Chapter Text
After the introductions, the Witchers make their excuses and wander off into unknown corners of the keep to handle a variety of chores that need doing. “We’ll put your guest in the room below yours,” Eskel says to Geralt as he and Lambert leave. “And the others should be nearly done airing out your rooms, too.”
Geralt clasps him on the shoulder, waving away Ciri and Yennefer as both head towards their own rooms, knowing that – though they mean well – a posse of Witchers are far more likely to stumble upon some unfortunate magical malady than actual do any sprucing up, especially with Triss not around to maintain the stasis wards.
Vesemir leads the group towards a cluster of large chairs and over-stuffed couches that circle around the fireplace in the Great Hall. Geralt sinks gratefully into one such chair and is unsurprised by bard-shaped blanket that drapes over his lap.
“Will you be staying the night?” Vesemir asks, settling into his favored chair.
The Avengers glance among themselves. “I doubt it,” the Captain says. “We plan to take Bucky back to the Tower with us once he’s arrived.”
Geralt flinches ever so slightly, the hand he’s draped over Jaskier’s knee digging into the soft fabric of his pants. Jaskier hums lightly, bringing his own hand up to cover Geralt’s.
Everything within Jaskier rails at the idea of the Avengers taking Geralt’s friend away from him, but Geralt catches his eye and shakes his head ever so slightly, so he bites his tongue and hunkers further down into Geralt’s stalwart embrace.
They sit mostly in silence for a moment, the Avengers whispering between themselves at a volume they think gives them privacy.
No such thing, in a keep full of Witchers.
“The mutagen formulas used to make the original Witchers were destroyed long ago,” Vesemir says after a moment, “I’m afraid we will be of no help to you, there.”
Clint looks up, shocked and slightly chastised.
“Witcher hearing is nothing to scoff at, lad,” the older Witcher explains. “On a good day, I could probably hear a mouse sneeze from halfway down the mountain.” He frowns, tone turned musing and dry in a way that Jaskier knows means he’s teasing. “Might could smell it fart, too.”
The Avengers, unsurprisingly, don’t know what to say to that.
Fortunately, they’re saved from doing so by Lambert swanning back into the room. “Lucky that Triss and Yennefer came along to ward the honeymoon suite,” he teases, jabbing at Geralt’s shoulder as he leans over the back of his chair.
Jaskier has enough shame within him to flush ever so slightly, but Geralt just grins wolfishly. “Lucky indeed,” he says, “not sure I could live another decade dealing with the stench from your chamberpot.”
Lambert snorts, leaning forward to ruffle Geralt’s hair. “Should be thanking whatever fed-up shmuck finally got around to inventing indoor plumbing. Came close to kissing Triss’ feet once she brought that little slice of heaven into the keep.”
Jaskier hums in full agreement. Despite appearances, Kaer Morhen was not quite the ancient monument to days gone by that it might have been had it not become home to a fussy bard and a handful of refined and resourceful sorceresses. Triss, Yennefer, Jaskier, and Ciri had all had a hand in bringing only the best bits of the evolving human world back to the keep. Between them they’d seen to the Keep’s plumbing and electricity, making sure that a solid wi-fi signal pulsed from every stone and that whatever gaming console Lambert or Aiden ferreted back to the keep continued to run smoothly.
Some rooms – mostly those frequented by Vesemir or some of the more old-fashioned witchers – were still lit by oil lamps and massive fireplaces, but even then it was a matter of taste rather than necessity. Geralt himself kept a handful of lightly scented candles scattered around his and Jaskier’s room for the days when his eyes couldn’t take another second of the sometimes-too-bright artificial lights.
With a thoughtful hum, Jaskier drapes a hand over those beautiful golden eyes and sets his mouth as close to Geralt’s ear as he can. “Alright, love?”
Geralt hums, relaxing against Jaskier’s palm.
When he looks back up, Vesemir and the Avengers are gone, but Lambert hasn’t moved from his position sprawled over Geralt’s shoulders.
“They went to the kitchen,” he says with an unrepentant, shit-eating grin, “Vesemir roped them into dinner duty, which is nice, but he left me here with you sappy idiots, which was less nice.”
Jaskier snorts.
Vesemir puts the Avengers to work chopping vegetables and kneading dough while he himself sets to work butchering the venison from last week’s hunt. Witchers can put away an ungodly amount of food, healing ones even more so, and with the addition of the Avengers and Geralt’s return, the number of mouths to feed has nearly tripled. Fortunately, the kitchens of Kaer Morhen are more than up to the task, as the keep had once been home to hundreds of Witchers and trainees who all ate like starving men. Plenty of sturdy worktables fill the room save for one wall, which features nearly half a dozen cooking fires and stoves – which look comically rustic next to the extravagant expresso machine and various appliances scattered around the room.
As Vesemir works, he purposefully tunes out the conversations happening around him, and focuses on the Captain. He’s heard a lot about the man, though he’s not eager to trust second-hand information over his own impressions, even if Abraham Erskine had been a friend.
Vesemir frowns, looking away from the Captain and down at his own hands. Abraham’s death had hit him hard, not so much because he hadn’t seen it coming – war was hell, in so many ways – but because he’d felt somewhat responsible. Vesemir had warned him many times that dabbling in Witcher mutations was dangerous, but Abraham had been so earnest in his desire to use the knowledge to help heal people that Vesemir could do nothing but do his best to guide him.
And then, of course, the war began. And suddenly Erskine’s noble goal had become a bastardized attempt to create a new generation of Witchers.
Vesemir huffs, looking up to meet the Captain’s eye, and amends his previous thought. Not so much an attempt as a reality.
The Captain’s face opens in question, brows lifting as his kneading slows.
“You’re gonna make crackers if you keep that up,” Vesemir says, gesturing to the nearly over-worked dough. “Put it in that bowl there to proof.”
The Captain does so, looking vaguely bereft now that there’s nothing to do with his hands.
Vesemir snorts and starts him on another batch. They both work in silence, only looking up when there’s a squawk from the other Avengers and laughing as the one named Clint attempts to remove a spiral of potato peel from the back of his shirt.
He’s almost surprised that none of the pups have wandered through the kitchen looking for scraps or handouts before dinner, but then again perhaps not.
“Is that really necessary,” Jaskier asks later on at dinner, once dishes have been served and the Captain has once again made his intentions clear. There’s enough empty spots at the table that no extra chairs are needed to seat the Avengers, but it’s obvious that their guests are somewhat put out by being outnumbered – even if Jaskier and Ciri aren’t quite as intimidating as the Witchers or Yennefer.
“If he wanted to go to the Tower,” Jaskier continues, flicking his gaze from Geralt’s stoic frown beside him to the Captain’s stalwart gaze a few seats down, “he would have. Instead, he’s coming here because he knows – or, at least, hopes – he’ll be safe. Shouldn’t we respect his wishes?”
“HYDRA messed with his mind,” Natasha says, subtly eyeing the way Aiden absently twirls his fang-sharp dinner knife between his fingers. “He’s not lucid enough to make that kind of decision. Probably came here because it was the only place he could think of to be safe, doesn’t mean it’s the only place he will be safe.”
Jaskier hums, conceding the point. “What if, even then, he still prefers to stay here?”
“He can’t,” the Captain insists, drawing a myriad of reactions from the Witchers seated nearest to him. “If there’s any chance of getting Bucky back, he needs to come to the Tower where we can work with him. Last I saw him, he didn’t really recognize me, but he was starting to! I’m sure with just some more time, we can bring him back.”
Jaskier frowns, sinking against Geralt’s side as one hand comes up behind Geralt’s back to fiddle with the loose strands of his hair. It’s more of a self-soothing action than anything else. “What do you mean, bring him back?” Jaskier asks softly. “He’s here. He’s coming up the mountain right now.”
The Captain frowns, going off on a tirade that makes the Avengers frown and nod, though Anthony’s support looks cursory at best and none are so vehement as the Captain himself. Jaskier listens to the story of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes and how they became what they are now. The hand in Geralt’s hair continues to stroke through silky strands, twitching every now and then as the scent of his concern perfumes the air.
Geralt turns his face into Jaskier’s neck and just breathes.
Around them Jaskier can feel the Witchers turning this story over in their mind, weighing the truths of it against their own experiences. It’s an enchanting tale, for certain, but not one that they’re unfamiliar with. Mutation and enhancement are a Witcher’s bread and butter, and for a long time, losing a close comrade was simply par for the course.
At the end of it, Jaskier hums. It’s a contemplative sound of disagreement that has Geralt’s ears perking even more than the suddenly-still hand on the back of his neck. “I disagree,” Jaskier says, as if to drive the point home.
“The man that walks up the path to Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier says slowly into the silence that has descended upon the room, “is just as much a man as the one that went to war with you. Yes, he is different to what you know. Yes, he is in need of help to recover from the wrongs that were done to him. But he is still James Buchanan Barnes, still Bucky if he still chooses to be called that.
“The Bucky that you know is likely gone, but this doesn’t have to be a bad thing. He has grown while you were not there to see it, and this is a tragedy, but this does not mean the change and the growth is something that should be unwritten. Show me a man that has not changed from who he was as a boy,” Jaskier winks at Tony, “and I’ll say that he’s no man at all.”
The Captain frowns. “But what he is now, it’s what HYDRA made him. He didn’t… choose it.”
“We rarely choose the changes that affect us most,” Jaskier says. “Witchers know this best of all.”
“Bucky isn’t a Witcher.”
Jaskier, Vesemir, and Geralt all snort. The Witchers gathered around the table make stifled noises of amusement.
Tony leans forward, up on his elbows like he's back in an MIT lecture hall, interest peaked. “What makes a Witcher?”
Jaskier cackles as Vesemir huffs. “God, don’t get him started,” the older man says. “Entire centuries I’ve spent debating that question with this fool and we’ve still yet to reach a decision.”
“It’s because you just don’t have the same perspective I do, my dear,” Jaskier responds. “A Witcher’s view of a Witcher and a Bard’s view will always disagree. But to answer your question succinctly–”
“Please,” Geralt mutters.
Jaskier whacks him on the shoulder. “To answer your question succinctly,” he repeats, “a Witcher is just a man. Or, I suppose, in some cases, a woman. The folly of most is in describing Witchers as what they do rather than what they are.”
“What, then, is a poet without a verse or a bard without a song?” Vesemir counters, though his resigned tone suggests that he knows what answer he will receive and still doesn’t quite agree with it.
Jaskier decides to save them the trouble of a well-worn debate and turns to the Avengers. “Anthony,” he says, “what are you?”
Tony takes a moment to think it through, exactly as he would have so many years ago, before smiling and saying, “genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.”
Jaskier laughs. “Very good,” he says, “but a billionaire is not what you are so much as what you have, in the same way that philanthropist and playboy are, again, what you’ve done. I’ll grant that genius is perhaps the best of those at defining what you are, but no man is simply one thing.”
Jaskier turns towards the other Avengers, leaving Anthony to think on the matter. “Captain,” he says brightly, “what are you?”
The Captain frowns. “I’m…” he trails off, seeming to discard a number of responses before he finally says, “displaced.” The Witchers make interested, encouraging noises, but know better than to interrupt a philosophizing bard.
“An interesting choice,” Jaskier hums, resisting the urge to stand and pace as he parses through the subtext of the statement. “Displaced, rather than misplaced, implies a sort of… irreparable shift, doesn’t it?” Jaskier nods to himself. “The only problem is that a displacement, while permanent in theory, is also rather relative and conditional, depending on how one chooses to look at it. The solution to displacement, therefore, is to redefine what this place is until you’re in the right one. It’s all about outlook.”
The Captain’s face pinches in on itself, and a guffawing laugh echoes throughout the room as Lambert returns to the room carrying a frighteningly large keg of who knows what. “Melitele’s tits, Professor Pankratz,” he says, setting it down at the end of the table. “I knew that degree in fucking philosophy would come back to bite us all in the ass.”
Jaskier laughs merrily, unfazed by the crass words. “Tell us, then, oh wise Witcher, what are you?”
“An unrepentant asshole,” Lambert says easily, “but you knew that.”
“Aye,” Jaskier agrees with a laugh, “it’s rather hard to miss.”
Lambert agrees heartily, leaving once more to hunt down a spout for the keg, fingers ducking in to ruffle and tug on Geralt’s hair as he passes.
“You were saying about Barnes, though,” Natasha says, face and tone tight with what Jaskier recognizes as a stoic attempt to hide irritation.
Jaskier hums, pulling his attention away from batting at Lambert’s hands. “Yes, I was, wasn’t I,” he muses, “well, with Barnes, its less about what makes a Witcher and what makes a… well, what makes James Buchanan Barnes and giving him a safe opportunity to figure that out. He’s spent nearly a century with HYDRA in his ear telling him exactly what he is and what he does and what he’s worth. Now he has none of that. He has to figure it out on his own.”
“And he can figure it out just as well in the Tower,” Steve insists, sounding tired. Jaskier doesn’t blame him.
Jaskier nods, “he might could, yes,” he agrees. “But who would be there to help him? I daresay no one in the world knows his plight quite like the Witchers of Kaer Morhen, who have long had to redefine their own identity to fit the changing times over and over again. You said it yourself, Captain. You’ve been in this time for nearly five years now and you still consider yourself displaced. Are you sure you’re fit to guide him the way he needs?”
“This has nothing to do with me!” Steve shouts, rising to his feet.
Jaskier purposefully relaxes further as he feels the assembled Witchers tense, keeping his hand in Geralt’s hair lax and languid. “It has everything to do with you, Captain,” he says. “Sergeant Barnes will need guidance, reassurance, and a steady foundation to lean on when he feels weakest. Can you truly say in good conscience that you can be that for him, when you have so adamantly resisted change within yourself?”
The fireplace burns ever so slightly brighter, and Geralt’s hand on Jaskier’s knee tenses once more as the bard’s voice deepens just enough for a Witcher’s keen ears to take notice of the change.
“I respect your adamance,” Jaskier says, “and understand your fear of losing what you were. You are, in your own way, keeping the flame of your previous life and all the people who loved and were loved by you. I respect that. But a flame must be fed, must always grow, or shrink, or spread. It cannot be frozen in time.
“To do so,” Jaskier says sadly, “is to smother it.”
The fire flickers and lowers, casting the hall in dim light as Jaskier’s words circle throughout the room.
The silence is broken, unexpectedly, by Geralt, whose voice hums along the floor and banks the fire back to its previous height. “Little Bear was nothing but a weapon to HYDRA,” he says, somber, every eye in the room on him, but his own gaze is distant and flickering. “When they did not need him, they put him on a shelf and left him to gather dust. They told him he was not human, treated him like he was not human, and so he began to believe it.”
Geralt looks down the table at his brothers, over towards Vesemir. “We Witchers know what this is like, to be treated as inhuman so often you start to believe it.” He smiles at Jaskier. “It is… hard… to unlearn.”
Golden eyes flicker towards the Avengers, passing over them calmly but with such weight that Tony feels his chest tighten when he meets those slitted pupils and glowing eyes. “They called him the Soldier, and I have no doubt that if Jaskier asked ‘what are you’, he would say ‘the soldier’.”
Geralt’s eyes finally land on Steve, boring into his eyes with the weight of decades, centuries of grief and strife and struggle. “What, then, is a soldier to do without a war?”
The Captain swallows.
Geralt nods.
“If you cannot answer that question for yourself, then how can you hope to help him find his answer?”
There is silence, and then, “What is a soldier,” Natasha asks softly, “without a war?”
Geralt nods to Jaskier who says, “anything they want to be.”
There is a moment of silence and then, with a rueful smile Geralt says, “Truly, the most terrifying thing of all.”