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Geralt has been travelling with Jaskier for a good part of a decade now and he’s been pining after him for at least three years. But Jaskier is human, his lifespan but a fleeting moment compared to a witcher’s. And that’s why Geralt doesn’t say anything, keeps all his feelings bottle up behind his stoic facade, content that he gets to see Jaskier all year round, except of course for winters, which they spend inevitably apart; Jaskier in some fancy noble court entertaining stuck up rich people and Geralt with his brothers and father in Kaer Morhen.
Winter is creeping up on them real quick this year and Geralt dreads the moment his bard will pack his things and go to whatever kingdom his services are required this year (to whoever has fallen for those beautiful blue eyes of his).
The time comes a cold November night.
Jaskier knits his eyebrows together, reading a letter addressed to him that arrived in the Nazairi town they’ve been staying at the past two weeks.
“Shit, cock, shit...” Jaskier mumbles under his breath as he reads and rereads the ink-stained parchment.
“What’s wrong,” Geralt asks, not sure if he wants to know the answer. Might be a good thing, his mind provides helpfully, might get the chance to ask him to come with him to Kaer Morhen, depending on the contents of the letter.
“Ugh,” Jaskier applies pressure on his temples with a hand, “My family. They need me to return home as – not a month ago – a rockfall damaged the house horribly. They’ll need all the hands they can get to get it fixed for the snows to come. Shit, I’m so sorry Geralt, I have to leave immediately,” he says and rushes to gather his clothing that is scattered everywhere in the small room they are sharing.
“It’s the middle of the night,” Geralt tries, making sure his voice doesn’t betray the sadness, the longing for the bard to stay for a few hours more.
“I know,” Jaskier’s eyes are downcast, “But it’s best I don’t lose any more time. It’s a long way to our house.”
Geralt chokes down his heartbreak and grunts, “Safe travels,” he says without looking at Jaskier, “Write me where to meet this spring.”
“I will,” Jaskier smiles brightly.
The weather must really have a grudge against him. He knew it was already late when he parted ways with Jaskier. He knew he was too far south to make it to Kaer Morhen before the first heavy snowfalls. But he didn’t know that he’d be snowed in at the foot of the Amell mountains.
Talk about shit luck.
It’s freezing cold and the blizzard has been raging for a whole week now. He tried to secure lodgings for the winter at several small villages he passed but their residents all but chased him out by throwing rocks at him.
He has no choice but to find another way of surviving the harsh winter.
A cave is out of the question as there’d be no way to keep the cold off without building a door of sorts. And that needs time he doesn’t have and helpful weather conditions which are also unfortunately missing.
So he tries to find an abandoned cottage or tower or anything man-made, really, because freezing to death is not something he ever found likely to happen (not to mention it’s a hell of an embarrassing way to go).
Sadly, his luck is the worst it’s been since… Blaviken really and all houses he comes across are populated with hostile peasant-folk.
Excellent.
There is a third option, and while he does not know if it’s a viable one, it’s the only one left he got; he has to find Haern Caduch, the witcher keep of the school of the Bear, that’s presumably located somewhere on the Amell mountains.
It’s stupid. Utterly moronic. But he’s desperate at this point. His supplies are running low and the blizzard does not seem to relent, so he decides to scale the tall imposing and very dangerous mountain and hopefully stumble upon the keep.
Geralt is tired, his bones aching from walking hours upon hours without stopping, his limbs numb from the cold. Fuck. He’s going to die here, isn’t he? He’s going to die and no-one will ever find his body, give him a proper burial. He’s going to die and he’ll never get to gaze in those cornflower blue eyes of his bard again.
Fuck.
He drags his feet on the soft thick snow, step by step hopefully closer to the keep of the Bears. He thinks he sees a few tall pine trees in the distance amidst the blinding white of the frost and snow. He thinks he sees the figure of a man cutting off branches, hauling them onto a sledge.
He thinks he can reach the man – if he exists – and ask for help. But he’s too tired. Too hurt. Too hungry. He falls on the snow and feels no more.
It’s warm and cosy, soft fur blankets laid heavy atop Geralt’s body. There’s heat coming from his side. Heat only a person can emit, radiating soft and calming. Geralt sniffs the air, content and well-rested; it smells like home, like old stone and fireplace, like thick furs and… Is that chamomile? He breathes in, deeply, again. It is chamomile, he confirms.
Which means… he’s alive. He’s survived the blizzard by some miracle. The questions are swirling around in his mind but he shuts them off. It's not important how he escaped the dreary cold but the fact that he did.
Geralt flutters his eyes open taking in his surroundings. It’s a room very similar to the one he shares with Eskel every winter in Kaer Morhen. Spacious, stone walls and carpeted floors. A big hearth warming the space, wood chirping as it burns away. There’s a large empty bed fitted on the wall opposite of the bed he wakes up in.
He turns to his other side, towards the warmth, towards the comforting scent of chamomile. There’s a large man curled up beneath the fur blanket, soft chestnut hair reaching his lower neck, tousled about from sleep. He’s snoring softly, hot breath blowing away the loose hair from Geralt’s face.
Geralt startles at the sight of the stranger and tosses the blanket aside, making a swift escape from their shared bed.
“I’m coooold ,” the man moans, a large hand making its way towards the white-haired witcher in search of the discarded blanket, face buried in the soft pillow.
Fuck. He’s huge.
Geralt’s eyes go wide as saucers as he takes in the form of the man; he’s easily over two metres tall, his shoulders wide and strong, arms thick as an average man’s thigh. Beneath his too tight, seams visibly straining, creme chemise, dark hair is visible, dusting his strong chest. There’s something about this man, something achingly familiar in the tone of his voice, in the way he hogs his pillow, the way his limbs are strewn about everywhere on the bed, and Geralt wonders who he reminds him of.
“Mmm blanket, five more minutes, I swear I’ll get up in five minutes,” the man mumbles in a way so… Jaskier. But it can’t be, can it? Jaskier is bard, a human a smidge shorter than Geralt, lithe and agile. He’s nothing like this- this massive bear of a man. Geralt is surely dreaming, his mind making up fantasies while he’s still probably freezing somewhere on the Amell mountains.
Geralt watches the man transfixed, as he yawns deeply and turns around, opening his eyes. Geralt would recognise this particular shade of blue everywhere. Cornflower blue eyes, pupils slit like a cat’s, meet Geralt’s golden. Those are unmistakably Jaskier’s eyes. His Jaskier’s eyes.
Geralt looks closer, scanning the facial features, recognising the slope of his nose, the barely-there crinkles on the corner of the eyes, the soft rosy lips.
Jaskier (?) stretches his arms, chemise riding up his abdomen, revealing muscles shifting beneath a healthy layer of fat, and proceeds to sit on the bed cross-legged. Even seated, his frame is absolutely massive.
Geralt regards the man, Jaskier, who keeps looking at him with those – impossibly blue – confused eyes. His face looks wider, fuller than it ever was on the scrawny bard. It’s the face that fits a man that could lift multiple logs in one try -- which Jaskier probably can , Geralt realizes and feels heat pooling in his guts and moving downwards in waves. A croak escapes his throat and he smacks his lips in an attempt to mask it.
“Good morning,” he says with another yawn, blinking bleary-eyed. There's a big pause before he speaks again, “I’m glad you’re awake Geralt. You’ve no idea how much you had me worried, you brute! You were asleep for a fortnight! A fortnight, Geralt! If I had found you a moment later-"
“Jaskier?” Geralt croaks, eyes fixed on what’s unmistakably a witcher medallion hanging from his neck. A bear huh . Oddly fitting with the sight before him.
“Mmm, yeah?” he tilts his head slightly to the side and then looks down at his hands, lips shaping an ‘Oh’. “Right, yeah, hm. There is a perfectly plausible explanation for this,” he gestures at his body, “And the explanation is that I may not have been as forthcoming with you as I should have.”
“You think?” Geralt raises a brow, his mind still firmly fighting him -- besides all evidence -- that what he sees is surely a mistake, a construct of his dying brain. “You- you are a witcher, Jaskier. A bloody massive one at that!” Geralt blurts out, his tone a bit more accusatory than he intended.
Jaskier makes a hissing sound before he curses under his breath. He pinches the bridge of his nose, “It was stupid of me to never tell you. I was so caught up in being this perfectly normal human, this bard that no-one was afraid of that I- I thought if I told anybody this- this dream-come-true would end. That I’d be yanked away from this life I fought so hard for, never to return,” the words are barely audible at the end and the acidic smell of regret, mixed with the salty tang of unshed tears, heavy in the air. Jaskier locks eyes with Geralt, shoulders slumped in defeat, “I’m so sorry,” he says and there is so much pain woven into those three simple words, so much ache and regret that Geralt can’t find it in him to be mad at Jaskier.
He knows, given the chance, he’d probably give up on the Path, get a vineyard or maybe a farm and live a calm life away from the constant struggle, away from the endless routine of monstermoneyhatred .
Geralt finds himself scooting closer to this new version of Jaskier a hand cupping his soft cheek, moving to wipe those rogue tears pearling on Jaskier’s long eyelashes. “It’s alright,” he says softly. And it is ‘alright’. Geralt doesn’t care if Jaskier is a witcher, if his frame is different from the one he was used to seeing --pining after-- all those years they travelled together. It doesn’t matter because Jaskier is Jaskier and he loves him with all his being.
“I know it’s a lot, Geralt,” Jaskier says bringing a huge hand to rest atop the one Geralt has on Jaskier’s cheek, completely dwarfing it, “I know what I look like,” his voice is filled with so much bitterness, so much self-deprecation that Geralt’s mouth twists into a frown, words of reassurance threatening to spill.
And they do.
“What? Gorgeous?” Geralt blurts out, heat quickly rising to his cheeks and heart hammering in his chest.
“What,” Jaskier’s eyes go wide, mouth gaping as his ears get dusted with a lovely pink colour. “You can’t seriously-”
“I can,” Geralt confirms. Too late to take that back. And if Jaskier’s reaction is any indication… “You are the most attractive man I’ve ever laid eyes on. As a human and witcher bo-,” he doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Jaskier wraps his arms around him, completely burying him in this wide chest of his. And it feels so good, so right, to be dwarfed by his bard.
Geralt presses himself closer, breathing in the scent of chamomile Jaskier always favours, running his fingers on Jaskier’s large back.
“Jask, I…” he trails off lifting his gaze to meet the Bear witcher’s.
“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier sighs in content, “I never thought that you… “
Geralt stands on his knees and presses their foreheads together, staring deep into those brilliant blue eyes. A hand moves behind Jaskier’s neck, pulling him closer and closer until they are but a breath away. Jaskier caresses Geralt’s jaw, moving to his neck, fingers tangling the silver hair.
The bard-turned-witcher licks his lips, a crooked bite lingering at the end as a fang catches on his lower lip and Geralt can’t resist. He presses their lips together, and it’s everything he ever imagined it to be and so much more. The love swells in his chest, and he feels as if there’s no air left in the world to fill his lungs.
“Love you,” he mumbles, tugging at Jaskier’s upper lip, moving up to plant a small kiss on Jaskier’s crown, “Loved you for a long time.”
“I love you too, Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, and smiles widely, “Since that day in Dol Blathana.”
“So,” Geralt says ignoring the noise his empty stomach makes, “your family, they knew of your other career?”
“Not all of them and not since the beginning,” Jaskier chuckles, “Our grandmaster, Gerd, saw me perform one day in Novigrad a couple of years ago and I don’t even wanna know how, but he recognised me immediately. I have never been more terrified in my life.”
“What did he do?”
“Nothing. He just told me to keep in touch in case they need my help for something. And I did.”
Geralt wraps an arm around Jaskier’s lower back and rests his head on the larger man’s shoulder, “That’s why you left in the middle of the night like a thief.”
“To my defence, Gerd is extraordinarily scary.”
Geralt snorts a laugh and his stomach wails again.
“Come on love,” Jaskier says planting a small kiss on Geralt’s lips, “Let’s get you something to eat and as a bonus, you’ll get to meet the whole family.”
“Can’t we stay here?” Geralt almost pleads and yelps as Jaskier tackles him on the bed again and nuzzles the hollow of his throat.
“You’re too cute, Geralt, “ Jaskier whispers and gods what that does to Geralt --that and Jaskier's sheer size laid on top of him. "But you have to get your strength back, so up with you," he lifts him effortlessly in his strong thick arms, "and into the dining hall."
Geralt grunts, a small smile forming on his lips. He could get used to that.
After much deliberation, and protest from Geralt’s side, Jaskier sets Geralt back on his feet and wraps the blanket around his wide shoulders --he really must feel cold, even though there is the barest breeze of winter air inside the keep.
“Were you using a glamour all these years?” Geralt is curious about the magic that could shrink a person so significantly. He’s heard of glamours before (what witcher hasn’t?), but to his knowledge, the whole glamoured appearance of a person is but a mirage, a trick of the light, making them appear different from what they look like; an older man may look young and spritely again, but his general shape won’t change and neither will his skills.
“Oh, yeah, I did,” Jaskier replied, “Cost a fortune, let me tell you that. It’s a shame, really, that I can’t wear it again.”
“Hm?” Geralt raises a dark brow.
“The ring doesn’t fit my fingers. The mage who made it forgot to make it re-adjustable in both ways; it shrank when I first wore it, to fit my human fingers, and when I took it off it did not get larger. So yeah, there’s that.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Tell me about it,” Jaskier sighs and leads Geralt to the grand hall of Haern Caduch; a half-destroyed room, big enough to fit a hundred witchers, a big hole that has been shut closed, filled out with massive logs.
There, Geralt counts eight witchers sitting on mismatched chairs, framing a long table, eating and drinking merrily. The moment they step in the hall all eyes snap on them.
Fuck.
“Julian,” a short dark-skinned man, with curly dark brown hair, pulled back in a low ponytail, says, his lips pressed into a thin line, “What did I say about bringing blankets down to the main hall?” he shakes his head disapprovingly.
“ But papa Gerd , I don’t have a coat and it’s cold! And you didn’t let me make one off of old blankets,” Jaskier pouts. It’s a sight, utterly adorable.
“You already butchered enough blankets to make trousers, Julek,” a Zerrikanian woman with piercing fuchsia eyes teases, “You really should have stopped in a town to get some clothes before coming here.”
“Oh, I’m sorry I got worried, when I got your letter sister, and ran all the way from Nazair to get here in time.”
Geralt snorts a laugh at the mental image of Jaskier running up the mountain in big strides.
“ Geraaaalt , not you too! I thought you’d be on my side,” Jaskier whines and Geralt rolls his eyes at his antics. “Shame on you, love,” Jaskier whispers low enough so that only Geralt can hear him and cocoons the white-haired witcher with his blanket, pressing Geralt’s head against his pecs. Geralt’s chest rumbles low, content, heat waving through him at this casual show of affection.
“Come on, cub,” a voice Geralt places as Gerd says, “Let the wolf boy eat something and then you can smother him all you like.”
“ Cub ? Will you smother me later?” Geralt asks in a low voice, a teasing smile painted on his lips while he escapes Jaskier’s tight embrace.
Jaskier’s face is bright red, and he fakes a cough, “Right. Eating. Eating good. Let’s do that now and tease poor Julian to oblivion and beyond later. Alright?”
Geralt snorts a laugh and tangles their hands together, “Hmm… Sounds like a good plan.”