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Geralt knew the day was going to be a shitshow from how weak the barista had made his tea, wincing at the taste as he sat down at a table at the back corner of the coffee shop, his back and left side covered by the walls.
The poor-quality drink was in good company, as the middle of the egg and ham sandwich he ordered for his breakfast was still frozen in the middle. Geralt tried not to feel too frustrated at the kid behind the counter. Geralt didn’t recognize him and seeing as he came in for breakfast weekly to this little hole-in-the-wall coffee place and since he hadn’t had any recent out of town contracts, the kid had to be new.
And was clearly still learning the ropes, Geralt thought, grimacing as he took another sip of his tea.
Geralt also knew the day was going to be a shitshow from the nervous way a young man, stood outside the cafe and stared, searching, into the large bank of windows into the shop.
He held a piece of paper in his hands and would go from reading at what was written on it, to staring up at the sign above the building, before looking back inside the place. Geralt hadn’t been in this profession for as long as had, hadn’t been as well trained as he was to not know instinctually that the man was probably looking for him. The shop was small, out of the way, and it was unlikely for someone to be purposefully searching it out—it was the sort of place one stumbled upon, sure, but seeking it out?
No, likelier the man in front of the window was seeking out someone.
The man wasn’t familiar to Geralt, but after so many years in this line of work, he found it was better to not remember people.
Better to not be remembered, either.
The man had what looked like a duffle bag and a guitar case slung across his back. His brown hair was windswept, sticking to his forehead with sweat, and his cheeks were flushed pink from the exertion of whatever it was that had made him sweaty—likely, running.
Toward something, or from something, Geralt hadn’t reasoned which yet.
Biting his lip, the man outside made his decision and opened the café’s door. Stuffing the paper into his pocket, he strode inside with renewed confidence to the front counter. The music from the overhead speakers hindered Geralt’s ability to hear their conversation, but when the barista pointed to where Geralt was sitting, mostly out of sight, he could guess what was being discussed.
Geralt sighed; he liked the place because it hadn’t been tainted by that part of his life, and he dreaded having to find a new breakfast spot if this interaction when to shit. He especially didn’t want the kid behind the counter to get killed in his first week on the job from a stray bullet meant for Geralt.
The man stopped before Geralt. He took a breath, steading himself, it appeared.
“Are you Geralt Rivia?”
Geralt kept his voice low, calm, disinterested, “Who’s asking?”
At that the other man smiled, relieved and a little bit playful. He pulled out the seat in front of Geralt and sat down; though he wasn’t sitting so much as sprawling, like a Florentine prince.
“See, I think it’s more suspicious when someone says that—if you weren’t Geralt Rivia, and I came up to you and asked you that, a normal, non-suspicious person would either look at me like I was crazy and tell me to fuck off, or politely tell me no. Not say ‘who’s asking?’ That’s like, a dead giveaway that you are Geralt Rivia.”
Undeterred by Geralt’s frankly stunned silence, the man thrust his hand forward.
“And it’s Julian de Lettenhove asking, by the way.”
Geralt stared at the man’s hand until he got the hint and lowered it—only for him to reach out and grab Geralt’s tea instead.
“Sorry, hope you don’t mind, just, well, I’ve been running for my life? Like, all day and I haven’t had a chance to sit down and I am terribly thirsty.”
The man, Julian, took two greedy gulps of the beverage before placing it back on the table.
“Christ,” he gagged, “that’s fucking terrible.”
“Didn’t exactly have time to warn you it wasn’t good.”
“Ah, but if I actually asked you might’ve said no. Easier to ask for forgiveness than permission and all that.”
“Hmm.”
Julian leaned his chin on his hand and tilted his head. Geralt had the distinct impression his was being appraised.
“I thought you’d be scarier, to be honest.”
Geralt raised an eyebrow. He knew what he looked like.
Jaskier gestured with his hand not holding his head toward Geralt.
“You know, with all the rumors, of The Baba Yaga, The Butcher, who completed the impossible task and all that, you tend to get an image in your head.”
Internally wincing at the nickname, Geralt grit his teeth, “Disappointed?”
Julian laughed, a deep and merry sound.
“No, of course not. Actually, I’m rather pleased as punch.”
The smile he gave was wolfish and in a disorienting shift of how these things usually went, Geralt felt like one being hunted.
“How did you find me?” Geralt asked, attempting to get back on track.
Julian’s confidence cracked and he began to drum his fingers in an anxious beat on the tabletop.
“Uh, well, see I’d rather not get her in trouble, though she did promise me you two were friends—”
Of course.
Geralt sighed, tired suddenly, “Yennefer sent you?”
Julian startled, “I—”
“She’s the only one who would know to find me here. I already assumed as much.”
She was the only one who would openly refer to Geralt as her friend.
Julian’s nervousness visibly left his body as quickly as it had appeared, an easy smile dancing on his lips once again.
“Good, I mean, she never said not to say it was her who told me to find you, but I know how these things work—secrecy, discretion and all things sneaky. And even though she is a deeply, deeply, scary woman, and is very good at taking care of herself, she was the one who warned me after all, and I would so hate to see something happen to her because of me.”
“Warned you of what?”
The tension returned to his body, Julian’s jaw tensed, and his cornflower blue eyes shifted nervously around the building.
“Ah, see, that’s what I wanted to talk with you about—I need your help. And I’m willing to pay good money for it.”
“That is usually how these things work,” Geralt paused, “who do you want killed?”
“Oh! Um. No, it’s the opposite, actually. I need you to protect someone. Uh, me, actually.”
“I’m not a bodyguard, Mr. de Lettenhove, I’m a mercenary. I kill people not protect them.”
Julian looked around, nervous, “Should you be saying that here—so out in the open?”
“No one is listening,” Geralt huffed, amused, “Besides, if they were, what could they do about it?”
Julian laughed sheepishly, “I suppose you’re right.”
The two sat in silence for a moment before Julian finally broke it, words coming out rapidly.
“Look, I know, traditionally, this isn’t how this is done. I get that but there are some really powerful, really fucking deadly people coming after me, and maybe you could think of it less as protecting me, and more killing people who want to kill me if that helps maintain the whole, aesthetic, for you.”
Geralt stared.
He spoke slowly, trying to understand just what the hell Julian was saying.
“You think I’m unwilling to act as your human shield because, what, I’m just that committed to maintaining a particular image?”
“Uh…from the tone of your voice, I’m guessing no, then?”
“Definitely a no. To both,” Geralt stood up, dumping his forgotten and terrible breakfast into the trash before heading to the door, “I’ve done this, and it never ends well. And I’m not looking to get caught up in trouble for some kid, because he was too stupid to realize he was fucking some mob boss’ daughter or girlfriend or wife and now has a hit on him.”
Julian made an indignant sound as he followed Geralt out of the coffee shop into the late morning sun.
“Hey! First off, fuck you, you don’t even know me. I have a master’s degree you dickhead,”
Geralt rolled his eyes, “Not proof of intelligence, just proof you like to waste money.”
“Not my money I wasted, so there. Also, second, you’ve got it completely wrong!”
Geralt walked toward his car, his mind already leaving this conversation behind and thinking on the errands he was planning to complete today. He needed to pick up more food for Roach, and message Triss to see if she’d be willing to dog-sit again next month when Geralt had to travel for Vesemir’s birthday.
The old man didn’t expect any of his former charges to return and was always surprised when everyone (who was still alive) did.
“Are you even listening?”
Geralt unlocked the door.
“I’ll play you $250,000. Now. And then another 250k when I’m safe.”
Geralt stopped. He turned toward Julian.
“You don’t have that kind of money.”
“I told you, you have it wrong. I’m not in trouble because I was messing around with some big bad crime family, Geralt. I’m in the big bad crime family—which is the problem.”
Geralt shook his head, opening the car door, “I’ve never heard of any de Lettenhove’s, which means either you are bullshitting me and don’t have the money, or, your family isn’t as big-time as you think, and you still don’t have half a million to spend on protection.”
Julian moved into his space and slammed the door closed.
“My mother’s maiden name is de Lettenhove—my father is Alexander Pankratz.”
Fuck.
“Fuck.”
“Ah, so you have heard of him. Splendid.”
Geralt growled, checking the street quickly, “Get in the fucking car.”
Julian did so, thankfully without the commentary Geralt was rapidly realizing accompanied everything the young man did. Geralt joined him in the vehicle before throwing it in reverse.
“Uh, not to look a gift horse in the mouth or anything, but does this mean you’re taking my job? Hit? Contract? I’m going to be honest, I’m not quite sure of the parlance here.”
“Shut the fuck up. I’m still not taking your contract.”
“Where are we going then?” Julian paled, “Oh god, you’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”
“What? No. You were being tailed.”
That made him strangely perk up. What the hell was wrong with the guy?
“Oh! Thank you, then.”
“Don’t feel too flattered, it wouldn’t be good for me to be seen with you just before you’re gunned down in the middle of the street. Those guys aren’t known for being discreet.”
“Oh.”
Geralt’s day was getting even more bizarre because he actually felt bad about the dejected tone in Julian’s voice. Luckily, he was saved from his stupid impulse to apologize by the ringing of his phone.
It was his work mobile. The number was private.
Geralt signaled for for Julian to remain silent before answering and hitting speaker.
There was a pause.
“Hello?” The posh RP accent asked, “Hello, Mr. Rivia, are you there?”
All color leached from Julian’s face and Geralt, though having never personally had any dealings with the man, knew who was calling.
Geralt checked his side mirror, taking a sharp turn down a side-street and then an alleyway.
“Mr. Panktraz.”
“Ah, yes, though we have not been formally introduced, it seems we are both familiar with one another. Good, this will speed things along. I do so hate to waste my time.”
Geralt rolled his eyes, taking another sharp turn down an alley—he hated men like this, who thought draping themselves in layers of aristocratic accents and etiquette somehow detracted from the awful things they did.
“A taciturn man, I can tell. Well, that suits my purposes fine. I am contacting you because I would like you to listen, and to listen very carefully, Mr. Rivia. I know my son went to see you and I know he’s currently with you. Hello, Julian.”
Geralt could see from the corner of his eye that Julian was sitting perfectly still, save for the constant shaking of his hands laying in his lap.
When the silence lingered, Pankratz spoke again.
“Aren’t you going to greet your father, boy?”
His words were still perfectly pleasant, but the tone was underpinned by a level of steel that promised violence—a promise Julian obviously heard, since he opened his mouth as if to comply with the order.
Geralt cut him to it, “If you know who I am, then you know I’m not one to play games. Tell me what it is you want or I’m ending this call.”
Julian let out small breath and turned to look out the window.
“There are those famous manners I’ve heard so much about. You should consider talking to your betters with a bit more decorum, Mr. Rivia.”
Geralt snorted, “When I find myself speaking with one, I’ll take that under advisement.”
“Yes. Fine. I’ll keep this brief, then,” Gone was the tone of civility, “You bring me my son, to the waterfront by, hm, I’ll be generous and say midnight, and not only will I not send any of your colleagues after you, I’ll even throw in a finder’s fee of, oh what the hell, 500 thousand?”
Julian’s fingers dug into the car seat, turning the skin over his knuckles white.
Geralt continued to drive, flooring the gas through a yellow light, narrowly missing as it turned red.
“I’m not your errand boy, Pankratz.”
“No, of course not,” the tone was mocking, “Well, if you prefer you can deal with him yourself, drop the body somewhere—discrete mind you—and notify me of the location. I’ll even add an extra fifty thousand. A clean up bonus, if you will.”
That was a lot of money, more than Julian’s offer and with the added bonus of it being easy. Julian wasn’t necessarily a slight man—but Geralt had been trained since a boy, younger even than the others taken in at Kaer Morhen, to use his body and surroundings to carry out violence in the most meticulous and efficient ways possible—the hit and disposal would take an hour, tops, and Geralt could carry on with the rest of his day, 550 thousand richer.
“Listen, I’ll let you think it over. But do remember you only have until midnight—I do not tolerate tardiness, Mr. Rivia, as I am not a man that likes to be kept waiting.”
The call disconnected before Geralt could respond.
Silence engulfed the car as Geralt continued to drive, now with less urgency as he noticed his tails giving up. Probably having received a call that it was no longer necessary to keep following them.
After a handful of minutes, he turned into an empty parking lot and cut the gas. Geralt twisted in his seat to look at Julian.
His head was resting against the window, and in the reflection of the glass, Geralt could make out tears gently slipping beneath closed eyes.
“If it’s all the same. I’d rather you were the one to do it.”
“What?”
Finally, Julian moved away from the window to look at Geralt, haphazardly attempting to wipe at his wet cheeks.
Giving a shrug and a watery smile that didn’t reach his eyes, Julian said, “At least, with you, you’ll make it quick, I’m sure. You don’t seem the sort to thrill in the kill.
My father. Well. He’s not pleased I ran, and he’ll make sure I am aware of his displeasure before he actually kills me. So. This is the lesser evil, I suppose.”
Christ.
He could shove Julian out of his car and drive off. Whatever happened wouldn’t be on Geralt. But he had learned that refusing to make a choice was the same as making one—it was stupidity that made you think it was anything but.
Beyond the grave, he can hear Renfri laughing at him.
Geralt checked his rearview mirror, a force of habit. Still no other cars.
“Why are they after you?”
Jaskier laughed, a harsh and bitter thing.
“I don’t want to be a part of my father’s business, either side of it.”
Geralt sighed, “What do you want?”
“I want to be a musician—that’s what I was studying. I got my master’s in music theory,” it’s a timid smile but closer to his real one, “I was recently offered a record deal, actually. A small label, very indie of course, but they heard some of my music I’ve put out online, and they liked it enough to sign me and want to produce a proper album.”
Of course. The guitar sitting in its case between Julian’s legs, along with duffle bag. Even his calloused hands betray themselves as musician’s fingers.
Geralt had heard rumors of the kind of man Julian’s father was, beneath the veneer of civility and genteel conduct. He was exactly the sort who would rather have a dead son than a disobedient one.
“One last thing,” Julian bit his lip and wiped at his eyes with the cuffs of his sweater, “Could you not tell my father where my body is? Or, better yet, just. Toss it into the ocean? I always did enjoy a good holiday at the coast; my father never came, claimed the stench of fish made him sick, so it was always just me and my mother.”
Geralt refused to let himself look away, “You seem calm to be talking about me disposing of your body.”
Julian’s features twisted into a snarl.
“How fucking dare you? What, do you want me to beg? To plead with you not to kill me? I’ve spent my life in a world of violence, I may not want to be a part of it any longer, but I know how it works. It’s easy—my father outbid me, so I lose.”
The thing of it was, Julian wasn’t wrong.
In their world—where crime had been made relatively clean and had been reengineered to be a simple machine that ran by an orderly set of rules and rhythms—that is how it would go. All parties involved had agreed their carefully calibrated systems were better than the old ways.
Any other contractor would take Pankratz’s deal and wash their hands of the whole mess.
Which is probably why Yen had sent Julian to Geralt, and not to anyone else.
He closed his eyes and thought about Roach at home, probably sleeping in her kennel, and Yen at her ridiculously opulent estate, pouring over details of some new big move she was about to make, and of Ciri. Ciri somewhere hidden so carefully and so well that she would be safe from the bloody fingers reaching out from Geralt’s life.
Lastly, he thought of Renfri and all the ways that he had failed her.
“Fuck.”
Geralt turned the key and started up the car.
Julian’s voice was a mix of confusion and dismay, “Really, Geralt, don’t you think this is secluded enough? Please tell me you’re not going to be a cliché and take me out into the woods.”
Julian was somewhat huffy for a man apparently moments away from his own death.
Despite himself, Geralt found himself smiling, a terribly small but still embarrassingly present and fond thing.
“The woods not good enough for you?”
“I think not!” Jaskier sniffed, “And none of that silly, ‘turn around and kneel’ nonsense—I will die without mud on my knees, thank you very much.”
Geralt turned onto the one of the old highways that led out of the concrete sprawl of the city, waiting until they were on a stretch of endless asphalt to speak.
“I’m not going to kill you, Julian.”
“What? Really? Are you sure?”
Geralt leveled him with a look before returning his gaze to the road.
Julian spoke up, words practically tumbling over themselves in their haste to flee his mouth.
“Not that I’m ungrateful, rather, I am exceptionally grateful that you are not going to kill me! I’m in such a state of gratefulness I think it would break records, being so grateful. But. Well. What is the catch?”
“The catch?” At Julian’s nod, Geralt continued, “the catch is that you’re paying me 500k to get you somewhere reliably safe, and to deal with any obstacles that may present themselves in the interim.”
“Oh, so just the money then.” Julian sounded relieved.
“What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know!” Julian threw his hands up, “maybe you wanted me to be your sex slave or something.”
It was only Geralt’s talent with driving that kept him from swerving the car.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Julian.”
Julian winced, “Okay, okay I’m sorry. You just, never know I suppose? Yennefer seemed to vouch well enough for your character but.”
Geralt rolled his eyes, “It’s fine. Good, actually, to be wary of me. You should be.”
“Why, because of the whole Baba Yaga thing?”
Nearly ten goddamn years, and that name still followed him like rot following the dead.
Julian perked up, excited now, “Actually, if you could tell me about that I think it’d make a pretty interesting song—ow! Geralt, fuck, okay sensitive subject, I get it.”
Geralt placed his hand back on the wheel, having withdrawn it to smack the man upside the head.
The pair sat in blessed silence for a grand total of six minutes before Julian spoke up.
“Where, uh, are we going, then? If not to the place of my demise.”
“We’re leaving the country, probably going to stop in a few to make it more difficult for anyone your father might send after us. But I need to swing by my contact first and get us some ID’s and passports. Which reminds me,” Geralt said, turning on his blinker and changing lanes, “you’re going to need a new name—is there something that you can think of that you could use that you would reliably react to it if called?”
Julian paused, thinking.
“Jaskier.”
“What?”
“Would Jaskier work as my name?”
Geralt knew he sounded incredulous, “You want to be called ‘buttercup’?
Julian blushed, “I wasn’t aware you knew Polish.”
Geralt fluently spoke six language and was passable in four more. In his line of work, speaking the language was one of the first steps to blending in. That is not what he said.
Instead, he offered: “I was raised in Poland.”
“Oh. But your accent—”
“Is fake,” Geralt explained, “I mainly work out of the U.K. so it made sense to adopt an English accent.”
“That…makes sense, I suppose.”
“What about you?”
Julian sighed dramatically, “Unfortunately this is my real accent.”
Geralt huffed, dangerously close to a laugh, “No, I mean, do you speak Polish?”
Julian winced, “Uh, not well, I’m afraid. Just mostly what I remember from my mother—I was never formally taught since my father didn’t approve of me learning.”
Geralt shook his head, “Prick.”
“Shared sentiments, my friend,” Julian paused, before adding softly, “it was her nickname for me. My mother, I mean. Even when I was an annoying little twelve-year-old and begging her to stop calling me that because I found it too embarrassing.”
Geralt couldn’t recall if his own mother had any special endearment for him.
Julian continued speaking, voice tender, “It’s silly, but as the years pass, I can’t help but prefer it to my given name. It’s why I introduced myself with her maiden name.”
“It suits you,” it feels true, even if Geralt isn’t sure why he says it.
Julian, or Jaskier—Geralt needed to get used to calling him that—laughed, “You hardly know me. How would you know?”
Buttercups were obnoxious weeds, particularly tenacious and difficult to deal with once you had an infestation in your garden. It had been an exercise in discipline for the boys in the warm months to fruitlessly tear the things out, root-stem-and-all, from the soil of the expansive surroundings of Kaer Morhen, only for the weeds to return the following spring.
Geralt could recall those long successive days of unending work from his youth, thinking, as he salved and wrapped sore hands so wrecked that by the end of the season the dirt had filled in the cracks in his palms like mortar between bricks, that it seemed not a training of discipline but rather a foolish attempt to wrestle control from nature. They would grow, buttercups, no matter how many came tearing through with their spades and shovels and bare hands; you could kill them for a season, but they always returned.
The bright, early afternoon sun of summer’s last stand against the encroaching autumn burned brightly in the sky outside Jaskier’s window, framing him in an indulgent golden light.
Jaskier was right—Geralt didn’t know him well, but found he was helpless against the irrational part of him that wanted to.
Geralt only hummed in response to Jaskier’s question and flipped on the radio, volume low.
“It’s going to be awhile, so I suggest you get some sleep.”
“Right. That’s a good plan. Who knew running for your life made you so tired?” Jaskier pondered as he adjusted his seat, leaning back and against his window.
“Hm.” Geralt’s mouth twitched, “It’s a recent discovery. In all the latest scientific journals and everything.”
“Oh,” now Jaskier’s eyes were closed and he sounded delighted, “you’re funny! Yennefer didn’t tell me you’re funny.”
“That’s because she doesn’t find me funny.”
Jaskier yawned, “Yes, she didn’t find me that charming either, strangely.”
Geralt snorted, shaking his head. Yen wasn’t one to be charmed. Often, she was the beguiling presence instead.
They lapsed into silence, one longer than Geralt had experienced since he had collided with Jaskier, leading him to assume the other man had fallen asleep when Jaskier spoke up.
“I’m not, by the way,” still awake, but nearly there if the drowsy nature of his words was any indication.
“Charming?”
“No, you asshole, I am exceptionally charming,” It was Jaskier’s turn to reach out and smack Geralt, “I mean the other thing.”
Geralt hummed, questioning.
“About being wary of you. I’m not. Frankly, I’m not all that scared, if I’m being honest. I’m sure parts of your reputation are deserved, but. I have a feeling the rumors aren’t as kind to you as the truth.”
Geralt’s hands tightened on the wheel, “You don’t know that. You don’t know me.”
“True, but I’m a fairly good judge of character,” another yawn, “Any other mercenary wouldn’t have thought twice about taking my father’s deal.”
“Maybe I’m just a fool,” Geralt countered.
“Maybe. Doesn’t change the fact that I feel safer here in this car with The Butcher than I can recall having felt in a long time,” Jaskier opened his eyes, waiting to meet Geralt’s gaze before adding, “you don’t what that means to me, Geralt. So. Thank you.”
Thankfully, Jaskier turned away and closed his eyes again, saving Geralt from having to respond.
He didn’t know what to do with that. Geralt wasn’t safe.
And yet.
And yet here Jaskier was, finally asleep—deeply and soundly by the sounds of his soft snores—no more than a foot away from a trained killer he had just met this morning. The trust others had in Geralt was in his capacity to carry out violence to achieve an end—not, whatever this was Jaskier was offering to him.
Pushing the thoughts away before they turned frantic, Geralt turned the music up a little and considered the time display on his dashboard; he hoped to reach Triss before nightfall so that he and Jaskier could be out of the country well before midnight.
Geralt focused on the road, mentally planning what needed to be done to secure Jaskier’s safety, and purposefully didn’t think about how thoroughly fucked he was going to be when all of this was over.