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Geralt’s first thought–Oh fuck, not again–is followed closely by his second–Please, Jaskier, for once do as you’re fucking told and stay with Roach.
But both thoughts are as useless as his attempts to turn around and go backwards in the portal he accidentally triggered when he’d run his fingertips along the knife carved and painted into the tree not far from their campsite. After an indeterminable time that is likely only a moment but feels like days–fuck he hates portals–he finds himself standing on the edge of a sandy beach, a tangle of trees at his back, a sparkling sea, seemingly endless, stretching before him.
He’s been everywhere on the Continent. This is…somewhere else.
At first he thinks the beach is deserted; so pristine is the sand, he wonders if it’s ever felt the step of a man, but then he hears a roar of laughter and volley of what must be insults from off to his left. Not deserted then, just inhabited by men like his brothers. The corner of his mouth threatens to quirk up into a smile, but he bites it back. No need to be rash.
Geralt ambles towards the sound of the men; he’s here, he may as well look around. He glances back at the tree he’d been standing under, a tall palm similar to those on the Continent, though much greener, and sure enough there’s another carving on its trunk, this one a stylized version of his medallion. It makes no sense, of course, but this magic shit rarely does anymore, so he just shakes his head and turns back towards the sound of laughter and camaraderie. He’s hit with a sudden longing for his brothers and long ago nights in Kaer Morhen, nights when the keep was full and laughter echoed around every corner. Jaskier will never know the keep like that.
“Now now, men. Please let’s try to find something of use to us while we’re here. This isn’t just another vacation! Some fresh water, for example? We’ve a bit in the hold, but it won’t last forever. And we all can agree some fresh fruit would be nice.” The voice, somewhat aristocratic but with perhaps a slight edge to it, interrupts Geralt’s thoughts.
“But my turtle’s nearly won, captain!”
“Aye, ye think so? It’s ahead now, but it’s got far to go before the finish line. My lad’s got ye in his sights, he does.”
“In his sights? All your turtle’s sighting is the bit of stick he seems to be chasing after!”
Geralt rounds a rocky outcrop, nearly stumbling onto the rather scruffy and careworn group of men, just in time to hear a familiar voice ask, “This looks fun. Can anyone join, or does one have to be a pirate first?”
Jaskier. Of course he’d find a shortcut right to the heart of trouble; he’s now surrounded by the group of pirates with no fewer than eight blades–is one of them a meat cleaver?–held steady, mere inches from his face. Jaskier doesn’t look at all concerned, just says, “If piracy is necessary, I’d be willing to join up. On a temporary basis of course, and only for the good of my craft. A bit of time spent as a pirate would make a brilliant ballad.”
Traitor, Geralt thinks with affection, then steps more fully into the open. He says casually, “I really wouldn’t do that, were I you. I’m rather fond of that man, I’d hate to have to find a new one.”
“Geralt!” Jaskier says, utterly unaffected, that fucking perfect grin on his face. “I heard you trigger the portal, had to investigate. And look! I’m making new friends!”
Only Jaskier.
“Oh do stand down, men,” comes the aristocratic voice again; he’s the only one not holding a blade, though a few of the others don’t seem terribly enthusiastic about actually using their weapons. He sounds exasperated, and exhausted. “There’s no need to fill every stranger we meet full of holes.”
“What about–” one of the men starts, but he’s quickly cut off.
“There are exceptions to every rule,” the captain says shortly. He composes himself, then extends a hand to Geralt. “Stede Bonnet, Gentleman Pirate. At your service, of course.”
“Hmm,” Geralt says.
When Geralt doesn’t take his hand, Stede pulls it back, clasping it in the other one. His eyes rove up and down Geralt, lingering on the lines of his armor, and then on the sword hilts showing above his shoulders. “My, you’re quite the pirate yourself, mister…Geralt, is it?”
Geralt looks at him with a level gaze.
“Captain sure has a type,” one of the men snickers in a low voice. This is met with laughter; some thinly veiled, some outright.
“Oh, enough,” Stede huffs, a flush rising to his cheeks. “Finish your turtle race. And then perhaps some water, hmm?” The men keep grinning, but they finally lower their blades and go back down the beach to encourage two turtles–one of which is now moving slowly in the opposite direction–to what Geralt guesses must be a finish line.
“We don’t have to go back right away, do we?” Jaskier’s smile is open and endearing, and he knows Geralt can’t say no when he smiles like that. Or when he runs a hand down Geralt’s arm, almost lazily, only to grasp Geralt’s hand in his. I’m going soft, he thinks, and then, No. I’m already soft for him.
“Go on,” Geralt says, and he can’t keep the twitch of a smile from his lips. “Play pirate. But don’t go taking any oaths,” he deadpans. “I don’t want to have to fight our way out of here.”
Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s fingers one more time then strides off to join the pirate crew, a light little skip in his step. He hasn’t cut his hair in awhile, and the curl that falls just along Jaskier’s jawline captures Geralt’s attention completely.
Until Stede clears his throat, that is.
There’s a knowing look in Stede’s eyes, a glimpse of understanding that takes Geralt aback. Most people, even people they cross paths with often, look at the two of them, Geralt and Jaskier, and see friendship. Deep and enduring friendship, but only that. But after only a few minutes Stede saw the truth.
It’s not that he keeps his love for Jaskier a secret. His brothers know, and Vesemir. He never even attempted to keep it from Yennefer; those violet eyes of hers have been looking into his soul and making him squirm for far too long. But it’s just…they’re just quiet about it. Which should be funny, given how loud Jaskier is about everything else.
It’s not, though, not funny. It’s just the way the two of them fit together, two broken pieces making a new–if imperfect–whole.
“It’s quite alright,” Stede says gently, breaking into Geralt’s thoughts.
Geralt’s eyes regain their focus, and Stede takes a half step back at the intensity.
“I mean to say–” he begins, but he’s interrupted by a deep voice.
“The men said we had company. You’re not meaning to replace me, are you?” There’s a teasing lilt to the voice, but there’s steel underneath.
And when Geralt sees the way the new man, all dark leather and wild salt-and-pepper hair, looks at Stede, everything falls into place.
This isn’t a man looking at his captain, this is a man gazing upon his lover.
“Never.” There isn’t a doubt in Stede’s voice. “Geralt, this is my co-captain, Edward Teach. Ed, this is Geralt. He’s–”
“Not from around here,” Geralt finishes.
The two captains exchange a look. “We know,” they say together. Two soft smiles at their unintended chorus, and then, “I’ve come across your kind before,” Ed says, shocking Geralt more than any other revelation of the day. “Witcher, aye?” When Geralt can’t do anything but goggle at them, Stede laughs, making Ed smile.
“The men didn’t want to stop at this island, there are strange tales about the place going back hundreds of years. But we’re running low on water, and I’ve been here before. I explained to Stede all about the portal. Didn’t figure we’d see anyone, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. Good thing, too, it seems. And do you know Vesemir?”
Geralt, his mind too full to form words, just nods. This odd pirate captain knows Vesemir?
“When you see him again, tell him Blackbeard says hello,” Ed says, and winks.
Oh. Not just knows, but knows.
“Ed!” Stede sounds scandalized.
“It was years ago, love. You can’t possibly be jealous.”
It’s Stede’s turn to blush. “Does he…I mean to say, did he look anything like…” His eyes flick towards Geralt and Geralt can hear the beats of his heart increase, smell the tang of arousal.
“I think I’ll go find Jaskier,” Geralt says, only decades of practice helping to hold back his grin. “I have something I need to tell him.”
Once his back is to the two men he lets his smile show through. Behind him he hears Ed murmur, “Black Pete was right, you do have a type,” followed by Stede’s muffled protests and the sounds of words being cut off by a kiss.
Jaskier is sitting on a boulder, chatting animatedly with the men, laughing and listening to their tales with wide, intent eyes. When he hears Geralt coming up the beach he turns and gives him the smile Geralt has grown to appreciate and love over the years. “Geralt! Come listen! The men are telling tales. Can you believe they once kept their ship from being overcome in the night by pretending to be a lighthouse?”
“Almost as brilliant as you,” Geralt says. Jaskier looks up, shining bright.
“Got room for me?” Geralt asks. Jaskier scoots over, and Geralt settles beside him, settling an arm around his waist. “Thanks for coming for me,” he murmurs into Jaskier’s ear. “Even though I told you to stay put.”
Jaskier laughs. “Always, dear one. Always.”