Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“And then the busty, buxom, blonde

So lovely, fine, and fair

Said go and wait out in the barn

And I shall meet you there.”

“Please stop,” Geralt pleaded as the bard continued to sing. The midday heat was tiring them all out, Geralt walking along with his human companions to give Rooster a break, the horse’s endurance still needed some work.

Despite the heat Jaskier had managed to maintain the same consistent level of energy since they left town. Honestly, he’d maintained the same consistent level of energy since they had met and Geralt wasn’t sure how he did it.

“Sing the one about the princess and the dragon,” Roach urged. “That’s Geralt’s favourite, he sings it himself when you aren’t around.”

The shrill hiss of the lute strings as Jaskier fumbled his chord, echoed around them.

“HE SINGS!?”

A few birds in the nearby trees took off in a panic.

Jaskier looked manic. “Geralt? Geralt of Rivia? This Geralt? Singing? You are telling me that is a thing that has actually happened in this reality?”

Roach grinned mischievously as the bard’s head whipped back and forth, eyes wide, looking between the pair of them.

Geralt for his part was clenching his jaw tightly, glaring at Roach with a look of betrayal.

“Come here.”

He gestured for her to come closer, dropping Rooster’s reins and stalking forward.

“Don’t do it, it’s a trap!” Jaskier cried out, grabbing the abandoned reins automatically.

Roach was already running, her Witcher hot on her tail. The chase lasted longer than it would have if Geralt had actually been trying to catch her; more a game of cat and mouse as he allowed her to stay one step ahead, drawing out the hunt for a good half mile.

He didn’t punch her in the gut of course, when he finally caught her; the rough edges of the man Jaskier had once inadvertently insulted outside Posada had long since been smoothed over. Besides, Geralt wasn’t really angry this time. The grin on his own face was evidence of that.

He did toss Roach over his shoulder and fling her bodily into the nearest lake however, with the fiery Lady cussing, and shrieking, and laughing all the while.

…

As it turned out twenty-two years’ worth of chatting to his horse meant Roach had rather a great deal of blackmail material on the surly Witcher. All the little quirks he had been too shy to share with his chattier friend.

“One more drink?” she might plead as he threatened to cut her off, late at night in the tavern; her head, dizzy with sweet cider and not yet ready to call it a night.

A gruff, “No.” in response.

“Oh, Jaskier did I ever tell you about the time…”

“Fine!”

Geralt would roll his eyes. Roach would smile and wink. Jaskier would grin and pout demanding to know the tale.

As time went on, she would reveal many of them, with Geralt’s sullen grumbling but hesitant approval. He wanted to share those parts of himself, she knew, he just wasn’t sure how well they would be received, so had never dared. She helped him open up. Helped him learn to trust.

Some things however, she would take to the grave. Secrets told in confidence. Fears and insecurities that were no one’s business but theirs. Secrets even she would never have been privy to if Geralt had known the truth of her from the start.

She saw a wariness in his eyes sometimes, a panic as he remembered just how much of him, she truly knew. Things no one else ever would.

“Your secrets are as safe with me now as they ever were,” she'd promised.

She meant it.

Chapter Text

“Too pretty to be a Witcher’s whore,” the blacksmith declared, leaning against the bar of the tavern and leering. The little grin on his face made Roach suspect he thought he was being complimentary.

“Oh, thank you Sir,” she gushed, fluttering her eyes at him, trying not to laugh as he preened in satisfaction at her positive response. “I’m afraid I have no choice however.” She sighed dramatically. “Not with my condition.”

“Condition?” the man muttered, shifting away from her slightly in alarm.

“Oh yes,” she told him, keeping her expression as level as possible. “It’s…” She gestured down to her lower half meaningfully and he shifted back again, his eyes wary “…well it’s just not right, you see? And I would hate for anyone to get hurt. Witcher’s are the only ones who dare touch it.”

Without another word the man turned tail and ran off, muttering under his breath about freaks.

Back at their table Jaskier was chatting away, telling a story about some old friend of his. Geralt met her eyes as she sat down with their drinks. “You shouldn’t tell people things like that,” he warned, cutting off the bard, “they’ll believe you.”

Jaskier glanced between them in confusion, not having heard the conversation from across the tavern. “Believe what?”

“People will believe what they like,” Roach responded, unbothered. “At least this way I can have some fun with it. And discourage people from trying to get too handsy with me.”

At that Geralt let out an approving grunt.

“Who was handsy with you?” Jaskier cried out in outrage, spinning to look over his shoulder as if the culprit was going to wave and reveal themselves. He was brandishing a spoon he had plucked off the table like a weapon. “Show me who and I shall make them very sorry.”

Roach chuckled at the declaration but Geralt shook his head at her. “Don’t doubt him.  Due to a life of misadventure our bard is an experienced brawler. I once saw him break a man’s nose and kick another in the balls because they insulted me. He’s tougher than he looks.”

“Awww, Geralt.” Jaskier beamed, anger dissolving as he was distracted by the praise. “Thank you.”

“Then I had to jump in and save him from the third man who had a knife,” Geralt finished, smirking as the bard turned red, spluttering out a defence.

“How was I meant to know he was with them? And really, coming at me from behind like that, positively cowardly.”

“Nice to know I have such capable defenders,” Roach laughed. “I’ll let you know next time my honour is insulted,” she promised.

“We’ll have to start giving you some combat training soon as well,” Geralt noted. “And get you a weapon. At least a knife, maybe a sword.”

“Oh, Yes,” Jaskier agreed. “Knives are very handy.”

“Jaskier isn’t trusted with a sword,” Geralt explained. “Too, stab happy.”

“I am not!” the bard screeched “How dare you? I’ll have you know I am a gentleman. I only raise my blade in the most-dire of circumstances.”

“You tried to stab that flutist in Tapa.”

“Dire circumstances, he was practically asking for it. Nasty man.”

“He asked if you were done singing yet. He just wanted his turn on stage.”

“Geralt it was the way he asked. The tone. ‘Are you done yet?’” Jaskier mimicked in a whiny sarcastic voice. Geralt rolled his eyes.

Roach looked to the Witcher in alarm. “And he’s still trusted with a knife?”

“Too trouble prone to not be armed in some way. Less likely to accidently kill someone with a knife. Just some slight maiming. Do you have any weapons training?”

She shrugged. “I used to be pretty handy with a bow and arrow.” She hadn’t really done much with weapons outside of recreational sport.

“Hmmm, could be useful. Could train you to hunt game,” he suggested.

“I can fish,” Jaskier declared proudly.

“We know dear.”

“We’ll start with some hand to hand and defensive tactics tomorrow,” Geralt decided. “Jaskier too. He could use a recap. And we’ll look into getting you a weapon.”

Roach felt a thrill of excitement at the prospect. Despite her bluster about staying with them and her list of ‘skills’ she had genuinely been worried about what her place was now and how useful she could really be. Learning to fight, learning to hunt.

She would be able to truly contribute again. It was a relief.

Chapter Text

It was a quiet day at camp and the three of them were sharing a bottle of rather fine wine Jaskier had been gifted by a friend a few days previous, to celebrate his turning thirty.

Jaskier himself had celebrated in town by getting raging drunk and putting on a highly energetic performance in the nicest tavern that would let him in. Then when his welcome was worn out, he had taken his lute and danced about the town square with a crowd of other drunks (including Roach) singing along. Geralt had stayed nearby, keeping watch and making sure nothing got out of hand (it did and he was helpless to stop it but everyone had fun anyway).

Now, they were two days out of town, far from any strangers; hangovers recovered from, and most of the excitement out of their systems, Geralt felt a lot more comfortable.

Jaskier was strumming gently on his lute in between sips of wine.

“Play, the knight song,” Geralt instructed roughly. “The one with the magic sword.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow surprised by the request and at the pushy tone but complied anyway, always happy when Geralt took an interest in his music. The introductory chords echoed through the camp and he opened his mouth, preparing to sing along with the tune…

Geralt beat him to it.

“Sir Gallant was a nobleman of breeding most refined.

With courage more than most can claim and spirit just and kind”

Jaskier almost dropped his lute in surprise but quickly recovered. He scrambled to keep playing, mindful of the other man’s glare. Geralt continued to sing, looking almost defiant about it.

“He defeated thieves and bandits. He defended maiden’s fair.

Of adventures and adversities, he faced the lions share.

One day a quest came calling, which no lesser man could weather

So, Sir Gallant set about, adorned in armour, chain and leather.”

From her position next to Jaskier, Roach was watching with a look of delight, waving her fingers in a poor imitation of conducting as Geralt sat stiffly in front of them and soldiered on through a surprisingly good rendition of the song. His voice was untrained but still lovely.

“With a weapon forged in secret, in a place deep underground

By an ancient band of druids who had left it to be found.”

Every word came out a little stiff as Geralt was clearly uncomfortable but he maintained a reasonable rhythm, putting the appropriate inflection on each world to make it flow.

“For Destiny had chosen him and Gallant had obeyed,

To take his place, to do his part, to wield this mighty blade.”

For the next five or so minutes Geralt sang. He told to story of Sir Gallant, and his quest to rid a kingdom from the blight of a terrible beast, using the magic sword destiny had provided him with. He sang of the knight’s journey approaching the beast, the allies he made along the way, his concern for the people of the kingdom, his determination to save them. He sang of the final epic battle which involved some very elaborate and not at all practical fighting strategies. He sang of the beasts defeat and Sir Gallants victory march as all the people of the kingdom cheered and celebrated.

Jaskier diligently played his lute in accompaniment, transfixed by the performance.

As soon as the final word was out Geralt slumped back where he was sitting and grabbed his wine, downing whatever was left.

“Happy birthday,” he grunted out at last, “That was your gift. I am never, ever doing that again.”

A red flush had been creeping up the Witcher’s neck since the first verse. He ducked his head down, hiding behind his hair, refusing to even look at his companions.

“Thank you, Roach,” Jaskier beamed.

Geralt’s head shot up to glare at Jaskier in outrage “Thank her? I’m the one who sang!”

Jaskier shrugged, a teasing smile on his lips “I suspect she persuaded you to, though.”

She had.

“But I’m the one who did it!” Geralt yelled indignantly.

Roach giggled into her hand as Geralt continued to fume and Jaskier continued to tease, insisting that the credit for the performance should go to Roach.

After much bickering Geralt flopped down on his bedroll in a huff and muttered an irritated goodnight.

“Geralt?” Jaskier called softly across the quiet camp.

“Hmmm?”

“Thank you really. It was lovely.”

Roach giggled again; she could see the Witcher was smiling, his previous embarrassment about the performance now forgotten.

“Hmmm. Don't mention it." Geralt muttered, shifting to make himself more comfortable on the bedroll, "Ever. To anyone.”

Chapter Text

Geralt’s nose flared as soon as he stepped into the room and his head shot around in alarm.

Witcher senses quickly directed him to Roach who was laid out on the bed. The woman let out a light groan of pain as she shifted to look at him and Geralt’s concern rose. “You’re hurt.”

Roach snorted into her pillow. “No.”

Geralt stalked forward irritated by the blatant lie. “You’re hurt.” His nose flared again, scenting the air. “You’re bleeding.”

Across the room Jaskier fumbled where he was tuning his lute and quickly set it down on the desk, avoiding the irritated glare the Witcher shot him, he looked somewhere between amused and embarrassed. Geralt frowned at that.

In the past Jaskier had gotten injured a number of times whilst defending Geralt’s name from some ignorant fool who disapproved of ‘mutant freaks.’ Often people assumed that the Witcher himself was the only dangerous member of the group and that throwing insults at the bard when Geralt was out of earshot was a safe option. Jaskier was happy to prove them wrong.

On some of those occasions Jaskier had tried (and failed) to hide injuries from Geralt after the fight, knowing that he would disapprove.

Based on the temper she had displayed, both as a horse and since her curse was broken, Roach was just as likely to throw down as Jaskier was.

He hadn’t heard about any fights in town today but that didn’t mean none had happened. If they had gotten into a dispute over him and Roach had gotten injured in the process it might explain why they were being so cagey about it now.

“Yes, to the bleeding. No to the hurt,” Roach told him firmly. A claim that was greatly diminished by her gasp of pain as she moved to sit upright.

That didn’t even make sense, he thought angrily.

“You’re hurt,” Geralt said again, growing ever more frustrated in his concern. “Show me.”

At that the woman barked out a laugh. “Fuck no.”

“Why not?” the Witcher demanded. “If you’re injured it needs to be tended.”

“Not injured.”

“You’re bleeding!”

“Women do that Geralt.”

Jaskier snorted into his hand, ducking his head to avoid another glare as Geralt’s head whipped round to him briefly.

His attention quickly turned back to Roach.

“What?”

The woman rolled her eyes before glancing down her own body meaningfully.

Geralt frowned, not understanding, awkwardly letting himself look as he tried to parse out the source of her hurt.

He breathed inwards once, deeply, the scent of blood hitting him again and with even greater alarm he realised where it was coming from.

“You’re…” His face, darkened in rage. Hand instinctively grabbing his sword “Who? When?”

Someone had hurt her. There. Bad enough to make her bleed. A lot.

Strangely enough Roach just laughed again.

“Geralt no. Calm down.”

“Tell me who!” he demanded. His mind ran through all the faces he could recall seeing as they entered the town. Most a little wary, some disgusted and several, outright hostile.

As in most towns they had visited since Roach’s transformation he had heard a number of unkind comments directed towards the woman who dared to travel with a Witcher. None directly to Roach herself yet, Geralt wouldn’t stand for that; but he had overheard mutterings between groups in the taverns; slurs, insults and speculations, and most alarmingly, a few drunken threats to show the ‘Witcher’s whore’ what real men can do.

Geralt had been complacent though. Had assumed they were just empty threats. Drunken rambling. He hadn’t thought that anyone would actually…

Jaskier had his face buried in his hand now and was clearly trying not to laugh.

Through his anger Geralt had to remind himself that the bard would never harm Roach, or any woman, in that way, and could not possibly be the culprit, despite his strange reaction to all this. It was frustrating that the other man was not taking this seriously. He should be outraged like Geralt was.

“Geralt,” Roach sighed; her face amused but sympathetic. “Sweetheart nobody hurt me.”

“You’re bleeding,” he pointed out again, voice sounding small and wounded. This was his fault. He hadn’t protected her.

“Geralt I’m not injured I’m…” She paused, trying to find the right words. “In season,” she settled on at last. Not exactly an accurate descriptor but one Geralt might understand. He certainly knew more about horses than humans.

By this point Jaskier was giggling into his hand which was clamped over his mouth.

Geralt just frowned, definitely not understanding.

“No, you’re not,” he denied petulantly. “It’s August.”

Jaskier nearly choked on his tongue whilst laughing and Roach threw her pillow at him.

“And that still doesn’t explain the blood,” the Witcher continued.

“I’m not a horse anymore Geralt,” Roach explained patiently, coaxing him to let go of his sword and sit down. “Humans cycles work a little differently. They come monthly,” she said with a resigned sigh. This was one of the ways, being a horse had been so much better. “And there is blood.”

Geralt frowned, still confused and a little upset. “Why is there blood?”

“I don’t know. There just is. It’s a little different for each woman but for me personally it lasts about four days.”

“Four days…bleeding?” he clarified, eyes glancing down at her lap then back up to see her nod “Every month?”

“Every month.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” he demanded “Don’t you…can’t we stop it?”

Roach laughed again “Not dangerous no. And sure, it can be stopped, for about nine months at a time,” she teased “but that’s a whole other problem.”

Jaskier laughed loudly at that and received another pillow to the face.

“So, you’re…not hurt?” Geralt queried tentatively “You’re, ok?”

“I’m in a fair bit of pain,” she admitted with a groan, rubbing at her abdomen gently, “But that’s normal.”

“This happens every month?” Geralt asked again, his forehead creasing with concern.

“Unfortunately.”

The Witcher took hold of the hand that wasn’t massaging her stomach and gave it a squeeze. “That’s shit,” he decided.

Roach laughed, surprised.

“Yeah, it really is.”

“Is there any way I can help?”

“There are potions that can ease the pain,” she admitted, reluctantly; she hated to be the cause of further expense to the group and she knew that Geralt would insist on buying them for her, but he would be upset if she withheld the information. “Most healers stock them.”

“I’ll get you some,” he declared, standing up, already planning out the quickest route to the healer’s cottage in his mind.

“No, Geralt. Don’t bother. I’ll get them,” she insisted, wincing as she tried to stand. “Fuck.”

He gently guided he back to sitting. “I’ll get them.”

“The pain is only bad on the first day for me,” she told him. A fact she had always been grateful for. She had a cousin whose cycle lasted almost a full week and who was practically bedridden throughout. “I’ll be fine tomorrow. I can get the potions then.”

“But you need them today,” Geralt pointed out.

“I mean for next month. I can endure today.”

“I’ll get the potions,” Geralt insisted again, already turning to go.

“Wait,” Roach called him back briefly, accepting that she couldn’t deter him.

She blushed a little, ducking her head and feeling daft for it, Geralt was a Witcher, there wasn’t much that could disgust him anymore, he’d been covered head to toe in all sorts of monster guts and other stomach-churning substances. She couldn’t fully get over the embarrassment that had been ingrained in her as a Lady however, that this particular blood was more shameful and unpleasant than any other.

“Since you insist on going to the healer…I’ll also need some rags,” she confessed. “For soaking up the blood. I’ve been using some spare bits I had, but there are enchanted ones you can buy for this that are more absorbent and don’t leak. They would be better.”

She glanced at his face half expecting him to grimace in disgust but Geralt just gave a curt nod, accepting the information without issue.

“My friend Essi always insisted on a hot bath her time of the month,” Jaskier waded in with a smile. “Said, it did wonders. And tea. Some warm tea helps.”

Geralt grabbed his coin purse; he would speak to the innkeeper on his way out and order the bath and tea be sent up whilst he was getting the potions and rags.

“I have some oils,” Jaskier was saying as Geralt ducked out the door, “a back massage might help.”

…

Geralt returned two hours later looking very frustrated and carrying a bundle of items.

“That healer was a nightmare,” he declared dropping the things onto the bed. “She almost refused to sell me anything.”

“Oh?” Jaskier queried.

The freshly bathed Roach began sorting through the pile, swallowing one of the familiar potions and then triumphantly pulling out a fresh rag and excusing herself to behind the screen they had set up for the bath.

“At first she didn’t understand what I was asking for,” Geralt explained with an irritated tone. “Thought that I was talking about an injured woman; same as I thought earlier.”

Jaskier nodded at him to go on.

“Then when she finally did understand she almost threw me out. She seemed horrified and angry and she demanded to know why I was there buying the stuff and not Roach. Told me to send Roach to get it herself. I tried explaining that Roach was in pain but she wouldn’t listen. It was ridiculous. I finally got her to give me the potions and then she looked ready to slap me when I asked for the rags. You’d think I’d insulted her or something.”

Jaskier snorted and shook his head. “Sounds like an ordeal.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt groaned looking tired, flopping down onto the bed.

“Men don’t usually buy these things,” Roach explained, emerging from behind the curtain. “Most find it distasteful and women are taught to keep these particular bodily functions hidden from men.”

“Why?” Geralt asked, confused. That made no sense. “Jaskier knew about it.”

“Jaskier knows far too many women far too well,” Roach laughed.

“Is such a thing possible?” the bard asked wistfully.

“The healer was probably just scandalised that you are privy to intimate female secrets.”

Geralt raised his head to give her a confused look, unsure if she was being serious or teasing. Roach snorted at his little frown and flopped down onto the bed beside him placing a kiss on the Witcher’s cheek. “Thank you for getting the things for me.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiled as she cuddled up beside him.

“Mmmm. Now put your ridiculously warm hand on my tummy so I can sleep.” Roach guided the hand in question onto her abdomen where the pain was strongest and let the warmth soothe the ache as she nestled down next to her Witcher for the night.

Geralt smiled and cuddled closer, glad to be of help.

…

Bonus scene;

Later that year at Kaer Morhen.

“What, every month?” Lambert's outraged voice echoed through the halls.

“Every month.”

“For four days?” Eskel asked, sounding equally baffled.

“Yeah. Non-stop. Four days. Even longer for some others.”

“How is that even possible?”

“Apparently its normal.”

“It’s not normal for anything to bleed for four days and not die!”

Chapter Text

Geralt stomped into the tavern, covered in blood and sludge and stinking of…well…let’s just say everyone was giving him a particularly wide berth today.

Jaskier’s nose wrinkled up as the Witcher planted himself next to him, he hastily moved his notebook out of reach of any dripping.

“So…” he hedged “…was it necessary to crawl up the monster’s arse to kill it or did you just do that for fun?”

Geralt smirked back at him, “It was a rescue attempt, I thought I could hear you singing up there and went in to save you. Turns out it just had wind.”

Jaskier reeled back clutching his chest with mouth gaping in a parody of shocked offense. “You are really going to hurt my feelings one of these days Geralt.”

“Where’s Roach?” Geralt asked, chuckling lightly at his friend’s dramatics.

The question answered itself a moment later when a loud slap accompanied by a shriek of pain was followed up with an even louder slap and then a crunch of bone. Several gasps and a few “oohhs” from those near enough to see what was happening added to the commotion.

Bard and Witcher shoved their way across the tavern, it was anyone’s guess if the gunk on Geralt’s clothes or the snarl on his face cleared the path more effectively.

They arrived to see Roach standing over a man who was crouched on the ground, fingers cupped around a bloodied nose. The former horse looked furious.

“What happened?” Geralt demanded in a snarl, drawing everyone’s attention to him.

“Nothing.” Roach snapped, relaxing her stance as the man on the ground whimpered in fear, his eyes now fixed on the Witcher.

“What happened?” Great asked again, hands curling into fists.

“Nothing!” he was told again. Roach turned to face him, looking more than a little annoyed. “It’s over.”

Geralt didn’t like that answer, glaring at the man even as nervous whispers began circulating through the room. Everyone watching the Witcher with concern.

“What did he…”

“I dealt with it Geralt.” Roach shouted. “I don’t need you causing a scene.”

“I AM NOT CAUSING A SCENE!” Geralt roared.

Several people stepped back, someone in the crowd started crying and the man on the floor tried to crawl away between the surrounding towns-people’s legs. Geralt stepped forward, meaning to grab him when Jaskier and Roach both moved to block his path, Jaskier taking hold of his arm and Roach placing her hands on the Witcher’s chest, to stay him.

“Have a bath sent to our room,” Roach called out to the inn keeper. Then, firmly, to the surrounding people, trying to put them at ease “We’re going up now.”

“Yes,” Jaskier agreed, tugging on the arm, “Let’s go upstairs and get you all cleaned up.”

“I don’t...” Geralt began to protest, still glaring, eyes darting about trying to spot the man who had now vanished into the crowd.

“Now Geralt!” Roach hissed.

Geralt allowed himself to be led up to the room, but snatched his arm back as soon as the door clicked shut, “What the fuck was that?” he demanded.

To his left Jaskier was looking around with his nose wrinkled in disgust, hands,  now covered in unmentionable substances held out in front of him as he searched for something to wash them off. Roach pushed the bowl of water they had used to wash their faces that morning towards him on the desk and handed the grateful bard a clean cloth.

“Well?” Geralt tried again, annoyed at being ignored.

“He slapped my arse,” Roach admitted testily, rolling her eyes when Geralt snarled in response. “Then I slapped his face and broke his nose,” she continued. “It was over. I didn’t need you jumping in like that.”

Both humans moved to block his path again as Geralt stepped towards the door, face murderous. “He can’t just...”

“No. He can’t.” Roach screeched. “And like I said. I dealt with it!”

“Why are you angry at me?” Geralt demanded, annoyed that he was being shouted at for wanting to defend his friend.

“Geralt,” Jaskier tried, stepping between the pair who were both glaring daggers. “You…” He waved a hand towards the Witcher “…don’t exactly look your best right now. In fact, you look a little…” The bard waved his hand about, considering his words carefully, “murdery.”

Geralt turned his glare on the other man and Jaskier, in true Jaskier fashion, just smiled back unaffected. “Just a tad,” the bard clarified.

“You look like a maniac,” Roach snarled, far less diplomatically. “I had it handled and you just stormed in covered in blood, eyes black and scared the shit out of everyone!”

Eyes black?

Geralt’s hand flew up to his face, he had used a Cat whilst on his hunt but it was supposed to have worn off by now, he was sure it had. He looked towards Jaskier to verify the claim.

The bard winced in sympathy when he saw the worry in his friend’s expression. “They were normal when you sat down with me,” he explained gently, “but flared black when you heard Roach cry out. They’re fine now.”

The adrenalin must had caused a surge, activating the last traces in his system. He’d been so angry he hadn’t even noticed.

“I didn’t…” He deflated, feeling a little sick.

Everyone downstairs had seen him like that. He always hated people seeing him on Cat. Fuck…that was…

A knock at the door startled them all.

Geralt tucked himself into the corner, trying to appear smaller than he was and ignoring the nervous glances of the inn keeper and his staff as they brought in the bath and buckets of water to fill it.

By the time they were alone again Roach had calmed down and was looking a little guilty as Jaskier coaxed Geralt out of his clothes and into the bath, using one of the buckets left behind to rinse away the muck.

“I had it handled,” Roach said again, softer this time, settling near the edge of the tub and taking a cloth to help scrub at the Witcher’s neck and shoulders.

Geralt nodded but still looked troubled, a little frown scrunching up his face. “People shouldn’t slap your arse. It’s not nice.”

Both humans snorted in amusement. “Well, he got what he deserved.” Jaskier declared, beaming at Roach proudly. “Our girl certainly can throw a punch.”

Geralt nodded again. They had spent a lot of time practicing that.

“To be fair,” Roach teased, hoping to pull Geralt out of his melancholy slump, “You’ve slapped my arse lots of times.”

The Witcher’s head snapped up to look at her, which was a mistake since Jaskier had just dumped another bucket of water over him and he wound up spluttering as wet monster gunk got into his mouth. After shaking his head like a dog, spitting into the filthy water, taking a swig of the ale he was handed and glaring at Jaskier in annoyance Geralt turned back to the amused Roach with a frown. “I have never slapped your arse.”

“Sure you have, I can recall hundreds of occasions in the last two decades.”

Realisation hit Geralt like a brick. “As a horse!” he cried out. “That doesn’t count.”

“Why not? It was still my arse, wasn’t it?”

“That’s not…” he looked around desperately, eyes frantic as Jaskier and Roach laughed. “…That wasn’t. I wasn’t. It’s not the same. I was just telling you to move forward!”

“Ohhh,” Roach feigned realisation sarcastically, “Maybe that’s why the man downstairs slapped me? He just wanted me to move.”

She laughed again at the angry frown on Geralt’s face before taking pity on him. “I’m kidding Ger,” she assured him. “Bar creep crossed a line; but he quickly regretted it.”

“I’m sorry I caused a scene,” Geralt mumbled.

“I’m sorry I shouted at you,” she conceded, meeting him half way.

“I’m sorry we’ll be leaving town before I can write a suitably scathing song about what a spineless little prig that man was,” Jaskier cut in with a smirk.

The other two both smiled at that.

“Oh. Speaking of which,” Jaskier cried out then, splashing water at Geralt’s face with his hand, “Roach dear, you will not believe what Geralt said about my singing earlier!”

Geralt threw his head back in a laugh at the reminder and like that all the previous tension melted away as the three returned to their usual rhythm of teasing and playful jests.

We’ll be alright. Roach thought with a smile. We three. We’ll be alright.

Chapter Text

Roach could sing.

Jaskier was delighted.

And a little devastated.

She was good.

Not as good as him of course but still, she was good.

“She could sing with you sometimes,” Geralt suggested lightly, after an impromptu sing along around their campfire was over and Roach disappeared down to the river to bathe in privacy. “Give your act a little variety.”

(Jaskier was unaware of course that Geralt was repeating Roaches own suggestion, ready to take the blame if it didn’t go over well.)

“Sure,” Jaskier agreed through clenched teeth. “Maybe. Sometimes. Not that my act needs any variety of course. I pride myself on already being very varied as you know. Certainly, I don’t need a side act, but sure, I suppose I could allow her a little stage time now and then.”

“Very generous,” Geralt snorted.

“It is. I am.”

…

It wasn’t that Jaskier had a problem with Roach singing with him really.

It wasn’t even that he was a jealous performer who didn’t like sharing the limelight. (Unless it was Valdo trying to share it, in which case Jaskier was a proud and shameless attention hog.) Back at Oxenfurt he’d actually quite enjoyed performing with others and had participated in a number of highly successful duets.

It was just that…well…singing was his thing.

It was his place in the group. His contribution to it all.

Geralt was the Witcher

Jaskier was the bard

Roach was…

Roach was Geralt’s.

His horse. His friend. His…well…

She belonged with him.

Geralt was gentle with her in a way he wasn’t with anyone else. First as his beloved horse, and then after she changed back. (Following that brief adjustment period where he’d panicked and tried to push her away like the fool he is.)

There was a deep affection between those two.

An unshakable bond that shone through in everything they did.

The way they smiled at each other. The way they trusted each other. The way they shared secrets. The way they walked side by side like they belonged together.

Unlike Jaskier who’d, had to fight for every inch of ground with both of them.

Singing is what Jaskier did.

He performed and he earned his share of the coin. Smoothed over tensions with hostile humans and spread the word of the White Wolf through the continent.

Until recently he’d also been the one who kept Geralt company, the friend the Witcher could talk to, who talked back.

But if Roach was here, and she could talk now and on top of all that she could sing.

What’s left for Jaskier?

How long until they decide they don’t need him anymore?

…

“I was thinking I could learn an instrument,” Roach was saying as Jaskier flicked through his composition book trying to decide which songs could be altered into duets, as he’d promised Geralt he would. “I played the pianoforte back home, but obviously that’s no use for the road, perhaps I could learn the flute? Or maybe a fiddle?”

An instrument? Singing and an instrument?

“Why not just go the whole hog and take my lute?” Jaskier snapped, slamming his book down; days of repressed fears and insecurities manifesting in anger. “Typically sheep guts are used for the strings, but maybe you can play it with my very heartstrings once you’ve done cutting the thing out of me?”

“What?”

“Well, you’ve got Geralt and your little chatty chat, chat relationship.” He held up both his hands, using fingers and thumbs to mime people speaking “and you’re helping care for him after hunts and with his baths now and you joke with him about…stuff and…everything else. Innkeepers give you nicer rooms without me having to haggle for them, and now you can sing and you want to play an instrument and what use am I anymore? You two clearly don’t need me.”

The desperate insecurity from the usually boisterously confident bard had Roach reeling.

“We do need you,” she insisted, frowning, unsure where this had come from, “More importantly we want you.”

Jaskier scoffed. “Neither of you ever wanted me. You just tolerated me.”

Even Jaskier couldn’t account for how emotional he felt in that moment. Only that he felt lost and small and unwanted.

“We want you,” Roach insisted again. “Geralt certainly does, you must know that? Do you know how many times I tried to ride off without you and he made me stop? He refused to leave you behind. Always got nervous in spring when it was time to meet you again. He was worried you would eventually get bored of him and not show. Then he was always so excited when he saw you.”

The bard huffed again, trying not to show his surprise at that. Geralt was worried about Jaskier losing interest? And was excited to see him?

“Well,” he accused, not ready to conceded yet. “You confess you tried to ride off, and you tried to bite me lots of times, and now you’re trying to replace me.”

“I’m not trying to replace you,” she insisted, “I want you to stay with us. Obviously, I do, since I…Oh, Jask,” Roach looked very guilty all of a sudden. “I didn’t tell you what broke the curse. I only told Geralt.”

Jaskier clenched his teeth in annoyance. “Of course. Of course, you told Geralt and not me. Why am I surprised? You two tell each other everything after all, every little thing.” He was rambling now, gaining speed and volume. “Why would you tell me a damn thing? You never have before. Well, that’s more on him than you of course, since at the start you were a horse and couldn’t talk, but still.”

His voice broke near the end, sounding extraordinarily hurt.

“Well, you know what? I don’t care. Not a bit. You two can keep your secrets!”

He was turning now, planning to righteously storm away and stew in his misery.

“I love you,” Roach called to him.

Jaskier almost fell flat on his face as his feet spontaneously forgot how to walk. He twisted back to face her; eyes wide.

“You, uh, what, hm?”

“I love you,” she repeated. “That’s what broke the curse. Loving you. Well, loving a poet. That was the condition.”

The bard’s mouth was stuttering open and closed as that sunk in.

“I…you? Really?”

“Really,” she smiled, reaching out to take his hand as he stumbled back towards her and guiding him back to sitting.

“But…Geralt?”

She snorted, remembering the similar confusion Geralt had, had.

“I love him too,” Roach assured him, “I love you both. Though Melitele only knows why. You’re both idiots.”

Jaskier snorted at that.

“So, there you go,” Roach teased, “I love you. Curse verified love. Geralt pines for you when you are apart. You are more than just tolerated and we want you to stay. I am most certainly not trying to replace you. Couldn’t if I wanted to,” she lamented, not ashamed to stroke his ego to cheer him up, “I’m nowhere near as good a singer.”

The bard preened a little at that, flushed with pride. “Well, you’re alright,” he allowed.

“Very generous of you to say so,” Roach leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, just brushing the edge of his lips.

The emotional rush of the last few minutes made the bard daring and Jaskier twisted his head just so, bringing their lips together. He smiled as Roach pressed back, welcoming the kiss.

This was nice. Why hadn’t they done this before?

Sense came rushing back to him in a single icy blast of panic as Jaskier remembered exactly why they hadn’t done this before. He reeled backwards, landing on his arse and waving his hands about frantically. “Woah, no! No, no, no, no, no. Bad idea. Very bad. No, no, no. This is nooooo.”

Jumping to his feet, Jaskier backed away, holding his hands out in front of himself as if she were a wild animal about to attack.

“Excuse me?” Roach asked in her haughtiest ‘I am a lady and you have offended me’ voice, as trained into her by a very helpful governess once upon a time. It took a lot of effort not to smile and give away how amused she actually was.

“Very bad idea,” Jaskier insisted once again. “Geralt! Geralt would kill me. Absolutely dead.”

“No, he wouldn’t.”

“Oh, oh but he would My Lady. If I were to take such liberties with you his darling Roach. His dearest companion. Of whom he is very, very protective. He most certainly would.”

“He thought we were fucking weeks ago and didn’t kill you. Just got very, very drunk.”

That sent the bard reeling again, letting out a choked cry of confusion. “He what? When?”

With clarity he suddenly remembered the occasion, ‘weeks ago’ when Geralt had gotten ‘very, very drunk’. “Why…did...? He thought we were…?”

Roach nodded, amused, “Apparently I moan like a harlot whilst I’m getting my hair brushed.”

“Well…” Jaskier coughed into his fist and looked away awkwardly “I wasn’t going to mention it.”

“Oh, piss off, I was not that bad.”

Jaskier grinned, all of his insecurity from before long forgotten. His ability to bounce seamlessly between emotions was astounding.

“Oh, it’s not your fault darling. I blame myself really. It’s these hands you see, they were made to give pleasure. You would have been helpless not to moan under my tender ministrations. It’s a gift and a curse I’m afraid.”

Of course, that had to be the moment Geralt returned to camp.

The Witcher’s nose was scrunched up in disgust, having only heard the last part of the conversation.

“Please keep your hands to yourself,” he pleaded, glaring at the bard.

The request was met with a gasp of outrage, “What a barbaric suggestion. Keep my hands to myself indeed. As if I could be so selfish. It would be a crime to deprive the world in such a way.”

Roach laughed at Geralt’s baffled expression.

“I thought you two were meant to be singing,” the Witcher groused.

“Oh yes!” Jaskier flew over to his discarded notebook with renewed excitement. “I have the perfect song for us Roach darling. A love ballad of course. A tragic love ballad. A few adjustments and it will be prefect. We’ll have them weeping.”

“I about to start weeping already just thinking about it,” Geralt muttered.

“What was that Geralt?”

“Nothing.”

Once again Roach could only shake her head in astonishment that she had grown to love these two fools. And now lament over the fact that she had confessed that love to both of them and it had gotten her absolutely nowhere.

With a sigh she sent out a prayer of apology to the young Lord Jared who had once sat in her parlour reciting poetry day after day, trying (and failing) to earn her heart.

This time Roach realised, she was the one who would have to do the wooing, and she had no idea where to begin.