Chapter Text
It may be a difficult world to live in with an extra set of giant limbs on your backs, but humanity had grown and adapted to it. Farmers kept their feathers long to provide shade from the unrelenting heat of working the fields in summer and shield them from the cold of winter. The wealthy created a whole industry around oils, perfumes, and powders to keep one's wings looking shiny and full and you could always tell a knight by their plucked bare wings, made small so they could be tucked beneath armor. Some folk's wings would hang at odd angles, never quite healed from long ago breaks while thieves and other petty criminals would be shamed by having their feathers cut off at sloppy angles. You could tell a lot about a person from their wings, and so their importance among society flourished.
Tales would be told in front of fires, about how one born with pure white feathers was promised a lucky life. If you found someone with the same wings as your own, you were soulmates. Soldiers would give their feathers to loved ones before heading off to war as it was said to be good luck and a promise of safe return. All of these were just folklore, but in a world full of monsters it helped to drive away the terror of the world outside.
It wasn’t just sweet tales spread though, as it was talk of wings that first taught Jaskier about Witchers. They say even if it’s turned away from you, you can recognize a Witcher because they haven’t got any wings. Some say it’s because they’re not really human, so they were never born with them in the first place. That if a babe is born without wings the best thing to do is leave it at the steps of a Witcher’s school and avoid the trouble of raising a monstrous child. Jaskier had never heard of a baby born without wings, but Yilme in the next village over had been born without a hand, so he supposed it could happen. Others say that when a Witcher participates in the magic used to turn them, their wings shrivel up and turn to ash, removing their emotions and last connections to humanity.
These stories would make Jaskier hug his wings close, scared they may fall off. Jaskier’s wings weren’t that impressive, but even as he grew older he was quite vain about them, as with most things in his appearance. The feathers were a warm, chestnut brown, the tips almost red in the sunlight. His mother would comb her fingers through them as he clumsily plucked out a tune on the lute he’d been gifted on his 6th year. “Her little Nightingale” she’d call him.
It is near twenty years later when Jaskier first meets a Witcher. He can’t tell from the lack of wings, but rather the yellow eyes and shitty personality. And sure, it may have been foolish to follow after a Witcher, but Jaskier was a collector and seller of stories, and this one he could just not pass up. In the end, Jaskier didn’t think about the lack of wings, not even when the two were tied up back to back with one another. At the time he could only focus on trying not to be killed by elves.
It wasn’t until three weeks later when he was singing the newly famous song he’d written about the event that Geralt’s lack of wings was brought to the forefront of his thoughts regarding the man. After he had long finished his performance and was deep into one of the steins bought for him, a man slid onto the bench across from him, bent forward and mock whispering above the sounds of the tavern.
“Is it true, what they say about Witchers?” Jaskier gave him a puzzled look.
“Which part?” he asks.
“Their wings! That they’re made of bone and magic!” Jaskier couldn’t help the snort he let out, spraying beer from his cup.
“I’m afraid I didn’t ask, but I’m sure I would have noticed if they were.” Jaskier pats the man’s hand reassuringly, before grabbing his mug and heading toward his room for the night. Bones and magic, hah! That was an interesting one. He’d have to tell Geralt if he ever saw him again.
Four months later Jaskier would run into the Witcher again. It must be some stroke of destiny as Jaskier had found himself run up a tree, a group of hungry ghouls circling its base. He had visited the battlefield because some townsfolk told him it had been brother against brother. He thought the idea would make for a lovely and terribly sad song and set out for it, seeking inspiration. What the townsfolk had failed to mention was the battle had been five days earlier, and the bloating, rotted corpses had attracted all manner of monster. His voice had started going hoarse from calling for help when he saw the monsters turn and let out horrid, wet growls. From the tree line came Geralt, silver sword glinting in the setting sun.
It was amazing, watching Geralt fight. Normally wings would flash out, acting as counterbalances, but Geralt fought close and quick, a flash of black armor and white hair, nothing more. When he pulled the sword from the last ghoul’s head he squinted up at Jaskier.
“Do you seek out trouble?” he yelled.
“Oh, yes hello, Geralt! Lovely running into you too old friend. Just happened to be um...birdwatching, yes! When these terrible creatures attacked me.”
“The only bird I see is you.” Jaskier couldn’t help the indignant shriek that he let out. Oh, so the Witcher had a sense of humor did he?
“Oh, stuff it you Great White Wank, I’m coming down.” Climbing up the tree had been much easier in his panic, and now Jaskier could only clumsily fall through the branches, wings snapping out trying to slow his descent. All it does is earn him a bunch of crooked feathers and twigs stuck between them. Jaskier tumbled onto the ground below, a heavy puff of air forced from his chest as he landed on his back. Geralt quirked his eyebrow at him, and Jaskier swore he saw the flash of a smile, just for a moment. With a gruff sigh, Geralt reached out his hand and helped Jaskier to his feet. He dusted himself off, pulling leaves from his hair. Jaskier stretched out a wing and began combing his fingers through it, trying to remove some of the detritus and push things back into place.
“Don’t suppose you could help me with this,” he asked, turning to Geralt with a look he hoped was reminiscent of a starving puppy, but the Witcher had already begun walking away.
“I’m not your mother, Jaskier. Do it yourself,” he said with a wave.
“Yes, but you are my friend!” he whined, chasing after him.
And so time went, the two ran into each other off and on, sometimes sticking together for weeks, others just enjoying a hot meal with familiar company for the night.
It is not until Jaskier is invited to perform at the Royal Betrothal Ceremony for Cintra does Jaskier actively go out of his way to find Geralt. It’s not terribly hard, he just needs to find the monsters first.
It is in a small, frozen town near the coast that Jaskier hears tell they’ve hired a Witcher to kill their lake monster. He is reunited with a filthy and tired mess of a man, and if Jaskier has learned anything from his time with Geralt, it is that he is painfully human. The offer of food, women, and wine is more than enough to win him over. He's sure he could've offered the man a stale loaf of bread and he would've followed.
Jaskier pours the bucket of steaming water over Geralt’s head, and he lets out a frustrated growl as he scrubs at his face.
“Now, now stop your boorish grunts of protest. It is one night of bodyguarding your very best friend in the whole wide world, how hard could it be?” Jaskier danced around the tub, examining the myriad of oils and salts.
“I’m not your friend, Jaskier.” Geralt ground out.
“Oh, oh really? You just let anyone bathe you?” Geralt only let out a deep rumble in response. “Yeah, yeah that’s what I thought.”
Jaskier takes one of the bottles and pours the slimy liquid into his hands. It smells of orange blossom and Jaskier hums pleasantly to himself as he begins scrubbing it into the gore that coats Geralt’s hair. He has the Witcher rinse the dingy suds from his head as Jaskier sniffs through the bottles of oil, before settling on chamomile.
“Alright, stand up. I can’t have you entering the court smelling like a wet dog.” Geralt shoots him a look but still stands, heading over to the bed. They had gotten over the awkwardness of seeing each other nude long ago, traveling for long periods in the backwoods of nowhere and a need to save funds by sharing rooms necessitated it. And yet, Jaskier could not help the blush that rose to his cheeks each time he saw the endless expanse of flesh and muscle that was Geralt of Rivia. He could appreciate a handsome man, ok. And appreciate he would.
Jaskier settled in behind him, dripping the oil down the back of Geralt’s neck, who hissed at the cold. “Oh stop. You’ve been dragged through rivers much colder than this.”
“That doesn’t mean I liked it.” the Witcher growled, his muscles and voice tense.
Jaskier hummed a melody as he worked the oil into Geralt’s back, finger’s digging into the knots of scar tissue and stress. He’d seen Geralt’s scars before, had asked their origin countless times when he was looking for a new song idea and they hadn’t fought anything more exciting than drowners in weeks. His fingers ghosted over the two, pale lines that ran down between Geralt’s shoulder blades. They were not raised and gnarled like most of Geralt’s scars but faded and almost flush with his surrounding skin.
“It’s not good when you’re quiet, bard.” Geralt murmured, voice softened by Jaskier’s hands. He hadn’t realized he’d stopped humming, too lost in thought.
“I suppose I never did ask you how you lost your wings. Of course, there are rumors.” Jaskier chuckled. “But if I’ve learned anything while traveling with you it’s that those are rarely true when it comes to Witchers. So what was it, torn off by a mighty griffin? Chewed up beyond repair from a wyvern attack and mended by a busty yet kind hedgewitch?”
“They were cut out when I was a child.” Geralt said casually.
Jaskier’s fingers stilled and his mouth was agape. “Wha..what? By who?”
“My teachers. Wings are just a liability, they get in the way and are easily injured. A Witcher has no use for such a dangerous cosmetic.” Geralt said this as if he were reading it from a textbook, Jaskier feared he may have heard it from such a place.
“It...it’s not a cosmetic, Geralt! It’s a part of you!” His fingers finally press down over the scars and he can feel where the powerful muscles knit together unnaturally beneath the skin. Geralt tenses beneath him and gives no warning when he pushes up from the bed, face stormy.
He stalks over to the side of the room, where his clothes have been laid out for him. “It’s fine, Jaskier. I was just a boy. I don’t remember life any differently.”
Jaskier stared at him incredulously. “That doesn’t make it any better!” he croaked. “I’m sorry Geralt, I can’t imagine-”
“No. You can’t. So leave off it.” The two sat in silence, the only sound was Geralt struggling to put on the fitted pants and coat.
“What color were they?” Jaskier finally speaks up, unable to stand the quiet anymore.
“I don’t remember, it was so long ago. Besides, I don’t think my down feathers were even out yet.”
“Geralt the more and more you speak the more it ruins my mood. You could’ve just said ‘Oh they were a lovely freckled brown’ or maybe black as a raven to fit your whole brooding aesthetic. I think white would look quite lovely with your hair. Instead, it has to be more on your tragic past.” Jaskier gave a dramatic show of leaping from the bed as he went to change into his own clothes, a dusty gold piece he had picked up on their way into the city.
“I think it would be a cruel fate if I had been born with white wings.” Geralt said, and Jaskier thought he could hear slight mirth in those words.
“Ah, but wouldn’t that be romantic. A mighty Witcher with wings white as snow, a man of fate and fortune, cursed to walk this world in misery after he loses them saving a fair maiden who does not return his love.” Jaskier pauses. “Actually, I should write that down that’s rather good.” The bard goes scrambling for his bag, rummaging through its contents trying to find his notebook. He pulls it out with a triumphant smile and began writing feverishly in its pages.
“That’s not what happened, Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice is teasing. At this point, he is more than familiar with Jaskier shaping a new truth out of tidbits from Geralt’s life.
“Oh, I know! Besides, Geralt, you deserve a happy story. You should hear the things they say about Witchers and their wings. This will certainly help.” he gnaws at his pencil, wondering if perhaps an Antivan Ballad scheme would be more appropriate for this piece.
“I am intimately familiar with what people say about Witchers, Jaskier. Gossip on my wings is the least of my worries.” Jaskier looks up, to see Geralt finishing the final button at his throat. He looks...well. The blue is nice, but the outfit stretches awkwardly across his wide shoulders. Like a wolf stuffed into the silly outfits Temerian nobles like to dress their little dogs in.
Jaskier cannot help the smile that spreads over his face. This man was going to be the death of him. “But, after I’m done singing your praises across this country I’m sure the gossip will earn you beds in the nicest inns with the most beautiful women.” He rises, and strides over to Geralt, before tapping him on the chest with his pencil. “And I cannot do that if some royal bastard kills me over having bedded his daughter. Or wife. Or mother. Come on now, give us a smile.”
Geralt glares down at the small space between them, before raising his eyes to stare murderously into Jaskier's.
“Right. Close enough.”