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It is such an innocuous button. It doesn’t even click, much too modern to be so physical. Jaskier really feels it should. Maybe, that would make the act of pushing it feel appropriate for the result: a gentle whirring interspersed with clangs and rattling and metal striking metal, followed by –
Hiss, the machine says, releasing a billowing cloud of steam that could contain all the secrets of the universe going by the shapes that shine through.
Jaskier watches the commotion – from a safe distance away; it only took him two close encounters with the steam to learn his lesson – and feels decidedly envious.
What wouldn’t he give to be able to cleanse himself of his ennui, his melancholy, the amorphous painful fog that has taken up residence inside him, as easily as the coffee machine cleans itself?
Essi keeps glancing up from counting the money in the till, a furrow in her brow that she can’t quite smooth away. Jaskier gives her a weak smile, absurdly glad that the cleaning cycle is loud enough to forestall any conversation.
There’s a pretty line of coin towers in front of her by the time the machine falls silent, and Jaskier watches her count the stacks and note down the total, feeling no need to speak.
“Do you have plans for Saturday?” Essi asks casually once she is done with the coins and pulls out the bills.
I do, he almost says, but bites his lip at the last second. His plans constitute wallowing and baking to distract himself, and he doesn’t want to have to explain himself to Essi. It would only deepen the worried furrow, and he can’t make himself do that. “Not yet,” he says. “Why?”
Essi shrugs. “Pris wanted to do a chill evening. Dinner, Netflix, maybe a glass of decent wine… just a small thing, the two of us, you, Aiden… Geralt, if you want him there.”
She says it matter-of-factly, which is how he knows she really must be worried about him. She never passes up an opportunity to tease him about his crush on the unfairly handsome white-haired patron that has quickly become a regular in The Seven Baked Arts, Jaskier’s little bakery with an attached café.
“Not Shani?” Jaskier asks, and then wishes he could take the words back. Of course Essi wouldn’t want to invite the person who’s her de-facto boss. It’s the entire reason he transferred management and all the decisions that came with it to her, even though it’s his name on the papers.
To his surprise, Essi gives him a small, apologetic smile. “Busy.”
Jaskier sucks his lower lip into his mouth and considers his options. The urge to bow out is there. He may pride himself on being a pretty good actor, but putting on a cheerful facade for an entire evening sounds exhausting. On the other hand, the people Essi listed are all ones who wouldn’t pester him about his gloominess – even Geralt, he thinks, even though he doesn’t really know him well enough to be certain. He just doesn’t strike Jaskier as someone who pries into other people’s business.
“Sure,” he finally says. After all, he can always bow out after dinner if it does end up being too much.
Essi smiles, and the furrow in her brow disappears almost entirely, and that alone is enough to put a hint of a smile on Jaskier’s face as he finishes cleaning the coffee maker.
“Tomorrow, four pm, our place,” Pris tells him while Jaskier is in the middle of piping small ears of cereal in yellow frosting onto the glazed oatmeal muffins.
He finishes the current muffin and then looks up. “I have the closing shift tomorrow,” he points out. It’ll keep him busy, he figured when he made the shift plan, and would cut down on the small talk necessary.
Pris frowns at him. “Valdo and Marilka are closing tomorrow,” she says. “The plan only has you down for taking over for Janosz and Sara in the kitchen after the ass crack of dawn shift.”
Jaskier frowns right back, because that is decidedly not what he remembers putting down. It is what the plan says, though, when he goes to check. “Aiden,” he grouses, because he distinctly remembers putting Aiden on the closing shift with him, only to find his name now in the same morning slot as Jaskier’s. That means it was either him or Essi meddling, because Pris’s pokerface just isn’t that good.
“But that’s… good, right?” Pris says, wringing her hands.
Jaskier smooths out his face. “It’s too late to change now either way,” he says, and returns to the kitchen to finish up his muffins.
He makes it to Pris and Essi’s flat at a quarter past four, three boxes of baked goods and Aiden in tow.
There’s been a pinched expression on Aiden’s face ever since Jaskier pushed the boxes into his hands, and Jaskier almost feels sorry for having used an extra pinch of cinnamon in his brownies. And then he thinks about how he would have learned about the schedule shenanigans this morning if Pris hadn’t accidentally mentioned it last night, and figures that using airtight containers was still too nice.
Essi buzzes them up, and the smell of whatever she and Pris are whipping up in the kitchen greets them like a warm embrace. Jaskier feels some of the low-grade irritation that has been coursing through him all day melt away.
“In the kitchen,” Essi yells needlessly after the door has fallen shut behind them. But it’s Geralt who finds them first, expression breaking into genuine pleasure when he spies Jaskier and Aiden.
“Almost thought you’d ditched us after all,” Geralt says, and, to Jaskier’s surprise, pulls first him and then Aiden into a hug.
He smells like leather and horse and a little spicy – raw onion, Jaskier thinks, crisp and, surprisingly, not actually unpleasant – and another stone or two drop from Jaskier’s heavy chest as he lets himself lean into the embrace.
“You can take the graduate out of the Academy,” Jaskier tells him solemnly as they make their way further into the flat, “but you cannot take the Academy out of the graduate. The academic quarter is sacred.”
Geralt laughs, low and rich, and for the first time all week, Jaskier feels something resembling okay.
Essi and Pris’s flat is bright and spacious and clearly loved, a reasonable amount of clutter making it lived in but not messy. The living area is open plan, with the kitchen and living room forming three quarters of a square. The north-east quadrant, meanwhile, is taken up by a generous balcony.
Jaskier loves their flat, with its real oaken floors and the darker table with matching chairs, making the white kitchen seem cosy instead of sterile.
Essi and Pris are in the middle of doing something that means they only greet Jaskier and Aiden cheerfully and tell them to sit down, refusing all offers of help.
“I tried, too,” Geralt says lowly, “to no avail.”
Jaskier laughs, and finds to his surprise that it’s utterly genuine. “They are rather territorial, aren’t they?”
“Careful, Mister.” Essi points a spatula at him briefly. “It’s your dinner on the line if you make fun of us or trespass.”
Jaskier gasps theatrically. “I would never,” he protests, and promptly contradicts himself by making a show of sneaking into the kitchen and getting plates and cutlery to set the table for afternoon coffee. Essi pretends to chase him back out, and yet more laughter bubbles out of his chest at the familiar ritual.
If it is tinged with hysteria, the others do him the courtesy of not mentioning it.
Jaskier barely has time to set down his bounty before Aiden pounces.
“Can you –?” he asks Geralt, who sighs and nods and starts distributing plates and cutlery while Aiden pulls Jaskier a few feet away from the table. It gives them the illusion of privacy, for all that Jaskier knows it to be impossible with a Witcher in a flat of this size.
“Listen, Jaskier –”
“It’s okay,” Jaskier says, feeling a lot more mellow now that he actually is here. “I wish you’d told me yesterday instead of me only stumbling over the change by accident, but – it was a good idea.”
Aiden doesn’t crow over the admittance. Instead, he looks very seriously at Jaskier. “I’m glad,” he says, and Jaskier is abruptly glad that he also made a cinnamon-free version of the brownies.
Dinner is delicious, the movie they settle on is mediocre, and the wine would be pretty good if he hadn’t had a taste of real Est Est a couple of weeks ago. Aiden is clearly thinking the same thing when he sets the glass down again, amusement threaded through his features.
By the time the movie ends, Essi and Pris are both yawning wildly and Jaskier is surprised to find that he hasn’t thought about leaving early even once.
“We’re not getting any younger,” Essi says apologetically as they all get up and put the glasses in the sink before Essi and Pris herd them to the door. “As fun as this has been. We should do this again.”
“I had fun, too,” Jaskier agrees, and nobody calls him out on the fact that his voice suggests that was something of a surprise to him. “Though the movie…” He grimaces instead of finishing his sentence verbally, and Essi shoves against his shoulder. He dramatically topples over, which puts him in a very good position to pull on his shoes.
“Just choose something different next time, then,” Aiden says with a shrug, the last ridge of cinnamon-free brownie in his hand. It impedes his own shoe-endeavour somewhat, but he seems to be in no hurry.
Essi groans. “Don’t,” she says. “It’ll just mean another repetition of Mamma Mia!.”
Jaskier gasps. “The movie is a classic!”
“Be that as may. There’s no need to watch it once a month, really.”
“It’s been at least a year since we last watched it.” At least Jaskier thinks it has been.
Pris shakes her head. “We watched it for your birthday, and when Veronica dumped you. So at least twice since March.”
“Hm,” Jaskier says, trying and failing to find a way out of this without conceding her point. “That’s still not once a month.”
Pris rolls her eyes. “Close enough,” she says, and adds, “Come here, let me hug you,” before Jaskier can argue against her and Essi’s very unfair portrayal of his movie habits.
Jaskier lingers in the doorway once they’ve all said their goodbyes. “Thank you,” he tells Essi and Pris again, standing arm in arm in the hallway. “It really was a good idea.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Essi gives him a soft smile. “I hope you find sleep easily tonight.”
Jaskier doubts it, but he still returns the smile. “You, too,” he says, and then follows after the two Witchers.
“I’m glad we were able to take your mind off today a little,” Aiden says as they make their way down the street to the bus stop, not even pretending that Jaskier was quiet enough for them to miss his parting words.
Jaskier snorts. “It’s bullshit it still hurts so much after all this time,” he says, and hopes they won’t ask what still hurts.
Aiden’s face is unbearably soft in the light of the streetlamp, an ancient kind of pain in his eyes that makes Jaskier’s seem paltry in comparison. “And it’s probably still going to hurt in another fifteen years,” he says gently.
Jaskier snorts again, and then parses Aiden’s words properly. In another fifteen years. He suddenly feels like he’s just broken through the surface of a freezing lake after sprinting to its shore, left with icy cold clarity, a racing heart, and a tremble in his muscles in preparation for fight or flight.
“What did you say?” Jaskier asks. His voice sounds foreign to his own ears.
“Uh…” Aiden casts a pleading gaze over Jaskier’s shoulder at Geralt.
Blood is rushing through Jaskier’s ears, too loud in the quiet night. “How do you know this?” he demands, suddenly angry, because the only other option is to be afraid.
Nobody – nobody – knows how or when Jaskier Pankratz came to be, except for one single person. Not even his own mother knows his name or his details; she still calls him Julek in the handful of phone calls they share each year, still wishes him a happy birthday in January.
Only the PI who helped him set up his new identity, who procured the forged papers and gave Jaskier a backstory and enrolled him in a nondescript high school in Novigrad, knows that Jaskier was not born in the middle of March almost thirty years ago. Instead, he was raised from the ashes of Julian de Lettenhove in a darkly elegant office fifteen years ago today, after a week so nightmarish that Jaskier remembers but snatches and is glad for it.
“You are very recognisable,” Aiden says gently.
It’s the most terrifying thing Jaskier has heard in recent years. There is little he recalls of the PI who stitched him a new life out of whole cloth, but his final warning is something he probably won’t ever forget: Keep your head down, boy. Be yourself, become Jaskier, and don’t get recognised. Your life may well depend on it.
And so he did – he kept his head down and gave up all plans of standing on a stage and becoming famous. He’s still managed to find fame, of course, but – not under his face. Not really under his own name. What people know of is The Seven Baked Arts, sometimes the names of his creations. But not Jaskier himself – never Jaskier himself.
And now here he is, in the company of two men who recognised him, two men who could snap him in half without even trying.
“How do you know this?” Jaskier repeats, and digs his fingernails into his palms until the urge to turn tail and run subsides. Running wouldn’t solve anything. He wouldn’t get far, anyway; not if these two mean him harm. “Who told you?”
Aiden blinks. “Nobody told me,” he says, like this shouldn’t be news to Jaskier, “at least not recently. I told you – we’re Witchers.”
“Yes?” Jaskier says. “And?”
Geralt sighs, but his exasperated look it clearly aimed at Aiden. “Whenever we’re called upon in an official capacity,” he says and hesitates briefly, “we operate as Wiedźmin, Inc.”
It doesn’t take Jaskier long at all to place the name. “The PI…”
He’d smiled whenever he’d come across the term or its more formal cousin vatt’ghern in his mythology studies, reminded of the only steadfast person in a very turbulent time in his life. But he hadn’t put it together with the knowledge that Witchers were real.
Geralt nods. “My mentor, Vesemir, was the one overseeing your case.”
“And he… told you?” Jaskier posits. His head is spinning, legs decidedly weak as the adrenaline slowly drains from his body.
Aiden makes a soft noise. “Not in the way you think,” he says. He still looks pained, taut like a bowstring. “You were gone for a week, Jaskier, clearly taken under magical means. The latest disappearance in a series of vanishing kids, none of whom he’d been able to save. He didn’t only send out a search party, he fucking mobilised every Witcher he could get his hands on. Regardless of whether they usually played nice with the authorities.”
His grin is all teeth and self-deprecation, and Jaskier thinks of what Aiden told him of the Clan of the Cats. It’s easier than thinking about anything else.
“I… don’t really remember any of that,” Jaskier says.
“That’s probably for the best.” Geralt always looks ageless, really, but right now every single one of his many years shows in his eyes. “In the end, we were all just glad that at least one kid got a happy end. We see a lot of gruesome shit as part of our jobs, and the atrocities committed in the name of vanity or hubris or superiority never get easier to bear. Every happy end feels like a gift.”
Jaskier stares at him, at the deep lines on his face, the scar over his eye. Thinks of the scars dotting Geralt’s arms, and all the marks littering Aiden’s body, the pain each and every one must have entailed. There are no permanent, visible signs of the mental anguish they have endured, though, and Jaskier can feel his heart breaking for them.
Geralt shakes himself out of his strange mood before Jaskier can find words that are even remotely adequate. “Enough of that,” he says roughly and pushes himself away from the wall, nodding in the direction of the bus stop. “Tonight was meant to be a distraction from your pain, not dredging it up all over again.”
Jaskier bites his lip as he considers the words. The pained fog is still there at the back of his mind, and feels like he’s just completed a sprint, limbs shaky and aching from being flooded with adrenaline. But he also feels… lighter. Less alone.
He falls into step beside Geralt, Aiden on his other side. “I think it helps,” he says quietly, “to know that I didn’t… didn’t make it all up.” He swallows, and abruptly decides he needs to change the subject slightly at least. “But really, Aiden – how was I supposed to know that Wiedźmin, Inc., wasn’t named by some history geek who’d liked the implications, but by someone who actually spoke the dialect?”
Geralt snorts. “Vesemir may be old, but he isn’t quite that old,” he says, and it devolves into good-natured bickering from there.
Aiden stops in front of the door to Jaskier’s apartment block. “Should we come up with you? Or would you prefer some space?”
“I can deal with this on my own,” Jaskier says without really thinking about it. It’s not even a lie; he’s dealt with this on his own for fifteen years. “But I wouldn’t be averse to some company.”
“Awesome,” Aiden says with a huge grin. “I’ve always wanted to have a sleepover. Coming, Geralt?”
Jaskier expects Geralt to decline, to go home to his daughter. But when he turns around as he unlocks the front door, Geralt has a faint smile on his face, eyes fond. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he says, and follows Jaskier and Aiden up the cramped stairway to Jaskier’s little flat.
He hasn’t tidied before leaving, but seeing as that only occurs to him as he’s opening the door to his flat, he doesn’t even have time to be nervous over it.
“Wow,” Aiden says as he looks around. “Did a bomb explode in here?”
Jaskier gives him a dirty look and sweeps the clothes from the back of the couch. He’d put them there to air them out before wearing them again, and promptly forgotten all about doing so.
“I’ve seen your place,” he reminds Aiden, “and thus know very well that you do not have a leg to stand on.”
“Yeah, but I am not currently having visitors over.”
“… you invited yourself,” Jaskier says, even though it’s only half true.
“Touché,” Aiden says and throws himself onto the couch. “And now?”
“How do you feel about Mamma Mia!?” Jaskier asks.
Aiden rolls his eyes, but Geralt says, very seriously, “I’ve never seen it.”
And, well – Jaskier cannot just let that stand, can he?
“Is the couch fine by you?” Jaskier asks Geralt once the movie is over. “Aiden’s gonna be sharing my bed. I mean – if you want to… it’s big enough for three.” He cringes at how much it sounds like a cheesy come-on and hastens to add, “Not – I mean, Aiden and I aren’t like – y’know, it’s just, I’m a pretty cuddly person on the best of days, but after a day like today… it’s just about comfort, nothing more.” Once again he wishes for the floor to swallow him hole. Once again, the floor cruelly ignores his wishes.
Geralt’s face is unreadable. “I figured I’d keep watch,” he says, like that’s a thing people do.
“But –”
“Witchers don’t sleep much.”
Jaskier can’t help but glance at the door to the bathroom where Aiden is singing rather off-key as he’s getting ready for bed.
“Witchers don’t need much sleep,” Geralt amends, a smile in his voice. Which means that he probably needs and-slash-or wants a lot more sleep than he affords himself, Jaskier thinks, at least judging by what he’s seen from Aiden.
“I wouldn’t ask that of you,” Jaskier says, because the thought hadn’t even occurred to him, and even if it had, he wouldn’t.
Geralt shrugs. “You didn’t. I’m offering.”
“Can I – at least convince you to do it somewhere comfortable? I have to admit, the couch is dreadfully lumpy. It’s okay for a night, but more of a … of an emergency solution.”
Geralt shrugs again. “No such comforts as a mattress or even a ‘lumpy couch’ when you’re hunting a monster through a forest. Or the mountains,” he says, like that’s an explanation.
Jaskier stares at him. “That’s not a reason to not choose comfort when it’s available,” he finally says.
Something a lot like amusement is dancing through Geralt’s eyes. “Jaskier,” he says, in that deep, delicious voice of his, “are you asking me into your bed?”
Jaskier stares at him some more. He’s pretty sure he led with that. “I guess I am, at that,” he says for completeness’s sake, uncertain what Geralt is getting at.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Always,” Jaskier says, suddenly dead serious. “I’m offering because the bed really is ludicrously big, and I am feeling a little clingy today, but I never take unwilling people into my bed. Not even if they are just there to keep watch over my sleep.”
Geralt is quiet for long moments. “I guess a night in comfort isn’t going to hurt,” he says, but he is looking fond again, and he is old enough to know what he does and does not want to do.
“Great,” Jaskier says with a smile, and then goes to chase Aiden, damned bathroom-hog that he is, into the bedroom so he and Geralt can also get ready for bed.
Maybe, he thinks, there’s a point to Geralt’s reluctance for allowing himself a taste of comfort. It feels… horribly domestic to brush his teeth side by side with him, to watch him comb out his luscious white locks and braid them for sleeping, to see him sitting cross-legged at the head of Jaskier’s bed.
It ignites a hunger inside of Jaskier that he had thought well-managed, an addiction he isn’t sure he’ll be able to shake. He’d known he was crushing on Geralt – because how could he not? – but this doesn’t just feel like a crush. This feels terrifyingly bigger, and for his own sanity, he shoves it into a corner of his mind as he climbs into his bed.
He wasn’t kidding about it being big enough for three; he could fit five, if they weren’t averse to cuddling. It is the one big luxury he allowed himself in his own home, putting the rest of what he’d saved up of his generous stipend and inheritance into the bakery.
Aiden switches off the light before he climbs into bed on the other side of Jaskier. The blinds are still open, so it’s not fully dark, though Jaskier’s vision is slow to adjust. Geralt looks like a statue, except for his eyes that seem to glow like a cat’s in the dark. He truly does seem intent on standing – sitting – guard all night long, Jaskier thinks. Maybe it should be weird. Mostly, it makes him feel safe. Maybe, tonight, he will not be woken by nightmares every time he manages to fall asleep. Maybe.
He sits up suddenly as something occurs to him, startling Aiden into a half-crouch and putting Geralt on high alert. He can’t make himself care about that.
“Is – is that why you’re here? The… case?”
For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. “Uh, the nightmares?” Aiden asks.
Jaskier shakes his head impatiently. “No, I mean – in my life. In general. Is it … because of the case?”
Aiden sinks back into the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “No,” he says simply. “I’m in your life because you saw a man at the very end of his rope, and instead of turning him away or calling the police, you helped him establish a new life. You were kind, Jaskier, so kind that I couldn’t believe it.
“It was only when I was getting back on my feet that I noticed the resemblance, though – I expected a man who’d aged fifteen years, not… you look almost exactly like you did back then. A little older, yes, but not fifteen years older. That threw me off your scent until I looked into your past.” His voice turns apologetic. “I… your behaviour was so antithetical to everything I’d been raised with, I was sure it was a trap. Except it wasn’t, and instead I’d managed to find the kid I’d helped search for. If not for that and having seen Vesemir’s methods for hiding his happy endings before, I don’t think I would have.”
“I… just did what anybody would do,” Jaskier says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. That seems to happen a lot today, and he likes the feeling no better for the repeat exposure.
“You’re giving yourself too little credit,” Aiden says gently. “And before you ask, that is why I chose to stay. I… I wanted to be your friend, to learn even a little of that kindness.”
“I’m not – not kind. I can be downright vicious, just ask Valdo. You are kind. Much kinder than I am.”
Aiden laughs. “Now you’re just fishing for compliments and flattering me. You’re kind where it counts. And Valdo’s a prick, he deserves a little viciousness.”
Jaskier snorts. “I think I deserve a few compliments today of all days,” he says and flutters his eyelashes, trusting that Aiden will see it even in the dark.
Geralt exhales softly, the first noise he’s made since Jaskier’s initial question. “The too-close resemblance threw me off at first, too. Figured a cousin, or younger brother.” He shrugs. “I actually mentioned the bakery to Vesemir a couple of weeks ago. He doesn’t have many tells, but the ones he does have, I know.” Geralt takes one look at Jaskier’s furrowed brow and adds, “He keeps tabs on all his happy endings.”
“That’s… good,” Jaskier says very intelligently.
Geralt chuckles once and leans back more comfortably. “It is. It helps remind him why he does this.”
It veers dangerously close to too the maudlin topics from earlier, in Jaskier’s opinion, and they’ve had enough of those tonight. “That is good,” he agrees, “but don’t think I didn’t notice that you didn’t actually answer the question about sticking around.”
Aiden mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like He couldn’t resist a man with bread in his pants, but Jaskier chooses to ignore that. Aiden wasn’t even there for that.
Geralt ducks his head a little. “The… ham… pastry thing. It was good. And then I stumbled over a Cat threatening the awkwardly charming employee, and I felt obligated to make sure he wouldn’t do it again.”
Geralt says it with a perfectly straight face, but there’s something in his voice – or maybe the curve of his mouth in the moonlight – that gives him away, and Jaskier laughs as he swats at him and finally lies back down comfortably.
“Well,” he says around a yawn as suddenly, his tiredness catching up with him again, “at least you admit I’m charming.”
“You know you are,” Geralt says, but it’s said softly and genuinely, and not even Aiden’s snort can detract from the hope it buoys in Jaskier’s chest.
He falls asleep with a smile on his face, and, for the first time in fifteen years, does not spend the night of the anniversary dreaming of what transpired all those years ago.