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When he woke up on Wednesday morning, she had been gone for three days.
His body felt weighted down by such a knowledge. Somehow, three days felt an awful lot longer than just two. Three days felt like pushing a snowball off the edge of a hill and watching it tumble from days, to weeks, to months. Perhaps she wouldn’t come back at all.
He took a deep breath. He was getting ahead of himself. It was too early in the day for such pessimistic thoughts. If he wanted pessimism while staying in this keep, he’d seek out Vesemir.
He stood up, stretched his arms above his head. The bed beside him was bare where usually his lovers lay.
Letting his feet carry him to the small dressing table, his gaze moved across its contents for what he wanted. It wasn’t his. No, this was hers, and he knew if he touched one too many things, he might lose his hand for it. At the very least, he’d lose kissing and cuddling privileges for a few weeks, and when she came back, he didn’t plan on being bereft of her touch.
But he needed something.
His hands reached for a perfume bottle, fancy looking, expensive. He knew she made it herself. Lute calloused fingers traced over the glass that held the purple misted liquid as he hummed a soft tune to himself.
When he dabbed some on his wrist, it smelt like her.
He smelt like her.
It was enough, to get him through the day.
-///-
“Again,” Geralt grunted, fingers wrapping around the hilt of his sword to lift it from the ground.
They’d been out here for most of the day and Ciri had managed to disarm him twice now (she was getting better, stronger, faster – and while he knew Jaskier wished that she could stay an innocent young girl forever, there were worse things than the loss of innocence – her life, for one). It was rare, to be at Kaer Morhen during the summer and the heat felt scorching in the training yard. But this was the safest place for Cirilla to be right now, as they planned their next move. He knew their days here were growing short, they couldn’t stay forever, but for now, it was a gentle respite from running from Nifguardian soldiers at every turn.
“You’re moody today. Because Yen’s not here,” Ciri accused, but – despite her panting and how worn out she looked – she raised her sword again.
“You’re mixing up my—” his what? Friends? Lovers? What was the right word for Jaskier and Yennefer were to him? He wasn’t sure there was one in all the languages on the continent that could truly contain what either meant, what either were “—you’re mixing up Jaskier and Yennefer,” he corrected, meeting her sword where it arched through the air, sparkling in the blazing sunlight. “Yennefer would still have you train, regardless of if she was here or not.” It was Jaskier who always wanted to cut her some slack, who wanted to train her in the lute of all things, who wanted her to have time to laugh and smile and relax. It was Jaskier who gave her space to be a young girl, still, despite all she’d seen and been through since the fall of her kingdom.
Geralt knew they didn’t always have time for such indulgences, but he also knew that it…was important. That Ciri had Jaskier there to demand such things for her. That she had a mixture of all of them in her life.
A mixture of all of them, Geralt contemplated, had proved to be the best combination in a lot of things, not just the girl’s upbringing.
Ciri dodged his blade, rolled into a crouch that fit her lithe stature to keep him off balance. Geralt shifted again and—
Was caught off guard by the scent the low wind brought through the training yard.
Ciri’s sword flashed again, and his own ended up dropping from his hand. But it didn’t matter because Yennefer was back—
Except it wasn’t Yennefer.
When he turned to look, it was Jaskier ambling out into the training yard, with a pitcher of water and his lute slung over his back. He tilted his head, tried to place what had led him to such a mistake.
The scent.
He watched as Ciri skipped forward to Jaskier’s side, gifting him with a short hug and a kiss to his cheek before she took a drink of the water he offered out to her. Geralt could hear Jaskier tutting about the importance of keeping properly hydrated under his breath and the idiocy of his travelling companions (a little rich, coming from the mouth of a man who – until recently – had seemingly made it his sole aim to slip into every marriage bed he came to no matter how many times he almost got his balls cut off for it).
“You’re wearing Yen’s perfume,” Geralt grumbled into Jaskier’s ear when the other came forward to gift him with a goblet and water, Ciri setting about putting the weapons away for the day.
Jaskier shrugged, but there was a slight redness to his cheeks. “I miss her.” He admitted finally.
And wasn’t that odd? There was a time when they couldn’t stand each other. Now, Geralt sometimes felt like he had his feet knocked out from under him every time he saw them together; sat lazily with goblets of wine talking shit about everyone (talking shit about him usually, he wasn’t deaf), bathing one another with good salts and oils, laying on the bed beside each other, Jaskier’s skilled hands trailing over her perfect frame.
Geralt sighed, let his shoulder brush against Jaskier’s lightly. “I miss her, too,” he admitted, as Jaskier leant his head against Geralt (Geralt had long since given up telling him not to be too touchy in public – at least here at Kaer Morhen. The bard didn’t know the meaning of personal space and besides…they’d touched like this before they were lovers. He wasn’t sure when he started to let Jaskier close this way, but it was sometime between You wouldn’t keep a man with bread in his pants waiting and the first time they fucked).
“She’ll be back soon,” Jaskier said, with conviction, despite the fact that they both had no idea. Yennefer had needed to attend to something at the brotherhood, but half the brotherhood were in with Nilfguard now, and they both knew the dangers she’d be facing walking into that nest of vipers. Her only saving grace was that – after her display of power in her last battle – most were afraid of her. Still, it could be another few weeks before she stepped through one of her portals and back into their bed.
“She will be.” Jaskier insisted again, “Come on, you think she’d leave us alone to raise Cirilla for too long? She thinks we’re idiots, Geralt. And she’s not exactly wrong.”
Geralt hummed but said nothing more.
They’d be fine until she got back.
He closed his eyes, breathed in the lilac and gooseberries that smelt so much like Yennefer, on Jaskier’s skin.
-///-
“You’ve been in my dresser,” her voice dragged Jaskier from his sleep.
For a moment he grumbled, tried to bury his head further into the hunk of Geralt’s body and hold onto his dream. He was having a good dream. But then—
“Yen,” his eyes opened as the covers were carefully peeled back, and cold legs brushed against his.
She was there, in all her magnificent (admittedly, sometimes terrifying) glory. She looked more exhausted than he’d seen her in a long while, her hair pulled back off her face in a bun which wasn’t managing to keep all the strands in orders, deep bags under her eyes. She’d ditched whatever clothing she’d come back in already, draped herself in one of Geralt’s too-large shirts to keep off the chill.
And she was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the most beautiful sight that Jaskier had ever seen.
A small smile cracked upon her lips, one that he knew was real and unpractised, just for them. “You’ve missed me, then.” She stroked a hand through Jaskier’s hair, as she leaned over to press her lips to Geralt’s where he had slowly opened his eyes to greet her too.
“If you’re going to use my perfume you have to pay for it,” She spoke as Jaskier wrapped an arm around her waist and they settled back down under the furs and blankets.
“Nope, lover privileges. I get to smell like both of you, any time I want,” Jaskier insisted around a yawn, mouth pressing absent kisses to her neck and collarbone.
Yennefer rolled her eyes. “Go to sleep, little lark.” She muttered, her hand finding one of Geralt’s and interlacing their fingers.
Jaskier drifted off with a smile on his lips.
The bed smelt like home.