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1: Apple Pie
It’s not hard to love Geralt, in Jaskier’s opinion. He’s kind, the kindest man the bard has ever known. He takes risks and throws himself into danger for just a couple of coins if the family is poor, for nothing if the children look starved. He cares for Roach, his horse, more than for himself. It’s kind of endearing, Jaskier thinks, how the witcher quietly talks to her. Roach is a hellish mare, but maybe she just doesn’t like Jaskier. He doesn’t take it personally, he’s never been a fan of horses himself (present company excluded, it’s just too cute to see how loyal and loving Roach is towards Geralt). No, loving Geralt is as easy as breathing.
It’s befriending Geralt that proves to be harder than Jaskier thought.
“You slow me down, bard,” the witcher grunts, but Jaskier just grabs his lute case and follows him into the stables. It’s too early to be awake, really. The sun has not yet risen.
“Look, if you’re so eager to hurry, why don’t you just urge Roach to go faster and leave me on the road.”
Geralt grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “I tried that already.” Jaskier smirks and hands the witcher a nice crisp apple to give to darling Roach.
“See? I’m a delight and you can’t travel without me and my gentle voice.”
“Stop. Talking.”
“Yeah, I know. You’re a big, scary witcher.”
“Jaskier.”
“Geralt.”
The witcher leads his horse out of the stables, and onto the still quiet street of the town. Jaskier yawns. It really is too early for him to be awake.
“Save your breath for walking.”
Jaskier rolls his eyes but follows the witcher, keeping his hands off the lute for as long as it takes to get out of the town’s earshot. Then he starts plucking a gentle melody, something sweet for the start of a long day.
He should have known the day’s good mood wouldn’t last. One hand gripping the leather strap that carries the scabbards of Geralt’s sword, the other shoving the townsfolk out of the way, Jaskier makes his way through the marketplace. The witcher could break out of his grasp easily, but surprisingly enough he doesn’t.
“Bard.”
“No, Geralt, you better not talk to me when I’m in this mood. Out of the way! Out of the way, I said, godsdamnit!”
The people part for him and Jaskier drags Geralt to the inn. The barmaid opens her mouth, but snaps it shut again when Jaskier glares at her. Some patrons stare at them, eager to gossip about what’s happening. Jaskier’s free hand makes a rude gesture and then they’re up the stairs and in their shared room and Jaskier lets go of Geralt.
“Ungrateful swine! Lying son of a bitch! I’m going to make him regret ever being born! May he never have a good fuck in his pathetic life!”
He’s pacing, his hands hurting from how much he clenches them.
“Jaskier,” Geralt tries again.
“I have worked on your reputation for three years now, Geralt. Three years. That’s how long we’ve been travelling together. I have sung your praises in every tavern from here to the border of fucking Nilfgaard. I’ve written not one, no, I’ve written at least eleven ballads about your successful hunts. Is it too much to ask that people don’t spit at you when you pass them?”
“Jaskier, you’re going to wear the rug down. Sit.”
Jaskier does. The mattress is lumpy, hard from all the people who’ve slept here before but he doesn’t notice it in his rage. Geralt stands in the room, glaring at him. Geralt is always glaring.
“I am a witcher,” he says matter-of-factly. “It’s just how things are for us.”
“Fuck you,” Jaskier says and stands again. He can’t sit in this room or he’s going to snap at the witcher and he’s the last person who deserves his anger.
When Jaskier was a kid, his nanny would slip him little treats whenever he was upset about things he couldn’t change.
“Sugar makes you smile,” she always said. “It pulls the corners of your mouth upwards.”
Jaskier eyes the market for something sweet, something he can sink his teeth into until his anger dissipates. There’s a small stall selling pies and tarts. The baker notices his interest and looks at him expectantly. Jaskier buys two apple pies, so caught up in his head that he forgets to haggle. The smell is delicious, something like heaven between the stinking hell of human, animal, and refuse. Jaskier bites into the first pie and moans when the flavour explodes on his tongue. The crust is flaky and just the tiniest bit salty. Combined with the sweet and rich apple and cinnamon it’s perfect. Jaskier licks off the juice that has escaped the pie and run down his fingers. He feels better already.
The bard returns to his and Geralt’s room a while later. It’s already close to sundown, autumn catching up on summer. He shivers, then sighs when the warmth of the inn surrounds him.
Geralt doesn’t even look up when Jaskier enters. He’s out of his armour, repeating the motion of sliding the whetstone over his steel blade. The sword reflects the lantern’s light, creating another light source.
“You were gone for a long time.”
“You’ve missed me!”
“Hm.”
Jaskier laughs and sits down on his bed.
“I’ve taken some time to cool down. I found new lute strings, which was very necessary since my sexy girl shouldn’t work with old ones now, should she? Oh, and I found this.”
He’s only a little nervous when he offers Geralt the pie. The witcher ceases his motions to stare at Jaskier.
“Come on, take it.”
“That’s a waste of money, bard.”
“Well,” Jaskier said, “I already bought it so you might as well eat it. I already had one and I swear it makes bad feelings disappear.”
Geralt places his sword on the bed next to him, cleaning his hands on a rag before taking the pie almost reverently.
He doesn’t thank Jaskier but he makes a tiny breathy sound that will fuel Jaskier’s dreams for at least the next five decades.
Geralt eats the apple pie slowly, savouring the taste. His eyes are closed, white lashes fanning out over sharp cheekbones. A small smile twists his lips, almost not noticeable to anyone who doesn’t know Geralt but Jaskier has travelled with the witcher for three years now. He’s not fluent in Geralt’s grunts and gestures and moods yet, but he knows how to spot a smile.
H e goes to bed that night feeling content despite of the interaction earlier. On the other end of the dark room Geralt turns once, twice, before sleeping less fitfu l l y than usually. Jaskier follows shortly after, dreaming of the witcher’s smile.
2: Books
Jaskier doesn’t expect to see Geralt when he opens the door of his apartment in Oxenfurt.
He has finally accepted the academy’s offer to teach poetry, and he enjoys doing so, even if he has to wear these ridiculous robes. He’s the youngest teacher Oxenfurt has ever employed, and many girls and boys carry out heated arguments over who will be able to enroll in his class. Jaskier really hopes they won’t start fighting for real. Artists can be so dramatic.
“Geralt,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “What are you doing here? Not that I am not happy to see you, I just thought you were off to your mysterious keep in the north. Is everything okay?”
“Jaskier,” Geralt says. “Came too late, the pass is already closed.”
Jaskier hisses in sympathy.
“Oh my dear, come on in. Can’t have you freeze to death.”
“I won’t freeze.”
“I know, dear heart,” Jaskier amends, stepping aside to let Geralt enter.
“Now, how come you’re in Oxenfurt?”
“You said I could visit.”
Geralt raises an eyebrow, as if daring Jaskier to contradict him. The bard smiles.
“Yes, I did. And I’m glad you’re here. You’ll love it here, I know it.”
“I know Oxenfurt.”
Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I know you do, we’ve been here together a couple of times.”
“I mean the academy.”
Jaskier shows Geralt where to put his bags. The witcher complies, before taking off his armour piece by piece.
“I used to study here, when I was just a witcher trainee.”
“You’re awfully talkative today,” Jaskier remarks, as he grabs his satchel with the notes for his next lecture. “I hate to stop you, but I’m running late for my lecture. Will you be fine until we can meet up afterwards?”
“I’ll accompany you.”
Jaskier blushes.
Geralt seems relaxed, comfortable even, as he follows the bard to the lecture hall. The witcher sits down at the far side of the hall, so as to not surprise the students.
Geralt’s presence is enough to make Jaskier nervous. He’s never nervous during his lectures. Teaching is fun, and he’d consider it as a full time job if it weren’t for the fact that it cancels out travelling, and there’s nothing Jaskier would like to do more than continue travelling the Continent with Geralt.
Not even the warm bed and good food will keep him here once spring comes around and it’s time to leave for the Path again.
Geralt doesn’t interrupt the lecture, not that Jaskier thought he would. He’d just feared that his students would be more fascinated by his companion than by his lecture.
It’s not a very big class, so Jaskier likes to let them talk as well, share their own ideas and opinions, and create a discussion rather than a teacher’s monologue. It’s unconventional, but he’s a guest lecturer, and he’s famous. He can get away with almost anything.
“Thank you, dears, see you next week,” he says, two hours later, slowly gathering his notes. He always lingers a bit, to give the students the opportunity to ask him a question, or ask for a conversation. Today though, there’s nobody there.
Geralt comes forth from his hiding place at the back of the lecture hall, and regards him thoughtfully.
“You’re surprisingly good with children,” he says.
Jaskier gasps.
“Witcher dearest, are you complimenting me?”
“Shut up, Jaskier,” Geralt says, rolling his eyes.
“No, you shut up! Wait, don’t. Keep complimenting me, darling, I so love to hear the praises you sing me.”
They walk through the university’s hallways, lost in their banter. Jaskier doesn’t pay attention to where they’re going, and then they’re standing at the huge doors that lead to the academy’s library, and Jaskier halts.
“You really were a student here, weren’t you?”
“Hm,” is all Geralt says, and Jaskier slaps his arm.
The witcher raises a pale eyebrow and opens the doors, not waiting for Jaskier to follow him. The bard does anyway.
The librarians look alarmed at Geralt’s entry, but relax when they see Jaskier. Being a professor really has its perks. One of them being the unlimited access to the library’s books.
The library is a huge room, with high ceilings. Shelves line the walls, and create a maze, filled to the brim with books. Whenever there’s a dead end, tables are provided, so students or teachers can do their studying without removing any books from the library. It’s a magical place, smelling of ink, leather, and parchment, and Jaskier inhales deeply, slightly amused when he catches Geralt do the same.
“Vesemir used to send us here,” the witcher says quietly as they walk down the rows upon rows of shelves. Jaskier is content to follow his lead, as he is the one who led them here in the first place.
“He was one of the few older witchers who cared enough to give us a broader education.”
“What were your subjects?” Jaskier asks, fingering the back of a particularly large tome, wondering if one of his students had hidden …
He keeps listening to Geralt as he pulls the book out of the shelf, expecting the space behind it.
And there it is, a demijohn of what surely is alcohol. Jaskier grins and places the book back where it belongs.
“Geography?” he asks. “I used to love Geography for the huge atlas we could hide vodka behind.”
He offers Geralt an impish smile, and the witcher snorts.
“The Continent looked different back then.”
Of course it did. Sometimes Jaskier forgets that Geralt is nearly a century old.
Geralt walks through the shelves, picking up a book, reading a few pages, putting it back, taking another, and so on. Jaskier is content to follow him, to offer background noise.
“Is there no library in Kaer Morhen?” he asks at some point.
“There is,” Geralt says. “But it holds mostly beastiaries, alchemy books, and other encyclopedia witchers need in order to do their job.”
He walks over to the poetry section. “It’s far from organised. Of course we sometimes bring our filled journals there, or books we pick up on the Path. Nothing like this, though.”
The witcher points at a volume of truly scandalous poetry that Jaskier used to “study” when he was in his teens.
“Admit it,” Jaskier says, “you’re here for the poetry, prose, and lyricism.”
“I’m here because the snow cut me off from the crumbling fortress that is my home,” Geralt huffs, but the glint in his eye betrays his tone.
“See if I will let you read the naughty collection of poems I have hidden in my apartment. Some of them are even banned in some countries.”
Jaskier grins wildly, and Geralt snorts.
The smile the witcher gives him when Jaskier announces on Yule that he managed to give him unchaperoned access to the library at any time of the year melts the bard’s insides. He’s sure they’ll stop in Oxenfurt more often from now on, but the way Geralt cherishes his reading time is definitely worth the visit.
3: Bath
“You stink,” Jaskier declares instead of a cordial greeting.
It’s true, too. The bard doesn’t know what happened during his two weeks of absense (it was only a bardic competition, for Melitele’s sake), but the witcher reek s horribly.
He’s also caked in dried guts and blood and what else is inside a monster and then outside of one when it happens upon a witcher .
“Hm,” Geralt says, and pushes past him into the inn. Jaskier sighs and hurries his steps to keep up with his friend.
“A room and a bath,” the witcher grunts at the innkeep, who crosses his arms.
“There’s no rooms available.”
The man doesn’t lie. The inn is packed, with people who are staying another night before leaving the next morning, now that the competition is over. There’s bards everywhere, singing, playing, shouting, dancing … They’re a strange bunch, and Jaskier loves them wholeheartedly (not Valdo Marx though, that prick). Unfortunately, it means that Geralt won’t get his room.
“It’s no problem, he can bunk with me for the night,” Jaskier says, giving the innkeep his most charming smile. The man looks at him with hard eyes before sighing.
“ Well, it’s not like I can say anything, Master Jaskier, since you’ve won … Just, don’t scare any of my patrons away with your companion.”
“That’s right,” Jaskier says. “I won. If I’m feeling especially generous I might even grace you with a performance tonight.”
Without another word he grabs Geralt and drags him away and up the stairs to his room. The witcher follows with a frown.
“Let me help you out of that armour,” Jaskier says, stepping behind Geralt and working on the clasps. The witcher grunts but lets him. He tenses only when the door opens and two lads bring in a tub, filling it with buckets of water. Jaskier throws them a tip and then gestures for Geralt to heat the water with one of his witcher signs. Every time the witcher forms Igni , the light reflects in his golden eyes, lighting them up in an almost eerie way. It melts Jaskier’s insides every time.
The witcher hums in appreciation when he sinks down into the scalding water. Steam already begins to pool around Jaskier’s boots when he crouches down behind Geralt, using a bucket of water that is a little colder. As much as the witcher loves his water hot enough to cook a lobster, Jaskier enjoys his skin being intact, thank you very much.
Geralt tenses at the first touch to his hair.
“Let me wash your hair?” Jaskier asks quietly. He holds up the oil he’s selected, something with a neutral scent. Geralt sniffs it once, frowns but nods, so Jaskier returns his hands to the witcher’s hair, chattering happily when Geralt allows him.
There’s guts and blood, and things Jaskier really doesn’t want to know the origin of, and he washes it away, gently disentangles the white strands, kneading the oil into them when they’re free of filth.
There’s a sound in the room, a deep vibrating purr, and it takes Jaskier a while to figure out it’s from his witcher.
Geralt’s eyes are closed, his head held up only by the bard’s hands. The sight is so sweet, Jaskier aches with how much he craves this. He wants to be allowed to give this to the witcher every day. He runs his nails down Geralt’s scalp and the purr grows louder, and now the smile on Jaskier’s lips threatens to split his face in two. He’s so full of feelings for this man.
At some point the water grows cold enough for even Jaskier to grimace when he puts his hand inside. He gently rouses Geralt, and as the witcher opens his eyes the purring noise abruptly stops. Jaskier sighs sadly. Of course Geralt would think this part of him monstrous.
“Sorry to wake you, dear, but the water’s grown cold. Stand up for me?” he says instead of what he wants to say, and the witcher obliges, letting Jaskier throw a towel over his shoulders.
Jaskier pouts and tuts and complains as soon as Geralt moves the towel to his hair, though.
“You’ll leave the hair to me, love. Just put on some comfy clothes, I know you have that old shirt and the trousers with a tear on your knee, they work perfectly fine.”
“Why?” Geralt asks.
Jaskier rolls his eyes.
“Because I’m going to dry and brush and braid your hair, witcher. And you’re going to relax. You’re going to get wrinkles if you frown all the time.”
Geralt does as he says, though he frowns through all of it, Jaskier’s sure it’s because he wants to be a little shit. The bard then grabs a softer towel and softly presses it to Geralt’s hair, patting it dry until it doesn’t drop anymore, before moving to a comb.
Geralt tenses at first, but then leans back against Jaskier’s knees and lets him do as he pleases. Jaskier hums as he cards his hands through soft strands, dividing them into even parts.
By the time he’s done with braiding, Geralt has fallen asleep against his legs, the soft purr back in the air. Loathe to wake him, Jaskier lets him rest for a while, his own body resting against the bed’s headboard, Geralt asleep with his head on the bard’s knees. The bard massages the witcher’s temples, humming softly, a smile widening when he sees that one side of Geralt’s lips is quirked up, into that half-smile that drives Jaskier mad with want.
“Sleep, witcher,” he says, pulling a blanket over them. They have time. Geralt’s purr fills the room and Jaskier’s heart. Soon he drifts off as well.
If they wake up in an intimate embrace, well, neither of them brings it up.
4: Cats
“Hold still, Geralt.”
“This is ridiculous.”
Jaskier very much disagrees, and he tells his witcher so. They’re sitting in the late spring sun, soaking up the warmth the season brings. The widow whose wraith Geralt put to rest earlier had insisted on them staying another night (“I might not be Radovid, but I can afford housing two lads for a day and a night!”), so here they are, sprawled out in front of the small farm’s barn.
It all begins with the farm’s cat, because of course it does. It’s a black old beast, with mean eyes, though it roams around Jaskier’s legs when he crouches down to stroke its head. Then it regards the witcher and promptly hisses, claws scratching into the ground.
Geralt hisses back, though the look on his face is that of a muted sadness, unlike anything Jaskier has ever seen on him. The cat disappears quickly, after that, hackles still raised. Geralt sighs.
“Cats have a natural affinity to magic,” he explains after Jaskier prods long enough. “They can sense the magic used to mutate witchers. They know I am … other.”
“Elves are also connected to magic,” Jaskier points out. He can’t imagine that it’s impossible for a witcher to stroke a cat. “And don’t many witches have cats as their familiars?”
“Elf magic is different from the magic that produced witchers. And a familiar is made of magic. Normal cats don’t go near witchers.”
“Wanna bet that I can get a cat to love you?” Jaskier asks. He’s got an idea, and judging from the look in Geralt’s eyes, he knows it, too.
“You can’t counteract a cat’s survival instinct.”
“Try me.”
“Jaskier … ”
So that’s how they find themselves in this situation: Geralt, sitting on a log that is normally used for woodchopping, Jaskier fluttering around him, hands busy with fixing catmint to his witcher’s shirt.
He’d insisted on Geralt taking the armour off, because leather armour might not be as sturdy and unyielding as metal plate, but it’s still rather uncomfortable to hug a witcher when there’s hardened leather poking the hugger everywhere. Jaskier doesn’t think cats love hard leather armour any more than he does. Geralt’s old black shirt, soft from how often it’s been washed, though, that they can work with. Jaskier and the cats, that is.
“There we go,” the bard says, finishing the last bundle of catmint, before stepping back and regarding his hard work proudly.
The witcher looks like a grumpy bush. His yellow eyes glare at Jaskier. The bard thinks Geralt looks absolutely adorable.
It’s not hard to find cats. The black old cat must have had a litter a short while back, because Jaskier has no trouble rounding up at least three young cats. They are trustful, letting him gather them up into his arms. Satisfied with his findings, he returns to Geralt who still glares menacingly. Jaskier’s smile only widens.
“There we go. Stop scowling, Geralt.”
“Hm.”
Jaskier sets the cats down at a safe distance. All three of them look at the witcher anxiously. At least they don’t hiss. For a few moments, the cats seem to war with themselves. Follow the instinct screaming that the creature before them is a magical predator, or get closer to the alluring scent of catmint?
It’s a little ginger who does the first step. He slowly inches himself closer to Geralt, who sits stockstill, watching the cat with wide eyes. Jaskier aches with how adorable the scene in front of him is.
Soon, the cat is close enough to sniff at Geralt’s hand that Jaskier had rubbed one of the catmint bundles on. The ginger cat gives it a lick, and for a second Jaskier is sure Geralt is going to faint.
It doesn’t take long for the cat to gain enough courage to climb on Geralt’s lap. The witcher glances at Jaskier, eyes wide with wonder.
“Jaskier,” he whispers.
“Now you pet it, love,” Jaskier says, a wide smile on his face.
Carefully, as if he’s afraid to scare the little furball away, Geralt lowers one of his big hands to the cat in his lap. The ginger lets himself be stroked, even starts purring after a while, the mix between the catmint and the witcher’s presence making him brave but not too active.
After a while, Geralt’s eyes glued to the cat sitting on him, the others approach him as well, a little less wary. They still don’t hiss. Jaskier wishes he was a painter, so he could catch this moment on canvas for him to look at whenever the winter months get cold without Geralt.
“Thank you,” Geralt mutters after a while, and Jaskier is sure the lump in his throat is not from how emotional this scene is, nope he must be coming down with something.
The sound of the witcher’s purring joins the cats’ and the animals look up at him in bewilderment, before renewing their purring efforts, as if to somehow outrank Geralt in contentment.
A smile spreads on Geralt’s pale lips when one of the cats attempts to climb his chest. He doesn’t seem to mind that her claws dig through his shirt and into his skin. He supports her gently, and then the cat is sitting on his shoulder, looking very proud of herself.
Jaskier vows to himself to carry more catmint with him, just to make sure Geralt will get to pet cats more often.
5: Ciri
Jaskier is so sure everything is going well. And then the mountain happens, and he’s holding the pieces that once were his heart in his hands, unsure where to put all the pain. He wanders, is not quite sure what happens during his journey from Caingorn to Oxenfurt. The next thing he vividly remembers is the cart with elves, their thin faces behind sturdy bars. He frees them, and then more elves and other non-humans come asking for him, and after only a short time he has a business running that would definitely get him executed should anyone ever come behind what he’s doing.
Then he meets Yennefer and her stinking green-caped companion, and then there’s the fire fucker, and then … Geralt. Geralt who apologises, kind of at least. Geralt who trusts him with his child of surprise.
Cirilla.
It has been years that Jaskier last saw her. She’s grown into a strong teenager, with hair almost as pale as Geralt’s, the wind tugging at the blonde strands as she storms ahead of the cart on their way back to Kaer Morhen.
Cirilla doesn’t recognise him, but Jaskier didn’t expect her to. She was four the last time he visited Cintra. That’s when Calanthe decided he was too close to the child-stealing witcher to be allowed to see her granddaughter.
So no, Jaskier is not surprised that Cirilla storms past him with barely a glance.
What does surprise him, however, is Geralt’s request to keep her safe. The girl is very capable of handling a sword on her own. There is nothing that Jaskier could protect her from. He used to have lessons in swordplay, of course, just like the son of a nobleman is expected to, but the skills of his fencing instructor never came close to what he’s seen Geralt do with a sword, and the princess has been taught not only by him, but by the other witchers residing in Kaer Morhen as well.
There is nothing out there that Jaskier could defeat but Cirilla could not.
At the foot of the mountain, the dwarves leave, so Jaskier is left with a rebellious teenager who won’t even look at him, and he’s without a horse. He doesn’t mind walking, but where Geralt would be careful not to go too fast so Jaskier is still able to catch up, Cirilla doesn’t seem to care whether or not he’s capable of following the pace she sets.
They make camp when it gets dark, and even though the princess fights very hard to stay awake, soon she’s asleep, her fair hair fanning out over the bedroll just like Geralt’s does in the few instances that the witcher allows himself actual sleep.
Jaskier lets her have her rest. He sits against a trunk and watches the small clearing, hoping for a calm night. He doesn’t expect to doze off.
He wakes to the sound of gasping, of a scream. He jolts upright, and nearly hits his head. His first glance goes over to Cirilla, but she’s still asleep. A frown is carved into her young face, a gasp and then another cry.
The bard scrambles to his feet and walks over to her bedroll, a hand reaching out, just shy of touching. She just reminds him so much of Geralt, of how the witcher twitches in his sleep, plagued by the nightmares he pretends not to have. Jaskier once got thrown on his back for his efforts to wake him, and Geralt had felt guilty for a few days.
So Jaskier doesn’t touch her, but he tries his best to gently wake her otherwise.
Cirilla is a light sleeper, her eyes snapping open after Jaskier called her name twice.
“You’re okay,” he says quietly. “Whatever haunted you, it doesn’t threaten you right now.”
She says nothing, but sits up, hugging her knees to her chest.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Jaskier offers. Geralt never talks about his nightmares, and to be honest, Jaskier doesn’t either, but neither of them are role models when it comes to dealing with emotions.
The princess shakes her head.
“Would you like me to make you some tea?”
Tea is what helps him most of the times. Cirilla declines again. Jaskier sighs and makes himself comfortable on the forest floor.
“Do you know the story of how Geralt let Destiny tie the two of you together?”
“Geralt claimed the law of surprise on my mother’s betrothal feast after he saved my father’s life.”
Jaskier sighs. “Is that what he told you? Of course it is, why do I even ask. So, it begins like this, dear princess – ”
“Ciri,” Cirilla says. “Nobody can know that I’m a princess.”
“Of course,” Jaskier says. “Ciri. Now, where was I? The story begins with a monster, and a town troubled by its evilness, as it does so often … ”
Jaskier tries not to embellish the story too much, but sometimes he just can’t help himself. He’s a storyteller, and entertainer, and entertain he does. It’s the only thing he knows how to do, so he tries his best to make Ciri forget the bad taste the nightmare left behind.
“So there I am, trapped by your mother’s powerful magical storm – ”
“Quiet,” Ciri says suddenly, eyes alert. Jaskier’s mouth snaps shut. Nothing.
“What is it?”
“I think I heard something,” the princess says.
And that’s when all hell breaks loose.
He really isn’t that bad with a blade, and Geralt did leave them with a Nilfgaardian sword that is surprisingly good quality. The soldiers focus on him, as he’s the only adult in camp, and it’s just like Jaskier wants it. He will still die with one of these swords in his heart, but at least he’ll give Ciri enough time to escape. But the girl doesn’t run.
She hovers just at the edge of camp, watching with wide eyes. Jaskier risks a glance at her and notices the way her lips are pressed together in a thin line. She’s contemplating something, and Jaskier is sure he won’t like it. Geralt entrusted her into his care, and he’ll do his damn best to protect her, even if it means dying. He just loves the man too much to disappoint him.
His enemy’s sword collides with his brutally, and Jaskier quickly feels his strength dwindling. He doesn’t have time for this. He needs to end this, and he needs to end it quickly.
“It’s not very nice, is it, to keep that young thing all to yourself?”
Jaskier doesn’t remember killing the first man. He hates violence so much that he put the sword down as soon as he could get away with it. He lets Geralt do the fighting, he’s better at it anyway.
But then two men are down, and they just keep coming, and Jaskier fights like he’s never fought before. He loses track of where Ciri is. When he comes back to himself, there’s two men holding him down. More are dead. Jaskier growls and struggles and bites, but it’s no good.
The last companion of the solders approaches Ciri with a relaxed swagger in his steps.
“Hey kitty,” he says, his Nilfgaardian accent thick. Ciri glares at him.
“Come play with us.”
She picks up the sword that Jaskier lost, and goes into fighting position. Jaskier has seen Geralt assume this stance many a time, and he sees how Ciri tenses, her body ready to fight off any attack thrown at her.
The Nilfgaardian doesn’t see it.
“Ohh, the kitty has claws,” he sneers and pounces.
The sword in Ciri’s hand is barely visible. It’s not hard to see that Geralt has taught her some of these moves. They’re very similar, though not as fluent as the witcher’s. Ciri is still more than capable of holding her own against the soldier. That doesn’t mean Jaskier stops struggling against the men still holding him down.
Ciri manages to land a hit between the soldier’s armour plates and he howls in anger.
“Little bitch,” he spits and advances again.
Ciri seems to slowly tire. The smile on the soldier’s face widens.
“Stay calm, Cirilla. Focus on his weapon, not his face.”
Jaskier’s two soldiers glance around nervously at the seemingly bodyless voice. The bard uses their distraction to break lose and attack. He doesn’t need a sword to hurt someone. He’s been in enough bar brawls to know that anything can be a weapon if you know how to use it right. The soldiers don’t take kindly to being blinded and deafened by Jaskier’s coat. He loves that coat, but clothing can be replaced. Ciri can’t.
Geralt has stepped out of the trees and is coming to Jaskier’s aid, dispatching the two soldiers who can’t even see the witcher’s sword coming down on them.
When they turn around, Ciri is standing over the other soldier, a puddle of red slowly growing underneath his dying body. She drops the sword and flies into Geralt’s arms.
“I’m here,” the witcher whispers, holding her close with his right arm. His left hand reaches out to Jaskier and the bard steps into the offered embrace, letting the presence of Geralt comfort him as much as Ciri.
“You both are safe now,” Geralt says and breaks the embrace to move over to the camp. “Yennefer will be here shortly. You two should go back to sleep.”
“Can we trust her?” Ciri asks.
“You can be assured that she won’t ever hurt you,” Geralt promises. “I made sure of that.”
It seems to be good enough for Ciri who sits down next to Jaskier and looks at him expectantly.
“Can you please continue your story? I don’t want to think about … about – ”
“But of course,” Jaskier says, taking her hands into his, and continuing the story where they were interrupted. He’s strongly aware of Geralt’s eyes resting on him, but he tries not to be too distracted by that, recounting the events of Pavetta’s betrothal in a way that would make his Oxenfurt professors proud.
By the time he is done, Ciri has fallen asleep against him, her head resting on his shoulder. Jaskier wraps an arm around her to make sure she doesn’t fall. He looks up, and even though Geralt schools his features quickly, he can still see the tiny smile the witcher wore on his lips before it’s gone.
“You’re good with her,” the witcher observes.
Jaskier offers a little smile of his own.
“Well, I had twenty years to learn how to handle difficult individuals.”
It just slips out. After months apart Jaskier has tried to rein himself in, to not let his mouth get the better of him. But instead of getting angry, Geralt just chuckles.
“Go to sleep, menace.”
“You’re the menace,” Jaskier retorts and pouts. Geralt rolls his eyes fondly.
Ciri sleeps with her bedroll sandwiched between the witcher’s and Jaskier’s, and luckily, further nightmares seem to be held at bay. At least for now.
+1: A Kiss
Lambert brings his cat for winter. The prickly witcher seems to not have told his lover about Ciri’s mischievous streak, and the poor cat keeps getting pranked by her. Jaskier might have helped once or twice, but just because Aiden seemed to have persuaded Lambert to join his side, and two witchers against one witcher-sorceress-princess just seems unfair.
Geralt says they’re all children, but Jaskier catches him listening to Ciri with an indulgent smile on his face as she talks a mile a minute, about her pranks, about her horse (a black mare called Kelpie), about what Yennefer taught her in the highest still standing tower of Kaer Morhen.
Jaskier feels at home.
When Geralt kisses him, it happens so quickly that neither is capable of processing what just happened. Aiden and Lambert are out hunting, Eskel has taken up the chore of bringing some order into the keep’s library – a task that Vesemir gave Jaskier, since he won’t be able to move rubble and debris like the witchers, or magic them away like the sorceress. But Eskel insisted on the bard getting some rest, so there he is, sitting in front of the fireplace, on a chair in the main hall, braiding Ciri’s hair away from her face. He can hear Geralt in the kitchen, preparing what’s about to be their dinner.
“So there I am,” he says, catching a strand that threatens to come loose, “and an army of undead advancing at me. I have nothing but my trusted lute, and as you well know, we leave nobody behind, so I am very much not going to sacrifice her – ah, Geralt.”
“That’s not how it happened, and you know it,” the witcher says, a twinkle in his eye. Jaskier gasps, touching a hand to his chest.
“Lies and slander,” he cries, smiling softly when he hears Ciri’s giggle. She still has nightmares, but they are happening less often now. Jaskier is glad that she can still laugh after everything she’s lived through.
“You weren’t facing an army of undead,” Geralt continues. He’s leaning against the back of Jaskier’s chair, his hand reaching down to play with the bard’s hair. It has grown out longer, is reaching his shoulders now, and the bard prides himself in the gentle curls he produces with his curling iron.
“It was two drowners, at best. And I was right behind you. There was no danger at all,” the witcher finished.
Jaskier turns his head to look up at Geralt and pouts.
“Maybe in a little danger?” he asks, blinking innocently.
“Menace,” Geralt hums fondly, and dips down, pressing his lips against Jaskier’s for only a blink of an eye. It’s enough for Jaskier’s heart to stop, and his vision to white out, and the world to stop spinning. Then the moment is over, and Geralt is no longer touching him, instead listening to Ciri. Jaskier can’t focus on what she’s saying, but it has something to do with who’s more worthy of the title ‘menace’, Jaskier or she.
“Jask?” Geralt asks softly. Jaskier blinks. “Huh?”
“I said dinner is ready.”
“Uh yes, I’m coming.”
“Hm.” Geralt squeezes his shoulder lightly and leaves with Ciri in tow to lay the table for a band of hungry witchers.
Jaskier really hopes he did not imagine the scene that’s replaying on repeat in his head. He really hopes he gets a chance to do that again. And again. And again. If given the chance he’d never stop doing what he hopes he might be allowed to do. He shouldn’t hope. He’s gone twenty years without allowing himself to hope. But the sweet press of Geralt’s mouth against his is just too alluring, and like fairy fruit Jaskier can’t bear living without it, now that he’s had a taste.
“What are you smiling about, bard?” Yennefer asks, her eyebrow raised. She’s standing at the entrance of the room, regarding him with what other people would think is contemption. But ever since their adventure, there’s a strange friendship connecting Jaskier and the sorceress, and for some reason he knows she just can’t let go of old habits. Not that he’d give up their bickering. It’s just too entertaining to exchange courtly insults with her. It’s been a while since he’s talked to someone who has sharpened their wit at a court.
“I was just imagining how humiliating your downfall will be, witch.”
“You were imagining,” Yennefer replies, “I am ensuring your’s.”
“Very funny.”
“Surprising, isn’t it? Where you’re the one in ridiculous attire.”
“My,” Jaskier says, bringing a hand to his mouth, “is that a spot I see? On your flawless skirts?”
“Seriously,” Yennefer says. “What is it that’s got you so sickeningly happy?”
“Who says I’m sickeningly happy?”
“You’re smiling like a fool in love.”
Jaskier glances over to where Geralt is looking at them, a strange look on his face. The witcher can’t blush, but the bard is pretty sure he would have right about now.
Jaskier shrugs and focuses back on Yennefer.
“Maybe I am.”
Lambert makes gagging sounds, only to be called out by Eskel whose room is closest to Lambert and Aiden’s. Vesemir shakes his head in fond exasperation, but Geralt looks at Jaskier, yellow eyes full of wonder and love and admiration, and Jaskier can’t help but wonder how he got so lucky.
This time he’s the one initiating the kiss, and even if there’s whoops and complaints, and at some point coin being flung at people who won bets, it’s right where he wants to be.