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“Hello and welcome to –” Essi’s voice breaks off with a squeak, which makes Jaskier almost drop everything right then and there. Usually, when Essi sounds like that, she’s just been confronted with someone drop-dead gorgeous, and he’s of the opinion that if he has to get up at 5:00 am, he should at least get the pleasure of feasting his bleary eyes.
Unfortunately, Jaskier is currently piping delicate chocolate swirls onto a cake – the reason he had to get up this early – and so he doesn’t even dare shake his head at the unfair circumstances for fear of messing up the swooping filigree. If he has to do this over, he’ll scream, and then Essi will make sad faces at his treatment of his voice and that will make Jaskier sad, and it’s still much too early for so much sadness all around.
“– to The Seven Baked Arts!” Essi finishes. Her voice is just a little too bright. “How can I help you?”
“… You have more than seven kinds of pastry here,” whoever just came in says, clearly confused. Jaskier’s hand almost slips, steadied only by years of practice. The voice is low and dark and richer than the chocolate he’s currently piping. Jaskier has the sudden urge to lick it out of the stranger’s mouth to see if it tastes as good as it sounds.
“It’s – a reference to the seven liberal arts.”
Jaskier squints down at his cake and the meticulously spaced petals he keeps adding to. Who is out there, to make Essi so nervous?
“Hm,” chocolate-voice says. “Do you have, uh, something that’s not too sweet?”
Essi rattles off their savoury selection, and Jaskier finishes the decorations for the cake and makes it to the front of the shop just in time to see the door fall shut behind chocolate-voice, bagged ham-filled puff pastry presumably in hand.
“Who was that?” Jaskier whispers excitedly, even though they’re alone in the shop. Six in the morning on a Saturday is not prime pastry selling time, which is why officially, they won’t be open for another two hours. Essi, because she’s a sweetheart, came in anyway to keep him company while he finishes up the order for a wedding that will be picked up later this morning.
Essi looks at him, a little wide around the eyes. “Gods, he – tall, broad-shouldered, a wicked scar across his eye, and I swear his hair was just – white. Not bleached, just. Legitimately white, and definitely not from age.”
Jaskier bites his lips, trying not to salivate over the picture Essi’s description is painting in front of his mind’s eye. “Why didn’t you stall him?” he asks, hands fluttering uselessly. There’s a smudge of chocolate at his wrist. He sucks it into his mouth while he stares at Essi as accusingly as he can.
She rolls her eyes. “He was so uncomfortable. Didn’t even take off his glasses. I don’t think he actually meant to come in here. And it’s probably for the best – you’d only have made an ass out of yourself.”
Jaskier squawks in outrage and points his finger at Essi. “You – you – how dare you just call me out like that?”
Essi laughs so hard she can’t reply, leaning on Jaskier for support. He wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her closer, and just basks in his heart swelling with warm affection for her.
“… and the succubus winked / and their glasses, they clinked / and together, they had fun that night!” Jaskier bellows and twirls through the kitchen with his partner, a hot baking sheet with cookies fresh from the oven. It smells sinfully delicious, and not even Valdo’s scowling mug appearing in the doorway to the shop front can detract from Jaskier’s good mood.
“Gods, can you keep it down a little?” Valdo hisses. Jaskier smiles at him, wide and full of teeth. “You’re making a laughing stock of yourself and the entire shop.”
“You’re just jealous,” Jaskier says and starts arranging the cookies in the box that will go in the display case out front.
Valdo huffs and leaves without another word. The only reason he doesn’t slam the door behind himself is that the doors are cushioned and resist such uncouth treatment.
Jaskier is humming the chorus of his little song as he carries the cookies outside to be displayed. “Last batch! Should be all set for the morning rush.”
Valdo gives him another dark look. It’s horribly unprofessional; he doesn’t even turn away enough to hide the expression from their customers. “Thank the gods, that means we’re free of your caterwauling.”
Jaskier noisily lets out a stream of air at him. “You’re horrible. No appreciation for the fine arts.”
Georg, one of their regulars, grins around the last mouthful of his coffee, almost dribbling it onto his very dapper coat. He must be a lawyer or something, Jaskier is sure; there’s no other explanation for why he needs three espresso shots and so much syrup his coffee is more of a sweet than a beverage to brave the day. Or he’s an unlucky office worker. But Jaskier’s putting his money on lawyer nonetheless.
“Tell him he’s had better,” Pris tells Georg when he’s within earshot, because she’s a filthy traitor who can’t even deliver her insults straight to Jaskier’s face.
“It was an… interesting song,” Georg says diplomatically as he set down his empty cup and saucer on the return counter. Jaskier gasps and turns pleading eyes on their other early morning regular, a girl with colourful hair (it’s bright blue this month) and headphones slung around her neck like jewellery.
She tilts her head and licks a bit of egg from her breakfast bagel off her fingers. “I don’t think that’ll be your next hit,” she says apologetically.
Jaskier is coming up with a witty reply – he really is – when he notices the figure in the back corner, seated underneath the broken lamp Valdo has been “about to fix” for weeks now. White hair, a scar over his right eye, uncomfortable gaze fixed on a large cup of coffee – it must be chocolate-voice, and Jaskier is ready to bet his favourite guitar on that. He’s even more swoon-worthy than his imagination has made him out to be. Jaskier temporarily forgets all his words, to the point that he only nods agreeably when Valdo says, “Fuck it, make yourself useful if you’re done; I’m gonna go take a leak.”
He corrals his braincells before they can march him and chocolate-voice down the aisle and glares at Valdo’s retreating back. Pris is looking at him, amused. “Gonna get our newest customer’s opinion?” she asks in a voice that has Jaskier squinting at her. But she doesn’t make fun of him otherwise, and Jaskier is dying to hear chocolate-voice’s chocolate-y voice again.
“I will. Maybe he has taste.” He pointedly snags a squished roll from the pile of discards they save for themselves, and only then realises that food in his mouth is not conducive to talking to someone so handsome.
Chocolate-voice doesn’t look up when he approaches. There are scripts for these things – ‘Can I get you a refill?’ or ‘Is everything in order?’ or ‘Is there anything you need?’ – and Jaskier suddenly remembers exactly none of them when he finally stops in front of chocolate-voice’s table.
“I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood,” he hears himself say instead. He immediately wishes he could sink into the floor, but it remains steadfast and unyielding below him.
Chocolate-voice looks up slowly, clearly unimpressed. He looks like a fancy drink personified: skin the colour of rich milk, hair like whipped cream, and eyes a peculiar bright honey-colour. His clothes are the coffee, Jaskier thinks almost hysterically, when chocolate-voice still doesn’t say anything. Or the complimentary brownie, since the leather-jacket is well-worn enough to have a brown tinge like streaks of caramel.
“I’m here to drink alone,” chocolate-voice finally says, and this time Jaskier is powerless to stop the shiver tripping down his spine at the sound.
“Good,” Jaskier says, dumbly. “Yeah, good.”
Chocolate-voice hmphs and empties his cup with a face like it’s personally offended him. He’s about to get up, unless Jaskier manages to say something that keeps him here longer.
“No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance,” is the first thing that comes to his mind, “except… for you. Come on. You don’t want to keep a man with… bread in his pants waiting. You must have some review for me. Three words or less.”
It’s sheer stubborn determination that keeps Jaskier from dying of mortification right on the spot with every word that spills from his mouth. He’s pretty sure Pris is laughing behind him, though the grill is covering the noise, and his only saving grace is that Valdo still hasn’t returned.
“They don’t exist,” chocolate-voice says just when Jaskier is sure that he’s about to get shoved to the side in chocolate-voice’s flight from the café.
“What don’t exist?”
“The creatures in your song.”
And just like that, Jaskier is back on much more secure footing. “How would you know?” He smiles and lets his eyes crinkle and flicks one eyebrow. “Maybe I am a succubus, hm?”
Chocolate-voice doesn’t immediately swoon, but the corner of his mouth twitches in what Jaskier chooses to count as a smile. It tastes like victory, buttery and sinfully good.
“Well,” chocolate-voice says and trails his eyes down Jaskier’s body with an intensity that immediately makes Jaskier’s cock stir. Jaskier pictures Valdo nakedly with desperate urgency, but chocolate-voice’s eyes still linger on his crotch briefly, just shy of long enough to be inappropriate, before they return to Jaskier’s face. “That would be a surprise. My guess would have been part-incubus.”
He’s – he’s flirting, Jaskier thinks, unless he’s reading this situation wrong entirely. But chocolate-voice’s face is carrying a hint of a smile, his eyes and voice both warm and soft like caramel, and Jaskier feels his heart rate pick up.
There’s something, and it’s promising, and –
The door chime jingles, and Jaskier can watch chocolate-voice’s eyes shutter. The charge that had been building between them fizzles out like air from a popped balloon. It leaves Jaskier feeling off-kilter, uncertain of what the correct response would be.
“Valdo?” Pris calls behind him. There’s no response, which means Valdo is either out back secretly smoking or on his phone again.
There’s a moment of awkward silence.
“I, uh –” Jaskier jerks his head at the sales counter “– have to – uh, it was nice meeting you!”
“Hm,” chocolate-voice says.
Jaskier can feel his eyes on his back all the way to the counter, only disappearing when Jaskier brightly greets the new customers.
When the swarm of teens stopping by on their way to school has dispersed, chocolate-voice is gone, his cup neatly placed on the returns counter.
Jaskier hasn’t seen him leave, and he tells himself he’s not disappointed that chocolate-voice didn’t say goodbye.
He isn’t.
“Aaah,” Jaskier squeals and tries to squirm out of Aiden’s hold. For all that Aiden is both shorter and leaner than Jaskier, he’s unfairly strong; his grip is like iron and his fingers are merciless as they find all of Jaskier’s most ticklish spots. Tears are leaking out of Jaskier’s eyes from laughing so hard, but Aiden seems disinclined to let him go.
“I’m sorry,” he gasps and lands a kick that probably hurts his toes more than Aiden’s shin. “I swear I didn’t – aaaaah, stop, please!”
Aiden stops, and Jaskier uses the momentary reprieve to drag in big, heaving gulps of air.
“I don’t think you are,” Aiden says silkily, a glint in his electrifyingly green eyes that makes Jaskier’s heart speed up and laughter bubble out even though Aiden’s fingers are still right now. “I think you did steal the éclair I put aside for myself.”
The door chime jingles just as Jaskier spews another denial – a lie, of course, because he did eat the last éclair – but it’s five minutes past closing time, which means it’s not enough to dissuade Aiden from resuming his uncaring assault.
Jaskier squeals, and flails, and keeps crying from his laughter. This is why he loves closing shifts with Aiden, this unabashed silliness that he can’t even get from Essi or Pris, because the two of them only roll their eyes at him. “I didn’t,” he gasps out again, the door chime already forgotten again. “I –”
“Drop him,” a new voice cuts in darkly, “right now, if you value your life.”
Aiden stills suddenly, Jaskier still clutched to his chest as they both stare at the newcomer by the door. It’s chocolate-voice, dressed in dark biker leathers and with a thunderous expression on his face. The café is quiet except for Jaskier’s heavy breathing as he recovers from the tickle attack and tries to make sense of the situation at the same time.
“I said,” chocolate-voice repeats, his voice gravelly and angry, “drop him.”
To Jaskier’s surprise, Aiden does, arms raised in a gesture of surrender and pupils blown so wide the green is a mere sliver of a ring around it. He doesn’t even catch Jaskier when his legs buckle, still shaky from being tickled within an inch of his life.
Chocolate-voice explodes into motion that appears to be a blur to Jaskier’s eyes – a byproduct of the tears – and fucking vaults over the counter, pinning Aiden against the wall behind them. It happens so fast neither of them has time to react.
“What are you doing here?” chocolate-voice hisses, his arm across Aiden’s throat.
“I – nothing,” Aiden says feebly, not even attempting to free himself. He could, Jaskier knows, because Aiden is truly ridiculously strong, and can easily hold his own against guys twice his weight. But he doesn’t, now, only stares at chocolate-voice like he’s genuinely afraid.
“We should ask you that,” Jaskier says angrily and crosses his arms, scowling at chocolate-voice. He may be attractive, and may be thinking he’s defending Jaskier, but nobody makes Aiden look afraid.
Chocolate-voice’s face softens when he looks at Jaskier. In the bright light of the sales area, his pupils appear oddly shaped as he searches Jaskier for, what – injuries from being tickled? From having pissed himself? Jaskier hasn’t, because Aiden wouldn’t do that to him.
Apparently satisfied by whatever he finds, chocolate-voice turns his attention back to Aiden, and now Aiden starts struggling, scrabbling at the forearm pressing against his thoughts. It can’t be cutting off his air – his breathing is audible and too fast but not laboured – but it’s clearly distressing, and Jaskier feels even angrier.
“Let him go,” he demands from chocolate-voice, and shoves ineffectually at his shoulder when the man just ignores him. He doesn’t even appear to notice Jaskier, still scowling at Aiden.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you are,” chocolate-voice says. He really sounds nothing like the man Jaskier found himself mooning over only a couple of days ago; his voice is quiet and deadly and full of hate.
“I’m not –”
“Trying to deny it? What’s your game, Cat?” He spits the word like an insult. Jaskier has never heard so much seething resentment in a person’s voice. “What were you trying to do with him? Hm? Answer me.”
Aiden’s face is ash-grey instead of warm brown, and he looks to be going past panicked straight into the fight portion of fight-or-flight. Chocolate-voice doesn’t care, and still isn’t paying any attention to Jaskier, and Jaskier suddenly has had enough.
“You need to let him go. Now,” he says firmly. “Before I call the police.”
Chocolate-voice turns his uncanny eyes at Jaskier. The pupils really look to be slitted. Contacts, Jaskier thinks, though he’s never seen any this convincing. “Stay out of this,” chocolate-voice says.
Jaskier smiles, full of teeth. He knows it’s not a nice expression. “You are trespassing on my property. Threatening my employee. Causing my friend physical and emotional distress. No, I don’t think I will stay out of this.”
Confusion sinks into chocolate-voice’s face like syrup into a hot drink. “Your employee?” he asks, and finally removes his arm from Aiden’s throat. Aiden slumps back, eyes still wide and face still pale and looking like he’s moments away from bolting into a corner and curling up until it is safe again.
“My employee,” Jaskier confirms. Chocolate-voice’s reaction is common – or it would be, if Jaskier were more open about the fact that Shani is only the manager and not the owner. But it’s extenuating circumstances, and so Jaskier is not above flaunting that fact.
Very deliberately, he steps between chocolate-voice and Aiden. Aiden’s hand finds his, and the tremors in it make Jaskier want so stab something. Someone. He swallows, trying to get rid of the bitterness coating his tongue from having seen his friend like that.
“But he’s…” chocolate-voice trails off, looking lost. “You were screaming and pleading.” There’s something in his eyes begging Jaskier to explain, and while Jaskier wants nothing more than tell him to leave and then turn around hug Aiden until he can forget the scared look on his face, he thinks of how the scene must have looked to an outsider. Not good, probably.
“It’s called a tickle attack,” Jaskier says and squeezes Aiden’s hand. At least the trembling has subsided now. “I understand why you felt the need to rescue me heroically, but it was quite unnecessary.”
“A tickle attack?” he repeats, dumb-founded.
“Yes. An appropriate retaliation to someone stealing the last éclair,” Jaskier says.
As expected, that gets Aiden moving. Chocolate-voice watches silently as Aiden drapes himself over Jaskier’s back, still holding onto Jaskier’s hand. “So you admit to your thievery?” he asks silkily, only the tension in his body belying his apparent ease.
“Never,” Jaskier replies and leans back into Aiden’s embrace, because that’s what it is. A reassurance for both of them. “But that doesn’t stop me from being able to see things from your perspective.”
He throws a pointed look at chocolate-voice. If he’d waited a moment and assessed the situation properly, they wouldn’t be in this mess.
Chocolate-voice shrinks back, like he’s tucking in his tail. He keeps looking from Aiden to Jaskier and back again. “I’m – sorry,” he says. It’s clear his lips are unused to the shape of the word, and Jaskier refuses to find that endearing. “I shouldn’t have jumped… to conclusions.”
Jaskier thinks of the way he jumped over the counter like it was nothing, even with his tight biker gear, and then hastily thinks of something else.
“You shouldn’t have,” Jaskier agrees. “And now that we’ve cleared that up, I think it’s best you leave.”
Chocolate-voice hesitates, eyes flickering back to Aiden, and the muscle in his jaw works silently for several seconds.
“We should –” He breaks off, staring like he can transmit telepathically what he’s trying to get at.
Aiden sighs. “I should probably talk to him,” he says. When Jaskier turns to look at him, he doesn’t seem scared, now, only resigned. Determined.
“Are you sure?” he asks quietly.
Aiden smiles without amusement. “I can’t claim it’s something I want to do,” he says, and then raises his voice just slightly, “but it’s probably best for – all of us, really, if I do. Your reputation precedes you, after all, Geralt of Rivia.”
Geralt of Rivia. The name is old-fashioned and unfamiliar. Chocolate-voice – Geralt – doesn’t seem pleased to be called that. But he doesn’t protest, only raises one eyebrow a little sardonically. “So does yours, Cat.”
Aiden grimaces. “Aiden,” he corrects. “At least do me the decency of calling me by the name I chose instead of the affiliation I didn’t.”
Aiden has a Past. Of course Jaskier knows that – the fact that Aiden didn’t really have anything to prove his existence beyond his ID was kind of a give-away, though he had clearly had some sort of formal education if the speed with which he graduated the evening courses Jaskier helped him sign up for were any indication. He’d never pried into what, exactly, that had entailed. It wasn’t his place, and would have been hypocritical to boot.
Jaskier’s hypothesis of organised crime – stemming from the numerous vicious scars littering Aiden’s body, most of them healed poorly in a way that spoke of a lack of treatment – suddenly feels a lot more credible.
Geralt inclines his head. “That I can do, Aiden.”
There’s a moment of stilted silence. They’re waiting for something – oh. “Do you want me to stay?” Jaskier asks Aiden.
Aiden’s smile aches, but he shakes his head. “You should get some sleep.”
Jaskier chews on his lip and swallow his immediate refusal. It’s not his call. Which – “Call me,” he tells Aiden. “No offence, but – I want to know when you get home safely.”
Geralt doesn’t smile at him like it’s silly. Instead, he nods. “Sounds reasonable,” he agrees.
Aiden rolls his eyes. “This might take hours,” he says. “I’m not gonna call you in the middle of the night, Buttercup.”
Jaskier purses his lips. He wants to argue, but he does know when to pick his battles. Sometimes. “Then as soon as you wake up,” he decides.
“I’m gonna be fine,” Aiden says, like he didn’t look ready to run to the end of the world after Geralt let him go. “But okay. And now, shoo. I’ll finish closing up. And don’t worry about me.”
“It’s my right to worry, as your friend,” Jaskier tells him and hugs Aiden.
“We’re just going to talk,” Aiden says and pushes him towards the door. “Nothing is going to happen to me.”
Geralt doesn’t say a word, and the knowledge follows Jaskier home.
“You’re a Witcher.”
Geralt is sitting in the same dark corner as the first time Jaskier laid eyes on him. He seems smaller today, somehow. It’s even more jarring when compared to how large and dangerous he seemed the evening before. “I see Aiden has filled you in,” he says, briefly looking at Jaskier before dropping his gaze again.
Jaskier huffs. “Your pupils were slitted,” he says, even though it was Aiden who filled him in. “And you told me my monsters don’t exist. Like you knew what you were talking about.”
A tiny smile flits over Geralt’s mouth. “Creatures,” he corrects. “Succubi and incubi as a rule are no more monstrous than humans.”
“You should tell me more,” Jaskier says unthinkingly. He’s burning with curiosity for this facet of their world he hadn’t been aware of – a facet containing Witchers and elves and and dwarves and creatures that sound like they should be nothing but myths.
Geralt finally looks up at him. “No. You should stay as far away from all of it as you can,” he says. He’s entirely serious.
Jaskier stares at him, indignation flaring hot when he fully parses the implications. “And never talk to Aiden again?”
Geralt’s expression is unreadable. “It would be safer. Monsters tend to follow Witchers. Even ones pretending to be human.”
Jaskier’s smile carves into his face like a fistful of glass. “You sound like my mother, trying to convince me I’d be safer if I didn’t let every last stranger into my heart. So I’ll tell you what I told her: the joys are well worth the occasional bits of pain.”
For a moment, he thinks Geralt will argue, but then he drops his gaze again. “I didn’t come here to fight,” he says. “I wanted to… apologise. Properly.” The words don’t sound any more natural today on his tongue than they did the night before. This time, Jaskier doesn’t even try to deny he finds it cute.
“So. I. I’m sorry. I overreacted. Last night.” Each word is a battle – one that Geralt seems determined to win. “I’m not – asking for forgiveness. Just…” he trails off, clearly unsure of himself.
“I have two stipulations,” Jaskier says and crosses his arms.
Geralt immediately snaps to attention, something like relief on his face. Jaskier’s heart aches for him, and it’s almost enough to change his mind and give him a taste of truly unconditional forgiveness. Almost. But it’s already too late for that, and so he soldiers on.
“One: don’t do it again. I mean it. You may be a big bad Witcher, but I can make you regret everything.” Geralt nods seriously. “And two: for the love of all that is sacred to Melitele herself – please stop pretending you like your coffee black.”
“… I didn’t think I was that obvious,” Geralt says.
Jaskier’s answer is an unimpressed look.
“You drive a hard bargain.” There’s amusement dancing in Geralt’s eyes, giving them the color of well-brewed fresh tea. Jaskier could drown in them. “But I accept, nonetheless.”
“Smart. Stay right here, then,” Jaskier tells him, “and let me bring you something actually good. And it’ll all be forgiven.”
Geralt’s smile follows him all the way to the counter and back, not wavering once while Jaskier mixes him a coffee concoction.
This is, without a doubt, the start to a beautiful friendship, even though they almost got off on the wrong foot.
“Really, Aiden,” Jaskier wheedles, and pushes one of the two macarons he saved at his friend – not because of what happened a couple of days ago except for how he’s totally doing this because of what happened a couple of days ago – “all this secrecy – it’s really not necessary.”
Aiden smiles, that same deliberately mysterious smile that has been infuriating Jaskier ever since Aiden told him to keep his evening clear after their shared closing shift.
“You’ll see,” Aiden says, just as he has every time Jaskier has asked, and eats the whole macaron in a single bite. Heathen.
Jaskier grumbles and starts wiping down the showcase and counters with more force than necessary while Aiden fills the sink with water and tackles the display platters.
Jaskier is just putting away the mopping equipment when the door chime jingles. “We’re –” the rest of the words die in his throat when he turns around and sees the figure standing in just inside the door: dark leather (amour disguised as biker gear, he now knows), broad shoulders, beautiful white hair pulled back into a half-ponytail.
“Geralt!” Jaskier says in surprise.
Geralt is clutching a pair of bottles to his chest, looking adorably uncertain once more. Jaskier has the terrible feeling that he’d have forgiven him for his misplaced rescue even without painfully sincere apology, had Geralt shown up looking like that in the shop the day after.
“You made it,” Aiden says in greeting. He’s grinning like he and Geralt are old friends.
“You… knew about this,” Jaskier says, eyes narrowed.
“I didn’t – I wanted to apologise to Aiden, too. Properly. Not – make him feel. Even more. Uncomfortable.” Geralt seems to have no such concerns over his own discomfort, looking more awkward than Jaskier knew was possible for a single person.
“Geralt –” he starts, voice soft in sympathy. Aiden cuts him off by elbowing him gently, which still smarts but is leagues better than Aiden’s normal level of force. Now that Jaskier knows he’s a Witcher, that bit makes a whole lot more sense.
“It’s all water under the bridge! Did you –”
Geralt nods and finally crosses over to the counter. “I did.” He puts the bottles on the counter – a rum that Jaskier knows to be on the expensive side, though there are a few cakes where it’s worth the cost, and a vodka that he can’t place but would bet is equally pricey. He rubs the back of his neck and then unzips his jacket to reach into the inside pocket. “I also brought wine, in case you prefer that.”
Jaskier does a double take when he reads the label.
“Is that – real Est Est?” Jaskier’s voice goes embarrassingly high.
Geralt smiles, small and amused. “The realest. A very good year, too. Yen, my– the mother of my daughter, says it goes well with chocolate.”
He says it nonchalantly, like he didn’t just pull out a bottle of wine that’s worth more than Jaskier’s little bakery. A bakery that’s in a prime location in downtown Oxenfurt.
“We – that’s too much.”
Geralt shrugs. “It’s there to be drunk,” he says. “Yen always favored it, so we stocked up when they were available.”
Jaskier cannot stop staring. It’s not only the casual reminder that Geralt is over a hundred. The vineyards around Castel Ravello closed down years before he was born, following several years of severe drought and a devastating wildfire. It ravaged the parched countryside, destroying both the famous grapevines as well as the castle, countless and priceless heirlooms inside the castle as well as the famous grapevines themselves. When he says a bottle is worth more than his bakery, it’s not an understatement.
“Unless you’re too young to drink?” Geralt squints at him, and Jaskier cannot tell if he’s joking. He has to be joking.
“Excuse you,” he says, and only realises that it has quite effectively pulled him from being flabbergasted at the offering when the words leave his mouth, “how old do you think I am?”
Geralt cocks his head. “Eighteen? Seventeen?”
Jaskier looks at Aiden, back at Geralt, and then starts laughing so hard he has to lean against the counter to keep his balance.
“I take it he is… not eighteen?” Geralt asks, sounding nonplussed and not at all like he was just joking.
“I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted,” Jaskier says once he has himself under control again. Aiden has procured long-stemmed wine glasses in the meantime and a corkscrew, and is working the cork out of the bottle with practiced ease. “But to answer your initial question – I am legal to drink. By quite a margin. I’m turning 30 next year,” he adds.
Aiden passes out the glasses, filled with about a kid’s Oxenfurt Academy tuition’s worth of Est Est. Est Est.
“I do have to agree with Geralt,” Aiden says after they’ve clinked their glasses together and nipped. Fuck, but it’s not only pricey but good. “You don’t look your age at all.”
“Genetics,” Jaskier says after another sip, “and a good skin care regime. I can bring samples, the next time. I mean – if there’s a next time.”
Geralt smiles. “I’d like there to be a next time,” he says. “Though I think the samples would be wasted on me.”
The words warm Jaskier more than can be explained away by the very good wine.
“I forgot to ask,” Jaskier says without preamble the next time Geralt shows up in the bakery while he is on shift. Essi, who is at the till with him today, had only given him a very knowing and amused look when Geralt came in. She deserves having to man the counter on her own, Jaskier decides, and takes his second attempt at determining Geralt’s most favoritest drink over to the brooding table in the corner. “You said you had a daughter?”
What little he could find on Witchers had made it sound like they were infertile. Which is a shame – Geralt is gorgeous, and the thought alone of miniature copies of him running around is making Jaskier go weak in the knees.
Geralt’s smile is the softest one he’s seen yet. “Ciri. I may not’ve wanted her when I learned she was mine, but I wouldn’t trade her for anything in the world.”
“I can see that,” Jaskier says. He can; it’s written in every line of Geralt’s face, making him appear much younger instantly. Not that he isn’t always lovely, but this – he glows with so much love and pride and concentrated affection that Jaskier can taste it on the back of his tongue, berry tart and honey sweet and something dark and rich like coffee.
He wants to ask more – about Ciri, or her mother, of whom Geralt also spoke with such clear affection – but before he can, the door chime sounds and a whole horde of children enters. He meets Essi’s eyes across the room. Shit. Sometimes, being a responsible adult sucks.
“I’m sorry to cut this short,” he tells Geralt, “but I’m afraid duty calls. Stop by before you go and let me know today’s verdict!”
“Hm,” Geralt says, but his eyes are fond as he watches Jaskier hurry to the counter.
He stops by the till during a brief lull in the noon rush. “A little too bitter,” is all he says as he hands over his cup.
“I’ll get it right next time,” Jaskier promises, the same thing he said last time.
“I’m looking forward to it,” Geralt says, and it leaves Jaskier humming for the rest of his shift.
Jaskier does not get it right the next time. Or the time after. Or the time after that. He’s getting closer, without a doubt, but it’s not quite there yet, and Geralt seems to be very amused by his more and more extravagant tries.
It rankles, having Geralt turn into a regular – and then into a friend – and yet not be able to serve him the drink he would die for.
Geralt doesn’t show up every day, or even every time Jaskier is on shift. He doesn’t show up outside of Jaskier’s shifts either, as far as Jaskier knows; Jaskier has the sneaking suspicion that someone – Aiden – is supplying him with the shift plan. But he shows up a couple of times a week as the summer turns to fall, and every time leaves Jaskier smiling and humming.
He even gets the Pris and Essi seal of approval – being invited to their irregular dinner get-togethers, the first time to cheer up Jaskier and then because they find they, genuinely like him, too. He slots into Jaskier’s life, easy and like he was meant to be there, and Jaskier has rarely felt this good this time of the year.
When the annual non-denominational-but-totally-Yule-themed holiday party Jaskier hosts for his employees and friends rolls around, he doesn’t even hesitate. “You should come,” he tells Geralt. “Not – not that I’m expecting you to just. Drop everything and come to this party I’m hosting. Just. It wouldn’t be the same without you. Is that too forward? Oh sweet gods, please say something before I keep babbling and embarrassing myself.”
Geralt’s hand is large and warm on his wrist and not quite what Jaskier was thinking of but even more effective at shutting him up. His eyes, too, are warm and soft.
“I–” he starts and then breaks off and swallows. “Are you – are you asking me on a date to your holiday party?”
Geralt’s tone is so soft that Jaskier cannot tell if he’s about to be rejected. His heart is beating to his throat – which Geralt can hear, of course, just as he can probably smell Jaskier’s nerves. So. What does he have to lose?
“Only if it won’t make you run screaming for the hills. Or laugh at me. Or make you feel like you have to say yes. In those cases, I’m just asking you because I enjoy your company. Oh, and of course if it will be a problem with Ciri’s mum. I don’t have issues with my partners having other partner, but –”
“That’s not a problem,” Geralt finally, blessedly cuts him off, though he doesn’t elaborate. Jaskier is too distracted by the thumb rubbing small circles into his wrist to ask. “I would very much like to be your date to the holiday party.”
Jaskier’s smile is a poor representation of the utter joy and happiness bubbling up within him, even though it is threatening to split his face apart.
“And – could I entice you to go on an actual date with me before that?” he asks, suddenly emboldened.
Geralt smirks, though his eyes stay soft like warm honey. “Now you’re pushing it,” he says and winks.
Jaskier sputters, and slaps his chest, and forgets all about acting affronted when Geralt’s hand slides up his arm and neck to cradle his head. “If you’re amenable,” Geralt says softly, “I would like to start with a kiss.”
“Fuck yes,” Jaskier says, which might be the most unromantic response to such a question he’s given to date, but it doesn’t matter because he’s crossing the final inch between them.
As it turns out, Geralt’s chuckles taste exactly as good as they sounded.