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Geralt stops on the street corner and looks up.
It’s three in the fucking morning and raining in a sort of steady, miserable drizzle that soaks everything and makes his clothing horridly clammy, and everyone sensible is in bed. He’d be in bed, if there hadn’t been not one not two but three fucking zeugls in the sewers, the last of which had been an absolute shitshow to track down. Literally. Geralt has showered already - or, more precisely, stood under the shower in the back of the station, fully clothed, until most of the ick had washed away - but he still feels grimy, and he aches everywhere, and he wants nothing more than a hot bath and a soft bed and his lovers curled around him.
There is one light on in the whole big building, glowing warm and golden in the darkness. Geralt can see two figures silhouetted against the light: one man, one woman, swaying gently in each other’s arms to music even witcher senses cannot hear at this distance, with the noise of the sleeping city rumbling around him.
The woman lays her head on the man’s shoulder, their two silhouettes becoming one, and the man bends his head to lay a kiss upon her hair, and Geralt, standing in the darkness, sore and filthy and weary and soaked, thinks just for a moment that he should turn and go. Should leave his lovers to their dancing, to their soft embrace - for what could a witcher know of softness? What can he bring to that warm room that will not mar it? What place is there in the peace of that golden moment for a witcher, a monster as surely as the beasts he slays, sharp-edged and made to be a killer?
And then he shakes his head and crosses the street to unlock the building’s door and slip in out of the rain, locking it again behind him, because he knows that if he flees into the darkness, if he goes off to hole up somewhere and lick his wounds and sink again into the bone-deep conviction that he is not worthy of his lovers, they will come after him. They’ve long since learned that he has these moods, and how to deal with them. Yen can track him, if she needs to, but Jaskier, despite having no magical abilities whatsoever, has demonstrated a truly startling ability to deduce where Geralt has gone, and usually hunts him down after maybe a day or two of letting him sulk.
The cold peace of being alone is a pain Geralt knows how to bear. He has never quite learned to deal with Jaskier’s harangues, though, the torrent of words as Jaskier chivvies him out of whatever miserable little inn or tavern he’s found - oh, they’re motels and bars these days, but it’s all the same in the end - and back to the warm, well-lit rooms where Yen is waiting with strong wine and hot food and sharp words covering the worry she still can’t quite bring herself to express any other way.
He doesn’t like making his lovers unhappy, if he can help it.
So he’s learned to set aside the impulse to run.
He climbs the stairs slowly, knees creaking, leaving a trail of soggy footsteps behind him; he sticks close to the wall, so at least there’s a chance for the puddles to dry before anyone slips in them. He hates the elevator more than the prospect of eight flights of stairs, though. Being stuck in a little box, unable to control whether it rises or falls, unable to escape if anything goes wrong, with no room to draw his sword - no. He’d rather climb a hundred flights of stairs than deal with an elevator.
His key rattles in the lock on their apartment door, and there’s a sudden thudding of footsteps from inside; the door is yanked open, and Jaskier beams at him. “There you are!”
“You didn’t have to stay up for me,” Geralt says. They didn’t. There’s no telling how long a hunt will take, after all; they could have gone to bed at a reasonable hour, like sensible people. Or, knowing them, at one in the morning, having gotten entirely too engrossed in composing or watching strange videos or arguing about whether Toussainti or Zerrikanian wines are better. But still. They could have gone to sleep.
It would have been…a little less pleasant, looking up at the dark windows of the building and not seeing the golden light spilling out to welcome him home, but Geralt isn’t selfish enough to say that.
“Yes we most certainly did,” Jaskier says, flapping a hand dismissively. “Get in here - good grief, you’re soaked, and did you roll around in the sewer? Ew. Get that off and into the bath with you, stinky wolf. Yen! Can you do the thing?”
“I know you aren’t treating my unmatched control of Chaos as your own personal laundering service,” Yen drawls, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen and draping herself elegantly against the jamb. “But in the interests of not having the whole place smell terrible, yes, I will ‘do the thing.’”
“You are terrifying and wonderful and no man could ever deserve you,” Jaskier says cheerfully, fingers busy with the buckles and laces of Geralt’s armor. “How was the hunt, Geralt?”
“Three zeugls,” Geralt grunts.
“Three? Good grief, I hope you got paid for three.” Jaskier shakes his head, dropping another bit of wet, heavy leather armor onto the growing heap beside Geralt.
“They’d better have paid you for three,” Yen agrees, looking perfectly willing to go hex them if they didn’t.
“They did,” Geralt says. Of all the changes over the years, that’s the one that he probably likes best, after hot running water: people are more likely to actually pay him what they owe. There aren’t many witchers anymore, and for some reason guns just don’t work as well against monsters, so things like zeugls are genuinely hard for municipal governments to deal with. They often put off calling Geralt for far too long - some things never do change - but once they do, the panicked bureaucrats are usually willing to throw as much money at the problem as they need to in order to make it go away.
“Good,” Jaskier says, pulling the last of Geralt’s armor away. “Into the bath with you. Yen’s kept it warm.”
“Thanks,” Geralt says, to both of them. Yen flicks her fingers dismissively.
“It was nothing,” she says. “Shoo, you reek.”
Geralt showers first, scrubbing ruthlessly until the rest of the grime has washed away - the apartment has both shower and bath, courtesy of his lovers’ preference for luxury, and endless hot water, courtesy of Yen’s magic - and then sinks into the blood-hot water in the bathtub with a sigh of relief. All his aches start to fade almost at once. Jaskier must have added some of Yen’s spelled bath salts to the water. He leans his head against the side of the tub - large enough for three people, of course, and therefore more than long enough for him to stretch out - and lets his eyes fall closed.
He could just sleep right here.
“Don’t you look relaxed,” Jaskier murmurs, padding barefoot into the bathroom. “Let me wash your hair, dear heart?”
Geralt hums agreement. Jaskier settles on the broad rim of the tub and opens a bottle - sandalwood and bergamot, his own shampoo, but so faintly scented that it won’t give Geralt a headache - and begins to work his fingers through Geralt’s hair. Geralt feels yet more tension leech from his shoulders, and hums again, soft and happy.
“There we go,” Jaskier murmurs, and starts to sing, a little wordless lullaby. Geralt drifts, floating on the water and his lover’s voice, and doesn’t twitch even when Jaskier finishes shampooing his hair and starts gently pouring water over it to rinse it. Long practice means he gets no water in Geralt’s eyes.
Yen comes in, closing the bathroom door softly behind her, and settles next to Jaskier. Geralt breathes deeply: lilacs and gooseberries, bergamot and sandalwood. The scents of home.
“Saw you dancing,” Geralt murmurs after a while.
“Our darling Yen was gracious enough to humor me,” Jaskier agrees.
“You’re not terrible,” Yen says. “You hardly step on my feet at all anymore.”
Jaskier squawks in mock-indignation, but quietly, in deference to Geralt’s weariness. “Me, step on your feet! What about my poor bruised toes, from your dreadful pointy shoes, witch?”
Yen chuckles. “You weren’t calling them ‘dreadful’ the last time I wore them to one of your concerts, warbler.”
“No, I think I called them ‘majestic,’” Jaskier says thoughtfully, fingers still combing gently though Geralt’s hair. “And I stand by that. They’re just also dreadful and pointy, especially when applied to my poor tender toes. They are vast and contain multitudes.”
“Are you saying I have big feet?” Yen asks. Geralt opens his eyes just a little, to see his lovers grinning at each other, bright and mischievous and beautiful.
“I wouldn’t dare,” Jaskier says, and glances down at Geralt. His smile turns softer, sweeter. “There you are, my dear.”
“There you are,” Yen agrees, and bends down to kiss Geralt’s forehead. “About ready to stop marinating?”
“Hm,” Geralt objects. He could just sleep here. The water’s nice.
Jaskier chuckles. “There’s a nice Toussainti red and a prime rib from that place you like downtown waiting in the kitchen, if you get out.”
…Geralt is not immune to bribery.
“Hah, I thought that might work,” Jaskier says as Geralt sits up.
“You look much less like something the cat dragged in,” Yen agrees. “How you manage to look quite so pitifully bedraggled is really a mystery to me.”
“It’s the big sad eyes,” Jaskier says, rising to toss a warm towel over Geralt’s shoulders, and going for his hair with a second one.
“Yes, I think you’re right,” Yen says. Geralt rolls his eyes and starts toweling off. Oh good, they’ve moved from teasing each other to teasing him. He must actually be looking better, then.
Well, he’s feeling quite a lot better: warm and clean and mostly not sore and definitely smelling less like a sewer. He reaches out and snags Jaskier as the bard turns away to drop the tower in a hamper, and reels him in, Jaskier laughing and wriggling, until he can steal a kiss, then offers his other arm to Yen, who tucks herself against his side and raises her head for her own kiss.
“As opposed to the big hungry eyes,” Jaskier teases. “Come and have your dinner, dear heart, and then I vote we all curl up in bed and don’t get up until noon.”
“Sometimes you actually have good ideas, bard,” Yen says, grinning.
Geralt chuckles. “Yes,” he agrees.
He could have run off into the rain and the darkness. But it’s better, much better, to be here in the warm golden light of home, with his lovers in his arms.