who knows, maybe you’ll even meet someone soon? Stranger things have happened.”

“Stranger things can eat my ass,” Julia snaps.

Unimpressed, Jaskier shrugs. “Okay.” He pops open his pudding cup and spoons up a mouthful, sucking it off of his spoon thoughtfully. “Mm. Should you ever decide to come out of that suck-ass hedge-maze of grumpiness you’ve built for yourself I’ll be here. I love you, despite all your best efforts to turn into an unmanageable troll.”

“Oh what, and you’re Prince Charming?” Julia scoffs. “Puh-lease, you little drama queen.” They both eye each other for a moment, wavering, then break out in quiet laughter. Jaskier reaches over and pats her hand, and Julia smiles crookedly. She drains the last of her mug, then sets it down with a final-sounding ‘thunk.’ “All right, mijo. I won’t keep you talking all night. Thanks for the kreteks. I hope you work everything out. Call me if you need me.”

“I will. Same goes for you, darling. My phone is always on for you, and my door is always open. I don’t care what time it is, if you need me you come. Ok?”

Julia eyes him uncertainly, then nods. She had taken him up on the offer before, showing up at odd hours eaten alive by grief and unable to be alone with it anymore. “Ok. See you tomorrow.” She punches his shoulder affectionately, then heads for the door.

“Good night, Julia. Safe drive, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

~*~

Jaskier puts himself back together during the intervening days. He attends therapy, brings Julia her takeout, and things return to normal at the bar. Sunday morning he rides his bike, but this time he’s sober, more himself. At the end of the night, he pulls Julia to the side as she sighs in exasperation.

Jaskier gives her a sheepish smile, leaning back against one of the counters. “Sorry, I’m not going to keep you long tonight.”

“Yeah? Good, my fish are starting to worry I’m seeing someone new,” Julia cracks. “What’s up?” Her eyes travel to the closet where the bike is and back to him. “Car ok?”

“What?” He looks over his shoulder in the direction she’s indicating. “Oh! No, it’s fine. I just wanted to take a long ride tonight after work, maybe catch the sunrise out south of my house.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s Geralt. I finally decided to call him. I think I’ve got my head on straight and I still wanna do it.”

Julia sucks her teeth thoughtfully. It’s sweet to see him excited, but she worries about his heart, too. He doesn’t always guard it as carefully as he should. “You sure? From what you’re telling me, it doesn’t sound like you’re lookin’ at a walk in the park. He’s married, he’s got a family halfway across the world, he’s in the closet…”

Jaskier sighs. “I know, Julia. I was there, I remember.”

Julia arches her eyebrow at him but doesn’t comment.

Jaskier chews his lip. “I know it’s probably stupid, and I know we could break each other’s hearts, but…” he ruffles his hand through his hair. “I don’t meet men like that every day. Besides. I will definitely regret it if I don’t at least see him one more time.”

Julia rolls her eyes, but a fond smile creeps across her tawny face. “I’ll give you wanting to see him again one more time, you two really should talk. Just try not to be a dumbass, ok? Go slow. You’ve gotta take care of yourself, you’re not twenty anymore.”

The look on Jaskier’s face softens thoughtfully, and he nods. “I know. I’ll try to be good.”

“Good. Where are you planning on taking him? This doesn’t sound like public conversation material.”

“Well… that’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you. I was thinking maybe the best place would be the bar.”

“What, don’t want to use your house?” Julia asks dryly.

“Nnnoo, uh…” Jaskier rubs the back of his neck, turning red.

“I get it.” Julia cuts him off with a quick gesture, smirking. “You wanna keep it on the up and up. Don’t you have somewhere else you could meet him though?”

“Mmm… I mean, there are some parks I could take him to, but that feels weird for a private conversation, you know?” Julia nods. Jaskier continues, “He’s staying with his wife at the hotel, and I feel like it would be rude to ask him to kick her out so we can talk. Most of my friends have these teeny apartments so I can’t exactly borrow space from them. The bar seemed like the best place.”

Julia hums, then nods. “I get it. Not like I have a porch I could offer you or anything.”

“Yeah. So…?”

Shrugging, Julia stuffs her keys into her pocket. “Go for it. Just don’t fuck all over the furniture or I’m gonna fire you,” she cracks.

Jaskier laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She might not be able to actually fire him, all joking aside, but Julia has a way of finding truly horrifying tasks to saddle him with. He isn’t about to try her and they both know it. He pushes off of the counter, then digs a faxed receipt out of his back pocket and unfolds it. “Kreteks are on the way, by the bye. Here’s the tracking number.”

Julia lights up, making grabby hands as Jaskier hands the receipt over. She scans it, then gives a satisfied smile and folds it up to stick in her wallet. “Great. All right, I’m gonna head outta here. Let me know how it goes, ok?”

“As if I’d leave you out of the loop,” Jaskier hums fondly. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Am I gonna lose a hand if I try to hug you?”

“Yep,” Julia says with a chuckle. She reaches over and slaps Jaskier’s shoulder companionably on her way out the door. “Good night, mijo.”

“Good night, Julia. Drive safe.” Jaskier says to her retreating back, smiling. He turns away as the kitchen door swings shut and makes one last circuit of the bar. When he gets outside he closes up; there is a satisfying click as the tumblers lock into place. It has been a good night, and tomorrow is full of possibilities.

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