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That night had been a familiar scene. The kind of night that fit so neatly into their daily routine that it would have easily faded and been forgotten amongst the dozens of other nights that came before and after.
It was terribly domestic, the four of them sitting around a campfire, bellies full, enjoying the cool night air.
They could almost pretend that the flames of war weren’t licking at their heels.
Ciri had been dozing against his shoulder, while Jaskier was sprawled out on the grass in front of them, mindlessly strumming soft melodies on his lute. Yennefer had made herself comfortable on Geralt’s other side, bent over a map, carefully plotting their meandering path northward toward Kaer Morhen with a piece of charcoal. They’d almost made a game of it, with Yennefer throwing out the names of towns and cities to see which ones they should stop in, and them sharing any experience they may have had there. Most of the time, it just devolved into each of them sharing stories of their own adventures. Even Ciri would jump sometimes with a tale of her own about other courts she’d traveled to and the places she’d seen.
Tonight, Yennefer was charting their course through northern Redania, listing off villages as she went. Was Brunwich worth a stop? According to Jaskier it was the most picturesque little town, he’d traveled there while still a bright-eyed student at Oxenfurt, and it was definitely worth it for the views. Bowdon had a drowner problem? Geralt advised against it, seeing as when he’d been there last, they had been openly hostile to witchers.
“Hmmm what about Lettenhove?” Yennefer said, squinting down at the parchment in the dim firelight, “I’ve heard rumor that the baron there is in need of a witcher.”
“No, better not,” Jaskier piped up, not even pausing in the light tune he was plucking, “The Baron of Lettenhove is not an honorable man. Any contract from him will leave you without coin or without your head.”
Yen arched a brow, “you sound quite sure of that. Is this going to be another one of your stories that ends with you dangling out of some noblewoman’s window with your pants around your ankles?”
Jaskier snorted, kicking his leg out try jostle her and missing completely “the man has earned himself a reputation of cruelty, word of which has spread well outside the walls of his town. I’m a bard, it’s practically my job to know all the juicy court gossip, thank you very much.”
And, looking back, Geralt hadn’t picked up on anything amiss. Not a twitch or a flinch. Jaskier’s heartbeat had stayed smooth and even and his posture relaxed.
Looking back, he couldn’t have known.
“He’s right,” Ciri chimed in, suddenly wide awake, “I’ve heard of him, grandmother used to tell stories about him. She said that he murdered his only son, but that nobody can prove it. The boy just vanished one day, no one has seen hide nor hair of him for over 20 years! She said that the baron probably cut up the body and used it as fertilizer in the gardens.”
Geralt grimaced, of course Calanthe would be so crass. He can so clearly picture her at some banquet or ball talking about the best way to hack up a body just to see other nobles turn green and squeamish.
“You can’t believe everything you hear Cirilla,” he had cut in, trying to ease the girl back against his shoulder. She had enough nightmares as it was, he wasn’t about to let some silly court gossip keep her from sleeping tonight.
Jaskier struck a discordant sound on his lute, “I heard he beat his son to death in the stables. Left him there to choke on his own blood.”
Geralt remembers giving the bard a firm nudge to the hip in reprimand when he felt Ciri tense up beside him. He remembers Jaskier’s soft apology, his hand straying from his lute long enough to give Ciri a reassuring pat on the ankle. He remembers Yennefer giving Lettenhove wide berth as she delicately traced their path.
And that had been that.
Yen asked about another town that had Jaskier waxing poetic about the best cabbage rolls he’s ever had, Ciri curled back into his side with a yawn, and the night carried on. He had thought it was only worth remembering so he could add Lettenhove to his list of towns to avoid, right under Blaviken.
He couldn’t have known.
Now, weeks later, they’re enjoying the warmth and safety of a tavern. Relishing in the novelty of having a roof over their heads and a warm meal they didn’t have to cook themselves. The rain beats a steady percussion against the windows while Jaskier deftly weaves his way around the tables, enchanting the patrons with his newest song.
It always astounds him, how Jaskier is able to make even their most disgusting encounters sound heroic and romantic. This one is about their recent contract to destroy a kikimora nest, a contract that had left him covered in monster guts and with swamp water squelching in his boots. But Jaskier had transformed it, like an alchemist turning lead into gold (or, more accurately, shit into coin). The song is fast paced and exciting, Geralt can almost feel the echoes of the adrenaline that had sang through his blood as they faced the beasts. The townsfolk are all enraptured, clapping and stomping along to the heady beat. Even Yennefer is nodding along, smirking when Jaskier throws a quick wink in her direction as he sings a verse about the beguiling sorceress who dealt the final killing blow.
Something like contentment curls in his chest at the sight. Somewhere along the way Yennefer and Jaskier’s icy hostility had thawed and warmed, and now the two of them got on like a forest fire. A blaze that Geralt wasn’t even going to try to contain. He could almost feel pity for the poor fools who have managed to earn their combined ire, but more often than not he’s content to sit back and watch the pair verbally eviscerate someone. What can he say? He’s a simple man, with simple pleasures.
It seems like Yennefer and Jaskier can almost always be found together now. Either strolling through a market arm in arm, companionably snarking at each other while they prepare dinner, or, more recently, bracketing Geralt at night like a pair of bookends, shoving their bedrolls together and sprawling out on him as though he were a pillow.
There was something new growing between the three of them. None of them have really acknowledged it yet, the lingering touches, the soft glances, but there’s no denying that things have shifted. He knows they’ll discuss it eventually; knows there will come a time when they sit down and lay their intentions bare, but right now there’s no rush. Right now, Geralt just gives himself a moment to bask in this feeling. This feeling of having the people he cares about most safe and warm and happy. It makes a part of him settle. He could almost say he’s at ease.
Almost.
If not for the man in the far corner.
The man who has been staring at Jaskier for the past three songs, eyes wide and hand gripped so tightly around his tankard that his knuckles have gone bone white.
Geralt has seen the many faces of dangerous men. After his years on the path he knows how to pick them out of a crowd. He’s seen the looks that could kill on the spot. He’s seen the calm facades that have only the slightest of tics to expose the anger lurking just beneath the surface. He’s even seen the appraising looks of would-be robbers that have been trained on Jaskier before.
But this man is different.
This man is staring at Jaskier as if he were a ghost.
“Who are you glaring at?” Ciri asks through a mouthful of stew and bread, breaking his attention away from the strange man and the haunted look in his eyes.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” he scolds, arching a brow at the girl, “and I’m not glaring, I’m observing.”
Ciri scoffs, shoving another large chunk of bread in her mouth, “sure looks like glaring.”
Before he has a chance to defend himself, Jaskier is suddenly there, draping himself across Ciri’s shoulders and leaning in to the girl’s ear conspiratorially, “oh darling, I’m afraid our dear witcher has spent so much of his life glaring that his face has been tragically stuck like that.”
Ciri snorts, and Jaskier ducks down to press a quick kiss to her cheek before reaching across the table to swipe Geralt’s ale. He moves to swat at the bard, but he can’t even find it in himself to be anything other than fond as Jaskier easily evades the blow and takes a swig. Gods he’s gone soft. Once they get to Kaer Morhen he’ll never hear the end of it.
Having the bard back in his eyesight, within arm’s reach, he can finally settle a bit more. He forces himself to relax. Allows himself to be distracted by the way Jaskier’s whole face lights up when Yennefer compliments his newest song.
It’s a testament to how comfortable he is that he doesn’t even notice the man approaching their table until it’s too late.
“Julian?”
And Geralt, who’s sitting directly across from Jaskier, has a front row seat to watch how quickly the blood drains from his face.
He’s out of his seat in an instant, placing himself in front of the bard with a low growl.
The man is large, taller than Geralt, and with thick arms and a padded gut that speak to a career of heavy lifting and hard labor. He wouldn’t be too hard for Geralt to take down. He’d wager 30 seconds, at most.
He can feel Jaskier's hands fluttering about, frantically grabbing and shoving at his shoulders, urging him to sit down. But the sour scent of fear, Jaskier’s fear, is hanging in the air like a haze, clouding his senses and burning his nose.
He isn’t going anywhere.
A quick glance to Yennefer shows that she has herded Ciri behind her, hands poised and ready to defend if need be. She’s appraising the stranger carefully, eyes gleaming dangerously in the candlelight. One wrong move and Yen wouldn’t even need 30 seconds, he’d be down in the blink of an eye.
The man, to his credit, doesn’t even seem phased by Geralt’s presence, his eyes fixed just over his shoulder, glued on Jaskier with an unwavering intensity.
Jaskier’s given up on trying to move Geralt, instead settling on fisting his hands in the back of Geralt’s shirt when he speaks up. “My apologies good sir, for my companion’s behavior as well as any lingering confusion. You see, I’m the great bard Jaskier. There is no Julian here. I’m afraid you must be mistaken.” And despite his best efforts to sound jovial, there’s an undeniable tremor in Jaskier’s voice that has him tensing.
The man’s expression darkens, a storm resting in the furrow of his brow, “it’s been almost 25 years Julian,” his voice is deep and rough, every word pulled from his throat like a rumble of thunder, “I will not play these games with you.”
“Sir, as I’ve said—”
“Even after all this time, do you really think I wouldn’t recognize my best friend? Gods above Julian—” The man’s breath hitches, and, much to Geralt's surprise and dismay, he chokes on a sob, “all these years I thought you were dead!” And just like that the floodgates open. The stranger is openly weeping now in the middle of the fucking tavern and Geralt shoots a slightly panicked look to Yennefer to try and figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to do in this situation, but she looks just about as confused as he is.
“Erec,” Jaskier breathes, and oh, he’s never heard Jaskier sound like that. Never heard his voice so heavy with emotion.
There are a hundred questions bubbling up behind is lips. Who is this man? How does Jaskier know him? What does he want? Is he a threat? But he grits his teeth, and chokes the questions down into his throat where they’re no longer at risk of breaking out. At least not yet.
Geralt allows Jaskier to push him back down into his chair. He’s still on the defensive, ready to attack the moment this man steps a toe out of line, but he’s traveled with Jaskier long enough that he can recognize when he needs to follow the bard’s lead. He doesn’t know who this man is or how he knows Jaskier, but the bard seems to be familiar with him, or at least familiar enough that he’s not afraid to approach.
It’s actually almost comical seeing the way Jaskier inches towards the larger man—as if he were a startled deer—holding out his handkerchief into the space between them like a peace offering.
The man, Erec apparently, bypasses the cloth completely, lurching forward in a way that has Geralt halfway out of his seat with his teeth bared, and envelopes Jaskier in a tight embrace. Yennefer’s nails dig harshly into his arm, her firm grip the only thing keeping him in place.
Jaskier is clearly hesitant as he returns the hug, doing his best to soothe the man now openly weeping into his shoulder. Even with his enhanced senses, Geralt strains to hear the words being muffled into Jaskier’s doublet.
“Please Jules, I need to know what happened. Please.”
Jaskier winces, “of course,” he says, something like resignation seeping into his tone, “of course. You deserve to know, just…perhaps somewhere a bit more private?” Blue eyes dart around the tavern nervously, trying to gauge how much attention their little display has garnered as he tugs Erec in the direction of the stairs, towards the privacy of the rooms they had booked for the night.
As the pair take their leave, it only takes a quick moment between him, Ciri, and Yennefer before all three are out of their seats and following up the stairs behind them.
* * *
The atmosphere in their room is unbearably tense. Jaskier is flitting around anxiously like an agitated bird, cleaning and organizing and arranging—and then rearranging—their belongings feverishly.
He and Yen have tucked themselves into the back corner of the room with Ciri sat in between them. Out of the way, but close enough to intervene if they need to.
Erec’s eyes keep darting over to them, very clearly made nervous by their presence and Geralt almost wants to scoff at him. Like hell they’d leave Jaskier alone with him, a stranger. True, he may not be a stranger to Jaskier, but he sure as hell is still a stranger to them.
Geralt must admit, there is a thread of curiosity tugging at him. This man obviously knew Jaskier from before he was Jaskier. Before he sang the songs of the White Wolf, before he’d graduated as a bard of Oxenfurt. A before that Geralt knew nothing about. For as loud and open as Jaskier is, Geralt doesn’t really know too much about his past. Doesn’t know where he came from or where he grew up, doesn’t even know if he has any siblings. Every time he’s tried to broach the subject with the bard, it always gets sidestepped or deflected. Geralt has never pushed too hard, but still there is a terribly inquisitive part of him that wants to know what Jaskier is trying to hide.
Over time he’d been able to gather some wayward pieces of information himself. It wasn’t like Jaskier made it easy, but after so long together it was inevitable for Geralt to pick up on certain things.
For example, he knew that Jaskier’s mother was dead. He’d learned that one night after the bard got absolutely shitfaced on the fancy wine he likes. He’d confessed to Geralt that she was killed in a robbery when he was just a child, and then promptly puked on his boots.
And speaking of those fancy wines, he’s fairly sure Jaskier came from a noble family, or at least has some kind of noble roots. His tastes always leaning towards fineries and luxury in a way that speaks more to familiarity rather than mindless indulgence.
Yennefer has a sneaking suspicion that Jaskier is at least half elf —no human man can reach middle age with nary a wrinkle or gray hair to show for it, skin care be damned— but neither of them are willing to broach that particular topic with him until they’re finally settled for the winter.
It wasn’t nearly enough to fill all the gaps. Jaskier’s life before their meeting in Posada is still largely a mystery to him. A puzzle that Geralt only has half the pieces for.
Jaskier finally settles on shoving their bags under the bed before turning to Erec with a flourish, “so sorry for the mess. As you can see, I was not really prepared to host a guest tonight so I’m afraid the hospitality will be a bit subpar. Can I uh offer you some cold tea?” he says, examining the half empty mug he’d left on the desk before his performance, “or some nuts that, admittedly, were loose in my pockets for a quite a while. Unfortunately, our menu here is quite limited.”
Erec stares Jaskier down with an unreadable expression, making the bard falter for just a moment, before letting out a quick bark of laughter. The tension melting off his shoulders like ice in the summer sun, “It’s so damn good to see you Jules.”
Jaskier softens, his own shoulders sagging in relief, “it’s good to see you too Erec. Though, I can hardly even recognize you under that monstrous beard! Part of the unofficial blacksmiths uniform I suppose. You are still smithing aren’t you? I can’t imagine you doing anything else! And oh, is that a wedding ring I spy? Finally managed to find yourself a girl who can put up with your snoring? Don’t think I don’t remember how many ladies you frightened out of your bed with that ghastly wheezing. Do you have any children? I’m sure you do, healthy man like you, you must have at least two—no—three! Three children I’m sure!”
Geralt can’t help the slight twitch of his lips at Jaskier’s rambling, and Erec shakes his head fondly, amusement crinkling at the corners of his eyes, “good to see that you haven’t changed all that much. Just two children for now, though I’m hoping for a third eventually.”
“Good. Good, that’s— great. I’m so happy for you, old friend.”
“Julian—"
“Jaskier, please call me Jaskier.”
“I thought you were dead,” Erec says stiffly, his voice thick, “Everyone thinks you are dead.”
Erec cuts an imposing figure in the room, but with his eyes red-rimmed and the crack in his voice Geralt can finally see the tempest he carries for what it truly is, pure unmitigated grief.
Jaskier’s whole face crumples, and its unnerving to Geralt to see the way he shrinks in on himself. The bard always seems to take up so much space, in the way he performs, in the way he carries himself. Even in the face of danger he doesn’t cower.
Geralt’s stomach twists uncomfortably. Maybe he doesn’t really need to put the pieces of this puzzle together.
Not if it makes Jaskier look like this.
Jaskier’s eyes are focused on the ground, voice so small that he hardly even sounds like himself, “I needed to leave Erec. You don’t understand what it was like in that house.”
“I understood better than most,” Erec fires back, “you could have at least told me where you were going, so I knew you were alright. I could have gone with you! We could have left Lettenhove together!”
Lettenhove
Geralt’s eyebrows furrow, the name is familiar, prodding at something in the back of his mind when it finally clicks.
That night around the fire.
If Jaskier is from Lettenhove that would certainly explain why he was so familiar with the local rumors, but why hide it?
Geralt is pulled harshly out of his musings by Ciri gripping his wrist and the sound of raised voices. Erec and Jaskier have gotten more heated and he’s glad that they had booked the room next-door, because there’s no doubt any neighbors would have been banging on the wall right about now.
“Did you even think for a moment about the people you were leaving behind?!” Erec shouts, red faced, tears pooling in his eyes, “did you even think about how everyone would feel? About how I would feel?”
“I didn’t think you’d care!” Jaskier snarls, looking every bit like a cornered animal. His chest is heaving and his glassy blue eyes darting around the room frantically.
“How can you say that when I’m the one who found you!” Erec bellows, tears finally breaking free and streaming down his haggard face, “How can you say that to me when I was the one who found you half dead! I was the one who carried you out. For three days I sat by your bedside, cared for you, cried for you. And then you just vanished. Like a fucking ghost.”
Jaskier, for once, has nothing to say. His head bowed; fists clenched at his side as Erec goes on.
“There was so much blood...” his voice cracks, “I thought he’d killed you. When I found you lying there like that, I really thought he’d killed you. I thought you had died there, in that fucking stable. Afraid. In pain. Alone.”
Lettenhove
The stable
Geralt feels nauseous.
The final piece of the puzzle snaps into place with startling clarity.
The Baron
He looks to Yennefer because surely, he must be wrong, he must be misunderstanding. But when he meets her gaze and feels her magic brush across his mind, he knows.
“It was barely a day after you woke up that you disappeared.” Erec continues,
And gods Geralt wants him to shut up
“I had no idea where you went or what happened. I didn’t even know if you’d left willingly or if someone had come and taken you.”
He just needs a fucking moment.
“I couldn’t have stayed,” Jaskier repeats, sounding more exhausted than Geralt has ever heard, “you don’t understand—"
“Then help me understand!”
“I was so tired Erec!” Jaskier’s shout echoes harshly in the room like a clap of thunder, “I was tired of living every day of my life in fear and in pain! I couldn’t spend a single fucking day more in Lettenhove. So, I left. And I didn’t tell you. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t even pack anything. I used all the money to my name to buy a new lute and walked to Oxenfurt with just clothes on my back!”
The silence that follows Jaskier’s outburst is oppressive, laying heavy like a thick blanket over the room and it’s so goddamn uncomfortable that Geralt wishes he’d snuck out when he’d had the chance. Seeing Jaskier like this, stripped bare of all his boasting and bravado, he feels more like a voyeur than a protector.
“I mourned you,” Erec whispers.
The last of Jaskier’s composure finally cracks and falls away as a sob breaks free from his chest, “I’m so sorry Erec,” he says through his tears, “I never meant to hurt you. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
Erec looks stricken as Jaskier continues to mumble out pleading apologies. This time Geralt doesn’t even twitch as he moves forward to pull Jaskier into a hug, “it’s forgiven,” he says softly, holding tight to the bard’s shivering frame, “it’s all forgiven, Jaskier.”
When Geralt sees the way Jaskier crumples into the embrace, he decides they’ve seen enough.
“C’mon Ciri, time for bed.”
Ciri’s eyes are alight with worry as she watches Jaskier. For a moment she looks like she’s going to protest, but in the end her shoulders slump. She nods, and quietly follows Geralt and Yennefer out of the room.
As Geralt is closing the door behind him, he can hear Jaskier chuckle wetly, “Okay, enough bloody crying. Now tell me about your lovely children, though gods help me Erec if you’ve named one after me, I will be sobbing all over again.”
Geralt lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, the tension easing out of his muscles.
Jaskier was okay. He was safe.
* * *
Ciri is unusually quiet as she tucks herself into bed, but as Yen moves to blow out the candle on her bedside, she grabs her wrist.
“Wait. Please tell Jaskier that I say good night.”
Yen smiles softly, stroking her hair back, “of course sweetheart.”
“And that I love him very much,” Ciri adds on seriously.
“I’ll be sure to let him know,” Yennefer says with a grin, before leaning in to press a kiss to Ciri’s forehead
Ciri gives a decisive nod and finally allows Yen to extinguish the flame, flooding the room in darkness.
He and Yennefer sit side by side on the second bed. The quiet hanging between them is easy, comfortable, and Geralt feels like he can finally breathe. He just needs two minutes, just two damn minutes to try wrap his head around all of this. Yennefer, always able to read him, seems content to let the silence reign and wait until he’s ready. And so they sit, nestled in the dark, listening as Ciri’s breathing slows and evens out in sleep.
Yennefer is patient and she waits, waits until the tension in his jaw has loosened and the line of his shoulders has gone lax before she breaks the silence.
“Did you know?” She whispers, even without the faint moonlight breaking through the curtains he can see the furrow in her brow.
“No,” he answers honestly.
Something sour and aching stirs in his chest, making his stomach roil. Jaskier has been by his side for over 20 years, shouldn’t he have known? He sifts through his memories trying to find any clues or hints that could have led them here sooner, but comes up with nothing. Even their night around the fire, plotting their course around Lettenhove, would have slipped past if not for Erec crashing into their lives with context.
He can feel Yennefer's eyes appraising him, “this doesn’t change anything you know. Jaskier is still our bard. It’s not like finding out where he came from really affects anything. It’s not like he’s going to leave, and we’re certainly not going to push him away because of it.”
Geralt hums noncommittally, trying to identify the ache that has made its home behind his ribs. It’s not quite worry or fear like Yen was suggesting, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth all the same. Emotions have never been his strong suit, and trying to sort through the mess of feelings churning in his gut is frustrating. Jaskier would know, he thinks to himself. He always seems to know. One look at Geralt’s face and Jaskier can somehow cut through the confusing tangle and strike right at the heart of the matter.
Yen must see something in his face because she breathes out a soft “oh,” and reaches over to cradle his hands in hers, “you feel guilty.”
Geralt lets out a hard exhale at that. Guilt is something he knows all too well, but somehow this guilt feels different than what he’s experienced before. It’s not the heavy, aching, guilt that weighed down his every limb after Renfri. And it isn’t the icy cold guilt that settled itself deep into the marrow of his bones after he’d banished Jaskier on that damned mountain. This feeling was like a serpent coiling its way around his lungs, squeezing tighter with every breath.
“Jaskier takes care of us,” he starts slowly, “he always seems to know what we need, even without us having to tell him. Sometimes, without us even realizing it. He knows that Ciri loves lemon cakes, and goes out of his way to buy them for her whenever we stop in a town. He knows the scent of rose oil gives you headaches, so he’s stopped wearing it” Yennefer huffs out a small laugh at that, a gentle smile pulling at her lips. “He…he knows my potions overwhelm my sense, and always makes an effort to be quieter, softer, until their effects fade. He even knows what apples roach prefers for fucks sake.”
Silence hangs in the room as Geralt tries to find the right words, Yennefer’s thumb tracing comforting circles on the back of his hand as she waits patiently for him to finish.
“He listens to us, knows us. It feels like…we haven’t done the same for him,” he concludes finally, allowing himself to give Yennefer’s hand a gentle squeeze.
“Well, when you put it like that, he does spoil us doesn’t he?” Yennefer says softly.
“He loves us,” Geralt says.
When he finally looks up Yen is staring at him, eyes searching, “he does, doesn’t he?” she murmurs. Yennefer pulls herself to her feet, determination sparking in her eyes “I think we’ve been dancing around this thing between us for too long. While the flirtation has been fun, I want the bard to know he belongs with us.”
Geralt nods stiffly. Jaskier needs to know that he has a home with them, that they care for him.
“Is he alone?” Yen asks, and Geralt focuses for a moment, then hums in confirmation when he can only hear one heartbeat in the room next-door.
“Well then, let’s go take care of our songbird, shall we?” and he doesn’t resist as she tugs him up and out the door.
* * *
When they enter, Jaskier is hunched over the small washbasin in the corner, wiping at his face with a wet rag.
“Ciri all settled?”
Geralt grunts out a quick ‘Yes’ as Yen tugs him down to sit beside her on the bed.
“She says goodnight. And that she loves you very much.” Yen says, her eyes scanning up and down the bards slouched form.
Jaskier sets the rag down, a soft smile on his lips, “that girl always knows how to bring a smile to my face. I honestly don’t know where she gets such sweetness from, because it’s certainly not from any of us.”
Yennefer grins, “we love you too, you know.”
Jaskier lets out a hard, punched-out breath, “damn you Yennefer of Vengerburg, I just cleaned my face. If you make me start crying again, I will never forgive you.”
Yen’s grin widens, and she beckons Jaskier over to the space between them on the bed. The bard is still shaky as he sits, his face pale and eyes red-rimmed. Geralt has never seen Jaskier look like this before. He’s seen him cry of course, but he’s never seen him actually shaken.
Geralt knows he tends to be blunt, but right now he needs to try to approach this with some gentleness, some tact.
“You’re the son of the Baron of Lettenhove.”
Fuck
Much to Geralt’s relief Jaskier chuckles, “right to the point then? Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove, at your service,” he flourishes with a little half bow.
“That’s…” he struggles for a moment, “a lot of names.”
He winces as soon as the words leave his mouth. He does not dare turn to meet Yennefer’s eyes, knowing that whatever he finds there will not be good. Blessedly, Jaskier just barks out a laugh and melts into his side, resting his head on his shoulder. He’ll count that as a win.
Yennefer huffs out her own exasperated laugh, her hands moving to Jaskier’s and carefully entwining their fingers.
“You didn’t need to hide it from us,” she says carefully, “you know you’re safe with us, right?”
Jaskier squirms a bit, “Of course I know that,” he says fidgeting, “and I wasn’t really hiding it per-se. It wasn’t a lie when I said the baron’s son died in that stable. I’m not that person anymore, I don’t know if I ever really was that person, or if he was just a character I made to survive. Julian Pankratz is a stranger to me, and I do not mourn his loss. I’m more myself now than I ever was in that manor. Truly my life began with my first step outside that damn village, as just Jaskier.”
“I like just Jaskier better anyway,” Geralt says, turning to press a kiss into his chestnut hair. Yennefer coos at him in a way that has him scowling at her, but he can see her bring Jaskier’s hand to her lips, pressing her own brief kiss to the back of his hand.
“You’re not mad?” Jaskier asks softly, hesitantly.
“Oh darling, no. Never.” Yennefer says gently, her tone absolutely saccharine as her lips trail down to press another soft kiss against the fluttering pulse in his wrist
Jaskier’s heartbeat is thundering away in his chest, but he finally seems to relax fully, and Yen shoots him a sly look over the bard’s head. The scent coming off Jaskier now is intoxicating, nothing like the bitter stink of fear sweat that hung over him earlier. This was light, sweet, and heady and he wanted more. Yennefer’s free hand has moved now, trailing up and down Jaskier’s chest in a soothing rhythm, easily plucking open the buttons on his doublet as she goes. Once the final button has been mercifully undone Geralt happily assists in yanking it off his shoulders, earning them a startled squeak from the bard.
He lets his hand rest on Jaskier’s thigh, far too high up for it to be construed as innocent, and he can feel the heat of Jaskier’s skin through the delicate silk. He lets his grip tighten, lets his fingertips dig into the tender flesh of his inner thigh and he rewarded with a sweet moan.
Not one to be outdone, Yennefer uses this opportunity to lean in and trail kisses up and down the column of Jaskier’s exposed neck. Shudders are rolling through Jaskier’s body like waves and Geralt’s hands continue their path upward when Jaskier lets out a sudden high-pitched whimper that ignites a fire in his blood.
He looks up to see Yennefer soothing a bright purple mark painted just under his jaw, definitely too high to be covered by any of his fancy doublets. Something in him preens at that, at the thought of the bard walking around wearing their marks, and he doesn’t hesitate to thread his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and grip. Jaskier lets out a small mewling sound as he allows Geralt to tilt his head to the side and expose his neck so the witcher can leave a mark of his own.
Jaskier keeps letting out little sighs of pleasure that spurn them on, but when Yennefer’s hands dip down and begin to pull Jaskier’s shirt loose from his trousers, the bard’s whole body locks up.
“Wait, wait. It can, uh, stay on. Please. My back its—"
“Let us see,” Yennefer says, tugging at Jaskier’s loose chemise.
Jaskier winces, “I warn you, it’s not pretty.”
“It’s part of you,” Yen says firmly, “I don’t care how ugly you think it is. It’s part of you, and we will love you all the more for it, not in spite of it.”
The bard lets out a gusty breath, eyes darting between the two of them nervously before standing and pulling his chemise off in one quick, rough movement.
Geralt is not unfamiliar with scars, his own skin a raised map of his long life. But seeing them on Jaskier awakens something fiercely protective in him. His whole back is a gnarled mess of scar tissue, spanning up around his shoulders, with long tendrils that snake around his hips and down below the waistband of his pants.
“Lashes,” Geralt offers up quietly, earning himself a stilted nod.
“I don’t even remember what I did to earn them,” he says, voice uncharacteristically timid.
“You did nothing to earn this Jaskier,” Yennefer says fiercely, purple eyes blazing, “nothing you could have done would warrant such cruelty, you must know that.”
The bard slumps forward, like a marionette with cut strings and Geralt is overwhelmed with the sudden scent of fresh rain water.
Relief
And Geralt aches. Aches and wonders how long Jaskier has needed to hear that. Needed someone reassure him that it wasn’t his fault, that he didn’t deserve that.
Yennefer reaches out a delicate hand to trace along the branches or scar tissue curled around the knob of his spine.
“Does it hurt?” she asks when a shiver rolls down Jaskier’s spine. By the smirk starting to curl at her lips, Geralt’s sure she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“N-nope. No pain here. That feels just— Geralt!”
Geralt's own hand has taken up residence on the small of his back, fingers skimming carefully over the rough terrain of skin. Jaskier is trembling, but there’s still no scent of fear. He’s pliant in their hands as he and Yennefer pull him to lie back on the bed, safely nestled between the two of them.
Yennefer’s hands cradle Jaskier’s face gently as she pulls him into a tender kiss. Geralt’s hand has found its home on Jaskier’s hip, his thumb moving in rhythmic circles as he watches the pair. When Yen finally pulls away Jaskier is dazed, his lips shiny and swollen. Geralt doesn’t hesitate to swoop in and steal a kiss for himself.
It takes hardly a moment for them to divest Jaskier of his trousers, leaving him in just his smallclothes. There’s a flush high on his cheekbones that trails down his neck and all the way to his chest and Geralt longs to trace the path with his tongue.
“You know, I think the two of you are rather overdressed,” he says looking up at them coyly from under his lashes.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Yen purrs. A sly look passes between them and Geralt has about half a second to be nervous before there’s hands everywhere, pulling at his shirt and the laces of his pants. Suddenly his sight is completely obscured by cloth as Jaskier struggles to pull his shirt over his head.
“Fuck, hold still,” Jaskier manages to say through fits of giggles.
He finally pulls his head free of the linen trappings with a few muttered curses and a glare toward the still snickering bard. It seems that while he was ensnared, Yennefer had gone ahead and shed her fancy dress, leaving her in nothing but a soft white shift. She’s made herself comfortable, lounging against Jaskier’s chest.
“Don’t forget the pants Geralt,” she chimes in, eyes shamelessly roving up and down his form.
He rolls his eyes and stands, his ears burning when bends down to remove his pants and is met with a chorus of whistles and cat-calls. He tries to glare at them over his shoulder, but the pair are unrepentant in their leering as he straightens back up.
He lays himself down on Jaskier’s other side, pulling the bard to him and rearranging them so Geralt’s chest is pressed against his back and Yennefer is curled up against is front, with her face tucked into his neck.
He knows that tonight they won’t go any further, Jaskier is exhausted, hell even he’s exhausted. Their earlier burning passion has faded into a low simmer, a warm promise for the future. Tonight, it’s enough for the three of them to hold each other close.
Jaskier’s breathing has slowed, and Geralt himself is halfway to dozing when the bard’s soft voice floats through the dark, “y’know, Erec invited us over tomorrow. To meet his family.”
“That’s good Jask,” he rumbles, nuzzling into his tawny locks.
Jaskier lets out sleepy chuckle, snuggling further into their embrace “He says after everything I’ve put him through that I owe him some free performances.”
“We’re happy to go,” Yennefer says warmly.
There’s no harm, after all, of staying in town an extra day.
But tonight, Jaskier’s bare skin is warm against him and he can hear his heartbeat, smooth and even, and the whole room smells like them. Like home, like family. And finally, finally, Geralt is as ease.