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    Summary

    Fine, Jaskier thought. With an edge of fuck this absolutely. Geralt would never stand by and let some country farmer's wife get robbed. Jaskier's not sure how he'd relay this particular anecdote to Geralt the next time he sees him if he allows it. Having a witcher is almost like having a conscience, really.

    "Fine," Jaskier said, aloud to the fates, and then, "Back in a moment," to the lone barmaid, leaving everything but his coat and his hunting dagger behind, and went jogging out after the robber himself like the veriest idiot.


    Jaskier finds himself snowed-in, alone, at an all-but-empty inn on Midwinter's Eve. By strange chance, so does Geralt. If only there was a way to pass the time. And also, if only it wasn't bollocking freezing cold and Jaskier hadn't kissed Geralt, completely by accident, right on the face, the last time he saw him.

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