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Geralt was practised in the art of being alone.
It was a fact of his job, though the fearful title of Butcher that had followed him just as surely as Renfri’s ghost had always done did nothing to endear him to those he was sworn to protect either. Geralt had Roach. He had his swords. He had the quiet of a night by the fire where weary villagers did not watch his every move for any chance he might attack. He had the weight of the coin in his purse.
He didn’t need anything else.
He was practised in the art of being alone. He had been so for a long time.
“You know, we should see if we can nick some herbs from the next village we pass. Rosemary would go pretty far to make these pheasants we keep eating more palpable.”
Well. He used to be alone.
The bard – not yet far enough out of his boyhood to be rightly called a man – sat opposite Geralt, careful to keep himself on his bedroll so he didn’t dirty his fine clothing. Jaskier was still a novelty in Geralt’s life, though a novelty he knew wouldn’t last. Jaskier was far too much into finery, too much in love with the world and its people, to consider travelling with Geralt for more than a year or so. Geralt was…something to write songs about, apparently, but surely that fascination wouldn’t last long.
No doubt, Jaskier would see the error of his ways soon enough.
But for now, Jaskier sat across from him, complaining about the lack of flavour in his meal and strumming his lute whenever the fancy took him.
Geralt grunted, “if you want nice food, don’t travel with a witcher.”
Jaskier laughed, and not for the first time Geralt felt that warm tug deep in the pit of his stomach. It was not dissimilar to how he felt when he saw a smile on Eskel’s face or when he happened to run into Lambert along the coastline. A dangerous thing for Geralt to feel for anyone, but doubly so for a human who will likely be quick to hate when the time came for it.
It had only been a month, after all. Give it a few more, and Jaskier would flit out of his life, never to be seen again.
Geralt turned his face. He would not be lured into caring. He would keep his walls up. He would not let Jaskier see any hint of fondness.
Jaskier, undeterred, had begun speaking again, “you keep saying things like that as if this past month hasn’t been the most exciting of my life. Of course, there are better conversationalists out there, but then, you never interrupt me, so I suppose small blessings, hm? And the songs. You’re my muse, Geralt, my one and only true muse, and I shall travel with you composing ballads until the day my feet fall off.”
Humans. Always exaggerating. Always with the hyperbolic language.
“Travelling with me will get your feet bitten off, one day,” Geralt warned, the growl in his voice deep enough to scare most grown men into handing over coin quickly and leaving just as fast.
Jaskier, idiot that he was, ignored it, “you’ll protect me, my dear,” he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the whole continent.
Geralt studied Jaskier, for just a moment, this perplexing creature that has stumbled into his orbit with youthful joy and idealism. Bizarre. He was bizarre. He was like nobody who has ever designed to spend their time with Geralt before. He was a conundrum wrapped in fine doublets and a voice both annoying and, annoyingly, melodious.
Geralt turned his eyes away. No point arguing. Jaskier would realise one day that you couldn’t rely on monsters.
“And back to non-verbal responses? Well, I think that’s my cue to settle in for the night. I am awfully tired. You know, if you just let me ride Roach—”
“Don’t touch Roach,” Geralt repeated, the same thing he repeated every day. He had an awful feeling that if this whole arrangement went on long enough though, he’d begin to lose his edge with it. At the very least, Roach would. He’d noticed Jaskier feeding her sugar cubes when he thought Geralt wasn’t looking.
“You’re the worst,” Jaskier said, in a way that made it clear that he thought Geralt was anything but. Bantering. Friendly. Something Lambert might say over a round of beers.
Not something a human should ever offer a Witcher. But there it was.
Geralt watched as Jaskier shifted down into his bedroll, the careful way that the other got into it so as to avoid as much of the dirt on the ground as possible. Idiot, Geralt thought, trying not to be too found about it.
And then – for the first time since they started travelling together – Jaskier rolled over, so his back was facing Geralt, and promptly fell asleep.
Jaskier, Geralt had noted early on, was prone to sleep like a log as soon as he got the chance. Geralt suspected that was more to do with the fact that the pace they travelled was unusual for one so clearly unaccustomed to life on the road.
What hadn’t been happening early on, however, was Jaskier turning his back. He’d fall asleep facing Geralt, always. Geralt barely even registered it. A tiny sign of lack of trust, not wanting to be open and vulnerable like sleeping facing away from someone made you. It was a simple primal protective measure.
Yet Jaskier had turned on his back.
Geralt could, if he wanted to, pick up one of his swords, and slice his way through Jaskier’s doublet, through pale skin, (never, he never would) and Jaskier wouldn’t even have time to shift and get his hands up to defend himself in animalistic instinct.
Trust, Geralt realised belatedly. Misplaced, singularly ridiculous trust.
The bard trusted him.
That warm feeling though, the one he was failing to quell, spread through him at the notion.
It was the first time a human had trusted him in such an instinctive way since Blavikan. Maybe it was the first time a human had trusted him in such an instinctive way even before that.
Geralt stopped watching after a moment. It didn’t mean anything. Jaskier would still leave, one day. This…little trip he was taking with Geralt was nothing but the passing phase of a young man yet to settle down.
Still, when Geralt fell asleep that night, the warmth had yet to dissipate, and – despite himself – he found himself making a silent promise not to betray the trust the bard had so stupidly placed in his monstrous hands.
-///-
“Have we said hello yet?” Yennefer finally spoke, regaining her breath after the quite frankly excellent orgasm she’d just received.
Geralt’s chuckle echoed beside her. They hadn’t had much chance to say anything, when they’d noticed one another in that tavern, and quickly found themselves in the largest room the inn could conjure for them. “Hello, Yennefer,” he grunted, as they both in unison shifted to face one another instead of the ceiling. Dark pools of molten amber stared back at her from across the rickety tavern bed, filled with a precious softness and mirth she had come to realise was a gift directed only at those Geralt cared for.
After all this time, her heartbeat fluttered lightly at such a thought. She remembered the first time she’d notice him looking at her like that, in a tent on a mountaintop. You’re important to me, he’d said. Wish or not, those words had etched themselves against her heart.
Now, all these years later, she wondered what Geralt saw when he looked into her eyes. Did he see the love she had spent so long trying to refuse? To write off as nothing but a djinn induced fantasy? Did he see the lingering contentment that always crashing against her like a wave when they were together, as if she were finally free to just rest a moment?
“It’s been too long since I last saw you,” she murmured, finally, one leg absently brushing against Geralt’s under the cover.
“Hmm,” Geralt’s signature affirmation filled the space between them, though likely he’d chosen it more because she’d just tired him out quite thoroughly, rather than because of any desire to avoid conversation, “we thought you might come to Kaer Morhen last winter.”
Yennefer sighed. She had wanted to. Kaer Morhen was a dusty, dingy old place, but it was twice the home Aretuza had ever managed to be, “Things needed dealing with in the South, and I was too closely watched at the time. I would have led them to you. To Ciri.” None of them would allow that to happen. No matter how much she might have wanted to see her daughter and her witcher and – yes, alright – even the annoying bard that still trailed along after all of them.
Geralt grunted, a hand coming up to brush against Yennefer’s cheek. He was so gentle with her when they were like this. He touched her like she was precious. She knew she’d never tire of it. It was a good thing she felt that way, she supposed. That damned wish had linked their destinies, and she doubted she’d ever be free of Geralt, perhaps not even in death.
Jaskier’s words came to her, then, in a whispered memory, the wish tied your destinies. Could have done that in plenty of ways without you needing to pounce his bones whenever you meet. Not that I blame you. Not the most tactful way of putting it, but the bard had a point, even if his tone had been tinged with jealousy.
She leaned her head into Geralt’s hand, letting her lips brush against his palm.
Geralt nodded, “Ciri’s travelling with Jaskier, for the moment. It’s easier. I’m too recognisable, and Jaskier is surprisingly good at disguising himself, for all the attention he likes to draw.”
Once upon a time she might have bristled at the idea of Jaskier looking after Ciri, hunted him down and gutted him herself. Jaskier teased that old age had mellowed her, but in truth, she had simply grown to trust the bastard of a poet. At the very least, she could trust he’d never betray Geralt.
He was just as in love with the Witcher as she was, after all.
“She’ll be playing her own damned lute when you reunite, you realise?”
Geralt groaned, “he bought her one last Autumn. She was playing it over the winter. They do duets.”
Yennefer laughed at the image, the two menaces of noble birth, running around the witchers keep of Kaer Morhen and taunting Geralt with their songs.
“He’d better be careful. Ciri is the most talented child I know. He’ll be unhappy if she ends up better at his craft than he is,” Yennefer pointed out.
Geralt shook his head, “You underestimate his love for her. He’d just smugly take the credit for her training.”
Yennefer rolled her eyes. How she had ended up with a child that was part Jaskier’s was beyond her, but somehow it had happened all the same. She had to admit, he was good for her. He understood her upbringing in a palace better than she or Geralt could, and he let her be silly, sometimes, when the rest of the world demanded she be so serious.
Yennefer shifted closer, so she could rest her head on Geralt’s chest. Geralt’s arm wrapped around her shoulder in response, an automatic reflex by this point. How many times had they laid like this? Under her head, she listened to the slow but steady rhythm of his heart.
“Do you have much you need to do for the next few weeks?” Geralt queried, finally. She was almost startled but it. She thought he might have dozed off.
“Triss and I are meeting in Oxenfurt in the next fortnight,” Yennefer regretted to admit, “she’s claimed scholastic sanctuary there. Nilfguard are hunting down the mages they knew were present at Sodden Hill, now.”
Fractionally, Geralt’s arms tightened around her. She wondered if he even noticed he was doing it, “you were present at Sodden Hill, Yen.”
Fear. Worry. She could hear it in his voice. It was bright as anything, and warm to think on. He cared for her, and knew her, both. Not the fantasy he wanted her to be – they were long past that. He knew her. And still, he chose to get into bed with her, to hold her, to raise a child with her.
It was a gift, she knew. Just as she gifted him with her love in return.
“I’ll be fine,” she promised, and she would be. She had no need of his protection. More than once they’d spared to see who would win, and every time it ended in a draw. She had a feeling both of them were pulling punches though.
Still, though she had no need for it, it was nice that it was offered.
“Even so, may I accompany you to Oxenfurt?” Geralt asked.
Yennefer paused. She’d be more recognisable with Geralt beside her, but then, they could have more nights like this.
She propped herself up on her elbow over him, leaning down just so to lightly brush their lips together, “I would like that very much,” she murmured.
He leaned closer into her, turned the kiss from light to deep and lazy. She appreciated it, one hand running down the expanse of his chest, running over the raised bumps of scars that hadn’t healed properly through the years.
Eventually, he broke away, kissed her forehead. “I am tired,” he admitted.
“No doubt,” She raised her eyebrows. They hadn’t exactly gone easy on each other earlier tonight.
He cracked a small smirk, before carefully turning so his back faced her, in order to settle.
Yennefer felt her body still.
Oh.
She knew that trust was hard for a Witcher. Equally, she knew that though they loved each other, they couldn’t always trust one another. All in their first meeting they had bathed together, slept together and she had used her magic on him to make him rampage against the town.
Had he ever turned his back to her in sleep?
It was a vulnerable position after all, and Witchers didn’t so easily make themselves vulnerable. Especially not to those they knew to be a threat.
She reached out a careful hand, letting it press to his spine, run down it. Geralt didn’t flinch, nor tense.
Trust.
She smiled, soft, gentle, and moved herself forward, wrapping around him from behind, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck.
“Goodnight, Geralt,” she murmured and fell asleep holding him in her arms.
-///-
Jaskier all but snarled as Yennefer pushed him through a portal and away from the ruckus he’d created in that damned ballroom.
The adrenaline was still coursing through his veins, eating him up from the inside out. How dare they? How dare they say such things?
Blood dripped from the blade and from his nose where he’d gone and gotten himself punched by some prancy noble that was – hopefully – still bleeding out on the damned dance floor. Jaskier’s fingers were still wrapped tight around the hilt of his danger, knuckles white with the pressure of it.
“What happened to keeping a low fucking profile, you imbecile?” Yennefer threw up her hands, anger like flames in her violet eyes.
Jaskier didn’t care. He’d do it again, and face Yennefer’s wrath a thousand times over. That man had deserved it. Jaskier bared his teeth, pacing the familiar floor of their room in Kaer Morhen, hundreds of miles away from that awful, awful party. He wanted to go back. He wanted to tear them all to shreds. Why the hell had Yennefer even dragged him out of there?
“He was being a pig,” Jaskier didn’t need to defend himself to her. He felt himself begin pacing. He couldn’t stop.
“Nobles often are,” Yennefer replied, breezily, settling herself on the edge of a bed big enough to take three of them when the need arose (which it did, often, these days).
“People should know better by now than to insult the people I love,” Jaskier grit out, voice taut in its anger.
“What? The man was insulting Geralt? Jaskier, everyone insults Geralt. We do it on a daily basis. You really need to calm down about that,” she said it so breezily, angry at him, but calm about the situation. It just served to wound Jaskier up more.
Jaskier had started many a fight, and stabbed many a person, for harsh words towards Geralt – and towards Witchers in General.
This fight, however, didn’t involve Geralt at all.
“What?” Yennefer finally asked, sounding exasperated, “out with it, Jaskier. You’ve never bothered to hold things back before.”
“Nothing,” Jaskier muttered, still gripping his knife.
“I can read your mind if the fancy takes me, Jaskier. Don’t push it,” Yennefer warned, and unfortunately, Jaskier knew the truth of such a claim.
“Fine,” Jaskier didn’t want to say it, but he didn’t want her poking in his head either, no matter how much he might have come to care for her, “He said he’d never seen a woman as fuckable as you, and that he wanted to rip off your dress and fuck you like a bitch.” No point mincing his words, though their repetition made him boil with rage again. Yennefer. He had insulted Yennefer. The most beautiful woman in the room – in any room – and he had spoken as if she was nothing but a piece of meat.
Jaskier should have done a lot more than just stab him in the gut. He would have done too, if Yennefer hadn’t dragged him out of there through that damned portal the way she had.
He tensed, at a hand appearing on his shoulder. Soft, almost, but firm enough to stop his pacing. Carefully, it ran down the length of his arm, fingertips feather-light, and reached for the dagger, uncurling his fist from it.
He let her, breathing shallow, anger still eating him up from the inside. But he let her.
“You shouldn’t have done that. Men say awful things, Jaskier. They think much worse.” Yennefer placed the knife down on one of the cabintes, slipping before him.
“Of course I should have, Yennefer. He fucking—he fucking—”
“Yes, Jaskier. I know,” she stepped into his arms, and he held her steady, “you defend…the people you love. It is a characteristic of your relationship with Geralt. I simply hadn’t realised it had carried over to me.” Her violet eyes were no longer annoyed, but there was still a flame in them.
Oh.
Jaskier bit his lower lip. Not quite how he would have chosen to admit his love for her. He would rather she heard it in song or whispered after their lovemaking like the way he’d told Geralt the first time.
Still, there it was, out between them.
He reached for her hands, drawing them lightly to his lips to kiss over her knuckles, keeping their eyes locked, “I do, you know? I truly do.”
She didn’t respond, but then, neither of his lovers were particularly verbally expressive in their emotions.
“Come on,” she murmured, pulling him towards the bed, he went, “we might as well get some rest, seen as you ruined our evening of spying.”
“Worth it,” he grumbled. He’d get an earful tomorrow about disrupting the resistance and endangering the cause blah, blah, but he’d do it again. He’d do it a thousand times over.
The bed felt almost too large, without Geralt there to hog all the blankets and take up all the space. Yet Yennefer had his attention entirely as she carefully stripped off her dress and climbed under the covers. Jaskier did the same, uncharacteristically dropping his doublet and finery to the floor. He remembered, decades ago, when he’d been squeamish about getting his things muddy on the road. It seemed like a lifetime ago now.
Besides, he had a Witch for a lover, and one perk was having her get rid of the stains in his clothes. Mostly. Sometimes. When she wasn’t punishing him on purpose for his idiocy.
Gently, Yennefer eased onto her side, and hummed under her breath, “you may hold me, if you like.”
Fuck, how did she know him so well?
Yet as he plastered himself to her back, it struck him that he had never held her like this before. Geralt was near always in the middle of them, which was fine, except…this was nice too. Better than nice. She had her back to him, but she was snug and safe in her arms.
It was a kind of trust, he realised. To let him hold her.
Something had changed between them tonight, with his impromptu confession. He closed his eyes, nosed into her hair, breathed her in. Geralt was right, her scent was intoxicating. It calmed him down, let the last of the tension seep from his shoulders.
They trusted one another.
He was pleased with that.
He fell asleep, holding one of his gorgeous, wonderful lovers, with a smile on his face.