Archive of Our Own ^beta

Geralt stares straight ahead, his gaze distractedly on the woman sitting elegantly in front of him, ignoring the useless chatter around and the various whisperings murmured not too softly. The woman drums her fingers against the table with an annoying rhythm, not following the music but only perhaps the nervousness she is feeling – nervousness probably given by the fact that she had to request the services of a Witcher with even the promise of a payment. What an outrage, Geralt thinks, bored.

"Hey, you," the woman – has she told them her name? Geralt does not remember it, in any case – drums her hands more insistently on the table, an unnerved frown to make her facial features ugly, and one of the servants gives a light nudge – perhaps not too soft, noticing the whine coming out of his lips – on Jaskier's back, who only at that moment realizes the woman is talking to him, "remove those hands from that food, it's not for you two."

"But my lady," Jaskier turns away from the food and from the group of ladies who, like him, attacked the laid table, and fortunately only Geralt notices the stuffed sweets that he hid in the swollen sleeves of his doublet, "I thought that this was a buffet?"

The woman rolls her eyes, "Of course it is, but you are not my guest at the moment so you are forbidden to touch even a drop of that wine, have I made myself clear?"

Jaskier grimaces, raises his arms to the sky – and Geralt is almost impressed that none of those sweets fall off his sleeves, seriously – and goes back into hiding behind Geralt's shoulders, assuming a vaguely offended expression, "Rude."

Both Geralt and the woman ignore him.

"Lady Maria," a man at her side bends slightly to whisper something in her ear, trying to be discreet and not knowing at all that Geralt can hear perfectly what he's saying, "explain what you want from the Witcher, so we can get rid of them."

Lady Maria nods, then drums her fingers back against the table and focuses her eyes on Geralt, "Witcher," she says, "I called you because I have a job for you."

Geralt nods, bowing his head slightly, and Lady Maria seems almost pleased with his submission.

"I want you to find an object that was stolen from me." The woman snaps her fingers and the same man as before approaches Geralt to give him a sheet with a sketch on it – of a crown. "It's a tiara." she corrects, almost as if she has read it in his mind. Geralt hopes that's not the case, he doesn't want to be in his own mind lately either. "My parents were traveling along the coast last month, and they were shipwrecked because of–" The woman wrinkles her nose in disgust, "Because of Sirens, which enchanted all the crew and all of them were dragged into their waters, along with all the belongings they wore. No survivors, only their ship was found, intact."

"I'm sorry, Lady Maria." Jaskier murmurs sweetly, and Geralt feels a heartache every time Jaskier says something not extremily stupid. "It must not have been easy for you to lose your parents in such an atrocious way and without even having their bodies to shed your tears of pain–"

"Oh, shut up!" Lady Maria interrupts him, and Geralt would really like to tell her that she is the one who should shut up and listen to Jaskier's words of comfort, but he knows that he would say something stupid in that a case. "I don't care about those two, they knew they were going to the Siren–infested area and so they only got what they deserved." she says maliciously, then slams a hand up on the table again. "My mother was a particularly eccentric woman, and she always went around with that tiara in her hair. I want it, now it is mine by right: I am sure that it is now in the hands of the Sirens, after all it is known that they usually collect all the objects of their victims and bring them to their nests. So, Witcher, since it's Sirens we're talking about, this is your field, I certainly cannot send my men to an inevitable death."

To be a noblewoman of high lineage, with beautiful shiny clothes, gold jewelry on her ears and around her neck, and diamonds around her fingers, her behavior is so... so...

Rude, Jaskier would say.

"Oh, fun, Sirens. I've never seen Sirens before!" Jaskier seems particularly excited at the idea of meeting Sirens, and Geralt can very well imagine why.

"Obviously you will be rewarded, Witcher. Profoundly." With another snap of her fingers, the usual man stands behind Lady Maria and shows Geralt three abundant bags full of gold.

"We accept. We absolutely accept the contract, Geralt, right? We accept immediately, and we immediately set off to work." Jaskier nods, leaning on his arm a little as if he is looking out of a window. Geralt doesn't know if he should be outraged to be treated like a window or not. "Even if I don't fully understand why, having all this money to spend, you want to go and get a tiara that has been more than a month in the water or, even worse, under the scorching sun, obviously we all know that they are two things that aren't very good at maintaining such a valuable object, but who are we to complain, right?"

"Hm," Geralt grunts. He would like to tell him to shut up, but he can't. Not so much because he knows it's a battle already lost from the start, but because he really isn't strong enough – not anymore, at least, not for years now.

"Not that knowing why is important! Witcher, just bring me what I asked for and the gold will be yours. Don't even worry about coming back without it, or I'll have your hands cut off."

Geralt looks one last time at the tiara drawn on that crumpled parchment sheet, noting the elegant finishes and the gigantic green jewel set in the center, folds it, puts it in the bag that Jaskier carries attached to his waist and then takes his arm, dragging him away. "A week and I will be here with what you asked for." it's the last thing Geralt says before they go, while Jaskier, always attached to his arm, stealthily tries to grab something else to eat.

Once outside Lady Maria's huge manor, Jaskier waits for the large white marble doors to close behind them, before pulling out what appears to be a sweet roll covered in molasses, and hands it to Geralt, "Geralt, taste it, believe me, you will not regret it, I think I have not tried anything so good except when I was no more than a meter tall and still lived with my parents. I managed to hide a dozen rolls in my sleeves, do you think Roach can eat one?"

Geralt doesn't really like to eat sweet things, but with Jaskier looking at him with those bright eyes, wider than usual, and with that enthusiastic smile on his lips that glisten with molasses stains on them, he still can't say no – damn, he can't tell him no it's been years. Then he takes the sweet roll between his fingers and eats it, without paying too much attention in its taste but instead enjoying Jaskier's satisfied expression.

"Ugh. It was not a brilliant idea to put the sweets in the sleeves, now I have my arms sticky of molasses. I really need a bath." sighs Jaskier, taking another roll and bringing it closer to Roach's mouth, once they reach the point where they left her before. Geralt looks at the pout on Jaskier's face, and how he tries with all his strength not to burst out laughing because of the tickle that Roach is causing him while licking his hand, and thinks he would really like to satisfy all his requests – and how he hates not being able to do it.

"There is a river nearby." he says then.

Jaskier looks at him, if possible, more sulky than before. "I asked for a bath, a hot bath! I'm covered in sugar, Geralt, the fish would eat me alive if I just try to get into a river!" he burst out melodramatically, putting a hand on his forehead, and then regretting it immediately after noticing that he had smeared molasses and Roach's saliva on his face. "Ugh." repeats.

Geralt observes him while, panicked, he doesn't know where to put his hands and he can't completely hold back a smile. But really, why should he hold back? The only one who is currently watching him is Roach – who seems to judge him with her steady and dark gaze, ignoring Jaskier's agitation at her side but all too observant about Geralt's good mood.

Geralt absentmindly passes a rag to Jaskier, which he drags out from Roach's saddlebag, under the impassive gaze of the horse. Jaskier thanks him profoundly.

"Oh! Do you know what I was thinking, my dear Witcher?" Jaskier says at one point, after starting travel south, "We are going to the coast, Geralt. The coast! Finally! I've been waiting for this moment all my life!"

"And why didn't you go there before?" he asks, pulling lightly on Roach's reins, watching how the bard walks almost on tiptoe in front of them, still licking his fingers.

"Alone? It's not fun, Geralt, doing something alone." he replies, shrugging. "I've always performed where, well, where people knew me the most, and where I found more people willing to pay a lot of coins for every song. I've never been beyond big cities alone, but since I travel with you I'm starting to fight my own limits." Jaskier turns slightly and gives him a wink, "Who knows, maybe they heard about me even south!"

Geralt smiles, "We will see that shortly. The coast shouldn't be too far away, at your pace it's about three days."

"Oh, what a pity, we are forced to go at my pace since you don't want me to get on Roach! Yet this little girl now loves me! It doesn't seem like she wants to take off one of my limb every time her huge black as a void eyes land on me. I fed her and she didn't even bite me!" Jaskier approaches Roach and pats her, "She adores me now."

"Even if she no longer feels the need to eat you, she can't take the both us for a whole day's walk, Jaskier."

Jaskier turns and looks at him with his wide cornflower blue eyes and open mouth, "Are you implying that I'm fat, Geralt? We should stay out of this argument, for your own good, sir." Then he raises his arms and smiles at him, and something inside Geralt melts at that sight, "But I'm too happy to be mad at you right now. It will take us three days, but finally I will see the ocean! I think that when I was a child the first time I desidered to travel was to go to the coast: I always felt the need to go there, you know? It is as if there was someone or something there who has always been calling me. I always felt, and still feel, like there's a pull, dragging me there. Who knows," With his hands on his chest, he makes a sign of something very abundant,"maybe the Sirens!"

"Shut up and walk!" Geralt rolls his eyes and pulls Roach's reins a little more, under Jaskier's laughter, and in these cases, really, telling him to keep his mouth shut isn't difficult at all.

After three days spent with Jaskier by the river taking all the sugar from his arms – he had to take the risk, considering that if the fishes wouldn't eat him, ants would do it as soon as they camped – and after Geralt listened him complaining about the cold and how it shouldn't be this cold near the sea, they finally reached a village a few hours before noon.

It is small, and not far from the coast. He can feel the salt in the air, the sound of the sea crashing against the sand is relaxing and the chatter of the people is only a background hum.

A very pity it's raining.

"Yes, it's raining." Jaskier says, tying the lute in his case – which he used to cover himself from the light rain above his head until a few seconds ago – to Roach's saddle, "But we have finally arrived at the coast, so you understand, I can't help myself. Really, Geralt, I can't. You can not stop me. I have to go."

"I'm not stopping you. But wouldn't it be better to wait for the rain to stop? Maybe we should go to the inn first?"

"I've waited long enough!" Jaskier shouts as he walks away to the sound of the sea.

Geralt shakes his head, a half smile on his lips, and already resigned follows him. He ties Roach to a tree in the small grove that surrounds the village and divide it from the coast, and once the ground becomes sticky and wet sand and his boots begin to sink into it, he looks for Jaskier. And when he finds him, he just stands there looking at him, feeling a little silly, standing on the edge of the grove.

Jaskier has taken off his shoes and has abandoned them away from the shore, and somehow managed to lift the edges of his bright red trousers by rolling them up above his knees. His doublet is also abandoned near the shoes and his half-open chemise is wet and snug on the shoulders and chest. His brown hair is stuck on his forehead and ends up in his eyes, Geralt looks at him as he tries to remove the locks from his eyes, laughing, with the water that wets his feet.

Jaskier kicks the water like a kid, splashing it all around him, and seems to be dancing under the rain – and Geralt, Gods, Geralt would just like to find a way to see this scene again and again, looped through all of his miserable existence. He feels tight in his chest, and his heart beats faster than it has ever done before, he feels a lump in his throat and his stomach writhing in something that isn't exactly painful, but doesn't know if it's something pleasant or not.

Fuck.

Jaskier laughs louder when he sees him, and his laughter is crystal clear despite the background noises, "Geralt, it feels fantastic! Have you ever been so close to the ocean before today?"

Geralt approaches, even if he feels too much. He doesn't feel suitable for that scene, he doesn't feel himself worthy to approach Jaskier and spoil his good mood with his ugly presence and grunts, but he'll behave. For him.

He is a few meters away from him, when he can smell his scent, strong and pungent. Jaskier smells of chamomile and rain and salt.

"No," he says finally, as he lets him play like an infant in the middle of the salty water, which now reaches his mid-thigh and barely wets his red trousers. "I just passed through Novigrad once, a long time ago. There aren't many monsters near the ocean, usually."

"This means that it is also your first time. Nice. I am extremely pleased that it's with me, after all it is really difficult to find something that you have never done before, with all the time you have had. I am honored, dear Witcher!"

He bows, with one hand on his chest and the other pulled upwards. Wet hair returns to his eyes, and he puffs when he returns to an upright position, trying again to pull it back. Geralt sees him put his hand into the water, and he does not have time – he does not expect such a thing, who in his right mind would do it anyway? – to stop him that Jaskier immediately brings his fingers in his mouth, tasting the sea.

Geralt expects to see him spit, disgusted, but when he only sees him shrug, he asks: "Jaskier. Did you just drink sea water?"

"Hm? Yes, why? I wanted to know what it tasted like. It's not that great, but I drank worse in the worst taverns on the Continent. Maybe it's a little too salty, and vaguely tastes like fish, more than river water I mean, but well, in the end salt is an excellent condiment, isn't it? And I love fish. Geralt, do you think they serve seafood at the inn? You know, so close to the sea I don't think they would serve something from the sewers if we try to order some."

Geralt has stopped being surprised years ago now.

So he just turns his back on him, and he hears him splashing a little, trying to keep up with him. When he knows that Jaskier is now with his feet on the sand – and, hopefully, already in his light leather shoes – he says: "Let's go and see."

He approaches Roach, lightly stroking her mane, and Roach looks at him a little resigned, perhaps because she had to wait half an hour in the rain for Jaskier to finish playing with the water. Geralt would like to tell her that he understands her, if just seeing Jaskier so carefree wasn't one of the few joys of his existence.

He rolls his eyes after those thoughts. It really should stop.

"Yes, sure, let's go! Do you think we can afford a bath? I've been looking for one for three days, ohw, I'm sure I still have some sugar somewhere on my arms, and now some salt too? Who knows how bad my poor skin must taste!"

Geralt really doesn't want to know. No, really, he doesn't want to.

It really should stop.

Pull the reins of Roach, crossing the small grove again, "We have enough money, let's go."

"Great! Thanks, my dear friend!" Jaskier says, hopping beside him, his trousers still held at knee level and his shirt open on his chest.

The inn is located on the edge of the village, farther than usual from the small marketplace. It is small, strangely well kept and clean except for small grains of sand on the wooden floor. The innkeeper, a plump woman with a light layer of hair over her lips, welcomes them with kindness despite the critical eye thrown on their clothing. The woman, nor the other patrons present in the common room, says anything about him being Witcher – they remain quite indifferent, and Geralt decides to take advantage, for once, of the lack of malicious whispers behind him and spit at his feet.

Also because Geralt doesn't know how long it will take to find that tiara – and to convince any Sirens that currently have it – so he feels relieved knowing that, leaving Jaskier here without his supervision, there is no risk that the bard will destroy his beloved lute against the head of one of the patrons.

After bringing Roach to the building, the innkeeper gives them a not too small room, with a bed with straw-smelling sheets, a lighted fireplace and a corner occupied by a tin tub already full to the brim with boiling water. Jaskier does not even wait for Geralt to close the door properly behind him, before throwing – gently – the lute on the bed and undressing, throwing his clothes recklessly on the floor. He emits a long, ecstatic sigh, when his wet and frozen limbs touch the hot water.

"Oh, finally. I've waited so long, but today it seems to be a really rewarding day, and it's only noon!" Jaskier mumbles, sinking into the water up to his chin. Geralt sits on the bed, putting his swords next to the lute, and takes off his armor, letting it dry near the fireplace. "Who knows what else the rest of the day has in store for me."

"You will stay here in the inn, Jaskier. Don't expect anything." Geralt grunts, and is already mentally preparing for the endless complaints that will follow his words.

"Wha–" Jaskier splutters, "What, no. No, I'll come too, Geralt. You can't leave me here!"

"Can't I?"

"Don't look at me with that defiant look, Geralt, you know that it doesn't work on me. Do you really want to leave me here while you go having fun with some prosperous Siren in the middle of the vast ocean? Geralt, I thought we were friends!"

And this is exactly why Jaskier has to stay there at the inn: Geralt doesn't have much experience with Sirens, but he knows he needs to concentrate in order not to fall into their allure. And he certainly does not have the time and the way to think about safeguarding Jaskier – Jaskier who, and Geralt would put his hand into the fire, would throw himself into the sea even without the sing of the Sirens just to follow one. No, out of questions. He cannot allow something to happen to Jaskier, not at sea, not after he has waited so long to see it... it would not become his grave, Geralt would not allow Jaskier to be taken away from him like this.

"Do you want to die, Jaskier?" he then asks, taking off his black tunic and letting it dry near the fire.

“What a silly and useless question. Of course not."

"Then stay here."

"But," and he pouts. Oh Gods, he pouts and the little shit knows that Geralt can't resist it, "you're there with me. I'm not in any danger! You wouldn't let anyone hurt your best and unique and most talented friend."

Geralt looks at him, narrowing his eyes, as Jaskier leans over one side of the tub, rests his arms on the edge with his face on his hands. He pouts even more. His threatening gaze has no effect on that pout. Geralt hates him – or at least tries to, only to give himself the strength to fight this blatant lost battle.

"You– you won't let them eat me, will you?" Jaskier asks, in a small voice, with that pout, after almost only a minute of silence.

"Stay here and you can be sure of it."

Jaskier shudders and widens his already too big blue eyes, then puts a hand on his heart. "Geralt, here. You're hurting me, right here."

Geralt rolls his eyes. Then he decides to go to the tub and sit on his knees, reaching the height of Jaskier's face still resting in his hands. So close, Geralt manages to see all the blue shades in his wide-open eyes, which go from cerulean to ultramarine around the pupils. He can see every little drop of water resting on his red lips, and as his tongue flickers slowly to touch them, he accentuates his pout even more.

And Geralt feels foolish, even if he doesn't even know why. He grits his teeth, when he feels Jaskier's heart don't miss even a beat at his proximity. "I don't have... a lot of experience with Sirens, Jaskier. Do you understand what that means? It means I can't get distracted, and you are a constant distraction for me."

Now, apart the pout, a frown also forms on Jaskier's expressive face. Oh, Gods, the frown. "I don't know much about Sirens, of course, except for some legend or ballad about them." he says, sighing melodramatically, "But isn't it more logical that you, um, that you carry a distraction with you? I mean, I don't know how their charms work or, "he makes a vague gesture with one hand, splashing little droplets on the floor, "what it is that they do, but isn't it better that you don't pay attention to them and to their voices? If you are too busy thinking about me, you will not think of their persuasive voices that lull you gently towards the cold oblivion of the deep and icy waters of the ocean."

He's not– he's not wrong. "Or we'll both end up in the ocean."

If he has to choose, he prefers to end up alone in the jaws of the Sirens, and leave Jaskier safe and sound in the village.

"I won't leave you alone. If you fall, I will fall too."

Geralt doesn't answer. What the hell is going to answer after such a statement? If only Geralt were really like the Witchers of the horror stories that parents tell their children, he could easily ignore what he feels – fuck, he wouldn't even feel anything in that case. Unfortunately, Geralt is not like those Witchers. None of them really are. He's so angry now at him – because no, he will never let him fall with him –, and he's overwhelmed, and he doesn't fucking know what to say.

"Hm."

"Just the answer I craved! This kind of grunt means you're giving in, my dear Witcher with a tender heart. Look, I offer you an agreement:" Jaskier approaches even more, leaning a little more on the edge of the tub and almost touching Geralt's nose with his. Geralt doesn't waver. He tries not to. "I will sing and perform during lunch, and I will earn enough money for a nice meal and for the rent a of a boat, so you won't have to go looking for Sirens, for their nest or their island by swimming, and to pay me back for my hard work, you will let me come with you."

"Do you know you're wallowing in my hard work? To repay me, you could stay here."

"Nah. I like my proposal more, and also I made it first. So?"

Geralt stares at him, and the pout is gone, as is the frown. Geralt has definitely lost. "I– I really don't have a way to convince you to stay here?"

Jaskier shakes his head, and the tips of his wet hair spur adding more drops to the ones he spilled on the floor earlier. "Nope. C'mon, Geralt." finally, he reaches his hands in prayer in front of his face. The last attempt, although he has now practically won. "Please?"

Geralt grimaces with his nose, getting up and approaching the fire again. His breeches are still wet. "I will regret it." he mutters softly.

But Jaskier hears him and exults, “Naah, you won't! Thank you, Geralt, for this magnanimous gesture of yours towards me, the whole world will rejoice in listening to an epic ballad."

"Yeah, sure."

"Less enthusiastic, Geralt. It's too much, I could get my hopes up."

Geralt lets him speak as he waits for his clothes to dry. He lets him talk as he soapes himself and removes that smell of rain and salt, and the room is filled with the scent of his skin oil that smells of chamomile.

Somehow, the salty scent of the sea remains on Jaskier the same even after finishing his bath.

❁

Jaskier is particularly good at only two things: the first is, of course, singing and dancing and playing his lute. He considers himself one of the best, and no, it is not only pride that speaks – he is very modest, thank you very much – but also his audience acclaims him and idolizes him as if he were the very best in the whole wide world. The second is, well... he's not very proud of it, but Jaskier considers himself very good at pissing off his Witcher. Mind you, he doesn't do it on purpose: sometimes he says the wrong thing at the wrong time, and it happens, alright? Or, occasionally it happens to run into some monster on the road when he was clearly ordered to sit still and wait with Roach. They are mostly accidents, but Jaskier is good at making them happen.

In recent years, however, Geralt no longer gets angry with him. Usually, he just rolls his eyes when Jaskier starts complaining, or looks at him resignedly and almost– he would say fondly, when Jaskier asks him to postpone their departure because, oh, he wants to sing one last song for that wonderful audience.

And Jaskier, for perhaps the first time in his life, doesn't know how to react, doesn't know what to say.

So he does what he always do: sing, dance, play, and provoke Geralt.

"The bards who passed around here can be counted on the fingers of one hand." the innkeeper is telling them after they leave their room for lunch and Jaskier has taken his lute out of its case. "So go, boy, these generous customers can't wait to hear you sing."

"Oh, what an outrage. They're fools, the lot of them, to not come back here and make this music-hungry audience dance and sing! On the other hand, you will see me very often, if my companion allows it."

Geralt ignores him, sitting down on one of the farthest tables. Jaskier sees him laying his swords on his side and placing his cloak on them – a habit he has recently taken, people tend to get scared and not get very close with swords in plain sight, and he would also be fine with Geralt if it wasn't that even the waitresses never manage to bring their dishes without being poured on the ground because of their trembling arms.

Jaskier makes the gesture of kissing the innkeeper's knuckles, without however resting his lips on her – he still remains a gentleman – then, lute tight on his chest and his fingers already on the strings, he puts himself in the center of not too full the common room. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Geralt talking quickly to a waitress with a sweet face and light hair, and she finally smiles as she leaves with what should be their orders.

Jaskier strums a little, attracting the attention of patrons who are eating and drinking at their tables, alone or in company, young and old, women, men and children. Jaskier smiles at all of them and says, "My beloved audience, my voice and my music are at your complete disposal."

And then sing. He sings a song he hasn't heard in years, in decades. He sings a song that the last time he heard it he was a little more than an infant, and was in the arms of a beautiful woman who smelled just like the sea a few hours earlier.

"Upon one summer's morning / I carefully did stray / Down by the walls of wapping / Where I meet a sailor gay." he sings, and he smiles, and he dances, "Conversing with a young lass / Who seem'd to be in pain / Saying, William, when you go I fear you'll ne'er return again."

Women sigh, men clap their hands against the wood of the tables in time to music, accompanying the lute. The waitress looks at him with her face resting on her hands under her chin, the innkeeper at her side smiles and claps her hands together with her customers. People seem to increase as they sing, the common room fills up and Jaskier feels himself shining in the center of their attention.

He looks at Geralt, and Geralt is looking at him too, his golden eyes are fixed on him and do not waver, they remain motionless on a completely impassive face. Jaskier winks at him.

"His hair it hangs in ringlets / His eyes as black as coal / My happiness attend him / Wherever he may go."

Jaskier pretends to pay attention to whoever walks around him, to all the women who dance beside him, to those men who already drink a toast to him. But in reality, his eyes always slide towards Geralt – and he hopes he can feel his longing, his wanting, his love. But Geralt just shakes his head, and gives him a small smile which means the world to Jaskier, but ...

But it's not enough.

"My heart is pierced by Cupid / I disdain all glittering gold / There is nothing can console me / But my jolly sailor bold."

❁

Geralt accompanies Jaskier with his eyes until the bard sits next to him – closer than he expected, but Geralt doesn't push him away. He inhales his scent that smells of chamomile and sea, a salty tip from the sweat that sticks the fringe of hair to his forehead. His heart beats as strong as the wings of a canary, and his deep breaths crash against his shoulder when Jaskier leans tiredly on it.

"I'm exhausted." he says, with a smile on his lips.

"Hm." Geralt nods, "You sang and hopped around for two hours."

"They deserved it! Poor people, who knows how long they haven't seen a real performance, I had to make up for their lack of that. It is my duty as a bard. Hmm? Haven't you eaten yet, Geralt?"

Geralt shrugs, his frown on the empty table. "I was waiting for you. I asked the waitress to bring the orders once you are done." Then he raises a hand, which is closed around a mug of ale, "Not the drink though."

"Ohw. Geralt. My darling Witcher." Jaskier raises a hand towards him and – and Geralt remains completely still, he doesn't even dare breathe. But all Jaskier does is just give him a very light pat on the chin, before grabbing the mug and drinking at least half of its fill, and Geralt starts breathing normally. "You're a life saver, my friend. Thanks for the ale, by the way, my throat is killing me and I feel my lips and mouth dry, not really a good feeling but, alas, it is worth all of it."

"Hm."

Geralt absently watches the waitress approaching with the two dishes he ordered. He sees her smile at Jaskier, before saying, "It's on the house. We haven't had so many customers for years, bard, and it's all thanks to your music."

Jaskier's eyes begin to shine at those words, and Geralt is unable to take his eyes off his bright face, his rosy cheeks, his ale wet lips stretched into a broad smile. "I am here to serve, my lady!"

Geralt just makes a grateful gesture with his head, just before the girl leaves the steaming dishes in front of them and leaves.

Jaskier leans over to the food and inhales deeply. Geralt tries to convince himself that seeing him lick his lips isn't causing him any reaction. "Is this soup? Oh, Gods, it smells divine."

"Fish."

"Fish?"

Geralt indicates the soup, "Fish soup. You wanted to eat seafood, didn't you?"

"Y– yeah, I did." Jaskier looks at him, and remains silent for what seems to Geralt whole minutes and there is certainly something wrong. Finally, before Geralt could ask him anything, Jaskier smiles at him – and it's a ... it's a gentle, not mischievous, not amused, not funny, but sweet smile – and exults, "This day is getting better and better, Geralt, I'm speechless. At this point I wonder what could go wrong: will I fall into the sea? Or in the jaws of the Sirens? Or worse still, the tiara we are looking for is perhaps cursed and as soon as I touch it I will turn into a sea monster and that for the rest of my life I will have to sail in the dark seas of the Continent waiting for a sweet lady to break my curse with the power of her love– "

"Jaskier," Geralt interrupts him, but he can't completely hide a smile. Not to Jaskier, at least, seeing how his blue eyes sparkle looking at his face, "eat. Stop blabbing. "

"Aye, aye."

They eat in relative silence, except for Jaskier who moans satisfied with every taste – "Oh, sweet mother of... Geralt, it doesn't taste like sewers." –. Geralt does not finish his portion completely, and almost without even noticing, he pushes his plate towards Jaskier, who exults and continues to eat.

Once he sees him satisfied, with his eyes closed and his head resting softly on the wall behind him, a blissful and satisfied expression on his face, Geralt asks him: "The first song you sang... I never heard it before."

And it is the first time that happens to him, after all: Jaskier has been traveling with him for years, and Geralt has always had the privilege – as Jaskier defines it, at least – to hear to any draft of the ballads or poetry that he is composing, especially during long wandering between one city and the other, or when they are forced to camp in the woods at night. Perhaps he will never admit it, but Geralt likes that privilege, and even if he doesn't seem to, he is always attentive to any poetry that comes from those lips, sang with that voice.

So it's strange for him to hear something new.

"Uh? Oh, it's not mine. My grandmother used to sing it to me when I was not even a meter tall and I could still have the good fortune to rest my face on her breast without risking my hands cut off. Good times, those." Jaskier sighs, looking thoughtfully in front of him, "I don't know why it came now in my mind, I never sang it before today. This place reminded me of it."

"Hm."

"Funny, isn't it? I haven't thought about that song in decades, but I've had it in my head since I set foot in this place. Maybe grandmother came here when she was young. Who knows, maybe here she met her jolly sailor bold. One of many, I mean." Jaskier chuckles, running a hand over his full stomach, "The mind works in mysterious ways. It will certainly come to mind if she told me about this place."

"She told you about the coast."

"About the coast, the sea, the ocean, yes. It is thanks to her stories if I have always wanted to come here, after all! But let's talk about more serious things," Suddenly, Jaskier takes his clinking purse and places it not too gently on the table, next to the now empty plates. "Is this enough to rent a boat? Considering that the food was an offer and the patrons were much more generous than expected..."

Geralt weighs the leather purse, taking it in one hand, "More that enough, I think."

"Perfect! We just have to find someone who has a boat, and convince them with these glittering coins to lend it to us, risking not to have it back intact, or not have it back at all. Um, maybe it's better to leave out the details?"

Geralt gets up, and still leaves two coins on the table for the waitress. They have more than enough money, after all, "Let's go, the sooner we go and the sooner we come back. I don't want to be in the middle of the sea at night."

"More monsters?" Jaskier asks, getting up too and trotting at his side as they leave the inn.

"More Sirens."

"So, more monsters." Jaskier nods, "Adventure waits!"

❁

As expected, once they arrive at the pier, there are hundreds of boats waiting for them – although the beach seems to be empty just like that morning. Considering however that the pier seems to be bigger than the village itself, Jaskier is quite positive that a boat, for them, will be surely found – in that place, they all seem so friendly, afer all, so easygoing. In a corner of his mind he thinks that if he were to settle down somewhere, he would love to choose this as a place to spend his retirement.

Who knows if Geralt is willing to stop for a few years, to stand by him while awaiting for eternal oblivion. But Jaskier feels too young to think about this, there will be time to think about it in a couple of decades – he hopes.

At Geralt's heartfelt request, Jaskier remains a few steps back while he discusses with a burly man with shaved hair, the only one they found and who they stopped a few minutes ago while he was pulling fishing nets from the sea.

Jaskier does not hear what Geralt and the man are saying, but from where he is waiting he can perfectly see the man's face frowning, confused, while still being quite wary – as everyone always is, after all, in front of his golden hearted Witcher, although in that village, however, they seem less wary than usual, at least.

The man reaches out and grabs the bag full of coins that Geralt is offering him, weighs it for a few seconds, then opens it and peeks inside. He raises an eyebrow and looks at Geralt, narrowing his gaze, and starts to discuss a little more animatedly.

Jaskier shudders on the spot, desiring with all his being to reach them and, who knows, threaten that fisherman to throw him overboard if he did not give up his boat, but he already knows that Geralt would be totally opposed to that type of behavior, therefore he remains there waiting, with arms crossed against his chest, his lute on one shoulder. Maybe it would have been better to leave the lute at the inn, in their room, but if he has to die that day, he wants to sink together with his only love. After Geralt, of course.

"So? Can he give us the boat?" he asks Geralt once the Witcher moves away from the fisherman and reaches him.

"He doesn't rent it with the risk of never seeing it again." Geralt says, with a slight growl that echoes in his throat. Sexy, Jaskier would think, if they don't have that little problem that, now, they will probably end up reaching their goal swimming. He can't even swim, fucking hell! "So he sells it. And I had to buy it."

"But what a great bastard! ...wait, what?"

"We don't have time to go find someone else!"

Jaskier spreads his arms, exasperated. Well, is't it always Geralt's prerogative to act without hearing the voice of reason? "We don't have enough money, Geralt."

"We have no more money, Jaskier." Geralt grimaces, with a darkened face. "I've already bought it. Now come on, I said I don't want to sail at night."

The sun is high in the sky, and only a few clear clouds remember the bad weather of that morning. In the air he can still breathe the smell of rain, but Jaskier does not perceive any storm on the horizon. He puts a hand on his forehead, trying to cover his eyes from the blinding rays of sun, while he sighs dramatically. "Next time, Geralt, let me do the talking."

He growls.

"Don't– don't growl at me, you big oaf!"

He totally refuses to take off his doublet, despite now feeling the chemise stuck on his back, drenched in sweat. Panting, Jaskier rows like he's never done before in his life – no really, he's never done it before, and he doesn't even understand why he should do it now. He casts a look, that Jaskier wishes to be threatening but perhaps he is only extreamily tired by fatigue, at Geralt, who, on the other hand, is seated on the boat in front of him, his arms crossed against his chest, his fingers that, however, snap lightly at any noise that there shouldn't be. They are, in fact, any noise other than the waves crashing against the boat, the oars that creak, and the moans in Jaskier's throat.

"May I know why I have to row? I don't even know where the hell I'm going!"

Geralt does not take his golden eyes off the track that only he can see behind Jaskier, "You are doing well, the island is straight ahead. I cannot row myself, otherwise I would not have time to take the sword if anything dangerous gets too close to us."

"Bollocks. We both know you could do it anyway!" he gasps, with shortness of breath. He feels his arms and shoulders burning, and he already knows, he just knows, that tomorrow morning it will already be a miracle if he could get out of bed.

"Hm," murmurs Geralt, and softly adds something that looks dangerously like: "it can do you good a little exercise."

"Are you implying again that I'm fat, Geralt? I'm not in a good mood right now, I might not forgive you!"

Geralt nods with a smile, and with that gesture he lights up something in Jaskier. Probably more anger than any other positive feeling. "I meant stamina, actually."

"You are... you are...! Fuck! I can't breath! "

"Don't talk. Save your breath. In with your nose, out with your mouth."

Jaskier inhales through his nose, "I fucking," then again, "Hate you," and again, "So much," and again, "Right now."

Geralt looks at him with an amused expression, and with a particular light in his eyes that Jaskier likes to think is fondness. "Nailed it, I guess." Suddenly, Geralt darkens his face, and a hand runs towards the hilt of his silver sword. "Now, Jaskier, I really need you not make the slightest noise."

Jaskier stops rowing, trying to breathe as slowly as possible. He absently sees the medallion with the wolf vibrating against Geralt's chest, and although he feels safe – he trusts Geralt, he knows that he would not allow anything or anyone to harm him – a slight uneasiness begins to rise from his stomach, making it a little more difficult try to breathe slowly.

"I didn't tell you to stop rowing, Jaskier." Geralt says at some point. His eyes are focused on the sea that surrounds them, and on the fog that slowly and almost without realizing it has come down to cover them. Jaskier is pretty sure that Geralt can still see anything approaching him, but that doesn't make them any less dangerous.

"And how the hell do I make no noise if I also have to–"

"Hush, Jaskier, be quiet."

Suddenly, Geralt seems to lose the grip he has on his sword, which falls with a thump on the wet wood of their boat. "Fuck." he grumbles, and the words seem to come out more slopply out of his lips, "I think I have underestimated... the situation..."

"What? What do you mean? Geralt?"

And then finally he feels it too. A voice. A voice that sings, without words but only as a light litany that seems to float in the air, sweet and relaxing, almost familiar. Jaskier looks around, and is surprised at himself when he does not feel the fear take over at all but only a slight annoyance. His eyes rest on a girl, who has emerged from who knows what hell, who is leaning softly on the edge of the boat, her hands holding in it. She has very long red hair, which falls weighed down by the water beyond her bare back and barely covers her small and rosy naked breasts. She is beautiful, perhaps one of the most beautiful women he has ever seen, even with slightly pointed ears, the very strange gills that pulsate on her long neck and with the gray tail that breaks, sinuous, soft, the water behind her.

She is a Siren, there is no doubt about that. She is a wonderful and ethereal Siren, and she is singing in front of them with small heart-shaped lips, but instead of being attracted to her as he would have expected, Jaskier seems to seethe with anger, when he sees the Siren do not take her eyes off Geralt's while singing.

"How dare you." Jaskier would be surprised to hear his voice so threatening, if he do not have his mind obscured by anger anyway. "How dare you enchant Geralt with your voice when I tried to for twenty years with my singing!"

The Siren ignores him, he probably doesn't even consider him a threat – unlike Geralt. Jaskier's hands are shaking on the oars, they tremble with anger, and if only eyes could kill now that Siren would be served on a silver plate in a room full of hungry frivolous sorcerers. Do sorcerers eat monsters? Whatever. Her gray eyes, of the same pearly shade of her tail, do not abandon Geralt's – Geralt, who goes very slowly towards the Siren, does not even blink, too busy staring at her, listening to her, completely dazed.

Melitele's tits! Geralt is literally falling into the open arms of that hag, and Jaskier... Jaskier...

Jaskier grabs his lute.

For half a second, he really evaluates the possibility of destroying his most precious possession – but, after all, not as precious as Geralt – on the monster's algae-filled head, but something stronger than physical violence is making its way out of his throat, and Jaskier obliges.

"This is my job," he says, and there is something strange in his voice. His fingers begin to play against the lute strings, "it's my job to sing for and to Geralt."

And like a bubble, the song his grandmother sang to him when he was a child bursts out his lips, the words come out like a flood. And only in that moment, only when he sings too, does the Siren finally look at his face.

"My heart is pierced by Cupid / I disdain all glittering gold / There is nothing can console me / But my jolly sailor bold."

The Siren goes silent, and Geralt shifts the same dazed look on him. Not that it displeases him, of course not, Jaskier lives and breathes to be looked by Geralt. The only problem is that Geralt doesn't seem to have the slightest intention of waking up from that blissful slumber, and Jaskier is starting to worry despite he's relatively safe as long as he looks and hears only him. His voice continues to sing, and Geralt continues to stare at him, leaning to him, ignoring the Siren that is just there, watching them.

Only when even the last note comes out of his fingers against the lute and his voice finishes accompanying it, Geralt's eyes close and falls against the wood of the boat like a dead body. Terrified, Jaskier abandons his lute and takes Geralt's face in his hands, stroking it, murmuring words of comfort that even he doesn't understand.

He absent-mindedly hears the melodious voice of the Siren mutter something like: "he is one of us." but, on the other hand, it hears perfectly when the monster plunges back into the water and disappears into the depths of the ocean. Jaskier doesn't even bother to check if she's really gone or not, too busy trying to get Geralt back to consciousness.

"Geralt, my darling, can you hear me? It's not really the time or the right place for a nap, believe me. I wish it was, but it's really not, so, my wonderful and beautiful Witcher, it's time to wake up. Now, if you don't mind."

Jaskier places his head on his knees, and starts stroking the long white strands of hair, running his fingers through them, lightly massaging the scalp until he sees a grimace appearing on Geralt's face and his eyes flapping like wings of a butterfly.

"Oh, thank the Gods, Geralt. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't woken up, I probably would have stayed here waiting, with the hope of not attracting other Sirens, because I really don't know which way I have to go, I don't even know where I am, I see absolutely nothing beyond the thick fog and Geralt, my Gods, I hate them so much, they are not at all as I imagined them, they make my blood boil and not in a positive way! Luckily she's gone, I absolutely don't want to see another Siren for the rest of my life. Let's forget about the tiara, let's just go back to hunt monsters that terrify me but that at least don't get on my nerves."

"Jaskier." Geralt calls him, and his voice is hoarse and low. More than usual, that is.

"Yes, Geralt?"

"I don't want to piss you off," Geralt grunts as he sits up and Jaskier already misses that hair between his fingers. The tone of his voice is ironic and sarcastic, "but we are surrounded."

"I beg your pardon?"

Geralt slowly beats a palm on the boat, in the same place where he was lying before, “In the water. They are hundreds, all below us."

"Oh." Jaskier murmurs. "Well, fuck. I really hate them."

"You do, now."

They remain silent for what for Jaskier seem like hours and hours, but really, it is only a few minutes. He's struggling so much not to talk, not to breathe, while Geralt controls every ripple of the sea surface. That remains calm, a mirror that scoffs at them, hiding a danger that crushes the mind and makes men like puppets in the hands of sadistic puppeteers behind it.

Biting the inside of his cheeks so not to ask questions – he's trying so hard – he looks over the edge of the boat and tries to find the answers on his own, but all he sees is just fog and the calm water that crushes quietly against the abandoned oars. His poor human eyes cannot see beyond the surface of the dark sea, so he does not see any Siren, and his poor, not monstrously developed ears do not hear – fortunately, he would add – their song even in that deafening silence.

"They are staying away from us." Geralt breaks the silence, and looking up, Jaskier sees his shoulders relax slightly.

"I bet. I humiliated them. My singing talent is far better than theirs."

"Hm." Geralt thins his gaze, and Jaskier feels it on his skin, oh, that face, the face of displeasure. "Their singing did not affect you."

"I was too busy trying to save your skin, Geralt. Seriously, you should find yourself a better hobby, I won't be by your side forever to get you out of trouble." Geralt, if possible, narrows his gaze even more, "I'm jesting, oh my Gods. Smile, my friend, sometimes it helps during difficult times. Although you really scared me, seeing you like that, I must confess. For once, you were fortunate I was with you! I told you I was going to help!"

"I," Geralt grits his teeth, not stopping to look at him with that stupid threatening look, "I was distracted."

Jaskier raises both eyebrows, blinking dramatically.

"By you!" Geralt continues, raising slightly his voice, "I told you you would have been a distraction!"

"What." Now it's Jaskier's turn to narrow his eyes, "How the fu–"

"You were complaining, and you distracted me."

"Are you for real? Well, I beg your pardon if I couldn't fucking breathe!"

Geralt rolls his eyes, then looks him and hesitates, with something he tries to say stuck in his throat at what he sees in his face – and Jaskier thinks that making him feel guilty with his pouts and his puppy eyes satisfies him always immensely, but it also warms his chest seeing his struggles. His adorable sweet hearted oaf.

Finally, he takes the oars in his hands, looking at him with an awkward frown, "Get ready with that lute, and whatever happens, do what you do best."

"Complain?"

Jaskier continues to pout, but he can't help himself by seeing the corners of Geralt's thin lips pull into a slight smile. And well, fuck. He loves him so much, he can't–

"Sing, Jaskier."

Finally, when the boat touches the ground, Jaskier, despite the fog has slightly cleared, immediately realizes that this is not the pier where they started from, that is not the same coast with those same delightful people. And so, he pouts.

"We are in the wrong place."

"We are in the right place," Geralt says instead, getting off the boat. His leather boots sink slightly into the the shore's wet sand, as he tries to reach the seemingly deserted beach, "and the Sirens have stayed away so far, we are not in danger. As long as we are out of reach, they can't do anything, so we can start looking for the place where they hide their treasures."

"If this damned treasure isn't in the depths of the ocean, haven't you thought about that? They are Sirens, and they live underwater." Jaskier comments, following him. Just the thought of losing him in that fog terrifies him.

Geralt turns around, with his back on what appears to be an oasis in the middle of the desert, if it is not for the fog that makes that island ghostly and haunted. The sand is white and clean, the water crystal clear, and what Jaskier can see is an infinite expanse of rocks with reflections of a thousand colors, also washed by small pools of water – he sees nothing else beyond, but still manages to glimpse a more distant shadow, perhaps the beginning of a mountain, or perhaps a cave.

"Sirens don't behave like this, they always have a place where they gather human objects, their hunting rewards, their treasures. Do you really think we came here blindly? I know what I do and I know what I have to do."

Jaskier holds the lute tight to his chest, ready to play it or possibly use it as a weapon. Geralt has not announced the presence of any animal or monster, other than the thousands of Sirens swimming around the island, that is, but better be careful than dead. "I know, dear Witcher, that you can do your job well, but we've already found that their allure is a little too powerful even for your macho monster hunter body and– really, Geralt, we were lucky once, but I don't know if I cannot give in to their temptations a second one, although I admit that my spirit of competition is much higher than my carnal cravings. Are you listening to me?" Jaskier approaches Geralt, who looks over his shoulder, towards one of the pools of water, "Geralt? Are you here?"

A moan escapes Geralt's lips and, really, Jaskier wants to die – metaphorically, let's be clear about that. It only takes a few moments to hear voices singing, a sweet and melodic sound, and now the song has words that accompany it – and with horror, Jaskier realizes that the Sirens have stolen his song, the song that his grandmother sang to him as a child.

He does not have time to start playing and singing himself, that Geralt disappears into the fog.

"Oh, mother of–" he swears, running after him, trying, hoping not to lose sight of him.

Jaskier has never experienced so much hatred and anger before then, even when, despite trying to kill him in many different ways, he still has to listen to the repulsive and mediocre performances of Valdo Marx still all too alive and well. What he is feeling now is a different hatred, so strong as to make the bile rise in his throat and feel the taste in his mouth, so powerful that almost– almost– hell, it is fucking jealousy, of course, damn it all.

How dare those hags allow themselves to bewitch Geralt with one of his songs? It's the most maddening thing, and Jaskier can't accept it and will never accept it, thank you very much. He is also ready to pull Geralt by the hair and take him away from there, without the tiara and without having concluded anything, and he is also ready to row for hours and hours until they would have reached the farthest place where Geralt would hear only and only his voice. And nothing else. Is he asking too much?

Then he follows him, stamping his feet on the sand – it's hard to run, and unfortunately Geralt is far too right when he insinuates that Jaskier doesn't have enough stamina that isn't for sex, that is.

It takes relatively little time to reach the nearest pool of water, and in the sparse fog that surrounds it, he can immediately see Geralt's white head sitting on one of the rocks, with... with two sirens stuck to each of his arm, one spread on his lap, and another behind his shoulders, with her beautiful face resting on one of his shoulders.

"Geralt! What the fuck!" he cries – screams – petulantly slamming one foot on the ground, not caring about the sand that enters in his shoes. It's not too late to grab him by the hair and take him away, is it?

And to make everything even worse, the four Sirens are singing his song, rubbing provocatively on Geralt, and Geralt– Geralt looks at them with wide, wide eyes – the golden now almost a thin circle around his blown pupils – that Jaskier has seen on him, half-open mouth and shortness of breath, a very light pink layer on his cheeks. Jaskier doesn't even want to think about what's going on under the Siren on his lap, and he hates, hates, hates so much–

Suddenly, Jaskier sees the same Siren that they met in the middle of the sea not far from them, sitting on the sidelines on a rock. She has a hand in her thick, red wet hair and is trying to untangle all the knots, but his gray eyes like shining pearls around the neck of young ladies are focused on him, a small smile on the heart-shaped lips and Jaskier takes her gaze as an invitation to fight, so he stomps, mad with anger, towards her.

"Greetings. We are happy to see you." she greets him, with a musical voice, so beautiful she seems to be from another world.

And that makes him even more, if possible, angry, "I can't say the same. The last thing I wanted in life is to see you again, after only half an hour having met you for the first time, with my companion as an hostage and you all singing my song."

"It's our song, brother."

"No, it's my song and I assure you, I am not your brother, thank you very much."

The Siren simply bends her head slightly to the side, as if she is confused.

Jaskier brings two fingers to the junction of his nose, breathing deeply to calm himself. "Look, we started off on the wrong foot, dear lady." he grimaces at that epithet, but even after all of this shit, he still remains a gentleman, "We are not here to cause disturb to your not too quiet lives, and certainly we are not here to be devoured by your perfect albeit sharp teeth, but–"

She interrupts him, always with that confused expression, "We don't eat our own kind."

"Yeah, great, good to know. And as much as I regret not being part of your wonderful marine world, I am still unable to breathe underwater without meeting an inevitable demise." his voice overflows with sarcasm, but the Siren does not seem to notice the heavy irony in his tone. He continues to look at him as if she doesn't understand what he is saying, "And the same obviously applies to my companion. Ergo, my desire is to go away as soon as possible and never show myself around again."

"Your... companion is not like us. He is not human but... he can feed us for days. My sisters won't let him go so easily."

"Oh ohohoh, the fuck if I care. He's mine! Give him to me!"

The Siren, at that point, raises a hand and with an elegant gesture shows all that surrounds them, "You are one of us. Everything here is yours too."

At those words, Jaskier stops and reflects for a second. At the moment, Geralt continues to remain in the arms of the Sirens, and as much as he hates that scene, he seems to be relatively well and not about to be eaten anytime soon: probably the Sirens already have a full belly and are only putting aside provisions – shit, he hates thinking about Geralt as food. And not even as his food! – then, shuddering, he manages to put aside his desire to take him away from those hags and... well, he takes advantage of the situation.

"All?" he asks, looking at the Siren, straight in those pearly eyes.

She nods, smiling at him, running a hand over her wings softly resting on the rock. Her fins float on water like pure silk veils.

Jaskier puts his hand into his waist-tied pouch, and pulls out the tiara sketch. He stretches it between his fingers, and fortunately the parchment sheet is not too spoiled to be illegible. He approaches the Siren with courage that he didn't know he had, and shows her the drawing. "My companion and I are looking for this object. We have a reason to believe that it is in your care at the moment: if everything that is yours is also mine, may I perhaps have it? Only this, nothing else." he says, then adds quickly, glancing at the four mermaids on Geralt: "Apart for my companion, of course."

"Sure. It should be somewhere in the cave." The Siren indicates the shadow behind her, which he cannot see beyond the fog. At this point, Jaskier has no reason not to believe it's a cave. "You can take what you want. You can also eat as you wish, if you prefer."

"Oh, uh, thank you but... no, thank you."

With a half bow, and a half prayer to Melitele hoping that during his absence nothing will happen to Geralt, Jaskier sighs and walks off disappearing into the fog.

What happened next is a blur, Jaskier barely remembers it.

When he has reached the wet cave, his eyes immediately settled on millions and millions of junk piled up in piles, but Jaskier has not even bothered to start looking among those shiny things, because along with the junk, there are also bones, thousands of bones abandoned under his feet, skeletons with still pieces of green and rotten meat leaning against the walls with strange bluish shades. He has held back the lunch he felt crawling back from his stomach, approached almost folded in two a skull a few steps away from him – and he barely managed not to scream, muttering comforting words to himself to ignore the bones that creak at each step – and took the tiara resting on that skeletal forehead, hiding it in the same bag where he hid the sketch given by Lady Maria, and if someone asked him how he managed to find it almost immediately and above all how he managed to see it among all those useless things, Jaskier could not have answered.

Jaskier batts aways the grip the Sirens have on Geralt, astonishing even himself when he hears a slight growl at the bottom of his throat when the hags don't make it easier for him – on the contrary, they get sad, and their crystalline voices are lowered by one tone, expressing musically all their disappointment once he manages to get Geralt completely out of their grip. And Geralt, the bastard, doesn't make it easy either, because he continues not to take his eyes off the angelic features of the Sirens, and with every step that Jaskier tries to make him do away from them, Geralt draws back and tries to reach them again.

He then starts to sing in his ear, and finally, finally, Geralt looks at him, and only him. In the end, he leans on him, and he doesn't stop staring at him, doesn't stop listening his voice, doesn't stop feeling his arms and his skin around him. As it should be.

"This is your home too, you are free to stay." the red-haired Siren tells him, when Jaskier passes by, panting, supporting all the weight of Geralt, who seems to be without strength.

"I hope to be free to leave too." he pants, and Geralt grunts near his ear.

"You are free to do what you want, you are one of us."

Jaskier stops, more to catch his breath than anything else. He glances almost exasperated at the Siren, trying to shift Geralt's weight in a way to make both of them comfortable – or at least, make his weight bearable until they get to the boat that still seems to be so fucking far away. "I'm not one of your kind. I know I excel in singing, much more than you I would add, but my talent has not yet given me the opportunity to grow a tail instead of legs, or disgusting pulsating gills around my neck. Now, before I can still express my total disinterest and hatred towards your species and thus risking you get angry and making all my efforts done so far completely useless, we will leave. See you never again!"

The Siren simply waves at him with one hand, remaining firm on her rock. Geralt keeps on grunting in his ear, he is probably trying to tell him, menacing as always, to shut up once and for all.

"C'mon Jaskier, you can do it. You are exhausted, but you can do it anyway. Breathe." He gasps again, dragging Geralt behind him, who still can't find enough strength to be able to walk alone. Not that he particularly displeases knowing he's helping Geralt like this, but damn it he weighs a lot, this big muscle-man of a Witcher. "Out with the nose, in with the mouth... or was it the other way around?!"

When they reach the boat, Jaskier wants to cry of relief.

They're fine, they're somehow alive – and with the tiara well hidden in his bag.

❁

The first thing he can clearly see, quickly blinking to regain complete lucidity, is Jaskier. Jaskier, who is sitting on the boat in front of him, sweaty and red in the face, with swollen veins on his forehead and neck given by the effort. He's rowing, fast, as if he's running away – and Geralt knows that's probably why, he knows he's trying to get him away from the sea as quickly as possible. His eyes are closed, from concentration or perhaps only from fatigue. He wears only his chemise, while the red doublet is abandoned near his feet together with the bag he usually attaches to his trousers, and it seems fuller than usual.

"Jaskier," calls him, and Jaskier stops, opening his eyes.

"Oh." Jaskier seems to relax, looking at him, the tension on his shoulders decreases – although they continue to tremble slightly from the effort – and a relieved smile illuminates his tired face, "Oh, thank the Gods. Welcome back, sleeping beauty."

"Jaskier." he still pronounces his name, his mouth still a little kneaded. His head hurts, still throbs from the remains of the allure and the humiliation of being caught a second time in just probably one hour of time.

"It's all right, it's all right. I don't really know where I'm going, I can't see absolutely anything beyond the fog, and I seem to be rowing for hours and hours, probably at this rate we will get to Skellige, but any place we reach, in any case, is always better than that damned island, so don't worry, as long as I'm by your side you won't fall."

Geralt blinks, "Skellige is...wrong way. We can't go to Skellige."

"Whatever. I don't care, as long as you are out of their reach."

"Jaskier." again, he murmurs his name. He likes to do it. For as long as he has been under the spell of the Sirens, he hasn't been able to say it, it was stuck in his throat almost painfully. Only under the sound of his voice, he managed to take his eyes off those of the Sirens and bring them to Jaskier's cornflower blue ones. "We need to talk."

They must talk, yes. Because Geralt may not have been fully conscious of his actions, under the allure, but his ears have heard more or less everything. Even Jaskier's words, even his voice, even his songs and his screams.

He also heard the Sirens' words about him.

"Now?" Jaskier asks, picking up the oars and taking one last deep breath. "I'd rather get out of here as soon as possible, I don't know about you. However, I have the tiara! I don't know how much you remember of the last hour, but I managed to find it, and since thanks to you we don't even have a coin in our pockets, I would opt to go immediately to Lady Maria, give her the tiara and grab all that gold that absolutley belongs to us."

Geralt totally ignores his words, removing the oars from his hands, "Their singing has no effect on you."

"Again with this story?" Jaskier snorts and brings his arms to his chest. The shirt adheres to his neck and back because of the sweat, and Geralt takes a deep breath of his salty scent. Which now makes a lot more sense. "I'm just very competitive, Geralt, and I can't stand when someone tries to outdo me in what I do best. And they were lucky I didn't hurt them, believe me, Valdo Marx once tried to steal the attention of my audience and he then was unable to leave his room for months. I admit it, I'm not a particularly violent type of man, well, not too much at least, but with those hags I could have been creative even without available legs to break!"

"Their singing took me, Jaskier. It is not normal that you have remained completely indifferent only because of your competitive side."

"And yet, that's what it is." Jaskier shrugs slightly his shoulders, which have finally stopped shaking, "What do you want me to tell you, Geralt? My voice is better than theirs, and I certainly don't get infatuated with myself every time I hear myself sing, despite the fact that I am so beautiful."

"It's not the same thing!"

"True." he only says, with a slight disappointed grimace to wrinkle his nose. "With you, actually, I never–"

He doesn't let him ramble again. Jaskier stops as soon as Geralt's fingers close in a fist on the wet fabric of his chemise, and Geralt can barely see his eyes staring at him, wide more than usual, amazed, but he doesn't have time to get caught up in guilt for the thoughtless gesture he is about to do that immediately throws him in the water, without warning, without stupidly letting himself think about the consequences.

Geralt is sure that something is wrong with Jaskier.

It is not normal that he remained completely indifferent in that situation – hell, Geralt couldn't be indifferent despite the fact that he was rather convinced that his body, created specifically to kill monsters, would have had more resistance. Instead, however, he felt his limbs no longer respond to his commands, the melodious voices of the Sirens covered almost any other sound around him, their song lit a fire in his stomach and at the same time relaxed him as if he were immersed in the warm water of a bath.

And nothing managed to untie those chains that the Sirens had closed around his mind. Nothing, except Jaskier's voice – but it wasn't like putting out that fire or breathing again after emerging from the water: no, it was like changing prison, as if the strings that commanded him and ordered his tired limbs to let go had only changed puppeteer. The threads broke only when Jaskier stopped singing.

The first time it happened, it was so fast that Geralt didn't fully realize it. The second time, the Siren song has been sweet and soothing in his ears for endless minutes, and Jaskier's low voice has been like a balm on his wounds impossible to ignore. Equal to each other, and the only difference is that Geralt never tried to free himself, under the allure of Jaskier.

Also, there were the Siren's words. Geralt was not entirely conscious, and perhaps half of their words were completely incomprehensible, but what he managed to hear through their song has removed any doubt in his mind. Now, he only needs proof: and the only certainty is seeing how Jaskier would react completely immersed in the ocean's water.

But the seconds pass, endless, and apart to a few bubbles that plopped immediately after Jaskier disappeared beneath the surface of the sea – after sinking – everything remains still and motionless, the calm before a storm that is arriving too late. Geralt remains standing in the center of the boat, his fists clenched at his sides, his eyes fixed on the sea's surface, waiting for a movement, for any movement.

"Fuck." he swears, "What the fuck have I done–"

The terror of killing Jaskier makes its way into his chest – he has never seen the sea before today, the idiot, he certainly can't even swim, and he feels even more of an idiot for having thrown him in the water without thinking of any consequence – and yes, his actions have consequences, every fucking time.

After five minutes – Jaskier cannot not breath for five long minutes, he is human, he is wrong, he is fragile, he is human, he is human – finally something moves the waters, and Geralt starts breathing again. He didn't even realize he stopped doing it along with Jaskier.

Geralt waits another thirty, grueling seconds, before seeing arms break the surface, followed immediately by Jaskier's head and a deep breath. "But what the fuck, Geralt! What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

Geralt doesn't answer. He knows he was an idiot, he knows it, but now he needs to go back to breathing normally, and to feel his chest again light and free of that oppressive weight that is perhaps guilt and perhaps even terror. So he stares at him, feels his own facial features relax – never, never again for fuck's sake, never again he'll try some shit like that with Jaskier. Talking would have been enough, damn him.

"Did you want to kill me, Geralt? After saving your life? Ever heard of this strange thing called friendship that usually represses the murderous spirit towards, precisely, who technically is the receiving one of such thing called friendship?" he barks, outraged beyond all limits, and Geralt almost smiles looking at him, if he still hadn't the residue of guilt mixed with terror closing his throat as if in a grip. "And I can't even swim, you bastard! How could you do this to me! Your best friend!"

"From what I see, you can swim well enough." he merely replies, murmuring.

"Ah, well." Jaskier lowers his eyes, and sinks a little deeper into the water, as if he wanted to hide. When he comes back to talk to him, the water almost completely drowns his lips – and he doesn't seem to care. "Say sorry to me and I'll tell you why."

Geralt raises an eyebrow.

"C'mon! I deserve an apology!"

"True." Geralt sighs and sits on his knees, trying to get as close to Jaskier as possible, despite the boat and the sea dividing them. Jaskier is looking at him, waiting, with his eyes too blue and too wide, confident even if today Geralt has not given any way to earn his unconditional trust, "I am sorry, little lark. I didn't think, I never wanted to hurt you in any way."

Jaskier pouts, his lips down under the water, “You were sure nothing would happen to me, right? So, apology accepted."

"Almost."

"Almost?"

"Almost sure." he confesses, "Still, I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry."

The pout disappears and a smile blooms in its place, "Again, apology accepted." he repeats, with his eyes shining. Then he lowers them again, and murmurs: "Are you ready? It may be a shock. I was in shock for the better part while I was underwater, I admit it, but I guess–" one of his hands emerges from the water and starts gesturing, as usual, a little nervous, "that's why you threw me in the water, so maybe it won't be so astonishing to you."

"Hm."

"Talkative as always." Jaskier sighs again, "Okay, here we go."

Geralt immediately notices the gills on his neck, alive and pulsating like wounds on a corpse that have stopped bleeding, when he rises his face. There are three on one side, and three on the other, and they're gaping as they're searching for air. He barely glances over Jaskier's ears, but they are mostly covered by his thick brown hair: in any case, Geralt has no doubts, although he cannot see them, that they are more pointed than usual.

Jaskier moves away from the boat, putting more distance from the two of them. He takes another deep breath, from the nose, more to give himself strength than for primary need, and moves until in front of him a long and sinuous blue tail – blue as the ocean, blue as a cornflower, blue as Jaskier's eyes – surfaces, timid and trembling. Jaskier's looking at him, waiting for something.

And although Geralt knew it, he somehow already knew it, damn it, that's why he threw him in the water, it is quite a shock. After all those years spent walking along the Path together with that petulant, creative, magnificent bard, Geralt has never noticed that little detail that is him being a Siren. Jaskier is a fucking Siren. But seeing Jaskier's own reaction, he never had the faintest idea either. Unbelievable. It's so unbelievable.

"I knew it." he just says, and the loss of words is like a curse, right now, because Geralt knows that Jaskier needs him to say something, something clever, maybe conforting, something that would explain what the fuck it's going on. But he can't.

And then he starts to splutter, feeling suddenly drenched in salty water. He didn't see it coming, he must say it – and when he looks at Jaskier, there's a mischievous spark in those blue eyes, while his tail, again, splashes against the water to drench him, again.

"Wha– stop! Jaskier, stop it!" he wheezes, and the boat under him starts to waver dangerously.

"Ah, the sweet sound of revenge. How does it feel, Geralt? Think of me, I was almost completely dry when you, a heartless bastard, toss me in the cold, cold ocean's water. It wasn't really fair for you to be there, on the boat, dry and calm, while I am still here with half my body turned into a fish. Can you even think about what I'm feeling right now, having eaten fish no more than three hours ago? Does that mean I ate one of my kind and I hadn't the slightest clue?"

"Fishes and Sirens aren't the same being, Jaskier."

"Well. Hard to tell the difference, really. I smell like fish, now."

Geralt thanks for wearing the cloak, so his clothes and armor have remained almost completely dry. He can't say the same about his hair, but he deserves it. It deserves worse, to be honest. "Didn't you say that you forgave me?"

"I did. I did forgive you, my dear Witcher. But I never said that I wouldn't seek revenge."

"I guess I deserve it." he smirks at him, and Jaskier brightens. Seeing his reactions at this kind of gestures, it always warms his hearts. "Come here, I'll help you get on the boat again."

Making sure that the boat does not waver too much, he stretches his arms until he closes them around the waist of Jaskier, who in the meantime has approached and kind of throws himself at him. The hands touch lightly, under his wet chemise, the exact point where his fresh and soft skin becomes frosty and scaly at the bottom of his back, and Geralt's fingers linger there for a bit, while lifting him with a delicate gesture.

Jaskier's face is close, very close to his. Just like that morning in the bathroom, their noses almost touch each others – but it's different, it's completely different now. Jaskier's arms close behind his neck and his fingers sink into his wet hair, but Geralt doesn't care, he doesn't care. He stare into his eyes for infinite seconds, breathes his salty scent which now almost completely covers his chamomile perfume, and Geralt can feel a hint of anxiety on his skin, Geralt manages to read the fear in his brilliant irises, fear of the unknown, not knowing what the future reserves him now... what Geralt will do to him now.

And Geralt lets him go, placing him gently on one side of the boat. He moves away from him almost immediately, even making sure that nothing of his person touches one of his fins or wings. Jaskier looks at him, and his expression is always so trusting, despite the anxiety. Geralt doesn't deserve him.

"It hurts." Jaskier says at least, when he gets that no words will escape Geralt's lips.

"What? The tail?" he frowns, looking at that magnificent and elegant tail. The finns are long, and they shine under the pale light of the day. The sun's rays weakly pass through the fog around them, but enough to illuminate Jaskier's face and colors – the wings on both sides of the tail, expecially, glitter of thousands shades of blue, each scale seems to have a personal color. As his eyes, after all.

Jaskier shakes his head, "The... medallion." He raises a hand and brings it to his chest, "Burns, where it touched me. It never happened before. Silver... never hurt me before."

"You are not a monster, Jaskier."

"But– but now–"

"I don't know what happen to you, but you are not a monster. We'll get this sorted out, when we will go back to the inn. I won't... hurt you, Jaskier. I will never harm you, in any way, for no reason in the world."

Jaskier freezes, his eyes wide and, somehow, amazed. His anxiety seems to disappear in his scent, along with the fear in his blue irises, "What, no. Oh, Geralt, I– ouch." Suddenly, Jaskier hugs himself, putting his hands on his neck, ears, and the tail shiftens, trembles as if in pain – and yes, probably Jaskier is in pain, but Geralt has no fucking idea why. "It hurts."

He wants to touch him, to close his arms around him. He wants to kiss that pout on his face, he wants to erase with his lips every grimace, he wants to eat away any pain he must be feeling – he's wanting, he wants everything he can't have. He cannot touch him, not now, not when he seems so scared of the current situation, so scared of him – he was never scared before, the only one who never reeks of fear whenever Geralt can't do much than look, or talk, or eat or drink or sleep as every human being. He was never scared before, not when Geralt is covered in filth and monster's guts, not when he's under one of his potions, or when he's angry, or when he's tired.

Jaskier was never scared of him before.

But now he is, now that he thinks of himself as a monster, something that Geralt hunts.

So he just stays there, still, looking as Jaskier's tail turns back into two lovely legs, with a grotesque noise similar to that of a torn fabric. It must be painful, Geralt can imagine it: Geralt can do nothing but hate himself a little more, in his uselessness, while he watches, helplessly, the bright blue of Jaskier's tail fading into the pink color of his skin.

"I'm not scared of you, you fool of a Witcher." Jaskier says then, through gritted teeth, with his arms around his bare legs still a little shaky. He slowly relaxes, when the pain seems to dissipate, then he looks at him and he smiles, openly, wonderfully. He's not scared. He's really not. "But allow me to be a bit on edge here, I have no fucking idea what's going on, after all. That doesn't mean I'm afraid of you, I know that you won't do anything to me, monster or not. Actually, right now I'm really, really relieved that I could have my magnificent body back. For a moment, I was afraid of being half a fish for the rest of my life, and I was beginning to fall in despair. I could no longer sing around the Continent! I could no longer follow you as if I'm your shadow, and no, I can't even think of what a horrible life I would have lived in that case, away from you."

Geralt doesn't answer. He continues to look silently at his bare legs, frowning at the light goose bumps on them.

"Geralt? You know, I guess I lost my pants somewhere in the ocean."

Geralt puffs some air through the nose, and the tension disappears. He takes off his cloak with a dry gesture, then drops it on his shoulders still covered by his chemise, and Jaskier sinks inside the humid fur, trembling a bit. As long as it's not wet, until they reach the inn it can be enough to keep him warm. "Thanks," he says, lightly, "I was freezing, godsdamnit."

"Hm."

"Yeah, me too. I'm at loss of words." Jaskier murmurs, behind the fur.

"Hm." Geralt takes the oars in his hand, and begins to row. From a distance, he can see the shore beyond the fog: no more than twenty minutes, and they would finally reach land.

"Really, I had no fucking idea, I'm speechless. Me? A Siren? Since when? Am I cursed? Oh, Gods, I hope I'm not cursed. But if I'm not, does that mean I've always been a Siren without even knowing it? Is that even possible? I know I've always had this melodious voice, from a very young age, but I never thought that... that... There are no words I can use to describe the– the confusion and the drama that's living inside me at the moment."

"Hm."

"Did the Sirens know that? They treated me like one of them from the start. I don't think they cursed me, I'm sure they would have preferred to eat me rather than turn me into their own kind. Uh." Jaskier stops, and Geralt can feel his gaze on his face – but he doesn't return it, continuing to look over his shoulders, seeing how the land seemed closer but still too far away, "Uh, Geralt?"

"Hm?"

"Don't make that face. I know you won't harm me, if I really am a Siren. You would never do anything that could harm me... well, besides throwing me into the ocean."

Geralt grunts, "Sorry."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. All forgiven." he smiles with teeth and all, fondness reeking out of him in waves. Geralt really doesn't deserve this sunshine. "Still, I want you to believe my words. I'm not a liar, you know. Well, not to you, at least. "

"I believe you."

"Of course you do!" his voice sparks, then he lowers it and adds, more serious: "I trust you, Geralt, and I always will."

Only then does Geralt find enough courage to look at him, and his open and confident expression is like boiling water on sore muscles. He tries to return his smile, and perhaps he succeeds seeing how Jaskier seems to light up suddenly, then sighs, "We will arrive soon." then winces, because it's not really what he wanted to say.

But see how Jaskier exhales, relieved, it's enough for now. "Oh, finally, thank the Gods, do you see the shore? I really, really need a bed right now. I'm... not in the right mood to sing and dance, and we don't have enough money for dinner– but if you're hungry, maybe I can sing a song or two, make up some money for something to eat just enough for you, because, frankly, I don't have much appetite..."

Geralt just shakes his head, "Don't worry, I'm fine."

"I know it's not even sunset, but I'm exhausted. I must admit that the day went beyond my wildest expectations, not considering the minuscule detail of me being a Siren, but it was long, and particularly tumultuous. And my legs hurt, shit."

Geralt continues to row, gritting his teeth – not because of fatigue, he barely feels it, but only because he cannot give Jaskier all he wants, all he deserves, he cannot even give him a bed that's comfortable enough where he can rest his tired limbs, forcing him to settle for the one in the inn, with hard sheets and straw that stings against skin. "I'm sorry."

"For what? For the uncalled swim in the ocean? I forgave you, Geralt, you can stop being a martyr now." he laughs, sinking a bit more into the coat.

"No, it's... I have no money for a bath. For you."

"Oh. Geralt." Jaskier tries to reach out to him, but when the arm covered only by the wet chemise comes in contact with the fresh and humid foggy air, a shiver runs through his whole body and stops him, so with a sigh – not exasperated but, and someone please strikes him for thinking that, almost in love – goes back to cover himself under the cloak, "You're so gentle. If you don't mind sleeping next to someone who smells particularly fishy, I don't care about the bath."

"I don't mind."

"Good. Well, that's settled, then. "

And Geralt continues to row, seeing the coast even closer behind Jaskier's shoulders, despite his smile, half hidden by the fur of his cloak, continues to distract him and draw his gaze on those lips like a moth to a flame.

Or like a fool in love with a Siren.

❁

They arrive at the inn that the sun is just about to disappear on the horizon, almost sinking into the infinite sea in front of them. From the shore, the fog cannot completely hide that sunset and those golden rays that reflect on the cold water – and Geralt really doesn't care about that view, however pleasant it may be, but Jaskier seems enchanted while, on the beach, he walks backwards so as not to miss even a moment of what, according to him, is such a majestic spectacle that it makes even the most talented trobadour without words suitable to describe it. Geralt continues not to care, enjoying instead that orange light on Jaskier's face, of how his hair becomes almost full of reddish shades, and how those rays lighten his eyes making them almost transparent.

The innkeeper looks at them with a confused and vaguely worried frown, especially when her gaze settles on Jaskier, naked if not for the cloak that, fortunately, hides what it should – Geralt no, he doesn't even like the idea of dozens of eyes on a naked and vulnerable Jaskier –, and his now useless chemise.

Jaskier doesn't even give her time to investigate – although Geralt doubts he would have done so, not in front of him at least, "Sirens." he grumbles, annoyed, against the fur.

The innkeeper nods, "You had it better than others." she just says, and her shoulders relax slightly. Geralt decides he likes that hairy woman.

They retire to their room with the innkeeper's promise to hear if someone needs a boat. "I doubt it," she said, shrugging, "but I can try. I guess it's not comfortable for a Witcher to go around the Continent carrying a boat."

He would rather left it abandoned there, but glancing at Jaskier, tired and lost in thoughts, he thinks it would be better to recover some money, because he certainly doesn't want to ask Jaskier to perform only to receive a piece of bread the next day.

"Do you want me to light the fire?" he asks stopping in front of the fireplace, as he watches him sit on the bed and cling to his cloak again, slightly shaken by shivers.

"Yes, please. It's cold in here. Wait, could you put the chemise near the fire, so it dries? Um, even the doublet, I think, I must have wet it when I got back on the boat."

Geralt observes him while, concentrating, he tries to take off his chemise without taking off the cloak and, he can't help it, he smiles, while he lights the fire with a small spell. Fuck, he's adorable, with that scrunched nose and that frown between his eyebrows.

In the end, while Geralt moves the small logs fortunately not too charred in the fireplace, to increase the fire, Jaskier throws his chemise on the ground, sighing in frustration. "Ohw finally. Uh," he hears him rummaging in his bag, putting it on his lap so that he doesn't have to leave the heat of his cloak, "after the rain this morning and the bath in the ocean I have nothing dry to wear..." he murmurs softly, perhaps hoping to not be heard.

"Come here," he tells him, after Jaskier, puffing, just throws his bag on the ground, with his little pout, "near the fire. Warm up, then see if there is something clean in my things."

"Uh," he stands up and then walks on wobbly legs until he's near him. He pops on the floor, sighing when the heat of the fire starts to warm his face, "really?"

Geralt shrugs, “Yeah. What's wrong?"

"Uh, nothing! Nothing at all!" exclaims, his voice a bit more louder then usual, “L-Later I go look for one of your shirt... hoping they are not all decorated with some monster's intestines. I already smell enough of fish, I would not like to add other particular... smells to those that are already impressed on my wonderful and sensitive skin."

Geralt does not tell him that his scent is perfectly fine, salty with a delicate tip of chamomile, and he just sits down next to him, watching the fire carefully. It's not very high, sadly, but he doesn't really want to go looking for more wood – in any case, it's enough to keep Jaskier warm, and that's the most important thing.

"Did you really have no idea?" Geralt asks him, and winces, because his voice came out dry – and maybe Jaskier is too tired to talk about it now, or maybe he doesn't want to, and yes Geralt wants to know, but doesn't want to make him uncomfortable. They have time, however. They have all the time in the world, and is it so important to talk about it? After all those years of not knowing what he really is, does knowing it really change the situation now? Certainly not their situation, but perhaps–

"No." Jaskier murmurs lightly, "I had no idea at all. I can't– I mean, I seem to have lived a dream: did I really have a tail? Wasn't that a hallucination? I think I had a nightmare once where I no longer had my genitals and ugh, no no, I love my bits thank you very much, I need them, not a Siren tail."

Geralt snorts and Jaskier looks at him in amazement, his lips slightly open, "It's funny."

"It's really not, dear bastard. It was a nightmare and you dared to laugh at my nightly dreads. "

"I did not."

"You did!" he puffs, sliding a bit more near him. "If we are to start talking about this, Geralt, please come here. I need to do somehing with my hands to distract myself, so maybe I can almost pretend I'm not talking about my body that I thought I knew so well."

Geralt frowns, "Here?"

"Yes, here." Jaskier stretches his legs in front of him, then pats his palm on them. "Put your head here, please. Your hair is hideous, the hags didn't know how to get their hands in it without unjustly knotting it. Gladly for you, I am an expert on that."

Geralt barely remembers the Siren's hands in his hair, or anywhere else anyway. The most vivid memory is their voice, their song – and Jaskier's song – and something warms inside of him, thinking that perhaps Jaskier hates the thought of their touch on him. Glaring at the fire, without a real reason, he complies and as soon as he rests his head on his bare and heated legs, his hands sink into his damp hair – soft, delicate, his long calloused fingertips loosen the knots and comb those white locks almost reverently along their entire length, calmly, without haste. Geralt feels his eyelids heavy, under those caresses. He barely notices that the silver chain around his neck does no harm to Jaskier's bare skin right now.

When he speaks, he does it in a low, almost kneaded voice, as if he is just awake, "They sang that song of yours to me." he says, with his eyes on the tongues of fire in the fireplace.

"Yeah." Jaskier complains, also in a low voice, "That's the thing I hated the most. Not only did they dare sing for you, they also used my song. I really, really, reaaaally hate them."

Geralt smirks, "You do, now. I remember differently. I remember you thrilled to see them."

"That was before, Geralt. Before they stole my song and they rubbed against you like cats in heat. Uh, do fishes have heats? In that case, then like fish in heat. It makes better the idea."

Geralt then turns his head, until his neck is resting on one of his bare thighs, to look him in the face. Jaskier's face is there, lit by the fire, it hovers above him, closer than he expected: his hair, still wet, is stuck on the forehead, strands cover one eyebrow; his eyes are clear and blue, caressing each severe corner of Geralt's face with his eyes; his cheeks are slightly sprinkled with red and his lips, his so, so red lips are slightly open – and Geralt feels himself sinking at that sight, because, fuck, Jaskier is beautiful. His hands itch to caress his neck, to touch him under the fur, to grab his hair in his fingers and kiss, kiss him until neither of them can breath anymore.

"Jealous?" he just says, and really, he would gladly punch himself right now.

Jaskier's answer comes not even a beat later, "Yes. Very." clears his throat, and his eyes roam everywhere on his face but never rest on his. "After all, for two decades you only listened to me. Aren't you? I didn't see you pay attention to any other bard or poet who we met by chance. It has always been my... um... " he trailes off, surprisingly at loss of words.

"Yours?" it encourages him, because Geralt wants to know, he must know. Whatever it is.

"My prerogative. Sing for you, to you I mean. Nobody ever did, and I liked to think I was the only one... in something... for you. Until now, at least." he confesses, and his melodic voice lowers, he has a bitter tone, and his face scrunches in disappointment.

"Hm. Jaskier. Jaskier."

He sniffs, "What?"

"It's not the same thing." Somehow, Geralt is angry. He doesn't like that look on Jaskier's face. He can't help but growl a bit, but Jaskier doesn't seem to care, he just... pats his head, strokes his hair, calming him with that sad expression.

"How do you know that? As far as we know, for what I seem to be, I have done this all my life. I probably enchanted everyone and made everyone fall in love with my voice, my music. If I had been a normal human, it wouldn't have happened."

"You didn't use anything, Jaskier, stop– stop pouting. Please, don't start crying."

"I'm not crying!"

"I would have known," Geralt exclaims, but his voice, somehow, lacks of its usual bite, "if for twenty years I have been under some kind of allure. It's different, Jaskier. I l– l–, hm, I like your voice, always did, and surely it's not because you're a Siren or something."

He blinks, and finally looks at him in the eyes, "W– Woah. Really, Geralt? You love my voice?"

Geralt splutters, "I said like!"

Jaskier makes a careless gesture with his unoccupied hand, "Yeah, I know, but I also know what you really meant. Whatever, these trifles are not important. Do you love my voice, then?"

And he seems so content, happiness radiates from him in waves, and Geralt – what is he suppose to do?! – surrenders, "Hm."

"That grunt is an affirmation! I knew it, even if you always told me otherwise! On the other hand, I already knew that I was a span above simple girls with gills and without any talent or years of study and sacrifice behind them, but hearing you say it still raises my self-esteem by one notch. I'm modest but I'm certainly not deaf!" he laughs, he laughs lightly and soflty. And probably Geralt must have done something right in his life, even if just one thing, to have Jaskier here with him, relaxed, content, happy. Happy with him.

Jaskier then sighs, looking at him fondly. He continues to caress his hair, slowly, running his fingers through the locks as he would do with the strings of his lute. "I'm glad for it. I'm glad that there's something of me that you love." he says, at last.

Geralt says nothing, remaining motionless as a stone in an artist's hands. He would like to tell him that there is not a single thing about him that Geralt does not love, but does he really have that right? He doesn't know, and he doesn't want to know. So, he keeps silent. He keeps still, while Jaskier gets closer, one hand still on his hair, the other caressing his cheek. And a little bit closer, gets so close...

Suddenly, Jaskier yawns and Geralt– Geralt walks away, albeit unwillingly. The idiot is so tired that he can't even stand straight.

"You're dry. Go to bed now." Geralt says, getting up.

"Shit." he hears Jaskier swears. He sees him put both his hands on his face.

Geralt frowns, "You alright?" he asks, as he begins to undress. Throw the armor in the corner of the room, along with his breeches and shirt. He does not go looking for a change, because he knows that if there is something clean, it is up to Jaskier to wear it, for that evening, so he remains in his underpants and undershirt, standing in the center of the room with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting for Jaskier to get up and finally go to bed.

"Yeah." Jaskier groans, his voice suffused with his hands. "Yeah, it's... yeah, I'm alright. Just, you know, tired." Finally, after a deep sigh, without looking at him, he reaches out to him, "Help me? My legs are shaking, I think, and a bit numb. They don't hurt, at least, but it's unconfortable. So, Geralt? A hand, if you please?"

Geralt grabs his hand, helping him to get up, careful. He puts his arm around his waist, careful not to touch anything that is not covered by the cloak – and yes, his legs still tremble, but not in an exaggerated way, and in a corner of his mind Geralt thinks that Jaskier could have reached the bed even without his help, but he doesn't care. He's tired, after all.

"Thank you, darling." he sighs, when he finally manages to lie on the bed.

Geralt grabs his bag and throws it to him. Jaskier can't catch it in time – figures – and it simply falls between the worn out blankets, by his side. Jaskier whines at his own fail. "Look for something you can wear."

"Aye aye." he hears him murmur. Geralt turns his back on him, starting to keep himself busy fixing his potions, drying the swords, hearing anyway the rustling of the bed, the cloak and Jaskier who is about to wear his shirt. Fuck. He doesn't think he's ready to see that.

When finally behind him he feels only silence apart the rhythm of Jaskier's heartbeat and his calm breath, Geralt turns and finds him already asleep, wearing some underpants and his black shirt, which clashes so much on Jaskier. The cloak is abandoned by the foot of the bed – and Jaskier breathes softly, his eyes moving under closed eyelids, his hands under his face. He's lying on his left side, at the edge of the bed away from the door and, fuck, he's clearly left the space to let Geralt sleep by his side and his heart somehow flips in his chest and he's a bit embarrassed about this and he should care but he actually doesn't.

Fuck this, he thinks, lying by his side. Fuck this, he thinks, turning his head to look at him and not so subtly rub his nose in his hair. Fuck all of this, he thinks, closing his eyes and falling asleep with Jaskier's salty scent to lull him.

It seems that he was tired too, as he wakes up with the sunlight bathing their room. Geralt blinks, removing any residual sleep he might have, and looks around: something has awakened him and it is certainly the non-presence of Jaskier by his side – or in the room, considering that he cannot smell his scent, if not for what permeated in the bed, or his beat anywhere in the inn.

Geralt doesn't panic – he can't, he's not a part of him being afraid. Despite this, Geralt has always felt things he shouldn't, when it comes to Jaskier, so now he's just exasperated as he feels his heart beat a little louder, when there is only silence around him. In his defense, he is no longer used to Jaskier's absence.

He has a vague idea of where he may have gone, so he doesn't rush there as soon as he puts on his clothes – he leaves the armor and swords where they are, he's pretty sure he won't need them. He leaves the room and descends the inn's stairs with controlled calm, responds with just a nod of the innkeeper's stiffly hello, spends ten minutes beside Roach – he smiles at her, he caresses and brushes her mane and she neighs contently – and only then he decides to cross the grove that divides the town and the beach.

He sniffs his scent before he even sees him. Jaskier is standing straight, with the water that bathes his bare feet. He has his hands on his hips, as if waiting for something, and Geralt itches – and he doesn't even know why – when he sees that over his delicate red pants he still wears his shirt and nothing else.

"There you are, sleepy head!" greets him with a smile as he turns, having heard him approach.

"You woke up early. It's a first." he says, and he stops in front of him.

The fog of the day before seems to be only a distant memory, and the sun is a huge golden sphere on the horizon, which illuminates and makes the calm water of the ocean shine. It's not hot, but Jaskier no longer trembles. He's contented and relaxed, with the sea all around him.

"Weeell, we actually slept a lot. I mean, a lot. Almost twelve hours. From sunset to sunrise. I daresay it's a first for you, my dear Witcher who usually sleeps no more that three hours a day."

"Hm."

"Well, I can understand that having five Sirens messing with your head can be tiring. You deserved all the time of this world to regain strength." he kicks the water, splashing it all around him. "I woke up at sunrise and, yeah, I started to think. Mostly about a ballad with frustrating Sirens and an heroic Witcher that slashed them all without hesitation," Geralt grunts at that, but Jaskier doesn't care, "then I thought about the more serious question, you know, the one about me with a tail and some gills. Things that I certainly don't want to sing around the Continent, I'm pretty sure of it. And, well, I thought about it for a long time, while I was watching you sleep, and I came to the conclusion that I should go and talk to my grandmother."

Geralt grimaces, "Were you thinking about your grandmother while you watched me sleep, Jaskier?"

"Well! You have the same hair!" Jaskier laughs, while Geralt grimaces a bit more, "Actually, that's a lie. She is a blondie, I never saw her old enough to have white hair, but I think she is the Siren of the family. I have her brilliant eyes, by the way. My mother's, too. I prefer to talk to grandmother than to her."

"We will go talk to her, then."

"The problem is, that I don't know where the fuck she is." he says, candidly. "She kind of disappeared during my adolescence, then I went to Oxenfurt and never went back home again, so. Well. I'm pretty sure she ran away from that place too. "

"We will go search for her, then." Geralt corrects himself.

"After we collect our prize from Lady Maria, of course."

"How the hell did you find that tiara, by the way?" he asks.

"It wasn't difficult, the Siren told me where to find it. It was easier than expected, I admit it, despite the heap of odds in that place – along with various skeletons and rotten human flesh. This part will be quite exciting in my ballad, despite the fact that I remember nothing but the disgusting smell and the various bones creaking under my shoes. Ugh. I will cut these details, of course, I don't think people will like them, let's say I will focus in particular on the gentle curves of the Sirens. And about their death. Especially about their death. "

"I didn't kill them."

Jaskier smirks, “I know, dear heart of gold. Artistic license, you may call it."

Geralt rolls his eyes, then frowns when he sees Jaskier calmly taking his shirt off and throwing it away from the water and doing the same with his pants. "And now what are you doing."

"I want to try again. Yesterday I was in shock most of the time, but now I am sure I'll remain lucid enough to notice all the changes in my body. I want to see the exact color of my tail, feel how pointy my ears are, why the fuck do I have wings, this kind of things. As long as they are temporarily."

Soon also the underpants are added to the rest of the clothes, and Jaskier, wonderfully naked, enters the flat sea but without hesitation, one step at a time. When even the last strand of dark hair disappears beyond the surface of the sea, Geralt stands waiting, with his brows furrowed and darkened face, immobile in the middle of the deserted beach.

When Jaskier rises, there are gills on the sides of the neck. With his hands he brings his wet hair backwards, so that they don't go into his eyes, then he smiles at him from a distance, and with a finger he gestures to reach him.

"No." he grunts, slowly, but he hears him nonetheless.

"C'mon. Don't be shy! Or maybe you can't swim? Don't worry, I won't let you sink."

Geralt rolls his eyes, "I'm fine here."

"Please?" Finally, Jaskier reaches his hands in prayer in front of his face and looks at him pleadingly. "I need you here with me now. Please."

And Geralt sighs, and surrenders. What is he supposed to do, with Jaskier looking like that, telling him that he needs him? Obviously, give in. He really is an hopeless fool.

He takes off his boots, leaving them next to Jaskier's clothes, then shrugs and, fuck it, all the rest too, then throws himself into the water and reach him, uncaring of the cold. It is not the wisest or smartest thing to do, to remain naked both in the water when Geralt is now so clearly – ugh – in love. But on the other hand it would have sounded strange to get into the water dressed, when by now one knows the other's body perfectly, and there have been many baths together in rivers and inns. Somehow, this seems more intimate than the mere action of cleaning up.

Jaskier is lifting one of his wing with the tip of two fingers, bringing half of it over the surface of the water, "Do you think I can fly with these?" he asks when Geralt joins him.

"Hm, no." he says, "You turn back human, out of the water."

"Right. It would not be very clever of me try to lift gracefully in the air when I would only find myself smashed on the ground after less than a minute. As a Siren, I work halfway, obviously."

"There is an explanation, Jaskier. There is an explanation for everything." awkwardly, Geralt tries to lift his spirits, but Jaskier just looks very thoughtful, not sad. Better that way, he thinks, without taking his eyes off his face.

"Hmmm," Jaskier murmurs, in a pale imitation of his grunts, "You know, now that I look better at this... tail," he says, after, awkwardly, he tried to lift his tail far enough out of the water to better observe it under the rays of sun, "Have you ever seen a blue so magnificent, Geralt? Look at this shade, sweet Melitele, I didn't even know it existed before." he whispers, in a soft voice. One of his hands tries to hold the tail in such a way that it does not sink into the water, the other passes it over the scales, stroking each shade with the tip of a finger.

"Yes," says Geralt. "Your eyes'."

He tense, then, because he really shouldn't have said that.

Jaskier looks at him, blinks, then the most wide and bright smile appears on his face, thins his eyes and highlights his cheekbones – and fuck, Geralt is truly very and gladly fucked, fuck fuck fuck–

"You mean that my eyes are magnificent, Geralt?"

Jaskier lets go of his tail, and approaches, with a particular spark in his blue eyes – and any retorts get stuck in Geralt's throat. His scent overwhelms him, all he can hear is his crazy heartbeat, all he feel is his arousal and his love and it's not fucking possible that, isn't it?

"I never kissed anyone in the ocean." he whispers softly. He puts his hands on his bare chest, and Geralt barely feels his tail move in the water behind him, happy, like that of a puppy at the sight of his master. "May I, Geralt?" he asks, dreamly, only a bit insecure.

Geralt is not good at words, and even less so when inside he only feels a mixture of sensations that perhaps he shouldn't feel, and that he has never felt before, not in that suffocating and painful and pleasant way at the same time. And for once, he doesn't crawl away – he brings his face close to his, his gaze doesn't waver, he keeps it pointed in his eyes until Jaskier, ever so spontaneous and eager, launches into his arms and presses his lips against his, soft, full, red, salty and fragrant.

Suddenly, Jaskier inhales, but not pleasantly. "Ah–"

"What?" he says in a hoarse whisper.

"The medallion..." Jaskier grimaces, touching the hollow of his throat where probabily his medallion touched him. He does not step back, however, does not stop stroking his chest with his other hand. Indeed, he feels his tail begin a slow dance around his legs, intricately and delightfully, and Geralt has to calm his breath before grabbing his medallion and throwing it behind his shoulders – cold and heavy, it stays still between his shoulder blades.

"Oh," Jaskier moans, flushing his whole body onto him, shivering when he feels Geralt's arms around his waist. "Better." he adds, and then they are hugging each other in the water, and kissing their souls out.

They kiss and kiss and kiss until their mouths are scraped and swollen and their tongue numb. They kiss for hours, long and infinite hours, but every time they divide themselves to catch their breath, it always seemed too soon.

"I want to go find my grandmother." Jaskier moans when they really don't have any more air to share. "I want to discover all of the secrets noone told me about myself. And I want to talk to you, let you understand too, and I want to fuck you and let you fuck me but not right now, because right now I don't have my bits and I need them to fuck."

"Yeah." he murmurs with his hands and on his face, caressing his cheeks, just an inch apart from his lips.

"But I still want to stay here, in the ocean's water, and kiss you, because I waited so much time, Geralt..."

And Geralt smiles, just because he can, and he wants to. "Then we'll stay."

"Yeah. For a little bit more. And then we'll go. We'll go see if the boat is sold, and then we'll go to Lady Maria, and then we'll go search for grandmother. But not now."

"Not now." he repeats, finally touching his nose with his, breathing in, feeling Jaskier's scent on him and he likes it.

"Yeah, not now." he says again, voice low, "Now we kiss."

And they kiss.