Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Geralt makes Jaskier feel things, okay.

It’s like every time Geralt smiles, the sun shines a little brighter for it, and well, there’s no arguing with the sun, is there? Obviously it’s fate. Or it would be, if Geralt believed in fate and even liked Jaskier in that way.

Oh, well. Jaskier can live with following this man to the ends of the earth either way.

They’ve been travelling together for two weeks straight and Geralt keeps giving Jaskier these- looks, that are weird and frowny and calculating and he’s not too sure what to make of them. Except that they make his tummy buzz with anxiety and concern because obviously, something is off.

“Geralt, is there something on my face? Or are my incredibly good looks distracting for you?” Jaskier asks, far more confident than he feels, even as a drop of rain hits his cheek. Great, just what he needs. Geralt’s eyes seem to narrow on the raindrop though, and he glances up at the sky and then back at Jaskier.

“Hmm.”

“I don’t think I like your tone, mister.” Jaskier scowls, crossing his arms as he walks alongside Roach, doing a weird skip-hop-run a few feet to catch up.

Geralt snorts, the corners of his lips upturned, and if that isn’t just the most unfair thing he could do. Jaskier is weak for those little smiles, the ones that Geralt can’t help. They’re different than his other ones. The amusement that dances in his eyes with them, the way his body relaxes just a touch. If asked, Jaskier could probably catalogue every one of Geralt’s smiles.

“Looks like the rain changed its mind.” Geralt murmurs a moment later, squinting up at the suddenly blinding sun. Then, he looks back at Jaskier with a raised eyebrow. Oh, alright, so now it’s Jaskier’s fault that it’s not raining?

“I can’t control the weather, Geralt.” Jaskier rolls his eyes, and strangely, Geralt’s brow furrows and he looks away. How very odd.

“We should stop here for the night.” Jaskier blinks and looks around them, at the vast empty space.

“Here? Geralt, anything could-“

“Shut up, Jaskier.”

...

There’s a storm brewing when Jaskier gets dumped on the mountain.

He has to walk down the damn hill in the pouring rain, clothes soaked through and bones aching in the cold and yet he can’t bring himself to care because his heart hurts too much. The clap of thunder, the clash of lightning, should probably make him seek cover.

He just keeps walking though, until a dripping wet hand clasps his shoulder and jerks him backwards and he slips in mud, lands on his back and this is just a pathetic way to die, really.

“Jaskier.”

Oh. Oh, no.

He blinks up, trying to see through the blur of the savage rain, and yes, that is definitely silver hair. Gods damn it.

“I am trying as you so kindly asked, to take myself off your hands.” Jaskier hisses as he glares up at the figure leaning over his prone figure. He is definitely, absolutely covered in mud from head to toe. He makes no effort to get up, difficult as it would be with Geralt looming as he is.

Geralt makes a sound that sounds equal parts frustration and apologetic somehow, and if Geralt wasn’t acting as Jaskier’s cover from the storm he wouldn’t be able to see his face, but there’s something going on there.

“I...don’t want you to do that. I was angry.”

“Oh? You were angry, were you?” Jaskier snaps, pushing himself up on his elbows and ignoring the horrifying squish of mud and moss beneath his forearms and between his fingers. He’s slightly tempted to flick the mud at Geralt’s face, close as it is, but he thinks that might make him come off as immature. And he’s very mature, thank you. “I couldn’t tell that at all, Geralt! Thank Melitele you told me, as I am utterly dense and incredibly stupid.”

Geralt flinches, looks away, and ugh, his hair is dripping wet and framing his face in a way that should be unattractive but isn’t. Fuck’s sake.

“I didn’t mean it, Jaskier.”

“Oho! I think you did mean it, actually!” Jaskier shouts over the rain, wondering how in the world it has managed to get even heavier, practically beating down on Geralt’s back, and Jaskier will only admit to being a little tiny bit grateful for the protection Geralt’s body allows. “You’ve never even said I’m your friend, Geralt!”

Geralt’s face twists in a grimace, “Of course you’re my friend.”

Jaskier stares. “What do you mean of course?! You deny it every chance you can!”

“Yes, but. Hm.” Geralt looks away and purses his lips before looking back. “You’re my friend. I’m sorry.”

Is it just Jaskier, or is the storm calming?

Geralt seems to notice too, his shoulders slumping in relief as he reaches down to help Jaskier to his feet, the rain nothing but a gentle drizzle now.

Jaskier watches the Witcher for a long time before biting his lip and nodding. “Okay. I...I’m still mad at you.”

“I know,” Geralt says, amused, gesturing around them as if their surroundings had anything to do with Jaskier’s personal feelings.

“Good.” Jaskier grumbles, even as he falls into step beside the Witcher to make the rest of the journey down the hill.

...

Princess Cirilla is an absolute delight. Jaskier decides very swiftly that he will love her like a father forever, within around five minutes of meeting her, because she is simply wonderful.

Geralt and Ciri run into him in a tavern, and he’s mid song when he spots a familiar head and he’s already grinning through his lyrics when he notices the shorter, feminine figure following along behind his witcher, and he can barely contain his exuberance as he bounds over to them after his last song, overjoyed to see Geralt has safely found his child surprise.

“Well, hell-o,” Jaskier chimes, as he slides onto the bench on Geralt’s side of the table, pushing himself right up against Geralt’s side just because he can, and the poor princess looks the slightest bit startled, before glancing between he and Geralt and allowing a tentative smile in return. “Been a while, Geralt.” Jaskier nudges the man’s shoulder, and despite the grunt he gets in response, Geralt is definitely attempting to contain his own smile. Jaskier can tell these things.

“You’re Jaskier, aren’t you?” Cirilla asks expectantly, and Jaskier bounces in his seat, ignoring his own racing heart.

“Ah! So he does talk about me, then? Constantly, I suppose? Does he wax poetic about me?”

Cirilla giggles and it’s a lovely sound that even has Geralt looking cheerful, despite Jaskier’s taunting accusations. “Oh, yes.”

“I thought so. Can’t blame the man, of course, I am quite fantastic. Aren’t i?” Jaskier elbows Geralt and the Witcher glares at him. “That means yes.” He whispers to Cirilla conspiratorially. She nods, a wild sort of amusement dancing across her features and Jaskier adores her.

It’s later on, when they’re stepping out of the Tavern doors together, when Geralt looks around and then looks at Jaskier in that funny way again. It’s nice out, warm with a light breeze, the perfect weather.

Cirilla scrunches her nose. “How does the wind smell nice?”

Jaskier sniffs, and if he’s honest, she’s right. It smells sweet and somehow comforting. Maybe someone is mixing scents nearby.

...

Jaskier only planned on being away for a minute, really, but honestly, there was a crying child all alone, was he really supposed to ignore that?

He breaks off from the other two just to get to the bottom of it, following the sound until he sees a little boy weeping in a side street and the poor thing looks a mess, no older than seven or eight, wailing and snotting away.

“Hey there,” Jaskier lowers himself to his knees in front of the boy, hoping to bring some trust with a level ground, and he’s happy to see the boy lower his hands and pause in his noises to investigate the stranger talking to him. “I’m Jaskier. What’s your name?”

The boy looks so confused for a moment, before he must decide that Jaskier isn’t a crazy person, and answers with a sniffle. “Julian.”

Jaskier blinks. Huh. Well, alright then. “I used to know a Julian.” He muses, and does not laugh at his own joke at all.

“I’ve never met a Jaskier before.” The boy says, chin still trembling. Jaskier grins at him.

“Me neither. Well, except for myself, in the mirror.” The boy cracks the tiniest of smiles.

“That doesn’t count!”

“Oh, it doesn’t? What a shame. Now, I couldn’t help but notice you were upset, can I help?”

The smile drops instantly and the boy looks at his feet, tears already gathering in his eyes again. Fuck.

“My mummy’s really sick.” The boy says softly, “Dad says she won’t even live to first snow. She loves snow, Mister Jaskier.” The boy’s voice breaks towards the end of his sentence and great, gods damn it all, this boy shares his name and his childhood loss.

His heart clenches painfully, and he wishes he could do something, but he knows logically he really, truly can’t.

“That’s awful.” Jaskier says, swallowing. “I’m very sorry.”

That’s when the first snowflake hits Jaskier’s hand exactly where it rests on the boy’s shoulder comfortingly, and he stares at it, surprised. It absolutely shouldn’t be snowing, and yet, when Jaskier looks up, he sees more, a flurry of white descending on what was once a clear night. In early autumn.

“Huh. That is very odd.” He murmurs, almost to himself, and is only brought back to the present when the boy moves away from him and starts towards the Main Street.

“Sorry! I gotta show my mummy!” He yells over his shoulder as he rushes off, and Jaskier stares after him in shock. Can that kid...? Surely not. Except maybe. How old are most sorcerers when their powers come in?

“Hmm.”

Jaskier jumps and lets out a rather unmanly shriek as he spins around to face Geralt.

“Shit, Geralt! Don’t do that.” Jaskier scowls, shoving at the Witcher’s chest and moving him exactly 0 inches. Geralt just watches him though, which is just as unnerving as the magic snow, so Jaskier rolls his eyes and walks past him to meet Ciri where she stands, taking the snow in with bright eyes.

...

“Geralt!” Jaskier’s not sure if Geralt hears him, he doesn’t react at all, but the monster is literally seconds away from spearing him and oh fuck fuck fuck-

Lighting comes down in a flash, the crack deafening, and when Jaskier blinks the white spots out of his vision he sees that the beast has been struck down. It’s corpse is smoking, blackened, and hey, what are the chances of that? Can Geralt make lightning now?

Only, Geralt stares at the beast and then looks directly as Jaskier, something harsh and pointed in his gaze before he turns away to behead the creature, stalking back over to Jaskier with the head hanging loosely in his grip. Something about his stance is throwing Jaskier for a loop, but he smiles tentatively.

“Well that was pretty lucky! I didn’t know you could-“

“How long are we going to pretend?”

“I-What, I don’t- huh?” Jaskier sputters, backing away as Geralt advances on him. The clouds above their heads swirl ominously and Geralt spares them a glance before rolling his eyes and grabbing Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Calm down.”

Oh, alright, he’ll just calm down, shall he?! Geralt’s looking at him like he’s a kikimore and holding him in place and accusing him of- well, Jaskier’s not sure, exactly, but still! He’s indignant! He’s apalled! He’s....mostly just confused, actually.

“I’m calm!” Jaskier half shrieks, which, not dignified.

Geralt looks up at the clouds that are rapidly darkening and winces, pulling Jaskier forward and in for a tight one armed hug, pressing his head into Geralt’s chest. Jaskier has to admit, it’s a particularly lovely hug. Geralt has been more tactile lately, but he’s not a hugger generally.

He ignores the voice in his head that’s trying to remind him that this is a ploy, and snuggles closer. Geralt stiffens for a moment before tightening his grip on the bard.

“Jaskier. It’s been over twenty years and you haven’t aged. The weather reflects your moods and whims. What are you?”

Jaskier tenses and then pulls back. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Geralt’s eyes are searching and then he groans. “You actually haven’t noticed. How- Fucking hell. You don’t even know, do you?”

“Er.” Jaskier says eloquently.

Geralt’s face warps like he’s sucking a lemon.

Now that Geralt’s mentioned it, Jaskier can’t help thinking about it too, and yeah, maybe some things don’t exactly add up. Like maybe that storm the night on the mountain, but that could easily be a coincidence, except...

Oh, gods, the snow. There’s no explaining the snow.

“Oh. Geralt. I think I can control the weather.”

Geralt looks about two seconds away from slamming his head into a tree, so Jaskier pushes his face back into Geralt’s chest before he can act on it.

“I can’t believe you didn’t fucking notice.” Geralt growls. “I thought you were just keeping it from me.” There’s a hint of underlying hurt there, Jaskier thinks, and that won’t do at all.

“Don’t be silly, I tell you everything.” Jaskier says into a particularly firm pectoral. He pretends not to notice the way Geralt puffs up at that, obviously pleased.

“Unfortunately.” Geralt contradicts his body language entirely.

“How long have I been able to do that?”

Jaskier asks curiously, because if this has gone on long enough to frustrate Geralt, it must have been a while.

“A long time.” Geralt says and Jaskier can almost hear the rolling eyes in his tone. “Years.”

“Years?!”

“Yes.”

“Amazing.”

“Jaskier. You’re not taking this seriously.”

“No, I suppose I’m not.” Jaskier giggles, and then can’t stop, the sound barely muffled in Geralt’s chest. This is nice. This is really nice. Existential crisis aside, he’s wrapped up tight in Geralt’s arms (well, the one not occupied by a severed monster head, anyway) and his Witcher is even rubbing circles into his back with his thumb.

“Jaskier. The sun is out.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“It’s night.”

“Oh. I can see how that might be a problem then.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier wakes to Ciri mumbling something in her sleep, and he groans and rolls over, face hitting Geralt’s chest as he scooches forward to tuck himself into the furnace that is Geralt’s body.

“Warm.” Jaskier murmurs appreciatively, tucking his arms around Geralt’s sides happily. Geralt’s chest rumbles under Jaskier’s cheek and a hand moves into his hair, fingers untangling knots that don’t exist. It’s really, very nice.

“We have to move.” Geralt says after a long moment. “We have to find Triss.”

Jaskier groans again, scowling deeply, which doesn’t help considering Geralt can’t even see it, but it’s the thought that counts. And Jaskier’s thought is that it can’t possibly hurt to sleep for just a little bit longer, right?

As if he can sense Jaskier’s train of thought, Geralt chuckles and pushes Jaskier back onto his own bedroll. “Get up, Jaskier.”

“I hate you. You’re terrible and very mean. I’m going to make it rain on you for the rest of your life. Or shoot lightning at you.”

Geralt snorts in amusement. “Mm, yes, I can see how angry you are.”

Jaskier forces his eyes to open and pouts at the beautiful clear skies above. Betrayed, by his own very special gift! Oh, he’ll never be able to keep his emotions to himself again. Not that he has been, he supposes, if Geralt knew for years. He must have been easy to read at all times.

“Shut up.” Jaskier kicks at Geralt’s shin, which does absolutely nothing except bruise his own ego when Geralt’s lips quirk, as though it were merely a tickle. How rude. Jaskier huffs and pushes himself up into sitting.

Ciri’s obviously been woken by their conversation, sleepily wiping at her eyes and squinting over at them. “Morning,” She says, sounding just as sulky as Jaskier, which he truly appreciates. “Are we going now?”

Geralt nods. “Hm.” He get to his feet and moves towards Roach, only pausing to duck his head down and press chapped lips against the crown of Jaskier’s head and just, what?

Jaskier goes still and stares blankly ahead as Geralt moves on towards Roach, lugging his bedroll with him. What the fuck just happened?

“Did he-?” Jaskier asks, because that obviously didn’t actually happen, but Ciri grins.

“Mmhmm.”

“Oh.”

Geralt looks back over at them when his clothes are lit up almost white, the sun shining so brightly that he squints at Jaskier, looking far too amused.

“You coming?” He asks the two of them, still in their bedrolls. Jaskier nods, dazed and blushing, and Ciri nudges him with her elbow when he still hasn’t made to move an inch and she’s already done. Right, leaving, good.

...

Triss lets out a long puff of air and then frowns at him. “Who were your parents?” She asks finally, right when Jaskier’s knee starts bouncing in the uncomfortable silence.

Jaskier blinks. “Oh, well, my father was a Viscount and my mother was-“

Triss shakes her head and holds a hand up to stop him. “No, no. I mean, who were they as people? Were they kind? Were they open minded?”

Jaskier snorts, ignoring Geralt’s frown at the sound. “Melitele, no. They were awful. Nobody liked them.”

Triss nods, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“Hey!” Jaskier gapes, indignant. He’s an absolute delight . He’s certainly nothing like those people. It’s why he left. Others in Lettenhove had told him to, over and over, telling him how he was too good to stay, how that would be quashed if he did. That if he ever wanted to do anything in music, he needed to go to Oxenfurt. So he had. He never even looked back.

“Oh hush, I don’t mean you’re not lovely.” Triss grins, and starts shuffling through the scrolls on her table. “But there is one incident that...it lines up, if what I’m thinking is right. There was a very powerful mage, who could do what you can. It was a couple hundred years ago, though.”

“He’s no mage.” Geralt grumbles, all frowny and grumpy like. Jaskier elbows him, and those grumpy eyes settle on him instead. “You’re not.”

“Well, no, but if he-“

“She.”

“ She could do the same as me, it’s worth listening, isn’t it? Oh, relax you big oaf.” Jaskier snarks and Geralt rolls his eyes but there’s a soft smile playing at his lips. The sun shining through the window brightens again and Jaskier flushes and looks away quickly, ignoring Triss’s knowing look.

“Thank you, Jaskier.” Triss says pointedly, and Geralt looks away and folds his arms together in a huff. What a big baby, Jaskier muses. “She had a rather rough upbringing. The gods can see the future you see, and sometimes they give a blessing. That’s what happened to Artia. She was given the power of elemental magic, and illusionary magic. Combined, it appeared as though she was controlling the weather. Sound familiar?”

Jaskier stares, lips ajar. “Elemental magic? Illusionary magic?”

“Well she could make the sun appear in the middle of the night. Probably beyond someone who isn’t already a mage,” She says, expression apologetic, and Jaskier thinks his skin colour may as well be pink eternally for how much he’s blushing now. “That’s where the illusionary magic came into play. But elemental- That sounds about right for you. The elements react to you, they listen to you even when you say nothing.”

“He’s done that. With the sun. He’s done it.” Geralt says before Jaskier can say a thing, and Triss starts, looking at Jaskier with wide eyes.

“Er, yes. I have.” Jaskier confirms at her incredulous look, and a brilliant smile lights up her features.

“That’s amazing.” She murmurs, almost reverently. “You have no inherent magical ability - you’re human. And yet.”

“I think it’s pretty magical-“

“It’s a blessing, it’s different. You can’t do the other things that we can. You’ll live for an incredibly long time, but you can’t create portals or move things with your mind. I’ve never seen such a boon from the gods before.”

“But why?” Jaskier can’t help but ask, because this is just, it’s insane. His childhood wasn’t that bad, truly, there were others who must have had it worse.

Triss softens, and Jaskier nearly flinches away from the understanding in her gaze, gripping Geralt’s arm as an anchor. Geralt lets him, even frames his hand with one of his own, giving Jaskier’s fingers a gentle squeeze. Or what he supposes Geralt assumes is gentle, it’s actually a little painful, but he appreciates the effort. Geralt is obviously just as stressed about all of this as Jaskier is. That thought gives Jaskier the strength that he needs.

“Be honest with yourself, Jaskier. Do you think you would have lived without this gift?”

Probably not. The nights his parents locked him outside when he didn’t behave well, he probably should’ve frozen in the night. But the temperature had always been just a little warmer than it should be.

“Oh.” He swallows, suddenly feeling emotional, feeling so grateful because if he hadn’t lived, if he’d never met Geralt and gone on adventures with him, fallen in- well. He doesn’t want to think about it.

Geralt’s eyes burn holes in the side of his head but he refuses to meet them, doesn’t want Geralt to know the truth about his childhood, about who he had to be to survive. It would change things, and Jaskier...Jaskier is so happy with his life now.

“Yes, well.” Triss clears her throat and gently pats Jaskier’s shoulder. “They chose you for a reason, Jaskier. You had a bright future and they wanted insurance. The gods smile upon you. It’s...the highest honour.”

Jaskier nods, hands trembling. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. But that’s all the information I have. If you’d like, you can stay. I can help you learn control, find out what else you can do.”

Jaskier nods, ignoring the way Geralt’s grip on him tightens.

“Jaskier.” Geralt grunts, and somehow it sounds miserable. Jaskier turns to look at him, hoping his eyes convey how much love he has for the other man.

“Geralt, I need this. I need to learn, to know what I can do. I’ll be with you again in no time. You can’t tell me you’ll miss me that much, surely?” Jaskier jokes, but Geralt just looks away, expression closed off. Fuck.

“I don’t want to leave you.”

Jaskier softens. Melitele, this man. He’ll be the death of him. “I don’t want you to go either,” Jaskier tells him honestly, “But I know it is what’s best, my friend. For both of us. Can you understand that?”

Geralt nods, still looking away. “How will I find you again?” He asks, face stony but tone giving him away. He’s obviously upset.

Triss interrupts and holds a small black box out to Geralt. “This will glow when he is ready. It’ll show you the way, if he isn’t here.”

Geralt takes it, looks at Jaskier one last time, swallows and turns away, without so much as a goodbye on his lips. Jaskier had expected as much, but it still stings as he watches him leave.

He turns back to Triss with a fake smile and spreads his arms. “I am now your ever so eager pupil.”

She eyes the window and then looks back at him with a frown. “You should have told him how you feel.” She sighs, before nodding towards the scrolls. “Start reading. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

...

Triss starts growing the vines longer and turns to Jaskier, “Make it rain,” She calls, “I want to see if it has an effect.”

“Alright! Uh, how, though?” Jaskier calls back, and she sighs, looking thoroughly exasperated.

“Think of something sad, Jaskier!”

Oh, that’s easy enough. Something sad....his brain immediately hones in on Geralt dead, ravaged by the monster of the week in a fight that for once, he doesn’t win, and oh no, this is actually very distressing-

“Too sad!” Triss screeches, from the garden, where she is now being showered rather aggressively by swirling storm clouds, the ominous scent of incoming lightning, metal and burning, thickening in the air.

“Fuck, sorry!” He shouts back, and tries to think of something happy instead - Ciri and Geralt smiling at him, hugging Ciri- ah, there it is.

The rain peters off to a light drizzle and Triss’s shoulders relax.

“Melitele’s tits, Jask, what did you think of?”

Jaskier flushes a vibrant red. “Something sad!” He avoids confessing, horribly embarrassed. Triss just glowers at him. “Geralt dying.”

Triss snorts. “How about next time when I ask for a little rain, don’t think about your beloved’s death.”

“Ah, yes, you might have a point.” Jaskier couldn’t be any redder if he dunked his head in burnt sienna. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t deny Geralt being his beloved because truly, Geralt does not feel the same, but it feels wrong to, so he leaves it.

Triss lights up suddenly, a smile so sharp on her lips that she looks almost like a monster in her own right when she turns to him. “Well, this is interesting.”

Jaskier looks past her to the vines, rapidly growing under the gentle rain, his gift and Triss’s magic intertwining in a way that can only be described as beautiful, tiny yellow flowers sprouting along the vines, in full bloom.

“Huh.” Jaskier says, intelligently.

“The flowers are a nice touch.” Triss snorts, reaching out a hand to touch as one unfurls against her gentle fingers.

“Buttercups.” Jaskier muses, and then giggles, and then he falls victim to his own laughter, slipping in the moist dirt as he tries to walk out from the cover of the metal shed. He’s clutching his belly when Triss’s tinkling laughter joins his own, and she comes to sit by his side in the grass.

“You’re quite a man, Jaskier.” She chuckles, and reaches for his hand, “It’s a shame you’re so in love with Geralt. Together we would be unstoppable.”

Jaskier hums, water dripping from his soaked locks as he turns his head to look at her. “Yes, we would. The wondrous witch and her bard!”

Triss rolls her eyes. “Sorceress.”

“The ...Come now, Triss, there’s no good s words to use.”

“Sensational.” Triss raises an eyebrow. Jaskier thinks that in another life, he truly could have fallen in love with her. But this isn’t that life, and his heart belongs to another.

“The sensational Sorceress and her bard, then.” He smiles, and she smiles right back.

...

Yennefer’s arrival is unexpected and quite alarming, especially since Jaskier’s method of discovering her presence is slamming into her as he rushes out of his room to excitedly proclaim he has written Triss a ballad that will rival all others. The words are on his lips, but all that comes out is,

“Triss! I need - help! I need help!” He screeches, like the brave and daring hero that he obviously is, as his body collides with another and they both go tumbling to the hardwood floor in a tangle of limbs. He sees the soft purple eyes before anything else and scrambles backwards at their scathing gaze. “What in the fuck are you doing here?”

Yennefer gets up, dignified as always, brushing imaginary dust from her clothes. “Always a delight, Jaskier.”

Yes, yes it is, he thinks.

“Yes, yes it is.” He says out loud. Then gets the urge to smack himself when her eyes narrow. “To see you. It is. A delight. Yes. Hm.”

She rolls her eyes. “Triss, there seems to be a rodent problem in your home.”

Jaskier looks behind Yennefer at Triss, approaching with amusement. How dare she, she should be defending his honour, like a good friend.

“Oh it’s quite contained, really. Just the one.” Triss teases, and Jaskier puts all his effort into scowling as hard as he can.

“As much fun as I’m having, which is no fun by the way, I would like to know what’s going on.” He grumbles, definitely not childishly.

“Yennefer wanted to stop by for tea.” Triss says, as if this is the obvious conclusion, which it is not.

“I wasn’t aware of your friendship.”

“I wasn’t aware of yours.” Yennefer shoots back without hesitation, and Jaskier wishes to be anywhere but here. Yennefer makes him feel insecure about himself in ways he cannot explain. Or doesn’t want to.

“Children, please.” Triss interrupts, “Let’s have a nice chat, in peace.”

Yennefer scowls but follows Triss without objection, and isn’t that interesting? Jaskier looks between the two, calculating, and oh.

Okay.

He jogs a little to catch up with Triss, and maybe he purposefully knocks Yennefer as he passes her, but she can’t prove that.

He leans in close. “So, all this time you’ve taunted me about Geralt when you’re the same with her.” He whispers, not very covertly, and Triss smacks his face away without even looking at him.

“Hush.”

...

“Geralt! And my dear Cirilla too, is it my birthday already?” Jaskier beams, ignoring the smug grin on Geralt’s face and pushing past him to embrace Ciri happily, petting her hair as she holds him tight.

“I missed you a ridiculous amount, dear Ciri.” Jaskier tells her happily, and she smiles brightly up at him,

“And I, you.” She returns the sentiment, and then nods towards Geralt. “Difficult not to with the way he constantly brought up your absence.”

Geralt frowns at her, and then gives Jaskier an awkward half shrug.

“I missed the background noise.”

“Sure, that’s what you missed.” Jaskier agrees with a laugh. “Be honest with yourself, Geralt. You missed the view .”

Geralt rolls his eyes but even he’s smiling now. “Yes, I missed the way your clothes blinded me in their bright colours.”

“Shut up, Geralt.” Jaskier says, though his smile remains. If Geralt wants to deny how fantastically well dressed and good looking he is, that’s his prerogative. Jaskier knows he looks good. Most of the time. When he isn’t smeared in monster guts and gods know what else.

“So, what truly brings you here, my dear companions? Get lonely on those cold dark nights, Geralt?”

Ciri coughs to hide a laugh as her eyes dart to Geralt, who seems to be doing a very good impression of a rock, face impassive and devoid of life. Perhaps he’s contemplating escape, but it’s too late now, Jaskier isn’t about to let them go on their merry way so soon. He’s been missing the other man to the point of pain, honestly.

“Yes.” Geralt says finally, reluctant. Jaskier stares at him, surprised.

“You got lonely ?” Jaskier questions, bewildered, because that’s obviously not what Geralt meant, but Ciri’s gaze is knowing and Geralt averts his own gaze.

“Hmm.”

“Oh, you can’t just-! Ugh, you’re unbearable.” Jaskier groans, “Use your words, Geralt. Go on, tell me how much you missed me, you’ll feel better.”

He probably shouldn’t tease the Witcher so, but it’s so difficult to resist, and he truly would like it very much if Geralt said he has missed him.

“Hmm.”

“Ah, alright. Bottle it up, then.” Jaskier sighs, rolling his eyes. “Come now, Ciri dear, I’ll show you what I’ve been working on. I’ve grown so many plants since I’ve arrived, so many!”

He ignores the baffled look on Cirilla’s face as he speaks, simply taking her elbow and guiding her towards the further gardens.

...

He’s dreaming. That much is clear, the way the world shimmers strangely around him, the crowd of unfamiliar women waiting for him on the other side of the broad meadow, and he stays still for a moment just to take it in. The air smells sweet, the grass soft and squishy under his feet, sun shining over all.

“Don’t be shy.” The woman standing at the front says kindly, young with strawberry locks and an intensity about her that Jaskier feels resonate with him. Geralt would be hitting him over the head if he saw the way Jaskier, unarmed and trusting, moves forward through the flowers. The woman smiles at his actions and holds a hand out. He accepts it without thinking, and the second their hands make contact there’s a thrust of wind that knocks them both closer.

“I’ve waited to see if there would be another like me. I always thought I’d be jealous of your remaining lives, but you...you’re too much like me for that.” She sighs, a soft sound, and then offers him a kind smile. “My name is Artia. I was blessed just like you were.”

Jaskier gapes, shock and awe rippling through him. “You’re like me?”

“Almost. You still breathe. I stopped a long time ago.”

He nods, unsure a simply apology would do much for her.

“It’s okay, Jaskier. I made my peace. I just didn’t want to be forgotten. It seems your existence means I likely never will be.”

Jaskier relaxes. “Oh, good, then. Didn’t much fancy dying in my sleep, not the most heroic death, that.”

She chuckles, a deep sound. “Quite right. Now, meet our sisters.”

Jaskier’s gaze moves to the gathering of much younger women behind her, and can’t shake the feeling that one of them knows him.

“They weren’t born at the most opportune of times. Lives taken too soon. But please, Renfri in particular has been keen to meet you.”

Renfri. Of course. He watches the girl just as warily as she watches him in return.

“You did the Witcher a great kindness.” Renfri speaks up, “one he didn’t deserve.”

Jaskier makes a face. “Didn’t he, though?” He says, despite the fact he is talking to someone his Witcher actually murdered, because he has no self preservation instinct whatsoever.

Renfri glares, hair tangling in the heavy wind. “Of course not. But you did it anyway, until he did deserve it.”

Jaskier smiles cautiously, “So, what you’re saying is...good job?”

“Not in so many words.” Renfri shakes her head, though she does look somewhat amused. Score one for Jaskier.

“Oh, he’s just so pretty,” Another girl sighs dreamily, “If only you were dead, we could-“

Artia frowns at her. “Serafina. You shouldn’t wish death upon others.”

Serafina’s shoulders slump. “I know. ”

“Okay this is all lovely and all but where am I?”

“Spirit world.” Renfri explains plainly, “Those with...blessings or talents, end up in this particular image. Better together than alone.”

Jaskier nods. “That...how old is she?” He points to a girl off the end, half the height of the girl beside her, heart twisting.

“Lifia is six. The world is cruel, Jaskier. Never forget that.”

Lifia gives him a soft smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and constantly looks on the verge of tears. Jaskier’s heart breaks a little, and he can’t help but wonder how they did it, did they make it quick for the poor girl? Or were they like Stregobor, stretching it out and making her wish for her life to end? Melitele, he hopes it’s the former.

“You’re all women,” Jaskier notes. “I’m not.”

Artia hums. “Men have never appeared here. You’re the first to receive such a blessing as a man. The gods, as a rule, prefer women. We are happy to have you amongst us though.”

“Speak for yourself.” A red headed girl mutters. Jaskier ignores her.

“Ignore Savi, she’s got a temper. Anyway, you’re here today because I wanted to meet my kin. We’re siblings now, in a way. I’m glad to meet you, brother.”

“I...yeah, nice to meet you too.”

“Come, let me give you the advice that would have saved my life.”

And so Jaskier sits with her, and listens as she details her own experience from beginning to end, wrapped in the way she speaks, how she delivers each line as though it’s of great importance. He listens until he wakes.

...

They’re walking down the street, Jaskier chattering away about what he wants to get from the marketplace while Geralt steadfastly ignores him, when Jaskier can’t take it any longer. Their fingers keep brushing as their hands move closer, but Geralt isn’t even looking, won’t even acknowledge it, and well, Jaskier’s fed up. He doesn’t want to play this game anymore, he wants something real. And he’s fairly certain Geralt does, as well.

“Geralt,” He begins, and Geralt glances over at the break in Jaskier’s Wishlist.

“Hmm?”

Jaskier bites his lip, pauses in his step, and then grabs ahold of Geralt’s hand, tightly, threading their fingers together and tugging him into a quieter street, thin and empty. Away from the bustling crowd. Geralt frowns at him but doesn’t resist, and Jaskier suddenly wonders just how many of his ideas Geralt would just go along with, without question.

“I would like to talk about us.” Jaskier says tentatively, cautious of Geralt’s reaction, and he’s right to be when all of a sudden Geralt is trying to pull away from his grip.

“There isn’t anything to talk about.” He says, as if they didn’t cuddle last night until they fell asleep. As if Geralt doesn’t kiss the crown of his head each morning when they wake up. As if Ciri, Triss and Yen don’t mock the two for their closeness constantly. As if they haven’t become a family, somehow, Geralt and Jaskier Ciri’s fathers, and Triss and Yen her mothers.

As if they aren’t hopelessly, deeply in love. Unspoken, as it may be.

Jaskier’s chest tightens as anger surges through him, sharp and bitter.

“You’re giving me an insane amount of mixed messages Geralt! You say you miss me, you kiss me all the time, you hold me without me even asking- but then you pretend there’s nothing going on? That doesn’t make any sense! What have we got to lose, Geralt, truly?!”

Geralt pushes Jaskier up against the wall, a deadly scowl taking up residence on his face and eyebrows especially frowny. Jaskier decides that probably is a not good sign, and perhaps he shouldn’t have said that.

Jaskier opens his mouth to say exactly that, only to find his mouth suddenly occupied, chapped lips moving against his almost furiously, and Jaskier whines and tries to tug Geralt closer by his chest, but he doesn’t go.

“Fuck.” Geralt mutters with a deep inhale when they part. “I’m sorry, Jaskier. I shouldn’t have-“

“Oh will you just shut the fuck up?” Jaskier says rather explosively, pulling back just to smack Geralt’s chest - a very ineffective move, great, lovely, perfect. Jaskier definitely doesn’t want to be taken seriously ever in his life, so that’s fine - and then crosses his arms over his own chest. Geralt’s eyes are wide and he looks caught off guard for once. Good. “We both know what we want. Stop doing...whatever it is that you’re doing. I literally cannot express how annoying it is, and we both know I’m supposed to be the annoying one. Stop stealing my shtick.”

“I’m not stealing your shtick.” Geralt blinks, and Jaskier can’t help himself, this is just, so stupid, he smacks the Witcher upside his dumb head.

“That was not the important part of what I just said!”

Geralt snorts despite himself, and Jaskier can’t help the way his heart sings at that, his hands find their home on Geralt’s chest, fingers slipping around the straps that hold Geralt’s shoulder armour in place. Geralt doesn’t stop him, which is a nice surprise, and Jaskier presses on. “You want me too, right?” He asks, almost hesitant, because he knows Geralt does, but he’s been wrong before and-

“Yes.” Geralt sighs. “Yes, I do.”

“Then we should be together. That’s how these things work, Geralt, you see, when a person loves another person very much-“

“You must know what that sounds like.” Geralt smirks, and Jaskier tugs at the straps in irratation.

“Shh. No more talking from you. Wow, never thought I’d be saying that.” Jaskier lets out a strangled giggle. “Now, Geralt, stop all your incessant chatter, I need my quiet time.” He proceeds to devolve into a fit of giggles, much to Geralt’s obvious annoyance.

“Jaskier.” Geralt grumbles testily, and Jaskier struggles to contain himself. Right, serious conversation, very important.

“Sorry, sorry. Yes. What I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, is that we should be together forever. Very romantic stuff.”

“Very.” Geralt rolls his eyes. “Are you sure about this?”

Is he sure about this. Is he sure about this.

Jaskier fights the temptation to smack Geralt again.

“I’ve never been more certain about anything.”

Geralt watches him for a moment, before he must find whatever he is looking for, and his entire demeanour softens, relaxes, as though he’d been wound tight with fear before that. Fear of what? Rejection? Perhaps, Jaskier thinks, because for all Geralt’s confidence and hardened exterior, the man truly is quite sensitive underneath it all.

“I’ve been with you for so long, Geralt. I couldn’t stop loving you if I tried. And I have, you know. Tried, that is. I never thought...well, it doesn’t matter. You’re a part of me, just as my limbs are. I couldn’t cut you out anymore than I could saw off my own leg.”

Geralt seems to visibly flinch at the idea of Jaskier trying to stop feeling for him, and then he nods, and murmurs softly, “I feel the same way about you, Jaskier, I...I’m not good at this. I‘ll let you down, as I’ve done before. But I’ll love you.”

Jaskier feels his heart swoop, and there’s a dangerous wobbling at his lower lip, but he smiles anyway. This moment, this moment is perfect. “I think you should kiss me now.” He says, fingers trembling, and Geralt’s face crinkles as a gentle smile takes residence there. Jaskier decides he’s had enough waiting, and with that, a sharp gale wind knocks Geralt forward, so Jaskier can meet his lips.