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“Sneaking away, are we?” says Jaskier.
“No,” says Geralt, who’s in the process of sneakily packing Roach’s saddlebags. “I wanted to get an early start.”
Jaskier puts his hands upon his hips. It’s warmer in the stables than out in the yard, but only slightly. He’s not really dressed for it. You’d think the several miserable winters he’d spent transfigured would have given him an appreciation for being able to put on a coat when it was cold, and for the most part it had, but he’d been in a hurry.
It’s colder than he’d expected. Winter is coming on fast.
“You could have woken me.”
“You hate when I wake you,” says Geralt, and Jaskier concedes the point with a shrug. “I left a note.”
“Yes, I read the note,” says Jaskier. “It was very, um, succinct. Fortunately for you I was up early anyway as I have an appointment.”
For the first time since Jaskier had come into the stables, Geralt looks at him properly. “An appointment?”
“Of a personal nature,” says Jaskier. “None of your business.”
Geralt gives him a considering look. What sort of appointment he supposes it is Jaskier can’t imagine. Likely he thinks it’s something scandalous or embarrassing. Jaskier has no intention of correcting him.
Geralt says, “have you seen my grey shirt?”
Jaskier shrugs. “All of your shirts are one shade of grey or another.”
“Some of them used to be black,” says Geralt. “Did you take it?”
Pressing a hand to his chest in mock offence Jaskier says, “did I take it? Geralt, why on earth would I take your clothes? They don’t fit me and also they’re all hideous.”
“Fair.” Geralt fastens the saddlebags.
“That you off for the season, then?” says Jaskier. “I can’t convince you to stay on another day or two? Hm? Twist your arm?”
“You couldn’t twist my arm even if you tried,” says Geralt.
“It’s an expression.” Jaskier takes that to be a no, and sighs to himself. “Ah, well. See you in the spring, I suppose.”
Geralt adjusts Roach’s tack. “Bye.”
Jaskier waits a moment, just in case he deigns to say anything else. “Au revoir,” he says, punching Geralt lightly on the arm. “Hurry back.”
He watches Geralt ride away. Then, sadly, he trudges up the road to his appointment.
*
Curiously enough, he’d been looking forward to the winter. He’d been looking forward to a few months back in his old life, catching up with old friends. After a year of living virtually inside Geralt’s clothes he’d been looking forward to putting some space between them.
Picking up the threads of his old life is harder than he’d expected. It’s been longer than he’d thought. People he was friends with are married with children. People he knew as students have joined the faculty. People respond to his reappearance with vague interest and little surprise. When they ask him what he’s been doing with himself he’s not sure what to say.
The reality of having space is rather more daunting than the idea of it. It’s not the first time they’ve been parted, since he’d been restored to his proper form; but the prospect of a whole season without Geralt makes him feel rather as if he’s missing a limb.
Well, he tells himself. It’s not as if he’ll be alone.
The house is part of a low terrace in the old part of town. He knocks on the door, and waits. “Ah, Hanna,” he says. “Are they ready?”
“Come on in,” she says, jerking her head up the passage.
“Oh, aren’t you just darling!” he coos in her kitchen, draping himself halfway across the table to look properly into the basket. “Oh, just look at them, Hanna.”
“I’ve already seen them,” says Hanna. “They’re alright, I suppose.”
“Heartless wench,” says Jaskier. “They’re adorable. I didn’t know they started so little.”
“They started even littler.”
Jaskier clutches his chest. “You’re killing me,” he says. “I love all of them. I can’t possibly choose just one.”
“Tragically, you’ll have to,” says Hanna. “I don’t actually have all day.”
Propping himself up, Jaskier looks over the fluffy contents of the basket. “That one,” he says, pointing. “The tabby.”
“Good choice.” Hanna lifts his chosen kitten out of the basket. “That one’s going to be bright as a button. I can tell.”
“Can you?” says Jaskier absently, cradling the kitten to his chest.
“Are you going to name her?”
“Mmm.” Jaskier strokes the kitten’s head, pondering. “Probably not. She’s not for me.”
“Oh?” says Hanna.
Smiling down at the kitten, Jaskier says, “she’s a gift.”
*
“Is that a kitten?”
“Is that a problem?” says Jaskier, standing on the doorstep. “It’s not as if she’ll eat much. She’s very small.”
“I’d say I didn’t think you were a cat person,” says Essi. “But I understand you do purr like one.”
“Fuck off!” says Jaskier. “I shouldn’t have told you about that.”
“I think it’s sweet,” says Essi. “You big pussy cat.”
“Yes, yes, Jaskier got turned into a cat for four whole years, it was hilarious and not at all traumatising,” he says. “Can we please move on with our lives?”
“Hmm,” she says, “not for at least another half a year.”
“You’re despicable,” he says. “I almost died. I think that warrants at least a little sympathy and emotional support.”
“I’m letting you stay with me, aren’t I?”
“Which is, frankly, the least you could do considering you would have failed your third year without me,” he says. “May I come in?”
“Debatable,” she says. “And yes.”
“Very gracious of you,” he says, stepping into the narrow hallway.
“What’s with the kitten, then?”
“I bought her this morning,” he says. “I’m in love with her already. I fear giving her away may break my heart.”
“Who are you giving her to?” says Essi.
“Who do you think?” he says. “Would you like to hold her?”
“I’d love to,” she says. “Tea?”
“Please.”
*
Later, comfortably tipsy, he gets settled into the little room that’s to be his lodgings for the winter. The kitten is on the bed, nosing at the folds in the blankets.
Jaskier regards her for a moment, his hands on his hips, head cocked to one side. “Right, then,” he says to himself. “I hope this works.” He dumps out the contents of his bag onto the floor and fetches the shirt from the bottom where he’d squirrelled it away.
The kitten bristles all over, when he lays it down next to her. “Yeah, I know.” Jaskier lifts her up firmly. “It smells funny. It won’t hurt you. It’s just a shirt, look.”
He sets the kitten down atop the shirt and she bristles still more fiercely, hissing and squirming. As soon as he lets her go she bounds away towards the pillows and huddles there, looking wounded.
“That’ll do for tonight, probably.” Jaskier tosses the shirt in the general direction of the chair and perches on the edge of the bed. “C’mere. Eh?” He lifts the kitten into his lap, stroking her. She mewls softly. “I’m sorry. It’ll be worth it.”
*
The first snow is falling, and they’re making progress, he thinks.
He puts on the shirt and at the smell of it – the feel of the cloth, worn soft and thin, against his skin – a memory comes to him, unbidden. A memory of being tucked inside Geralt’s jacket, held so tightly against his chest that he could feel the slow beating of his heart, the rhythm blending with the gentle rocking of the horse beneath them. He remembers with a vividness that takes his breath away the scent of Geralt, the warm, reassuringly sturdy feel of his body, and with that memory comes a sudden and powerful sense of longing.
He thinks of Geralt, riding away into the winter. He shakes himself and goes downstairs.
“Are you just,” says Essi, “not going to launder that shirt, all winter?”
“It has his scent particles on it.” Jaskier gesticulates with his wine glass, which is brazenly threatening to spill on the rug. “I need the scent particles, Essi.”
“Ah, the particles,” says Essi, nodding sagely. “Which you intent to torment that poor kitten with?”
“I am not,” says Jaskier, “tormenting her. And at any rate, she’s getting used to it.”
He’s holding the kitten cradled to his chest with his free hand. She’s tense against the bare skin of his arm. Sulky, he thinks. But she’s putting up with the smell of witcher, for the sake of being cuddled.
“It smells off,” Essi says.
“Naturally,” says Jaskier. “That’s the scent particles.”
“I don’t think there’s such a thing as scent particles,” she says.
Jaskier gesticulates once again with the wine glass and this time a few drops spill down his wrist. “Whatever,” he says, and licks them up.
Essi wrinkles her nose. “You disgust me,” she says. “You filthy man.”
“Give me a break,” says Jaskier. “I was turned into a cat.”
“You can’t use that as an excuse for anything you want.”
“I can so,” says Jaskier. “I was a cat for years. Years, Essi. I’m re-learning my way around humane society.” He motions at the grubby shirt with his wine glass. “If you think this is disgusting you should have seen some of the things I was forced to do and also eat while I was a stray cat.”
“I’d rather not,” she says, laughing.
“Stop it!” he says. “Nothing about it was funny. Do you know, at one point I was inches away from being drowned in a sack? I, I think about that every day. I dream about it sometimes.”
He throws himself down on the coach beside her. The kitten wriggles in his arms and he hugs her tighter. Essi pats his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “That sounds horrible.”
He can imagine it so clearly. The smell of the sack cloth. The filthy taste of the river water. The sinking inevitability of it; falling into the cold and lonely darkness until there was nothing left of him.
“What really gets me,” he says, “is that no-one would ever have known what happened. The woman who was going to drown me wouldn’t have given it a second thought. And everyone who knew me would have said to themselves, oh, remember Jaskier? Haven’t seen him in years. Whatever happened to him?” He swigs his wine. “And then they’d move on with their lives.”
“If it’s any consolation, I was starting to think you were dead in a ditch,” says Essi.
It’s a small and shallow consolation. She hadn’t come looking for him. No-one had, and he couldn’t blame them. His way of life being what it was, if he vanished off the face of the continent no-one would think to look for him until it was years too late.
It was a thought that had crossed his mind more than once, when he was a cat; that more likely than not no-one was looking for him, and even if they were, if they came upon him they’d walk past without a thought.
“It was Geralt who saved me,” he says. “From the sack.”
“Remind me to thank him,” says Essi. “By the by, I don’t think stealing from a witcher was very wise.”
“I didn’t steal it!” Jaskier protests. “I borrowed it. I fully intend to give it back.”
“Once you’ve finished with the scent particles?”
“Quite.” He sips his wine. It’s a good wine and he’s had several cups. Enough to make him relaxed and perhaps a touch too loose-lipped. “Is it bad,” he says, “that part of me misses it?”
“Misses being a cat?”
“No – no,” he says. “I mean, naturally I don’t miss not being able to speak. Or not having thumbs. Or sleeping outside or eating out of bins or having people kick me, or having horny lady cats try –”
“Get to the point, Jask.”
“I just,” he confesses, “sort of miss how he used to be with me.”
“The witcher?”
“Geralt,” he says. “Yes.”
He remembers a night not so different to this one. A warm room, with a fire burning. Sitting in Geralt’s lap, eating scraps of chicken out of his fingers. The feeling of safety, that had suffused him; the knowledge that nothing in the world could hurt him.
“He still likes me,” he says. “Or, I think he does. He’s just – not very good with people. He doesn’t talk to me much these days. And I know I shouldn’t resent him that, since he only used to tell me things because he didn’t think I could understand. But still.”
Before he was changed back, Geralt used to touch him so casually – so easily. He misses the way Geralt used to hold him.
There had been a moment, just after the curse had been broken, giddy with delight and relief, when he’d sincerely thought that nothing would change – that they could go on as they always had. He’d seen almost at once how foolish a notion it was. Of course everything would change. Of course everything had to change.
Essi is giving a long, contemplative look, her chin resting on her hand. “So you miss,” she says, “being his pet?”
Jaskier almost chokes on his wine. “Essi, my darling, I need you to understand,” he says, “I truly believed I was going to be a cat for the rest of my short and unhappy life. When one anticipates being a cat forever, being somebody’s pet can start to look like one’s best option.”
“You could have tried to tell him you were human.”
“How?”
She considers the matter. “Point taken.”
“Also,” he says, “I’d like to note that he used to spoil me rotten.”
“Did he?” says Essi, charmed and surprised. “I take it he doesn’t do that any more.”
“Not even a little,” Jaskier says, and moodily sips wine.
Essi prods his shoulder. “You miss him.”
“And why shouldn’t I?”
“You like him.”
“Fuck off,” says Jaskier. “He’s very handsome.” He gives the kitten a fond squeeze. “This little one looks left out. Do you think cats can drink wine?”
“Probably not,” says Essi. “I’ll fetch the cream.”
*
It’s rained hard in the night and the streets are churned up with mud, but the sky is blue overhead when he sights Geralt coming up the road towards the house.
He takes the stairs at a run and splashes out on the street, heedless of the mud on his good boots. “Geralt!” he calls, and striding forward throws his arms around him. “Oh, I’ve missed you.”
Geralt always has a strange, stilted reaction to being embraced; he goes stiff, as if he’s never heard of a hug before and can’t imagine what Jaskier’s doing. Then – as he usually does – he puts his free arm around Jaskier’s waist and hugs him back.
Pulling away Jaskier wags a finger at him and says, “you smell like a wet dog.”
“It rained,” says Geralt simply. He’s bedraggled, his hair dangling in grey curls around his face. He smells like damp wool and wood smoke; he smells like the outdoors.
Mostly, though, he smells like wet dog.
“Your hair’s longer,” Geralt remarks.
Jaskier touches the ends of it. “It does that,” he says. “You look just the same.”
“Always do.” Geralt turns away. “I have something for you.”
“Ohh?” says Jaskier, startled. He’d been expecting to be the only bringer of gifts. “What’s the occasion?”
“Just felt like it,” says Geralt, not looking him in the eye.
He roots around in a saddlebag and produces something wrapped in a scrap of cloth which he handles gingerly, as if he’s delicate. Unwrapping the cloth reveals a little package wrapped in brown paper, which he thrusts at Jaskier with a sullen, “here.”
The package has a pleasing weight to it and smells faintly of cinnamon, and as he unwraps it Jaskier’s heart lightens. “Did you buy me sweetmeats?”
“Thought you’d like them.”
A stupid grin is spreading across his face and he makes no attempt to hide it. “Geralt, my dear, you spoil me,” he says, and shoves a sweetmeat into his mouth. They’re good, too. They can’t have come cheap. “I have something for you too, as it happens,” he says around it.
“What sort of something?” says Geralt, tying Roach to the hitching post near the door.
“A surprise.”
Geralt shoots him a mock-stern look – or Jaskier thinks it’s mock-stern. “I don’t like surprises.”
“I think you’ll like this one.” Jaskier nudges him. “It’s upstairs. C’mon.”
His heart’s in his mouth all the way up the narrow staircase, painfully aware as he is that there’s no way to know if it’s worked until he puts it to the test. On the landing, he presses his hand to Geralt’s chest and says, “wait here.”
He sticks the sweetmeats on the table for later and fetches the kitten from where she’s sleeping on his pillow. “Hello,” he says to her softly, cradling her in his hands. She’s bigger than she was when he brought her home, but still not fully grown. “Wake up, now. Got someone here to meet you.”
He steps out onto the landing and it’s only as he turns to face him that Geralt realises what it is he’s holding. At the sight of the kitten Geralt’s expression twitches. If Jaskier knew him less well he might not have noticed; as it is, Geralt’s face might as well have dropped.
He says, “Jaskier, I don’t think –”
“It’s fine,” says Jaskier, “see?” And before Geralt can protest, he plops the kitten into his unresisting hands.
“I –” Geralt falls silent.
The kitten is calm and quiet in his hands, entirely unperturbed. She noses at his gloved fingers, investigating the scent that is, by now, surely as familiar to her as Jaskier’s. Her tiny pink tongue flicks out and laps at the base of his thumb.
For a long, long moment Geralt says nothing at all. He watches the kitten nuzzle at his hand, his head bowed, motionless. She looks tiny, in his big hands.
He says, “how?”
Jaskier spreads his hands. “It’s a gift.”
Raising his head Geralt studies him and Jaskier can feel him judging the likelihood of Jaskier’s transfiguration having turned him into some sort of cat-whisperer. “Hm.”
“To be clear,” Jaskier says, “she’s definitely, absolutely, a normal, non-cursed cat who’s not going to turn into a human man on you. I triple checked. And, I haven’t named her,” he goes on, “because I thought you might want to. That is – assuming you want her. If you’re not interested I’m sure Essi would be more than happy to take her. They’ve bonded –”
Abruptly Geralt tugs him close with his free hand, pulling him into a rough hug, and Jaskier falls silent. Geralt’s hand cups the back of his head, stroking through his hair. “Thank you.”
“Most welcome.”
Pushing him away, Geralt cups Jaskier’s face in his hand. Looking him dead in the eye, he says, “is this what you did with my fucking shirt?”
“Ah.” Jaskier raises a placating finger. “A worthy trade-off, I hope you’ll agree. I will give that back once it’s been laundered.”
“Now,” says Geralt.
“If you insist.” Jaskier beckons him into the bedroom. “There’s a fair amount of cat fur on it.”
“Thief,” Geralt grunts.
Jaskier fetches the shirt from where it’s taken up residence in the kitten’s basket. “Thief would imply I intended to keep it,” he says, handing it over. “I only ever borrowed it.”
Geralt inspects the shirt. “Did you,” he says, “wear it?”
In retrospect it seems obvious, but it hadn’t really occurred to him that Geralt might be able to smell him on the shirt. “Ah, well,” he says, stammering, “it was part of the – process. Anyway,” he motions at the kitten, “the good news is, now that you have her you never need see me again.”
Geralt looks at him. He looks at the kitten.
“That was a joke,” Jaskier clarifies.
“I know.”
“I was joking –”
“I got it.”
“I still want to see you.”
“Yeah,” says Geralt. “Good.”
“Well, then,” says Jaskier. “What are you going to call her?”
Geralt looks down at the kitten, snuggled up against his arm. After a moment’s rumination, he says, “Daisy.”