Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“So, then,” Jaskier said, far too brightly, “I’d like to hear more tales of Geralt’s youth, once you’re up to it.”

Eskel made a miserable sound. He took another bite of bread and immediately regretted it when his stomach roiled in protest.

“Later, of course,” Jaskier said sympathetically, and damn the man. Eskel wanted nothing more than to sleep until his hangover passed; how could this human be in better shape than he was?

“I hate you both,” Geralt muttered, before tearing into another slice of burnt bacon.

“Liar.” Jaskier tucked himself against Geralt’s side easily, acting for all the world like it was the most natural place for him to be. Geralt continued eating and made no move to dislodge him.

Eskel could wonder about that later, once his temples stopped throbbing and he could think about eating with something other than dread. Instead he watched with queasy fascination as Geralt tore into his breakfast.

“Are you going to finish that?” Geralt asked, eyeing Eskel’s mostly-untouched plate. Eskel slid it across the table wordlessly.

“I was asking around town while you were gone,” Jaskier said, “and apparently there’s trouble a ways south of here. It started out with missing livestock, but no one who’s gone to investigate has come back.” He stole a piece of bacon from Geralt, who, to Eskel’s astonishment, allowed it.

“Hm. Any other details?”

“Geralt, I just said that no one who went poking around returned. Are you even listening to me?

“Go back to the livestock,” Eskel said, intrigued despite his hangover. “Was there any blood or signs of a struggle? Any tracks? Or did they just vanish?”

Jaskier hummed thoughtfully. “I didn’t think to ask—though I will next time, of course—but from what I heard, it seems like they just—” He snapped his fingers. “—vanished.”

Eskel winced at the snap, but it was useful information. He turned to Geralt. “Something flying, you think?”

“Sounds likely.”

Jaskier sighed and laid a hand dramatically over his heart, half-swooning into Geralt’s lap. “Ah, to be able to fly in the crisp spring mornings.”

“Fuck,” Geralt and Eskel said in unison.

Jaskier righted himself to look between the two of them, eyebrows raised. “What? Have I trodden on some witcher custom by wishing to be a bird?”

“Griffin eggs hatch in the spring,” Eskel said by way of explanation.

“Well then,” Jaskier said simply, “I suppose you’re coming south with us.”

It was a week’s ride to the town with the griffin problem. Geralt’s current Roach was a chestnut mare; Jaskier rode a dappled gelding he called Pegasus. It was probably the most depressed horse on the continent. Eskel was shocked the creature hadn’t keeled over from sheer apathy.

He had thought it might be awkward, with Jaskier along as well—all the more so because Eskel wasn’t sure which of the two of them would be the third wheel—but Jaskier’s friendly chatter made awkwardness impossible. He was surprisingly easy to talk to, even without alcohol to ease the way.

After a few hours on the road, Jaskier fell back a bit and started singing quietly, apparently to himself. Eskel listened curiously as the bard sang the same line six times in a row, with only minor variations. He started a seventh repetition before breaking off with a curse.

“What are you doing?” Eskel asked, turning in the saddle to face him.

“Composing. Wait, actually, I have a question for you. Which do you think makes a better rhyme for griffin—riven or given?”

Eskel blinked, surprised. “You’re the poet,” he pointed out.

“Yes, of course, and quite a talented one, might I add. But this song isn’t going to be high art. It’s meant to be repeated after it’s heard, catchy and easy enough that even a farmhand who wouldn’t recognize an iamb if it bit him in the arse can sing along when he’s in his cups. It needs to be simple, so I’m asking you.”

“Geralt! Your bard just called me simple!” Eskel said, mock-offended, mostly because it was funny but partly to cover the fact that he had no idea what an iamb was.

“Hm.”

Jaskier laughed, and Eskel caught Geralt smiling from the corner of his eye.

“Or maybe you had some other rhyme in mind?” Jaskier prodded.

“Fine, fine. Let me think about it for a minute. I guess riven would work better, what with the talons and razor sharp beak.”

“It is more thematically appropriate,” Jaskier said thoughtfully.

“Haven’t you started a little early?” Geralt asked. Unlike Eskel, he didn’t bother to turn to talk to Jaskier.

Jaskier waved dismissively. “I’m working out the bare bones of the song. I’ll add the details after. Saves time, and all that.”

“Hm.”

“Don’t think I don’t know when you’re laughing at me, witcher!”

They made camp before dusk. Eskel and Geralt could have travelled for at least another hour before the gloom made the road too chancy for the horses, but there was Jaskier to think about—and Jaskier to complain about the cold, the dark, and the lack of a proper bed.

Geralt paid no mind to the nattering, and Eskel followed his lead.

He had never travelled with a human before. It seemed stifling, and kind of annoying. Jaskier was loud. He needed things. He wanted things, and he wanted them loudly.

It wasn’t until Jaskier said, “I can’t believe I gave up a fresh meal and a proper bed for this,” before biting into a haunch of roast hare with undeniable relish that Eskel realized it was—a joke, maybe, or a game. Jaskier complained, Geralt shot back something that should have been hurtful, and they looked at each with stars in their eyes.

It was all a little ridiculous, and Eskel had no idea what to do with it.

Jaskier brought out his lute after they ate. It was obviously of elven make, and the enchantments on it made Eskel’s pendant shiver against his chest.

“A bit of music before bed?” Jaskier offered lightly, but he didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t pause to check that his instrument was tuned before he started playing, but Eskel was unsurprised that the first note was perfect regardless.

Eskel recognized the song. It was older than Jaskier, a tale of star-crossed love between an elven princess and the human tanner who had captured her heart. He knew how the song ended, with the pair perishing for the sake of the other.

But Jaskier skipped the last verse, transitioning easily to another song, a simple ditty about a milkmaid and a farmer that children liked to sing. From there he switched to something Eskel vaguely recognized as a song popular in Northern courts. The last told of a pair of lovers sundered again and again by the vagaries of fate, only for their love to bring them together at the last.

Jaskier sighed, a long moment after the last note had shuddered to silence. “I suppose that’s enough for tonight,” he said quietly. He was watching Geralt across the fire.

“You should sing like that more often,” Geralt offered haltingly.

“Like what?”

“Like you mean it.”

Eskel couldn’t track the series of expressions that raced across Jaskier’s face. “I always mean it,” the bard said softly.

Eskel threw himself into his bedroll and pretended to sleep.

Chapter Text

Eskel was a much more agreeable travel companion than Geralt, if only because he responded in actual sentences. Geralt was leading their little group, while Jaskier and Eskel road abreast a ways behind him. 

The topic at hand was, of course, monsters. 

“They’re dangerous bastards, vampires,” Eskel was saying. “Lesser vampires are greedy and careless, and that makes them easy to track. Higher ones, though.” He shook his head. “The old ones are clever. They don’t leave obvious trails. They can go months or years without tasting human blood, only to devour half a village in a single night. And the longer they go without feeding, the more dangerous they are.”

Geralt snorted derisively, the first indication that he’d been listening. 

“What, are you saying I’m wrong? You had to memorize all the same bestiaries I did.”

“There’s more to higher vampires than is listed in the bestiaries.”

Jaskier perked up. “Well, which part is he wrong about?”

“Yes, o learned master, correct me,” Eskel drawled. 

“A higher vampire who abstains from blood is no more or less dangerous than one who doesn’t.”

“Abstains?” Jaskier sputtered. “You’re talking about it like a man who doesn’t drink, not some loathsome creature of the night that feasts on human flesh!”

Geralt sighed. “Enough about vampires.”

“Agreed,” Jaskier said quickly. All this talk of vampires was making his neck itch. It was almost as bad as talk of nooses. “Say, tell me about griffins. Since that’s the fate we’re riding towards, after all.”

There was another sigh from Geralt, but Eskel said, “Griffins usually hunt alone or in mated pairs. The only time you’ll see more than two of them together is spring and early summer, when the parents are teaching the chicks to hunt. They’re most dangerous this time of year. The parents are very protective.”

“Oh, this is going to make an incredible ballad!” Jaskier was dying to write down all he’d just heard, but it would have to wait until they made camp. “A pair of fearsome griffins, against witcher brothers-in-arms. A battle to the death, a wonderful metaphor for man’s constant struggle against nature! Geralt, love, if singing your praises hadn’t already made me famous, this song would surely do it!”

“Excitable, isn’t he,” Eskel muttered. 

“And what will become of your ballad if the griffins kill us?” Geralt asked dryly—more dryly than usual, that is. 

“They won’t,” Jaskier said confidently. Even as he said it, though, he thought of splitting the ballad into two songs, one for crowds where the heroes always prevailed, and a second just for himself, that told the truth. He squashed the thought viciously. “You always win.”

“So far.”

Eskel urged his horse to ride alongside Geralt and slapped his shoulder as soon as he was in range. “Must you always be so grim, Geralt?”

Geralt didn’t deign to respond.

Their little band had regained its cheer by the time they stopped for the evening, a turn of events Jaskier attributed entirely to himself. He had started explaining the meanings of different flowers to the witchers—starting, of course, with buttercups—and had been frequently interrupted by declarations like, “That one’s poisonous,” and, “You can use those in potions.” When he had mentioned nasturtiums, Geralt had even offered that they were edible. 

He knew they were stopping early for his sake. It had been easy to forget, when he was traveling only with Geralt, but Eskel’s raised eyebrows when Geralt announced it was time to stop for the night spoke volumes. 

They made camp, and Jaskier settled in with his journal. The first order of business was recording what he had learned about vampires and griffins. After, he could write about the joke that had made Geralt snort, and the easy, familiar way the two witchers interacted. 

Jaskier was still writing about vampires when a shadow fell over the page. He shut the journal and spun to face Eskel. “I will tolerate a lot from my travel companions, but I draw the line at reading over my shoulder.” He made his voice sharp and commanding, a tone he rarely took. 

Eskel took a step back and held up his hands. “Sorry, sorry. I just wanted to see if you were working on that song from earlier.”

“He wasn’t,” Geralt said before Jaskier could respond. “He hums and curses when he’s composing. He only writes quietly when he’s writing prose.”

Warmth curled in Jaskier’s chest, and he couldn’t stop a fond smile from stealing over his face. He knew Geralt was observant, of course, but it was different, knowing that focus had been turned to him. 

Eskel looked between the two of them, eyebrows climbing slowly. “For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, sounding deeply tired, before turning on his heel and stalking into the woods. 

Jaskier frowned after him. “What was that about?”

Geralt shrugged.

Jaskier woke with the dawn, which was unfortunately common on the road. He burrowed into his bedroll, hoping he could wake slowly. 

Alas, it was not to be. He could hear Geralt and Eskel packing up camp. It was only a matter of time before Geralt shook his shoulder and said, If you don’t get up, I’m leaving you here. Jaskier had begun to think of it as Geralt’s version of, Good morning. Did you sleep well?

Jaskier sat up with a jaw-cracking yawn. He rubbed his eyes, already dreading another day spent on horseback. He had been riding since he was a child, of course, but he’d never taken to it the way his cousins had. He quashed thoughts of his family as he pried himself out of his (warm, cozy) bedroll and dressed quickly. 

Jaskier hummed as he ate his porridge, idly thinking of rhymes for oats and gruel. He caught Geralt watching him, once, as he dragged a finger around his bowl to gather the last of the oatmeal. He licked his finger clean, pretending he wasn’t putting on a show, pretending Geralt cared either way. He liked having attention on him, after all, wouldn’t have become a bard otherwise. It was different when it was Geralt’s attention, though. 

Different, and so much worse. 

Eskel swore loudly. 

Chapter Text

“So,” Eskel said, quietly enough that only Geralt could hear him, “your bard.”

Jaskier was riding behind them again, shifting between bits and pieces of different songs with no pattern or common thread that Eskel could find. 

“Drop it, Eskel.”

Eskel had no intention of doing any such thing. “It’s clear you’re gone on him, and he’s been singing love songs about you up and down the continent for years. Why aren’t you two fucking yet?”

“They’re not lo—” Geralt cut himself off. “Drop it.”

“You deny that they’re love songs, but not that you stare at him whenever he’s not looking?”

Geralt drew himself up stiffly. “I do not stare, and they are not love songs. They’re,” he paused and ground his teeth for a long moment before spitting out, “ballads. ”

“Hm,” Eskel said, enjoying the way it made a muscle in Geralt’s jaw twitch. 

“This topic is not open for discussion.”

“So there is something to discuss, then.”

The murderous glare Geralt shot him made Eskel laugh. “All right, all right, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’ll drop it.” He waited until Geralt’s posture began to relax to add, “for now.”

“So,” Eskel said, once he was certain Geralt’s hunt for dinner had taken him out of earshot, “You’re quite taken with Geralt.”

Jaskier laughed, a mismatch to the sudden anxiety in his scent. “How could anyone not be? His sullen brooding, his resistance to speaking in complete sentences—why, it’s enough to sweep any man off his feet.” He was a good actor, Eskel had to give him that. But—

“I know you know I can tell when you’re lying.”

That got him a heartfelt sigh that was almost believable. “I fall a little bit in love with everyone I meet, I must confess.” Jaskier fluttered his eyelashes, which looked ridiculous. 

Eskel ground his teeth. He was trying to help, damn it all; why did they both have to be so stubborn? “He’s as smitten with you as you are with him, you know,” he said, instead of cursing them both. 

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Really, I expected better from you. Making fairy tales out of nothing is my job. You should leave it to the professionals.” He patted Eskel’s scarred cheek, and Eskel resisted the instinct to snap his teeth in warning. 

“Are you in denial or just stupid?” Eskel demanded instead. 

Jaskier sighed again, all his forced humor gone. “Sometimes people want things they can’t have. And when that happens, we just have to learn to live with it.”

“Are you even listening to me? You can have him. Geralt wants you, Lillit knows why.”

“Allow me to rephrase: sometimes people want things they shouldn’t have.” Jaskier smiled just a bit, crooked and soft and sad. “Even if I believed you—which, let me be clear, I do not—ours would not be the kind of story that has a happy ending. I’m quite content singing about tragic romances. I don’t need to live one, as well.”

“Seems to me like you already are.”

That, of all things, took Jaskier aback. “Unrequited love and doomed love are entirely different genres! If someone requested a song about unrequited love and I sang about Lara Dorren and Cregennan instead, they’d run me out of town! This is why you should leave the story-telling to me. Honestly.” He shook his head in the long-despairing way of every instructor Eskel had ever had. “I don’t know what they teach in those witcher schools of yours, but it ought to include at least some liberal arts. I’m not suggesting poetry, but a little reading comprehension would go a long way.”

“I can read,” Eskel protested automatically. 

“That’s not what that means, though it does rather prove my point.”

Eskel shrugged. “Not like it matters now. There are no more witcher schools.” It hurt to say, just a little, but Eskel had never shied away from pain. 

“I thought as much,” Jaskier said quietly. “Geralt never said so, of course, but what little he’s told me of Kaer Morhen always seemed...nostalgic, I suppose. Like he was talking about something that no longer existed.”

The keep still stood, but its halls would never again be full, its crumbling towers never completely repaired. Eskel would never again toss laughing trainees into waist-high snow, claiming it was so they learned to fall properly even as Vesemir rolled his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said. “I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.” 

The apology was genuine. Eskel couldn’t remember the last time a human had apologized to him and meant it.

“Stop poking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” Geralt said, preempting Eskel’s next attempt to make Geralt see what was right in front of him. 

“You’re making yourself miserable for no reason,” Eskel shot back, instead of sharing what he’d learned over the fire last night. 

“I’m not miserable.”

That, at least, was true. Geralt was happier than Eskel had seen him in years, since they were both young and unblooded. He could be happier still, though, and the source of that happiness was within reach, if only he had sense enough to take it. 

“He loves you. He told me last night.” Not in as many words, but Eskel thought he could be forgiven a bit of, to borrow Jaskier’s phrase, artistic license. 

“Jaskier says a lot of things he doesn’t mean.” Geralt’s tone was dismissive, but Eskel caught the tension in his shoulders and the spike of sadness in his scent. 

“You are both infernally stupid. Frankly, I’m surprised the two of you have survived so long, since you’re apparently both incapable of seeing what’s right under your noses!” 

“Stop talking nonsense.” Geralt glanced over his shoulder at Jaskier, riding behind them. “And keep your voice down.”

“I’m very tempted to tackle you off that horse and beat some sense into you,” Eskel said seriously. 

Geralt snorted. “Try it.”

The next few minutes were a blur. Eskel did, in fact, throw himself from the saddle and take Geralt down with him. They tussled like children on the road, with Jaskier’s strident demands for an explanation playing counterpoint to the startled birds and nervous horses. 

And then there was a shock of cool water. 

Eskel sat back, blinking. Geralt pushed his wet hair away from his face. 

Jaskier was standing over them, hands on his hips. He was holding an empty waterskin. “Are you quite finished?” he demanded. 

It was startlingly like being scolded by Vesemir. “Er, yes. Sorry.” Eskel stood and brushed dirt from his clothes, sheepish like he hadn’t been in decades. 

“And you?” Jaskier leveled a cold stare at Geralt, though Eskel could see right through it, to the fondness and laughter underneath. 

“Hm.” Geralt took the hand Jaskier offered, though, and let Jaskier pretend to help him up. 

“Look at you, you’re a mess,” Jaskier chided gently. “Your lip is split, and that’s going to be a breathtaking bruise on your cheek, and your hair.” He reached up and gently brushed his thumb over Geralt’s reddening cheek. 

Eskel turned away, failing to convince himself that the monotony of the woods was much more interesting than what was happening behind him. 

“I’m fine. It was just a squabble.” Geralt’s voice was so gentle it made Eskel’s stomach squirm with guilt, like he was intruding on something far more intimate. 

“I hate to see you hurt.”

“I know. I’m fine. In a few hours, it’ll be like it never happened.”

“But you’re still hurt now.”

Eskel cleared his throat loudly. For all that he wanted them to get over themselves, he didn’t want to be there when it happened. All this emotional voyeurism was going to give him heartburn. 

“Yes, well!” Jaskier said in a bright, strained voice. “Now that your little disagreement has been worked out, we should get going. We’re wasting daylight, gentlemen!”

And so they rode on. 

Chapter Text

They reached town at noon, in the middle of a week-long spring festival. Everything was covered with flowers—the awnings, the sign posts, the people. Jaskier was sure that all the pollen was hell on witcher senses, but he found himself enraptured regardless. 

“I’m going to talk to the alderman,” Eskel announced after they had stabled their horses. “See if anyone’s learned anything new. You two have fun while I’m gone.” He winked, and then Jaskier and Geralt were alone together. 

Well, as alone as they could be on a main road during a festival. 

Jaskier hummed thoughtfully, ignoring Eskel’s oh-so-subtle insinuation. “The apothecary first, I think. It’s been too long since you’ve had a chance to replenish your potions, and I have some coin left from my last performance.” What little he and Eskel hadn’t drunk away, that is. 

“You don’t—” Geralt ground his teeth; Jaskier waited. “You don’t have to buy me supplies.”

It wasn’t the first time Geralt had objected to Jaskier spending money on him, and no doubt it wouldn’t be the last. “Of course I don’t. I want to, though, so I will.” Jaskier linked their arms and started down the road. 

Geralt followed. 

It was nearly a minute before Geralt spoke again. “I don’t understand,” he said slowly, like each word was a strain, “why you want to.”

“You’re my friend, Geralt, and friends take care of each other.” And if Jaskier wanted to take care of him in more ways than buying potion ingredients, that was his own business, Eskel’s meddling be damned. 

A matronly woman with a flower crown was admiring a garland wrapped around a post nearby, so Jaskier took the opportunity to ask, “Excuse me, miss, but could you point us to the apothecary?” He gave her his most winning smile. 

She laughed, the way older women often did when he turned up the charm. “And what’ll you be wanting there? From the look of you, you’ve no need of a love potion.” 

“Nothing of the sort! My friend here makes a hobby of brewing his own elixirs, and his stores are running frightfully low.”

The woman turned her attention to Geralt. “A witcher,” she pronounced. “We’ve need of your sort, lately. Cattle and sheep and dogs going missing, and boys with more balls than sense going after them.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Geralt rumbled.

“Good.” The woman nodded firmly. “I’ve already lost one goodson to this monster. I’m not keen to lose another.” 

She gave them directions to both the apothecary and the alderman’s house, though she appended the latter with, “Not that he’ll be there. I’m sure the bastard is in the basement of some gambling house, betting on dogs and roosters.”

The latter was a bit worrying, but unfortunately not uncommon. Jaskier thanked her, and Geralt offered a grateful nod. 

The apothecary was on the other side of town, and Jaskier relished the opportunity to spend some time with Geralt. He liked Eskel, of course, but he’d missed having Geralt to himself. 

They walked arm-in-arm down flowered streets. Jaskier couldn’t help but pause every few yards to coo over a particularly artful combination of blossoms, or a well-tended rose bush, or a carefully-woven garland. Geralt endured their frequent stops with good humor. He had even laughed, almost, when Jaskier sung the praises (figuratively) of a display of variegated tulips and strawberry tree blossoms. 

A cart selling honey cakes caught Jaskier’s attention, and he steered Geralt towards it. Jaskier knew Geralt had a sweet tooth, just as he knew the other man would never admit it. He bought three of the sticky treats, one for himself and two for Geralt, and tried not to watch when Geralt licked the sugary crumbs from his fingers. 

Jaskier stopped at half a dozen stalls, caught by beautiful embroidery and flashing gemstones. He saw a dwarf behind a display of impressive metalwork and told Geralt to stay put, leaving him confused beside a group of children making flower crowns. 

“What a breathtaking tableau!” Jaskier said, with a sweeping gesture that encompassed all the dwarf’s goods. “I’m no connoisseur of blades, but I have a friend who’s more than fond of them, and I’d like to give him something he’ll appreciate.”

The dwarf laughed. “If you mean that witcher being besieged by children, there’s nothing on display that would catch his eye. I’ve run into enough light-fingers to know better than to put my best up front.”

Jaskier glanced over his shoulder, to see Geralt sitting in a semi-circle of excited youngsters. “And of the work you don’t have on display?”

“He hardly needs another sword, but I might have a dagger or two that would strike his fancy.” The shopkeeper reached beneath his counter and pulled out half a dozen blades. They were all of much finer make than the ones on display, even to Jaskier’s untrained eyes. 

Jaskier studied the daggers. He had seen Geralt pick up blades before buying them, but he had no idea what the gesture was meant to establish. One caught his attention, though. 

It was obviously of gnomish make, and even Jaskier knew that gnomes were some of the best metalworkers on the continent. The leather-wrapped hilt was simple but sturdy, and the blade shone like the sun. 

“How much for that one?” Jaskier asked, tone light, like his heart wasn’t already set on it. 

“You have sharp eyes, my friend.”

They haggled. Jaskier bought the dagger for more than he’d hoped but less than he’d expected. He stuffed it into the bottom of his bag and hoped he found the right moment to give it to Geralt before they reunited with Eskel. 

Geralt was where Jaskier had left him, though he’d gained a sloppy flower crown and lost just a bit of his dignity. 

“Lemme braid your hair!” one of the tykes demanded, tugging on the white locks in her tiny fist. 

Geralt winced but made no move to dislodge her. 

“We could put flowers in it!” another child chirped, already gathering a handful of slightly-crushed blooms. 

“I’ll do a good job,” the first girl insisted. “I braid my dolly’s hair all the time!”

“And I’m sure you do a lovely job,” Jaskier said, “but I’m afraid my friend has to leave now.” He crouched to be eye-level with the disappointed children. “He fights monsters, you see, all the scary things beneath your beds and hiding in the fields at night, and if he’s covered in flowers, the monsters will smell him. We can’t have that, can we?”

The children turned to each other, sharing whispered consultations. Geralt took the opportunity to stand and take several prudent steps back. 

They escaped, and Jaskier noticed that Geralt waited to remove his buttercup crown until the children were out of sight. His chest filled with warmth and light even as his stomach tightened. 

He expected Geralt to toss the ring of flowers aside, but he caught Jaskier’s arm to halt him, and then placed the flower crown on Jaskier’s head, so carefully Jaskier barely felt the brush of his fingers. 

“Suits you better,” Geralt said quietly. He was still holding Jaskier’s arm, and Jaskier felt the shape of his hand like a brand. 

“I disagree,” Jaskier said, trying for light-hearted and failing badly. “The buttercups match your eyes.” And I like having my flowers on you. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt rumbled. 

“Yes?” Surely Geralt could hear his racing pulse. They were standing close enough that Jaskier let himself imagine, for a dizzying second, that Geralt was leaning in to kiss him. 

And then the screaming started. 

Chapter Text

Eskel broke into a sprint, weaving around frightened and confused civilians. The commotion sounded like it was just outside of town. 

He caught the shoulder of a youth running the opposite direction. “What’s happening?”

“It’s a monster,” the boy gasped. “We were in the middle of the livestock show, and it—it came out of nowhere, and now Brygida’s dead and—” He turned away and retched. 

“What kind of monster?” Eskel demanded. He’d never seen a griffin bold enough to attack so close to a town. 

The boy only threw up again, but another man had heard Eskel’s question. 

“It’s a wyvern, sir witcher. Bigger and meaner than any stories ever told, and make no mistake.” The man reeked of fear, but his voice was mostly even. “I’m trying to stop idiots from running to their deaths, but half the people I’ve tried to warn off only got more excited to see it.”

A wyvern. Probably a royal one. Fuck. Wyverns were so rare in this area that Eskel hadn’t even given them a passing consideration before settling on griffins as the source of the problem. Griffin eggs aren’t the only ones that hatch in the spring. 

Eskel gave the man a hearty slap on the back. “Thank you. My work will be much easier if you can convince people to stay away. Even one person who stays back is one less I have to worry about.”

The man nodded. “Off with you, then. We both have jobs to do.”

Eskel ran. He knew Geralt would be on his way as well, but he wasn’t sure how Jaskier might have responded. He’d take shelter, if he had any sense, but Eskel had heard too many stories about Jaskier running to danger to think he’d done so. Most likely he was following Geralt, heedless of the peril. 

Eskel reached the wyvern first, shouldering through the crowd of reckless onlookers. A few humans were trying to keep it away from the panicking livestock, armed with pitchforks and makeshift clubs. The wyvern roared when a particularly bold farmer tossed his pitchfork like a javelin, spearing a wing. 

“Get back!” Eskel yelled. “I’m a witcher! Get back so I can kill the damn thing!”

A second wyvern descended, half again as large as the first. The humans scattered, but too slowly. The wyvern killed two of them before Eskel had a chance to draw his sword. 

“Fuck!” Eskel charged into the fray, wishing desperately for a crossbow. He cast Igni at the first wyvern, which screeched and took to the air clumsily. The hay it had been crouching on was burning, and the fire was spreading rapidly. Vesemir will have my head if I accidentally burn this place to the ground. 

A second burst of fire hit the struggling wyvern. It fell, screaming. “Hold the other one off while I finish this one!” Geralt yelled, sword in one hand as the other shaped the Sign of Aard. 

“Took you fucking long enough!” 

“Eskel! Behind you!”

Jaskier’s warning was too late. Something heavy slammed into Eskel’s back. He stumbled, dropped to his knees. Another blow caught his head before he could rise, sending him sprawling. 

What rhymes with wyvern, Eskel thought, dazed. He rolled onto his side, just in time to avoid the wyvern’s snapping jaws. 

Geralt forced it back with a swing of his sword. Eskel scrambled to his feet to join him. 

“Are you hurt?” Geralt asked, circling right. 

Eskel circled left. “My head is killing me, but nothing’s broken.” He lunged, landing a glancing blow on the wyvern’s shoulder. 

Behind them, Jaskier shouted. 

The first wyvern was snapping at him, apparently having decided he was easier prey than the two witchers. Jaskier was scrambling backwards, barely managing to dodge. 

“I thought you killed that one!” Eskel yelled. He tried to break away from the fight, but the wyvern before him lunged, cutting him off. 

“I was too busy saving your useless arse!”

The wyvern after Jaskier bit at him again—and got a handful of burning hay in its eyes instead. It shrieked and jerked away, tossing its head. 

And then Jaskier buried a dagger in its neck. There was a fountain of blood, and the wyvern collapsed. 

“Well,” Eskel said, turning his full attention back to the furious wyvern before him. “Good for him.”

Geralt grunted. 

The two of them made short work of the second wyvern, a task made much easier by Jaskier’s unexpected contribution to the battle. 

A ragged cheer rose from the little crowd of onlookers when the second wyvern met its end. Eskel caught his breath. Geralt wasn’t even winded, the bastard. 

“That was spectacular!” Jaskier declared. He was spattered with blood and grinning hugely. “Incredible, truly, and only slightly terrifying!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled. “I told you to stay behind.”

“Yes, yes, I’m an idiot who can’t follow simple instructions, I could have been killed, et cetera, et cetera.” Jaskier gestured dismissively. “I know all your lines, love.”

“He did help us,” Eskel pointed out. “Good job, by the way. I didn’t even know you carried a dagger.”

Jaskier laughed sheepishly. “I don’t, actually. I just happened to have one in my bag.” He looked away. 

Eskel raised his eyebrows. “Just happened to have one, huh.”

“It, well.” Jaskier fidgeted. “It was meant to be a gift for Geralt, if you must know.” He thrust his chin out defiantly. 

Of course it was. Of fucking course it was. 

“You don’t have to buy me things,” Geralt said, quiet and deeply uncomfortable. 

Jaskier reached up like he was going to pat Geralt’s cheek, but stopped when he realized his hand was still bloody. “We already had this conversation, dear heart. I like giving you things.” He smiled softly, which was a strange expression to see on a bloody face. 

Eskel noticed for the first time that Jaskier was wearing a flower crown. Half the little yellow flowers were drenched in wyvern blood.

With the fire put out and the corpses—human, bovine, and wyvern—dealt with, Jaskier declared that all three of them needed a bath and a change of clothes. Eskel agreed heartily, and Geralt put up only token protest. 

They hadn’t gotten rooms yet, but the innkeeper offered to put them up free of charge, as thanks for dealing with the wyverns. They only took two, and Eskel manfully refrained from commenting. 

He had just finished dressing when there was a knock on the door. “Eskel? Are you decent?” Jaskier, of course. Geralt wouldn’t have bothered to knock. 

“Yeah, come in.”

Jaskier did. His hair was still damp from his bath. Geralt was probably still soaking, because he liked baths more than any man should. “Eskel, dear, let me take a look at your head. That was a nasty wallop,” he said as he closed the door.

“It’s fine. It takes more than that to concuss a witcher.”

Jaskier put his hands on his hips. “While I’m sure that’s true, I’m still going to have a look at it, and you’re going to let me.”

There was no point in arguing. Easier to let Jaskier see for himself that he was fine. Eskel turned his back to Jaskier. 

Jaskier laughed and patted his shoulder. “You’re much more sensible than Geralt.” Eskel felt gentle fingers in his hair, hissing when they brushed a sore spot. “Sorry. Hmm, that’s quite a lump. It looks like the skin isn’t broken, though, so that’s good.” Jaskier patted his shoulder again and stepped back. “All done.”

“I told you it was fine.” Eskel turned to face him. 

“Yes, but Geralt would say he was fine with his dying breath. I didn’t know if it was a witcher thing or a Geralt thing.”

Well, that was fair. And speaking of Geralt—“A gnomish dagger, really? Where did you even get that?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “From a merchant, obviously.”

Eskel crossed his arms. “So you like buying him things, follow him into danger without a first thought, let alone a second one, put yourself in his space in a way you have to know he doesn’t allow from anyone else, sing sad love songs over the fire while staring at him, and you’re still not going to tell him that you’re in love with him.”

“I, well, the thing is—” Jaskier cleared his throat. “I may have reconsidered my earlier position. Nearly being eaten by a wyvern has put some things in a new perspective, shall we say.”

“Oh, thank fuck.” 

Chapter Text

Geralt was pulling on a clean pair of trousers as Jaskier slipped back into their room. He didn’t so much as glance at Jaskier as he laced them closed. It would have been rude from anyone else, but Jaskier knew that from Geralt it was a sign of trust. 

“Eskel is fine, if you were wondering,” Jaskier offered lightly, though he didn’t expect a response 

Geralt, of course, paid him no mind, as he sat on the bed and began trying to comb his rats’-nest hair. He had made do with his fingers for months after his last comb had broken, apparently resigned to the situation. Last summer, though, they had found themselves on Skellige, and Jaskier had spent more than he probably should have on the whalebone comb now in Geralt’s hand. 

Jaskier crawled onto the bed and sat cross-legged at Geralt’s back. “May I?” he asked softly, settling his hand over Geralt’s. 

Geralt said nothing, but he let the comb slip from his grasp. 

Jaskier untangled Geralt’s hair slowly, more gentle than Geralt ever was with himself. His hair went from a knotty grey clump to the smooth silver waves Jaskier so adored. His witcher was always beautiful, of course, but never more so than when he was content and relaxed. Every careful pass of the comb chipped away a bit of the tension in Geralt’s frame, and Jaskier was warm and giddy with it. It wasn’t the first time he had tended to Geralt’s hair, but it never failed to remind him how much Geralt trusted him—that Geralt allowed him free rein at his back, hands so close to the vulnerable nape of his neck, the beat of his pulse in his throat. 

It had taken Jaskier longer than he cared to admit to see how much vulnerability there was in the gesture, how much trust it took Geralt to offer it. 

He continued running the comb through Geralt’s hair even after the last knot had been untangled, lost in his own head. 

I’m in love with you, Jaskier thought. I’m so in love with you I feel like I might burst with it. No, that wouldn’t do. A declaration like that was more likely to scare Geralt off than anything else. 

I’d like to kiss you now, if you’ll allow it, he tried again. Geralt preferred actions over words, after all. But no— allow was wrong. He didn’t want Geralt to only allow a kiss. He wanted him to welcome it. 

I almost died today, and I realized I don’t want to die without seeing if we could have had something together. No, no, far too maudlin. 

Jaskier realized his hand had stilled, comb resting at the nape of Geralt’s neck. He set it aside so his fingers could take its place, and Geralt awarded him a pleased hum when Jaskier gently scratched his scalp. Eventually he let his hands slip to Geralt’s tense shoulders. Geralt’s shoulders were almost always tense; Jaskier hated it, mostly, but a small, loud part of himself preened at the fact that he was the only one Geralt allowed to witness this weakness, the only one he allowed to chase it away with firm hands and gentle words. 

He ran his hands from Geralt’s shoulders down the length of his spine, thumbs digging in the way he knew Geralt liked. Geralt hummed, low and content. 

“Lie down, my love. Let me take care of you,” Jaskier murmured. 

“You don’t have to,” Geralt protested, even as he settled onto the bed. 

“Shh. I want to. Surely you know that by now.”

It wasn’t the first time Jaskier had had Geralt’s firm back under his hands. It felt different than all the times before, though, more charged than even the first time. 

He kneaded the tightly-wound muscles beneath his hands, firm at Geralt’s shoulders and lighter on his ribs, dragging his hands back up that long, enticing back when he reached the vulnerable dip at the base of Geralt’s spine. 

Jaskier had never made caramel, but he’d watched cooks do it when he was young, and he knew the patience and constant attention it required. He channeled that now, turned all his focus to making Geralt content and pliant under his hands. Geralt relaxed slowly, like butter melting into sugar. Jaskier babbled as he worked—knew he was babbling but couldn’t stop, not when every sweet word had Geralt melting that much further into his touch. 

And maybe this was the best way to show his feelings, the best way to let Geralt know that he wanted him, in whatever capacity the witcher wanted to reciprocate. Words and actions bundled together, creating something that was more than the sum of its parts. 

“Geralt, love.” Jaskier sat back from leaning over his witcher’s body. “Roll over.”

Geralt did, with obvious reluctance. 

Jaskier cupped Geralt’s cheek, delighting in the stubble that scraped his palm and caught on his string-callused fingers. “I almost died today,” Jaskier murmured. He had played up his actions as heroic for the townsfolk, but once the adrenaline had worn off he’d realized just how close to death he’d actually been. If the wyvern hadn’t already been injured, he wouldn’t have stood a chance. “It got me thinking, actually, about us, and the things I want but told myself I shouldn’t have, and—and life’s too short, isn’t it, to not reach for what you want?” One of them was going to end up dead by the side of the road someday, leaving the other mired in heartbreak and loss, but didn’t that mean they should seek happiness now all the more fervently? Surely regretting the path not taken would hurt more than memories of tenderness and gentle touches. 

Geralt reached up, caught the back of Jaskier’s head with a grip so careful Jaskier thought he might break from it. “I was scared,” Geralt rasped, “when that wyvern was going after you, and there was nothing I could do to help. I thought, this time. This time I’m going to lose him.”

Jaskier’s heart ached at the pain in Geralt’s voice, pain he never let anyone but Jaskier witness. “But you didn’t, love. I’m right here, and I promise I’m not going anywhere.” Feeling bold, he pressed a soft kiss to Geralt’s cheek. 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Geralt whispered, but his hand tightened in Jaskier’s hair and held him close. 

“Fine, then. Let me promise you this instead: that I will stay by your side for as long as I am able, for as long as I am wanted, and—and in whatever capacity brings us both the most joy.” Jaskier’s heart was pounding, and he knew that Geralt could hear it. He wondered what Geralt made of it, what Geralt thought had spurred his racing pulse and sudden nervousness. He wondered if love had a scent. 

“That’s a very open-ended promise,” Geralt said, quiet and careful. “A man might read something into it that wasn’t intended.”

Jaskier swallowed hard. “I assure you, dear heart, that the words were chosen with utmost care.” 

Geralt watched him for a long moment before speaking, golden eyes gleaming in the warm afternoon light. “Can you really be happy, tying yourself to a monster?” His voice was low and rough, so raw Jaskier burned with it. 

“There are no monsters here, my love, just a bard and his muse.” Jaskier kissed Geralt’s temple. It was the lightest of touches, but Geralt shuddered beneath him. 

“You’re a fool,” Geralt said, more fondness than admonishment, “and reckless besides.”

“I’ve been called many things in my life, but sensible has never been one of them.” 

“A fool,” Geralt repeated, but his fingers were still curled in Jaskier’s hair, and he was urging Jaskier closer so gently it hurt. 

Their lips met, and for a long moment they both were still, breath mingling. And then one of them moved, or they both did, and suddenly their mouths were locked together. 

It was soft and tender, nothing like the frenzied meeting of teeth and tongue that Jaskier had so rarely let himself imagine. 

Jaskier drew back, panting, after a moment that had felt like a lifetime. “Geralt,” he gasped, “Geralt, I love you.” He had to say it now, had to make himself clear. He couldn’t do this if Geralt only wanted a bed-partner for the road, a way to ease tension and save coin that would otherwise be spent at brothels. 

“Good,” Geralt rasped, dragging Jaskier down for another searing kiss.

They made it downstairs in time for dinner, but only just. Eskel was sitting by the fire with a plate of fried potatoes and a knowing look. “I take it you two had a good...talk?” He waggled his eyebrows. 

“It was lovely, yes,” Jaskier agreed, sitting across from him. “Would you like to hear the details?” he asked innocently. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, almost drowned out by Eskel’s hooting laughter.