Chapter Text
“Geralt, there’s someone here to see you,” the newest intern announces. He’s showing promise although he’s too assiduous. It’s all well and good to memorize every culture’s compendium on the planet, but field training is important too. Sometimes on paper, it can feel easy to do their job; find the supernatural thing, identify the thing, deal with the thing. But in practice, when the thing is nine feet tall and breathing hot, damp, angry air down at you, and when you know that lives are on the line, it’s hard to remember the specific protocols for a var-nether-dark-hell-beast-thing.
Still. The intern has shown up for work every morning— if not with a smile on his face, then with a serious demeanour and a willingness to commit to the business. That’s more than they could have reasonably expected, not when they get so many imperfect hires. The Keep is short enough on staff that each and every willing combatant matters. Even if they’re basically doing glorified secretarial work.
Geralt rises from his desk and then blinks at the intern. “... Who?”
The someone that’s there to see him strides in, carrying with her that eternal scent of lilac and gooseberries. Geralt stands and then smiles when he sees Yennefer’s company. His daughter runs up to him and hugs him, and Geralt glances at the clock on the wall. “Did you leave school early just to come visit?”
“No,” Ciri releases him, hopping back over to stand by her mother. “I mean, yeah, I left school early, but it’s because Yen is going on a trip with her girlfriend.”
Both women stare at him, awaiting his feedback. Geralt keeps his expression perfectly neutral, leaning into his training and not moving a muscle except to say, entirely without emotion, “That’s nice.”
“I told you he wouldn’t care,” laughs Yennefer, exhaling. She pats Ciri on the shoulder, who looks disappointed by Geralt’s lack of reaction. Teenagers are bizarre, and he has long learned not to ask. “But, yes, Triss and I are going out of town.”
Geralt raises an eyebrow. Triss, the aforementioned girlfriend of his child’s co-parent, is a talented field researcher who rarely shows up at the Keep except to drop off her monthly findings or occasionally stock up on supplies. She’s been gone for the last two months though, chasing down tales of a creature that hides in the mist. “I thought she already was out of town?”
“Yes, and I’m going to meet her.” Yennefer places her hands on her hips as if to prepare for an argument. Geralt rolls his eyes, making no attempt to hide his reaction to that— Yennefer has always been dramatic, but he has no doubt that she remembers their promises to each other. And one of those promises banned fighting, especially around Ciri. After a moment Yen relents. “So can you take Ciri?”
“Of course.” He smiles, and Ciri and Yen both beam in response. “I’m nearly done here, I just need another hour or so, and then we can head home. Unless you want me to bring you back to school?”
“No,” Ciri blurts out, dodging the half-hearted attempt to turn her into a more responsible child. “Nope! I’m good here, I can do my homework…” She casts her gaze around, looking for a distraction, and it lands on… “with Vesemir! Hey, Vesemir, wanna help me with my homework?”
The older man has no time to greet Yennefer before Ciri runs up to him, already holding out her binder. He sighs, but there’s no fire behind it— Geralt knows that the rest of the staff love Ciri just as everyone who’s ever met her does. While his boss is distracted, Geralt leans against his desk and whispers to Yennefer, “So. Anything special about this trip?”
“No,” she replies swiftly. Then she relents; “Maybe. I— I haven’t asked. She asked me to come, alone, so… I’m going.”
“Hmm.” Geralt reaches for the last dregs of his coffee and tries a sip; it’s gone ice-cold. He frowns and puts it back on the desk. “I’m glad to have the extra time with Ciri. I missed her.”
She nods. “I’ll be back long before two weeks from now… well, I’m assuming she isn’t going to keep us away for that long.” Then the ever-invulnerable Yennefer actually blushes, gaze dropping to the floor. “Anyway. Ciri’s got a school dance next Wednesday, and I was supposed to chaperone. Can you do it?”
That sounds like a nightmare… maybe he can ask Eskel to step in. “Sure.”
“Thanks, Geralt.” Yennefer steps forward and hugs him goodbye, and he breathes in the heavy scent of her perfume. The training that he went through to work in this profession has sharpened his senses, but sometimes he wonders if he wouldn’t notice her just the same if the two of them were normal humans unencumbered by anything magical.
Yennefer leaves, and Geralt debates driving Ciri back to school for only a minute. She’s likely to get more work done here anyway. He peeks over to steal a glance at Vesemir, head bent over Ciri’s schoolwork as she checks her phone. Geralt snorts and returns to his own work.
After that, time flies by. Geralt doesn’t bother printing out and filing any of his research on the specific threat he’s going to hunt tonight; he knows enough about ghouls. He makes a few notes in his field journal before heading to their armoury so that he can restock on silver bullets and test the batteries in his flashlight. He figures it might be smart to sharpen his second sword too. Geralt pours a liberal amount of necrophage oil over its blade until it’s shining and hungry, and then he sheathes it and throws it back into his duffel bag.
Ciri and Vesemir are nowhere to be seen when he heads back to the second floor. Geralt follows the scent of warm food to the kitchen, where, sure enough, Lambert has made an attempt at dinner. It’s probably the ugliest lasagne Geralt has ever seen, but Ciri is tearing into it as though Geralt hadn’t packed her any lunch at all today. So he keeps his mouth shut, and when Lambert offers him some, he nods gratefully.
His life is less structured when his daughter isn’t around; two weeks out of every four, Geralt doesn’t have to worry about things like packing lunches or school dances. But he’s glad to shift his schedule around for what little family he can call his own, so he makes it work.
When Ciri is around, he stays out all night working. He always comes home before eight in the morning so that he can drive her to school, and then after that he meditates and has some well-earned rest. When he needs to go to the Keep he’ll show up in the early afternoon, but he always leaves with ample time to pick up his kid from school. Then he makes dinner, and sometimes showers, and heads out to start the whole cycle all over again.
On nights like this, when Eskel is teasing Lambert for gratuitous use of ricotta, and Ciri is laughing so hard that soda comes out of her nose, and Vesemir keeps asking her about setting up official social media for the Keep, Geralt doesn’t mind the departure from their usual schedule. He’ll drive them home soon; he has no problem dropping Ciri off before starting his shift very late. It’s better to wait until the sky is dark anyway.
The night is cool by the time Geralt makes his way to his hunting ground, and he’s glad for his thick jacket. The mist that pervades through every street of their town makes no exception for the cemetery, as fog sweeps over the hills and obscures the distant rows of graves. Geralt points his flashlight out into the mist, sword at the ready.
But for a very long time, nothing appears at all. Geralt ends up turning off the light to conserve battery and to avoid notice from any nosy late-night audiences. His gaze falls over the tombstones in front of him, reading the epitaphs with disinterest. Nobody he recognizes is buried here, thankfully.
Then there’s a noise not unlike a hound baying, and Geralt turns, half expecting to see a wild dog. The sensor in his pocket starts to buzz, alerting him to the presence of monsters. But no ghoul stands before him; instead, a beautiful wraith the colour of sea glass is hovering above their grave, peering down at him curiously.
Geralt squints at them— specifically, at how the dim moonlight bends around and through them. They must have been gorgeous when they were alive. He feels a pang of sadness thinking about how long they might have been stuck here. But then, just as he’s made up his mind to help them, the ghost chants some nonsense about God and then fades into white and blue mist.
Not a wraith, then; just a benign spectre. Geralt breathes but doesn’t relax. His sensor is still buzzing away, loud enough that it sounds like a cell phone. The spectre’s aura might be enough to set it off, but Vesemir hadn’t sent him here because of reports of ghosts.
There have been two disappearances in this neighbourhood within the last two days, both at night. The second missing person had had a friend who had come to the Keep to put in a statement, babbling about a giant Gollum. Geralt had disagreed with the comparison— the ghouls that he usually encounters look more like zombies on performance-enhancing drugs. But when he hears a horrible gurgling from behind him and whips around, he has to admit— the necrophage does kind of look like Gollum.
He makes quick work of it with his silver sword, but halfway through the fight the monster swipes low and scratches his leg. “Shit,” hisses Geralt; he hadn’t thought to bring any potions, and the pain that blooms through him is surprisingly sharp. He barely maintains his grip on his sword, and he ends up punching the ghoul like some sort of rookie.
The beast rears back, howling in pain— it leaves ectoplasmic matter on Geralt’s silver knuckles, which is disgusting but reassuring to see. Geralt steadies himself, fixing his stance and breathing in. Then he lops the ghoul’s head off, decapitating it in one neat stroke.
Silence falls over the graveyard, leaving Geralt to pant loudly by himself as he nurses his wounds. First comes harvesting; the blood and lymph that drains from the ghoul’s neck are valuable potion ingredients. He keeps his head high as he collects the materials from the monster’s remains, looking around for others. Ghouls usually have friends, but it seems that this one was a loner.
Geralt isn’t complaining. His sensor stays silent too, so he packs up his supplies and hurries to leave the cemetery. He can bandage himself up in a safer place than this.
His car, for instance, has seen him in much worse conditions. Geralt unlocks the door to his yellow-and-blue taxi, labelled with the telephone number for the Keep, and then falls down into the driver’s seat with a huff. The heat turns on and even though Geralt is sweaty he’s glad for the warmth; graveyards always seem especially cold, but in the pale moonlight, everything felt colder tonight.
He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, attempting to force it into some kind of presentable style. There must be a hair tie somewhere in his bag, or some ribbon or string… Geralt leans over to the passenger side, rifling through his duffel bag to try to find something. His focus is on the bag, which must be why he doesn’t notice the person outside his car until they rap against the window.
Feeling like a fish in an aquarium, Geralt turns to glare. But before he can tell the person in no uncertain terms that he is not a cabbie, they open the unlocked back door and slide into his taxi. To be fair to them, it is a taxi, even if the light’s off. Even if he hasn’t turned the light on since the first time he got in this car.
“Hi, thank you so much,” the intruder says, soft voice pleasantly melodic and cornflower blue eyes wide and hopeful. Geralt hates him already. “I wasn’t sure if you were available, thanks for letting me in. You are available, aren’t you?”
“I’m not,” says Geralt.
“Sorry,” he apologizes, except the apology means very little when his next move is not leaving the car. “But I— my phone is dead, and I don’t really know this area? I’m not from around here, um, I’m staying at a flat close by though. I— I have my wallet, I’ll pay you cash, I just have to get home.”
Geralt sighs. The scratch on his leg pulses, but it isn’t poisoned. “Shut the door.”
Obediently, the Redanian man shuts the door. At least, Geralt thinks he’s Redanian— his accent isn’t defined enough to suggest a particular region but it’s got a nice lilt to it. Geralt thinks he could listen to that voice talk for hours, then he worries that he might have to. “Thank you very much, I appreciate that more than you could guess. It’s cold here— does it often get cold here? I’ve been to this town before, of course, but I’m not sure it’s ever been so cold. … What’s your name?”
Geralt counters, “What’s your address?”
“Oh,” the man laughs, and then tells Geralt. It isn’t too far out of his way, and he can easily make a pit stop there before returning to the Keep to heal and meditate and do paperwork. The problem, he quickly divines, is going to be how talkative his new companion is. “I didn’t mean to be out this late, really, but you know how shows go. It’s ‘come, let’s have another! Come on, one more!’ and then next thing you know, you’ve lost track of the person assigned to take care of you, and you’re wandering the streets of a very cold and misty town. It’d be romantic if, you know, I could feel my balls. That’s sort of a prerequisite.”
“Hmm.” Geralt very pointedly does not think about the man’s balls. He wishes that they hadn’t been brought up at all. Shows of any sort aren’t really his thing, but he’s familiar with nights out drinking… except, weirdly enough, this man doesn’t smell like any sort of liquor. He’s wearing a scent almost too light to be cologne. It reminds Geralt of champagne but removed from any of the bitterness.
At the next stoplight, he eyes his passenger curiously in the rearview mirror, taking in his appearance. The man is wearing a dark blue dress shirt, tight white trousers, and a jacket long enough that he has to fold it underneath him on the seat. His hair is sweaty, clinging to his forehead, but the dishevelment only makes him look more handsome.
The idea of white pants seems an insane extravagance, and Geralt wonders what it says about him that he immediately worries about how he’d get them dirty, if he was in that outfit. Still, this man doesn’t seem like the type to be concerned about drycleaning fees. The shirt looks expensive, as does the jacket; the dark jewel tones suit his bright blue eyes and his fair skin. Geralt forces himself to stop ogling the man and drive.
“Well, are you going to share your name with me? Or does Kaer Morhen Transportation have a strict privacy policy?” His passenger leans back against the leather seats that are only ever used to store Ciri’s backpack on the way to and from her school (or once, a werewolf carcass).
“Geralt.”
“Geralt,” the man echoes back, testing the shape and sound of the name. He must be drunk. “A pleasure. You can call me Jaskier.”
Privately, Geralt thinks that he isn’t going to call this man anything. “Fine.”
“So, Geralt, do you live nearby?”
“Yes.” Why, why, why had he said that? Geralt grimaces and reaches for the radio, powering it up so that he doesn’t have to hear another word of small talk from the well-dressed, nice-smelling drunkard. Even if it is very pretty small talk, he has no idea how to respond to it, so he doesn’t want any of it.
Thankfully, a mild dancehall remix from a few summers ago comes on, and that seems to appease the passenger. They drift into a comfortable silence as Geralt drives, keeping his eyes half on the road and half on the man in his backseat. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel along to the beat until he realizes he’s doing it, and then he stops it abruptly.
The song crossfades into a top 40s pop song— one that Geralt unfortunately recognizes from the very first notes. This one comes on the radio all the time in the car with Ciri, and although he loves his daughter very much Geralt cannot bear her taste in music. He reaches to turn the radio to a different channel right as the guy in his backseat cheers, “Hey, this is my song!”
Geralt’s grimace returns, worse than before. “Sorry,” he mumbles, moving to change it back. He is so not cut out for this job, which, of course, makes sense, because it isn’t his fucking job. The lack of customers is a specific asset to working at the Keep, and when they do have to deal with clients, those clients aren’t very chatty.
Except the passenger shuffles forward, leaning into the space between the seats. “No, no, don’t change it back, it’s alright,” he hums. Geralt obliges, removing his hand from the dial.
He regrets failing to install a glass barrier like most cabs have, because up close, the scent of this man’s floral perfume is even more defined. Geralt almost wishes that the man did smell like alcohol, because then it would be easier to recoil and tell him to move away. As it is, he sits ramrod straight in his seat, hands at ten and two on the wheel— and leg bleeding, but that’s fine, it’s the other leg, Jaskier doesn’t need to know about that.
“Can I ask why?”
Geralt’s thoughts are clouded like how the mist blankets the town, and so he fails to process Jaskier’s meaning. “Why what?”
“Why don’t you like that song?” The man puffs up his chest, inhaling. “It’s alright, I can take it.”
“It’s just uninspired,” Geralt begins, and Jaskier squawks. “Like a… like a pie with no filling.”
“Like a pie—” Gasping as though he’s been shot, Jaskier throws himself back into his seat. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Put your seatbelt on,” he tells his passenger, and then waits until Jaskier does. “... It’s just about a break-up, which is fine. Most songs are about love and sex and break-ups. But there’s no feeling behind it, and it’s so repetitive. You said you were at a show tonight, right? Well, if I went to a show and music like that was playing, I wouldn’t know what to do. Probably just stand in the corner and drink. You can’t dance to it, and I don’t see the point in singing along to lyrics like that. It’s… it’s both sad, and happy. Are we supposed to believe that the man singing even liked the woman?”
When he glances into the rearview mirror again, Jaskier is already staring at him. He just looks confused. “I see.”
“I’m sorry,” Geralt instinctively says. “I mean. You… you asked.”
“Yes, I did.” He sighs, looking out the window; the passing streetlamps illuminate his face yellow, and Geralt has to force his gaze away again. “Do you… um, do you know who sings it?”
“No. I suppose they have other songs of the same variety?”
“Ha,” Jaskier laughs, twisting the hem of his jacket in his hands. “Oh, that’s… Well. To be fair, there are, like, several very viral dance challenges right now, so I do think that some people could dance to Her Sweet Kiss. But I… I understand. Not all… of their songs are like that.”
“I didn’t mean to insult your taste in music,” Geralt backtracks, even though Jaskier’s taste in music is awful. “I’m sure it’s very… danceable.”
“It is,” Jaskier agrees, meeting Geralt’s gaze in the mirror. At this rate, they’re going to crash the car. “I mean, I— I think so. I have to disagree with you about how simple it is, though, I think you’ve misinterpreted it horribly. I mean, he’s not even really singing about his relationship with the girl, it’s more, like, from the perspective of someone stuck in a relationship... Their other music is different, it’s got, um, more depth! At least, I think it does.”
“I’m sure it does,” Geralt assuages. He’s sure it doesn’t, but heaven forbid he missteps anymore in this conversation. “I don’t know anything about it; I just hear that song all the time because my daughter likes it. She listens to it every time it comes on the radio, so… so do I.”
This seems to cheer Jaskier up for some mysterious reason. “That’s nice! How old is your daughter?”
“She’s fifteen.” Geralt relaxes a little, leaning back into his seat. Jaskier does the same, and Geralt has the unthinkable urge to ask him a question in return and prolong the small talk. He obviously doesn’t, and so they fall into a comfortable silence. Quiet alternative music fills the empty space and the rest of the ride passes without comment.
Until they pull up outside Jaskier’s apartment, and then Geralt fumbles with what to say. He suddenly wishes the man would stay; he doesn’t know what they’d do together, so it’s a stupid wish, but. Having company wasn’t actually as bad as he had worried it might be. He stammers, low and quiet, “I like, um, I like the line ‘I am weak, my love, and wanting’. That’s not so bad, for a run-of-the-mill earworm about a break-up.”
He expects Jaskier to brush him off or to insist that it doesn’t matter. But clearly it does matter, at least a little, for some reason. Geralt watches in the rearview mirror as a private smile ignites over his passenger’s face, lighting up his expression. It makes him look impossibly beautiful. Geralt is possessed by the sudden certainty that he’s missing something here, but he has no idea what; his sensor stays docile in his pocket so it can’t be anything warranting actual suspicion.
“Thank you,” Jaskier replies, soft and vulnerable, and then, coughing, “yes, um, thanks. I like that line too,” and then he hands Geralt more money than any sane person would ever pay for a taxi ride.
“What’s wrong with you,” demands Geralt, and then, trying to thrust the money back, “That’s too… I don’t have change for that! That’s way too much.”
“It’s fine,” Jaskier promises, grinning wide and shameless now. “Have a good night, Geralt. Thanks for the ride.” And with that, he climbs out of the car, leaving Geralt to his confusion and solitude.
Geralt watches him go, mulling over the entire interaction in his head and wondering how he could have avoided the awkwardness. Not being a dick probably would have helped. Then, just as he’s about to pull away and drive to the Keep, two things happen at once.
First, the sensor in his pocket buzzes, loud and unmistakable.
And second, one of the shadows on the wall beside Jaskier moves.
“Fucking shitting motherfucker,” Geralt says, reaching over the centre console to grab his sword from his bag in the passenger seat. He kicks the door open just as the shadow lunges, and the sound is enough to distract both Jaskier and the unfriendly spirit. “Run!”
Even if he doesn’t notice the shadow about to grab him, it would be normal for Jaskier to at least consider bolting at the sight of a taxi driver brandishing a sword and yelling. He backs up obediently but doesn’t run. Thankfully, the spirit seems to have switched targets for now, artfully curving around the light in the street to reach him.
Geralt meets it with silver, swinging at the air and growling when his blade connects with not-quite-air. This is some sort of wraith, for sure— he’ll have to ask Vesemir about recent deaths in the area, or maybe try to get Lambert’s police contact to give them information. But right now his priority is saving Jaskier. … Jaskier, who is still standing and watching like a deer in headlights.
“Run,” Geralt barks at him again, and again, Jaskier stays put. The ghost screeches, swinging at Geralt with green talons that warp the light around them to almost glow. Geralt ducks then rolls underneath the spirit until he’s standing in its path and blocking Jaskier.
He ducks once more before stabbing forward, and thankfully, this thing doesn’t seem to like the taste of necrophage oil any more than the ghoul had. It bellows out one last piteous sob before exploding, sending shards of light and dark everywhere and inverting the world. Geralt shields his eyes, growling, but when he opens them, the spectre is gone.
Behind him, there’s a tiny noise almost like a gasp. Geralt whirls around, stalking towards Jaskier; they’re only six feet apart, so he closes the gap between them in no time, poking the blunt side of his sword against the man’s expensive dress shirt. Champagne and lilies overwhelm his senses, but he’s focused enough to demand angrily, “Why didn’t you run?”
“What—” Jaskier gulps, leaning to peek around Geralt. He doesn’t seem bothered at all by the sword pressed to his ribs, so Geralt huffs and then retracts it. “What was that thing? Why did it come after me?”
“You’re alive, you have warm blood, it was probably hungry.” He sighs. “Just… forget about this, alright? It’s done now.”
Geralt turns to head back to his car, unceremoniously throwing his sword into his bag. But before he can climb in and head back, he sees that Jaskier is following him, nearly bouncing— likely from nerves. “How did you know how to fight like that? Do you see things like this often? Are you some sort of monster hunter?”
“Something like that,” Geralt huffs. “It’s nothing you need to worry about, Jaskier. Just go home.” He doesn’t want to resort to begging, but he will.
The man mouths ‘something like that’, looking… well. He looks impressed, and dangerously curious. Geralt sighs; while Vesemir is all in favour of publicity and wants everyone to know that they can come to the Keep with any problem, his own feelings on the matter are slightly more private.
But Jaskier doesn’t look like he’s going to be easily dissuaded. He fumbles in the pockets of his long jacket for his phone, and when he pulls it out and realizes it’s dead, he reaches for a pen instead. “I’d love to get your number,” he says, offering Geralt the pen and then pulling up the sleeve of his jacket to reveal his wrist.
Geralt blinks, before pointing to the side of the cab, emblazoned with blue and yellow livery and with the phone number for the Keep.
“No,” Jaskier shakes his head, pulling up his sleeve a little further. Geralt feels blood rushing to his face, and hopes against hope that the moonlight and streetlamps aren’t conspiring against him, and that it’s too dim to see any sort of blush on his face. “Your number.”
“Fine,” Geralt huffs, reaching for the pen. At first, it won’t leave any ink, but after he wets it against the tip of his tongue it flows out nicely. He writes his number in simple print, half-expecting it to wear off before the sun comes up. “There. Next time you need a ride, you can call. I work nights.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Jaskier tells him, seeming completely earnest. He smiles again before walking away, and once more Geralt watches him go until the door shuts behind him. Then he finally breathes and climbs back into his car.
By quarter to eight, the sun is up and his leg has healed. He opted not to return to the Keep for paperwork, driving home instead to properly care for his injuries and to prepare breakfast and lunch for Ciri. He’s back in the car now, freshly showered and bandaged and fed, and, of course, his teenage daughter has the radio tuned to an obnoxious pop station.
“But the story is this; she’ll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss,” Ciri mouths along to the song as she texts one of her friends. Geralt catches himself drumming his fingers against his knee to the stupid pop beat. He stops, steadying his hands on the wheel.
Awkwardly, he clears his throat. “Wh— Who sings this?”
“Are you serious?” Ciri levels an unimpressed look at him. “It’s Dandelion. How do you not know Dandelion?”
Geralt shrugs. “Okay.”
By nine, he’s getting tired enough that his limbs are starting to ache, and Geralt is ready to retire for a few hours. He might end up taking another nap after picking Ciri up from school, or maybe even holding off on going to the Keep tonight. Geralt strips to his boxers and then puts on an old shirt, falling into bed.
But before he drifts off, he puts his headphones in. It had been simple to download all three Dandelion albums to the old music player Ciri had given him for his birthday two years ago. He never uses the thing, so he’s glad to finally do something with it. Geralt presses play and closes his eyes, letting the sound waft over him.
He ends up falling asleep halfway through the first album in their discography. He dreams of cornflower blue, champagne, and lilies.