Chapter Text
Geralt could not help but feel a lingering suspicion that the events of the night before were nothing more than imaginings, and that should he ever breathe a word of them, Jaskier would laugh. Not cruelly, never to him, but laugh all the same, and ask when he had started becoming so fanciful. So, rather than let his thoughts take over and urge him into doing something stupid, he had headed out early that morning, before the sun had fully peeked over the horizon, and left Jaskier sleeping peacefully, still half wrapped in the bed sheets.
He had paused in his wandering only briefly, to collect some food from the student dining hall. Geralt let the flow of the crowd lead him about the campus, without attempting to exert any influence over where he ended up. Most of the students seemed to be heading in the same direction, towards one of the largest lecture halls in the university, and Geralt followed. In the time Geralt had been attending classes, the students had become accustomed to him, and most, if they reacted at all, only pointed him out to their friends, seemingly unbothered by his presence.
Geralt settled into a seat near the back and glanced around the room. It was at least three quarters full, with more students filing in while he watched, an unusually high level of attendance lately. Shortly after the last stragglers found their seats, the professor strode in, robes flared out behind him dramatically and caught the students’ attention. Geralt felt his stomach lurch as he realised it was Jaskier.
Jaskier’s presence at the front of the room was quite different to when he performed. During performances he almost seemed to be inviting his audience into his confidence, or appearing to share a joke, depending on what the song he was performing demanded. He held himself with the same confidence, but was far more aloof, not inviting his audience to attend him, but commanding.
Jaskier did not waste any time getting started, and launched into his lecture immediately. Geralt felt lost within the first few sentences, the intricacies of metre and verse far beyond anything he had picked up from simply listening to Jaskier compose all these years. Watching Jaskier in his element made Geralt feel all the more inadequate in comparison, and he could not imagine why the bard had put up with his lumbering presence for so long. Just as Geralt was contemplating leaving, Jaskier paused dramatically, just as effective at keeping his students spellbound as he had ever been with his audiences.
“All of this is for nothing, if you have no purpose to your writing.” Jaskier looked around the room for a moment, seeming to catch the eye of each person there, but not lingering on anyone. “You must aim to reveal a truth to your audience. That truth can be as simple as the beauty of a specific flower, or as grand as an epic romance, but it needs to be a truth, and there needs to be only one.” His arms swept out dramatically as he spoke, and the only sounds in the room was the scratching of pencils on parchment. Geralt felt as though he were frozen to the spot, reliving years of ballads and ditties that Jaskier had written. “You choose that one thing,” Jaskier continued, “and it needs to be real. If you do not believe it, you will never convince your audience. There is no obligation to be factual when you convey that truth, you’re not scientists, attempting to describe all aspects of the world the way it is. You’re using your words to draw the listener’s attention to the specific truth you are writing about.”
Jaskier went on to give examples from works from various writers, but Geralt was no longer listening. If Jaskier truly believed that, if that was truly his method for writing, then it explained why so much of what he wrote was complete fabrication. If all that mattered was that one real, true thing, then all the songs he had written about Geralt must contain a truth as Jaskier saw it. And Jaskier’s songs always portrayed Geralt in a very specific way. Suddenly Geralt was presented with decades of evidence of exactly how Jaskier felt about him, and he hardly knew what to do with the information. It was one thing for Jaskier to tell him he loved him. It was something else entirely to realise that Jaskier had been saying it for years, without Geralt noticing.
Geralt was startled out of his thoughts when the people around him began rising from their seats and filing out of the lecture hall, the lecture having ended while Geralt was lost in his thoughts. Geralt stood with them, and fought against the flow of students exiting to make his way to the front. When he arrived, Jaskier was already surrounded with students clamouring for his attention, asking for advice on the final assessment for the semester. Geralt found a place to stand somewhat away from the group and let Jaskier get on with it.
When the last student seemed satisfied with his answers he turned to leave, and Jaskier turned to collect his notes. As he turned, Jaskier noticed Geralt’s presence and flushed.
In typical Jaskier fashion, he brazened his way through whatever was causing his self consciousness. “Look at you, brooding in the corner. Do you have a review for me?”
Geralt looked at him consideringly and tipped his head, “It made me see a new truth about your work.”
Jaskier stepped closer, chests almost brushing together as they breathed. He opened his mouth to speak again, eyes flickering down to Geralt’s lips.
“Geralt of Rivia?” A man’s voice called from the back of the room. “I am Nathaniel, I have been sent by the mayor of Oxenfurt.”
Jaskier looked incredibly put out as he turned around. “Is it urgent?”
The mayor’s man looked somewhat apologetic, “It is, I’m afraid.”
Geralt sighed and asked, “What is it, and where is it?”
Nathaniel’s mouth thinned, “The north of the city. As to what it is, I couldn’t begin to hazard a guess.”
Geralt frowned. The northern part of the city was by far the most affluent and least likely to become infested by the kinds of monsters that would prompt the mayor of a place as prosperous as Oxenfurt to send for a witcher. “What do you know, then?” Geralt asked.
Nathaniel sighed, “The first body was found only a week ago, in the street, just outside the Borsodi Auction House, a large hole in her throat, but very little blood. We managed to keep that quiet, despite her family’s protests, to keep from alarming anyone.”
“To keep from alarming the very wealthy who patronise the auction house, you mean,” Jaskier interrupted, lips tight.
The man nodded, “I suppose you’re right. But it would panic the more common people as well. If someone from such a prominent family could be murdered with no witnesses, what hope would they have?"
Jaskier tipped his head in concession, “I suppose you’re right.”
The man continued, “Only two nights later, another body was found, only streets away, this time a wealthy man, again with hideous injuries, but very little blood. And only this morning we found yet another, with the same strange injuries.”
Geralt frowned, it was most likely a vampire, but he needed to know what kind. “Was there anything missing from the bodies?”
Nathaniel looked at him in surprise, “Yes, there was. The first woman was missing a very expensive jewelled necklace she had been loaned by her aunt for the evening. We had at first assumed that she had been murdered for it, and that the only anomaly was the lack of blood at the scene. But the man was missing his finely engraved pocket watch, and it is quite likely that the latest woman is missing something as well.”
Geralt nodded. “Most vampires would have little interest in such trinkets, and that, combined with the feeding method, tells me it is likely a katakan. A garkain would be far messier.”
“I don’t think I would care to see what you mean by messier.” Nathaniel looked rather nauseated. “Does this mean you will take the contract?” he asked hopefully.
Jaskier butted in, “That quite depends on the matter of payment.”
“Of course, of course. The mayor is quite prepared to pay two hundred and fifty crowns to see this beast dealt with.” Nathaniel hurried to say.
Geralt snorted, “He’s rather anxious to be rid of it, isn’t he?”
Nathaniel fidgeted nervously, “Rumours are beginning to get out already. Quite a number of businesses in the city rely on the patronage of those wealthy folks who come to patronise Borsody’s Auction House.”
Geralt nodded, “I’ll see to your vampire problem tonight, and expect full payment in the morning.”
Jaskier clutched at Geralt’s fingers, but did not say anything until after Nathaniel had already left. Once he was gone, Jaskier turned to Geralt and asked, “Are you sure you’re recovered enough for this? A katakan is not something to fight lightly.”
Geralt tugged Jaskier closer and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, “As recovered as I’ll ever be. And I can’t just let people go on being murdered if I can do something about it.”
Jaskier shook his head, “No, you never could.” He smiled wryly, “And I wouldn’t love you like I do if you could.”
***
By the time the shadows were lengthening, the narrowest alleyways already near full dark, Geralt had coated his silver sword in vampire oil and found a deeply shadowed doorway to tuck himself into and watch the comings and goings from the auction house. His day had been spent preparing and investigating, and there was nothing left to do but watch and wait.
While most of the city was winding down by the evening, this area was coming alive, more and more people coming out to mingle and show off their wealth, unknowingly luring a monster towards them. All it would take would be for one person with a particularly interesting piece for the katakan to attack again. As busy as it was, though, it was clear from the furtive looks and hurried footsteps that not all of the rich and idle were oblivious to the potential danger they were in. As far as Geralt was concerned, that only made them all the more stupid. What kind of idiot took that kind of risk for nothing more than a night out.
The streets began to clear again, only the stragglers, late for whichever party they were heading towards still in the streets, and Geralt began to think that the katakan would not strike again that night. He was readying to leave, and tell the mayor that he would have to wait another night to have his problem dealt with, when a middle aged woman hurried past by herself. She had a delicate shawl draped over her shoulders, and a magnificent bracelet around one wrist. Most telling of all, Geralt spotted a shadow near the wall, following behind her, and getting closer as she headed towards what she no doubt believed to be a shortcut to wherever she was headed.
Geralt grimaced as he swallowed a vial of Black Blood. The potion burned as he swallowed it, and would make a long fight impossible. But then, a long fight with a katakan was a fight a witcher would inevitably lose. The advantage of having his own blood become damaging to the vampire was more than enough reason to take the potion. Once he felt the effects begin, Geralt followed behind the woman as well, sticking close to the walls in the hope that the katakan would be so focused on its prey it would not notice him.
By the time he reached the alley the woman had headed into, the katakan had come out from hiding and had reached towards the oblivious woman. As the long claws snagged on the back of the woman’s delicate shawl, Geralt sent a blast of igni towards it, and the katakan yowled as it spun to face him. Geralt heard the woman’s shriek and the sound of her running from the alley and put her out of his mind. He could not afford distractions.
In the moment Geralt’s mind had been on the woman, the katakan had already attacked. Its claws across his arm and Geralt cursed. It had left deep gouges in the leather of his armour, and caught deeply into the gap between his pauldron and his rerebrace. The katakan hissed as bood, tainted by the potion, spilled on it. Geralt cursed and swung his silver sword. The katakan easily dodged it, but was forced to back up as it did. Geralt pressed what little advantage he had, and swung again. The katakan was ready that time, and ducked easily under his sword.
Geralt hurriedly backed up, attempting to stay out of range from those deadly sharp claws. The katakan followed, and lashed out again. Geralt hissed as the pain registered in his already injured arm. Before the katakan could move back again, Geralt struck out and finally landed a blow. The katakan howled in a way that was more enraged than wounded and caught him on the torso. The blow threw Geralt backwards into a wall, knocking the wind out of him.
The katakan followed closely, sure of it’s upper hand, and Geralt dodged to the right to avoid the next swing. Geralt backed up more, towards the dead end of the alley, breathing hard and making sure to keep his footing. He only needed to lure the thing a few more paces. The katakan flexed its clawed fingers, sure of its victory, and took its time taking the last step in. As it did, it was caught in the yrden sign that Geralt had laid out during the day, while the katakan was hidden away from the sun. It let out an enraged noise as it noticed the trap, but was unable to move as Geralt thrust his silver sword through its chest.
Geralt stood for a moment, panting, before lurching back up and yanking his sword back out of the corpse. His chest ached from his impact with the wall, and his arm stung fiercely from where the katakan’s claws had sliced through his armour, but all Geralt felt was triumph. He wasn’t broken, or useless, and the rush of knowing that he wasn’t any more likely than usual to die on his next hunt was almost euphoric.
***
It was almost dawn by the time Geralt had staggered back to Jaskier’s rooms, and he hurried his footsteps, to be inside before the streets filled with people. Although most of the people he encountered regularly had become used to him, it was rather unusual for anyone to take kindly to a witcher when he looked so obviously inhuman, veins highlighted black with potion use. Already he could hear people beginning to stir within their homes, and the noises were quickly becoming overwhelming on senses heightened by the hunt.
Geralt entered the rooms as quietly as he could, and began stripping off his armour. Before he had removed more than just his vambraces, Jaskier had stumbled out of the bedroom, rubbing his eyes.
Jaskier yawned and stood blinking for a moment before asking, “Will those need stitches?”
“Not sure.” Geralt grunted, and continued to strip his armour off.
Jaskier pulled Geralt’s potions bag out from under the desk it had been stashed under and rummaged through it for a moment before walking over to where Geralt was standing at the table. Wordlessly, Jaskier handed Geralt a potion bottle, and after swallowing it Geralt felt the effects of the Black Blood recede. Jaskier handed him another bottle, and Geralt gulped it down too, relaxing as he felt his wounds begin to heal more rapidly. Jaskier then began tugging at the buckles in the pieces of armour Geralt had not yet gotten to.
Once Geralt’s armour and shirt had been stripped off, Jaskier frowned at the wounds and muttered to himself, “Those cuts on your arm will have to be stitched, but the bruising on your back can be left alone. The Swallow will deal with that.”
Jaskier pushed him towards a chair, and Geralt let himself be guided. While Jaskier worked, Geralt let himself drift for a while. He let the sounds of the city waking up wash over him and trusted that Jaskier would do a better job of stitching his arm than he could on such an awkward to reach area.
Geralt finally came back to himself as Jaskier tied off the bandage he had wrapped around the wound. They had long since perfected their routine after hunts; Jaskier had learned that chatter was far too overwhelming while Geralt was still hyper aware from potions and adrenaline, and Geralt had learned not to snarl at Jaskier’s helping hands. It was a system that worked to reassure both of them, and had not changed in years. The next step in their dance was for Jaskier to find somewhere else to be, and for Geralt to find a bed to rest in. And yet, Geralt wanted to change it.
Hesitantly, not sure of his welcome, Geralt reached out and slowly wrapped his good arm around Jaskier’s waist. Despite his worst fears, Jaskier melted into the touch, and even began to run his fingers through Geralt’s hair.
After a quiet moment of that, Jaskier tugged gently at Geralt, “Come on then. Let’s get you to bed. You can sleep it off, and I can go to my morning class.”
Geralt grunted and let Jaskier lead him into the bedroom. By the time Jaskier closed the door behind him, Geralt was asleep.
***
While Geralt knew intellectually how he had ended up in front of a class, preparing to teach said class, he still wondered how he had ended up there. He hadn’t quite believed it hadn’t been a joke when the alchemy professor had asked him to lead a class, and until the moment he had been standing in front of the assembled students he had expected to be told that the prank had gone far enough. Instead, he was left flat footed with the reality that all those students were looking to him to educate them, if only for one brief lesson, when only days before he had been sitting among them.
The group of them looking at him expectantly, faces illuminated by the stained glass behind him, books open and pencils poised to begin taking notes, prompted Geralt into action, and after a moment of staring at the class, Geralt cleared his throat, “I’m here to tell you about how witcher potions are made, and how exactly they’ll kill a human, so you don’t accidentally reinvent one, or get it into your fool heads to try to adapt them for one of your patients.”
Once he had started, Geralt found that his words came more easily, and he could relax into talking about a topic he knew backwards and forwards. As had happened in the previous alchemy lesson he had been to, the students discussed the material he was presenting to them eagerly, and asked for clarification as he spoke. Within a short period of time, it began to feel more like a casual conversation between colleagues than teaching a class, and Geralt was able to settle into a flow.
At one point, a student towards the back of the class leaned forward, smearing the ink on his page as he did, and asked, “If Black Blood decreases your stamina and how many injuries you can endure, and Swallow heals you, why not just take Swallow with Black Blood every time, and avoid that side effect?”
Geralt floundered for a moment, the interactions of the potions so familiar to him as to be obvious, before he was able to answer, “Black Blood decreases the effectiveness of Swallow, and the more potions I take, the higher my toxicity levels. I can only take so many potions before they poison even me.”
The conversation swiftly moved on, but Geralt was distracted by a realisation. He had never had these sorts of conversations with Jaskier. And yet, without a word being exchanged, Jaskier had handed him White Honey to clear the Black Blood, and then Swallow. Jaskier had, in fact, been doing things like that for years, simply by watching him after his hunts. And Geralt had trusted Jaskier, and Jaskier’s knowledge of what he needed, so completely he had not felt the need to look at the potions Jaskier had handed him. All those years, and Jaskier had loved him enough to learn which potions he needed and when he needed them, and Geralt had trusted, loved, him enough that he felt no need to check, even at his most vulnerable. Wounded and with his armour stripped away, Geralt had swallowed everything Jaskier had handed him and sat still to let him stitch his wounds, and he had done that for at least a decade.
***
Geralt breathed in deeply, savouring Jaskier’s scent, sweat only slightly obscured by the perfumes he habitually wore, and tightened his arm around the bard’s waist. Light was just beginning to peek through the window, and Geralt had hours still, until Jaskier woke and inevitably began to fidget.
Jaskier drew in a deeper breath but did not roll over, just pulled Geralt’s arm more firmly towards his chest. His voice, when he spoke, was barely loud enough to disturb the quiet of the early morning peace, “You’ve heard the rumours, haven’t you?”
Geralt grunted and nodded against Jaskier’s back.
Jaskier sighed. “You’re going to go to her. Your child surprise.”
Geralt ran his fingers along Jaskier’s chest, feeling the hairs catch against his calluses and spoke into his shoulder blade, “She’ll need me.”
Jaskier huffed a humourless laugh, “What can you possibly do against the whole Nilfgaardian army?”
“I have to try.” Geralt pressed his lips together unhappily. “She’s my responsibility.”
“You and your honour.” Jaskier didn’t sound any happier than Geralt himself.
The silence lingered for a time, and Geralt enjoyed being able to listen to Jaskier’s heartbeat while also feeling it under his palm.
Unsurprisingly, Jaskier was the first to speak. “In another three days, the semester will be over, and we can leave for Cintra.”
Geralt shook his head firmly, “I won’t bring you into a warzone. With Nilfgaard’s tactics, it will be a slaughter. I’m leaving this morning.”
Jaskier dug his fingers into Geralt’s arm hard enough to leave small half moon shaped indents. “You still have some time, though?”
Geralt nodded against Jaskier’s back and grunted. He would make better time if he left before the roads became clogged with people, but he had no way of knowing when, or even if, he would see Jaskier again. He would enjoy this time, half lit by the weak early morning sun, and head towards whatever struggles Destiny had in store for him in just a while longer.
Although the future loomed in front of him, unknown and possibly terrible, he no longer felt as though he were being pulled there against his will; these months had given him the space to look at his life, and see the choices he had made and would continue to make. In the end, all he could do was hope that they would be the right ones, but for the first time in decades, he felt as though that was within his grasp.