Archive of Our Own

Jaskier doesn’t listen to music while she drives. 

People seem to think that she would, but she finds it too distracting. The songs she knows well enough to let wash over her are few and far between, and honestly, at that point, it’s a bit redundant to listen to them. For most other songs she gets too caught up in the motifs, themes, instrumentation, harmonies, and her mind starts to wander when it should be focused on the road.

She can’t have silence either. The steel belts humming on the asphalt make that impossible anyway, but they also make a pretty decent rhythm section - so she makes the most of it, and makes her own music. It keeps her mind active and focused on her surroundings, and honestly, she just likes it.

At first, she kept her mind focused by singing what she saw: the dividing lines of the highway, the cars whipping by, the occasional bit of roadkill. That got old pretty quick though, once she was more confident behind the wheel.

Then she started singing her imaginings of the scenes and faces that blurred past her day after day. Jaskier doesn’t know if the family-van that speeds past her company mandated adherence to the speed limit is a family headed to the cottage, or an up-and-coming band on their first tour, or maybe a not so up-and-coming band on their fifth tour, but she makes up songs about the three possibilities and more anyway.

These days it’s more a mix of everything. She sings covers, fragments of originals that she has written down somewhere, and what her pretentious music classmates would have called ‘ditties’. She was a different vein of pretentious music classmate; she calls them ‘spontaneous road ballads’, and as they’re made up on the spot and they can be as long as she pleases. 

Some people say the road must get boring. Jaksier doesn’t see how that could possibly be true. At least, not for her. There are new people, stories, songs every day, minute, second. All the truck stops and diners and motels are similar, sure, but she’s never at one long enough to learn the ins and outs of the everyday. There are familiar faces at some of her favourite stops, but never the same story twice unless she’s the one telling it.

It’s perfect. It’s the best place she’s ever lived, and the best job she’s ever had, all rolled into one truck. One perfect, golden yellow, majestic beauty of a truck.

Sometimes, in the more rural areas where breaker signals are slightly less likely to be interfered with by children with walkie talkies, Jaskier switches her radio to an unknown station and leaves the channel open while she sings. 

Look, okay, she knows her bosses probably wouldn’t encourage the behaviour but no one’s using them and she does switch back to listen for updates occasionally so the way she sees it no harm no foul.

She just misses singing for an audience sometimes. 

She’s fairly certain it’s an audience of absolutely no one, but still, Schrodinger's audience keeps her pronunciations clear and her notes clean. She doesn’t mumble her way through the parts that aren’t as present in her memory, and she doesn’t flit between songs on a whim. It turns singing in the cab of her truck into a performance worth practicing for.

Jaskier knows that she could find open mics in bars and cafes and perform there. But she likes this skimming the surface of humanity thing she’s got going on at the moment. 

Which is why her stomach flips at the same time a smile breaks across her face at the krshk “Hello?” during a slight pause between songs.

“Um, yes! Hello! Dandelion here,” she manages to get out, instead of the what the fuck resonating around in her brain. 

“I like your singing,” the mysterious voice continues. It’s soft and high-pitched. “Do you take requests?”

“It depends on the request?” Jaksier says. And then “Sorry, who is this? Where are you?”

“I’m in a truck,” the voice says. So, okay, probably not a kid with a walkie talkie. “We stopped to get gas. Ge- The driver said not to touch anything, but I’d really like to hear, um, do you know any Orville Peck?” The last bit comes out in a hushed rush.

“Oh, you have come to the right place” Jaskier starts. “I mean, I can’t promise to stay in radio range the whole time, but I’ll give it my best shot?”

“Okay, thank you, gotta go, bye,” all comes in a rush, and there’s another krshk, and there’s silence.

The silence lasts a few more seconds while Jaskier thinks it over.

Then, before she can think any more, she opens her mouth and starts to sing.

“Fell in love with a rider, dirt king, black crown, six months on a knucklehead hog, I like him best when he's not around…”

A few weeks pass, and they're the kind of weeks that make her want to tear out her hair and scream. 

Everything, it feels, that can go wrong gets twisted up until the outcome is favorable but the journey it takes to get there leaves her wrung out and frazzled, desperate for an outlet that isn't an empty radio channel.

Her truck starts wheezing, which isn't a big deal in itself. It's built for long kilometres, and she drives it well, but things still go wrong. The mechanic she takes it to seems to imply it's her fault the part in question is worn down, and tries to up-sell her on parts that might last 3 months longer at best, in a truck with only a few years left in it. Her nanny didn't raise no fool.

Gas stations with broken card readers at the pump so she has to go in to pay. Cars honking, flipping her off as they speed past. Even the thrum of the lights in yet another unfamiliar grocery store sets her teeth on edge, the squeaky wheel of the cart she pushes down the aisles doing nothing to soothe her nerves.

Jaskier doesn't get lonely often, but sitting on her bed in the cab, three feet from where she spends ten hours of her day, she feels it. 

She reaches for the hard case in the small storage cabinet within arm's distance from her bed, and pulls out her guitar. A few dissonant moments pass as she fiddles her way around the chord structure playing in her mind. Jaskier doesn't feel the need to sing; the words aren't as important as the steel biting into her fingertips, and wood vibrating against her chest. 

She's in Minnesota, on her way to Ontario, and the wall of the cab is cool against her back. 

She reduces the size of the world around her and plays on.

A few more weeks pass, and the days become meditative rather than tedious.

It’s getting dark, and rather than drive in the dusky hour of increased wildlife on the roads, Jaskier pulls into a roadside diner as a treat to herself. She has a cooler in the back of the cab filled with groceries that keep well and are easy to assemble, but tonight she just wants warm food prepared by someone else.

When she opens the doors, the small diner is more full than the number of cars in the parking lot would suggest. She feels her stomach growl as she scans the room for an empty table.

One of the servers bustles over. They have a pen and pad of paper in their hands, and a rumpled uniform on.

“I’m sorry, there’s no more tables. Unless you’re meeting someone?” And Jaskier feels a small frisson of hope alight.

“Yeah, actually,” she says, scanning the room for someone sitting alone. There had been another cab in the lot outside, and there might be someone else just looking for a quick, hot meal before getting back on the road.

The only person who seems to be noticeably sitting alone is a middle-aged woman in a booth facing the door. Jaskier starts making her way over to the table, calling “there she is!” over her shoulder to the server.

She slides into the booth opposite the woman while hissing under her breath “I know, alright, just do me a solid?” and then turning to smile at the server following her to the seat.

She orders - some kind of hot sandwich with fries - and then turns back to the woman offering up a truly magnificent stare in her direction. Jaskier waits until the server leaves before slumping down onto the table, resting on her forearms.

“Oh my god, thank you,” Jaskier exhales, taking a good look at her new dining companion for the first time. And, okay, wow, this woman is built. Her white hair contrasts against the black leather jacket pulled around her shoulders. That, combined with the glare pointed in her direction, makes for a truly imposing dining companion.

And, oh god, okay, the imposing woman is opening her mouth to speak.

“What do you need?” she says, her voice at a monotone.

“I mean, uh, you’ve provided me with a place to sit to get some hot food,” Jaskier says. “I’m pretty sure I’m in your debt, not the other way around.”

The skin between the woman’s eyes pulls together as she frowns. “You’re not with the network,” she bites out, and Jaskier can’t tell if that’s meant to be a question or not.

She hesitates with her answer and that seems to be all this woman needs.

“Hmm,” she says, pulling out a- flip phone? And appears to be painstakingly typing out a text on the T9 keyboard. She finishes her message, puts the phone down, and stares across at Jaskier.

“Look,” Jaksier says, voice low and hurried. “There were no other tables, and no one was using this seat, and I’ll pay my own bill. I don’t think I’m causing you too much inconvenience.” She sits back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Unless I’m wrong, in which case-” 

And she’s cut off by the woman’s expression turning from stern to absolutely dour. 

A few seconds of silence pass, before Jaskier hisses, exasperated, “look, tell me to get lost if you want but don’t just sit there and brood.”

“Get lost.”

Jaskier blinks. “Well, no,” she says. “I have food coming and I really don’t think you want to be on the hook-”

“Get. Lost.” The woman repeats, and Jaskier feels a knot of fear settle into her lower back. She didn’t get this far in life by backing down, but also by knowing when to take a step back. But also she doesn’t want to, so.

“I’m hungry,” she says, crossing her arms.

“For fucks-” the woman visibly cuts herself off, head tipping back slightly before tilting forward to stare through Jaskier’s head. “Eat,” she grits out, “in your truck.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says. The solution seems obvious, now. “Well, then.” She holds her head high and slides out of the booth, stops the harried server and informs him she’ll take her food to go. She turns back to the woman, opening her mouth.

“No,” the woman says, and that glare is truly magnificent.

Jaskier turns, almost bumping into a young woman attempting to step around her.

As she leaves, simultaneous with the realization that she never mentioned being a trucker to the woman in the booth, she hears a soft voice say “Hi, Geralt?” 

She eats her sandwich and fries in the night air of the parking lot, leaning with one foot up against the front of her truck. As she’s petulantly licking gravy off her fingers, she watches the woman, Geralt, and the soft-voiced young woman leave the diner and climb into the truck across the lot. 

The truck starts, light beaming directly into Jaskier's eyes. She puts one hand up, watching as it turns right onto the main road and rolls away.

It takes another few weeks of singing to the road, blurred scenery in her peripherals, and the radio before she gets interrupted again.

She’s frustrated, cramping, driving across Saskatchewan, and running on a tight deadline. She’s been pouring this into a truly angry, mournful rendition of It’s My Way to prevent her angst from becoming road rage.

“I've got my own sword in my own hand, I've got my own plan that only I can know,” she’s spitting the words.

She brings the last note up the fifth, holding it loud and long, and jumps when the radio crackles to life, followed by a “That was really great," and then silence.

"Thank you," Jaskier says, hedging on politeness.

"Oh shit!" Comes through the speaker, followed by a giggle. Jaskier’s in the middle of rolling her eyes when the woman on the other end continues. "Sorry, I wasn't sure if this actually worked? Geralt said it didn't, the liar."

The name sounds familiar but Jaskier's not sure why. "Sounds like Geralt doesn't know his own truck very well, then," she says, eyes on the road and hands at ten and two. 

"Her truck, actually," she sounds distracted. There's the sound of a door opening and then closing and then "hey, Geralt, did you know your mic works?"

There's a long pause, until Geralt says "yes," and wow, that's where Jaskier knows the name from. 

Her stomach tightens, even as a grin breaks across her face. "Geralt!" She exclaims, "my friend from the diner! How are you?"

"No," comes across the radio, Geralt's voice low and curt. 

"Maybe," Jaskier says, in as close an imitation as she can get to the woman’s gruff voice.

“I- what?” Geralt says, and Jaskier’s laugh is joined by the woman in the cab.

"Just rounding out all the options," Jaskier says, over the sound of the young woman's voice murmuring something too low to hear. "And I haven't even introduced myself to the lovely person with you!" Jaskier can hear her own voice moving into higher registers and modulates it down consciously. "This is Dandelion calling, but you may call me Jaskier."

The young woman on the other end starts to answer with her name, and is immediately cut off by Geralt cutting in with a "don't". 

"Aah, anonymity. I remember it well," Jaskier says, which is nonsense. She's never been more anonymous in her life, with her changing, unpredictable itinerary and complete lack of social network. No one knows her, and she's convincing herself she likes it that way. "Well then in that case, what may I call you? We'll stick to the rules of the fae, for Geralt's sake."

The young woman giggles, and she can hear Geralt huff in the background. 

"You can call me…" Jaskier can picture her looking around the cab for inspiration, can picture Geralt driving next to her - how does Geralt drive? Is she disciplined, with two hands on the wheel and her back aligned? Or does she slouch, with one arm resting on the windowsill next to her? 

"Suzanne," the young woman finishes.

"Suzanne!" Jaskier crows with delight. "Do you wear rags and feathers from Salvation Army counters?"

"Do I- what?"

"It's a song," Geralt cuts in. "She's not making fun of you."

"Of course I'm not!" Jaskier protests. "I could have just as easily asked if you'd feed me tea and oranges that come all the way from China."

"You're just showing off now, Dandelion.”

“I know some key lyrics to a beautiful song about platonic love by the great Leonard Cohen - that’s not my most impressive feat, Geralt. I have greater tricks up these billowing sleeves of mine -” 

“Who’s Leonard Cohen?” the voice on the other end of the radio asks, cutting her off, and Jaskier’s hands clench the wheel.

“He’s, he’s a poet! And, a philosopher? Oh! And -”

“He was a singer,” Geralt cuts in. “Raspy voice, older, wrote that Hallelujah song from the ogre movie.”

“Oh, that Christmas song? It’s nice,” Suzanne seems content to leave it at that, and all Jaskier can manage in rebuttal is a strangled noise.

It’s not often that they’re within range of each other. Jaskier doesn’t know how Geralt chooses to entertain her passengers when they’re out of range, and she doesn’t ask. She just knows that sometimes when she sings over the radio she’ll get the occasional voice back saying ‘thank you’, or ‘you have a lovely voice’, or ‘can you sing this song?’ And then sometimes she’s rewarded with the low grumble of Geralt’s voice before the mic cuts it short.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for her to realise her channel hopping and their unpredictable schedules means Geralt must regularly scan the frequencies in search of her voice and that thought makes her heart pound along to her rendition of Miss Chatelaine.

The sun is high in the sky, the Witcher is in range, and Jaskier has a song in her heart and on her lips. It always feels good when they're the same song. 

It's one of her favourites - no song is perfect, but these first two verses come close. Words about longing, and the fulfillment of dreams, of taking risks when you're young and perhaps not finding what you set out to. It's lilting and sweet, with a rousing chorus that makes her want to whisk someone around the dance floor; light feet, a curving smile, white hair flowing with their movement. 

“We headed out on the 401 feeling no pain,” Jaskier sings, “until one day somehow, that would all turn to shame”. 

The radio crackles to life, and the first thing Jaskier hears is a sob, ripped out of someone's chest. 

"Jaskier, stop," comes Geralt's voice. She obeys, teeth clacking together with the force of her abrupt silence. There's the sound of an indicator for a few moments as Jaskier breathes, hands clenched on the wheel. She listens to the sound of their truck slowing, stopping, and then a seat belt releasing.

She's just about to ask if everything's okay when she hears Geralt's muffled voice.

"You're safe," she's saying, "you're safe, and you're here with me in Alabama, in my truck. Can you breathe with me?" There's the faint noise of rustling fabric and then, "Yes, you can, c'mon, in and out with me."

There's the sound of Geralt's exaggerated, slow breaths, and, underneath, a shaky and irregular intake and release of air. 

This goes on for long enough that Jaskier is considering the best way to sign off - surely privacy for this sort of thing is best - when Geralt speaks up.

"Can you sing something?" A murmur in the background. "Nothing in English or Portuguese."

"Of course," Jaskier says automatically. She harkens back to her days at university, back to strict professors, of underfunded but overcrowded classrooms. The objective breakdown of a subjective medium, piece by piece, so that one could use the parts to create and call it inspiration. 

Bah. She was always too much of a romantic at heart. At least she got some good music out of it. 

Speaking of the Romantics, would an Aria do? There aren't many that she can dredge in full form from her memory, so she goes with an old favourite. 

She starts low, listening for Geralt over the radio. The scenery is whipping by, and she registers and releases information on autopilot. 

“Le dirò con due parole chi son, e che faccio, come vivo,” she sings. 

In the beats between phrases she can hear low murmuring between them, not specifics, just the low tone of Geralt's voice with the lighter pitch of her passenger over top.

“In povertà mia lieta scialo da gran signore rime ed inni damore. Per sogni e per chimere e per castelli in aria, lanima ho milionaria,” she continues, and it's hard, being just a voice on the radio when someone is clearly hurting. 

She wants to demand access to their space, carve out her own place in it and help in every way she can. Soundwaves coming over a crackley, unreliable FM radio connection can only do so much. Her voice, even though she loves it, wouldn't trade it for anything, can only do so much. 

For a split second she wants money, power, the ability to look at a bad situation and change it for the better. She wants to affect the world around her in unfair, selfish ways. To make it right, in a way she hasn't felt in a long, long time.

They've been driving through a National Forest, a single road for miles, though up until she comes upon a truck pulled over on the shoulder, she wasn't sure whether Geralt was in front or behind her.

Her Aria has been finished for a few moments now, so she talks through the open channel.

"Hey, saw you're pulled over there, Witcher. Need a little RSA?” She doesn’t know why her voice takes on an impersonal tone, when her intention is to clasp Geralt on the arm, offering comfort in any way she can.

There's a pause, and Jaskier is indicating to pull up ahead of Geralt on the shoulder when a faint "23" comes through the radio. 

Standby. She stops and puts her truck in park.

Well, copy that. "10-4," she replies, and crawls between the seats to her cab for her guitar. 

She plucks an improvised melody, building it over time, weaving bits and pieces together and then independently from each other. She plays bluesy, folksy rhythms mixed with punk chords and harmonic notes. Her fingers slide over the strings, and she watches the blinking lights of the CB. 

The cab clock says it's been twenty-three minutes when Geralt's voice crackles over the radio again.

"Meet me outside?" And then silence. 

She puts the guitar down and slides out of the cab. 

"Everything okay?" She says, voice somehow remaining steady as Geralt's hands come up to hold her elbow and waist as she steps down from the passenger side door.

Geralt makes sure her feet are steady on the ground before wrapping her in a quick, tight hug. Jaskier has enough of a moment to tell herself to enjoy the brief experience before Geralt is pulling away, hands still on her shoulders. 

"Panic attack," Geralt says. "She's sleeping now."

"Good," she says. "Those are exhausting." She wants to lean into the warm hands wrapped around her shoulders in equal measure, and ends up leaning forward into Geralt's chest. 

They stand there, swaying on the edge of the highway. 

"Who are these hitchhiker women, Geralt?"

There's a pause while Geralt thinks.

"Hmm," she says. "They're leaving bad situations for… better ones. Hopefully. Not hitchhikers." 

Jaskier, for once, doesn't know what to say. She presses close, murmurs under her breath. "So I don't have to worry too much about other women?" She isn't worried at all, but feels the need to lighten the mood. 

Geralt sighs. "No, no other women."

"Just the silhouettes on the back of your mud flaps, eh Geralt?" She tilts her head up to look at her. 

"They were the cheapest ones, I've told you before," Geralt says, like she has before.

Jaskier knows, has paid slightly more for plain mud flaps before. They’ve had this argument before too, Geralt protesting that the flaps are on the back of her cab, which no one sees when she’s hauling. Jaskier maintains that it’s the principle of the thing.

They stand on the side of the highway, Dandelion sheltering them from the occasional car that speeds by through the darkness. Jaskier feels Geralt’s hands slide from her back, up to her neck; feels the warm press of lips against her hairline before Geralt steps away.

“I should, hmm,” Geralt trails off, jerking her head back to her truck. She’s stepping backwards, not looking where she’s going, and the ditch between the road and the forest isn’t illuminated by the headlights from the trucks. Jaskier is torn between the urge to tell Geralt to be careful and to get out her phone to film whatever happens. She compromises by standing in place, watches Geralt pick her way backwards, hand coming up from where it was jammed in her pocket to grip the door handle of the cab, eyes never leaving Jaskier’s.

It’s not until Geralt is fully obscured by the headlights that Jaskier steps back to Dandelion, swinging herself up into the seat. She buckles up, checks her mirrors, and eases back onto the pavement.

They’re in range, both barreling across the Trans Canada highway on their way towards the Atlantic.

“It’s like hauling teeth with you,” Jaskier says. There’s a long pause, and then she can’t help herself. “D’you get it?” she asks, fighting to keep her grin out of her voice.

“Yes,” Geralt says. “You’re not subtle.”

“Go on, Geralt,” Jaskier wheedles. “Give me some poetry. A simile at least! Don’t I deserve a simile?” She’s batting her eyes and hoping Geralt can tell through the radio.

“Talking to you,” Geralt starts. “Is as pleasant as getting hit by a mack truck.”

“Oh, bravo! I was swept away for a second there,” Jaskier grins, and hears Geralt’s snort of laughter in response.

“You’d actually be more likely to be pulled under the wheels.”

“What a comforting thought, Geralt. Thank you,” Jaskier says, but she’s smiling at the road ahead of her.

“I’ve got to pull in for lunch,” Geralt says. “If you’re still in range later-” and her voice cuts off, but the secondhand noise of the road is still coming over the radio.

“You’ll hear me singing. Let me know when you get back but don’t interrupt me, alright?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Geralt says, and then there’s the krshk of the radio cutting out.

It’s honestly 50/50 whether Jaskier gets interrupted by Geralt later or if she’ll wait until the end of a song. Jaskier wouldn’t put money on either.

Jaskier is regretting letting Geralt talk her into sharing a motel room. “It’s cheaper,” she’d said. “There’s only one motel in this town anyway, may as well,” she’d said.

They finally get their room key, and Jaskier all but sprints down the sidewalk. She has to pee so bad, and Geralt, troll that she is, had made small talk with the woman at the front desk. She had asked about her pets, the asshole, causing the woman to pull out her phone in search of photos while Jaskier danced a jig with her legs crossed in the lobby.

She fumbles with the key, and then bursts into the room. The door swings ajar behind her, key still in the lock. Geralt will get it. Geralt will have to get it if Jaskier wants to keep these pants clean enough to wear again tomorrow.

She makes it, barely, washes her hands in the sink, shakes the excess water off and pats them dry quickly. 

When she comes out of the bathroom to look around the room, Geralt has her duffle bag up on the small chest of drawers and is rifling through it with her back to the bed. The bed. As in singular.

It seems grossly unfair to Jaskier, thinking back to all the times she’s had to pay extra for a double room because it’s “all we have available, dear.” All those unslept in beds, taunting her as she stares down a night attempting to lay perfectly still while Geralt does the same less than a foot away.

It’s late - they had driven into the evening, and then parked, had dinner, and gone to check-in. Jaskier yawned, stretching her arms above her head, hoping to dispel some of the tension building in her gut.

“Where’s my bag?” Jaskier asks, having already glanced on the floor by the door, the bed, and the one armchair by the window facing the parking lot.

“Probably where you left it,” Geralt says, not looking up from where she’s poking at her belongings.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whines, “c’mon, really?” 

“Not your maid,” Geralt grumbles back. 

Jaskier stomps back down the sidewalk to reception, muttering under breath about Geralt, and then up the sidewalk again with her bag in tow, muttering about the perfectly nice woman at the front desk. It’s not her fault Geralt being kind to a stranger gets under her skin. 

She slams into the door and stumbles into the room, dropping her bag on the thin carpet. There’s a sliver of light from under the bathroom door and no Geralt in sight, so Jaskier takes a moment to sit on the edge of the bed and breathe.

When she’d suggested to Geralt that they split the cost of a room she may have bitten off more than she could chew.

She stands, picking up her bag and unzipping it, pulling out her toiletry bag, towel and headphones. There’s a new EP by a friend of a friend she’s been meaning to listen to after she was called to settle an argument during production.

She’s on her back on the bed, headphones on while she waits for Geralt to free up the bathroom. She feels a rustle of fabric next to her, and looks over to see Geralt’s bare shoulders peaking over the top of the bed.

Jaskier tugs off her headphones. “Geralt? What are you doing?”

“Bedbugs,” Geralt's eyes come up from where she’s examining the crease of the mattress. Her wet hair is loose around her neck and shoulders, and the towel draped around her neck fully covers her breasts in a precarious way that has Jaskier’s attention diverted away from anything else.

“Oh, okay,” Jaskier says through her dry throat. Her breath feels short in her chest. 

Geralt stands, and there’s a second towel wrapped tight around her waist. It only covers the tops of her thighs, and Jaksier can see scars crisscrossing up her calves as she turns to her bag.

“Your willingness to use motel towels concerns me,” Jaskier says, rolling onto her stomach in the middle of the bed.

“Your complete disregard for bed bug prevention concerns me." 

Jaskier rolls her eyes. “I assumed you had done it already, you know before showering, Geralt?” and she’s rewarded with the tiniest of pauses in her movement.

Jaskier is hit with the image of Geralt hastily remaking the bed before slipping into the bathroom to shower, thoughts of her devious plan and of Jaskier going through her mind while warm water sluices down her body. She shivers.

"And I know, Geralt, that asses are made at the same time as assumptions but what you don't realize is that you are extremely -" 

Jaskier cuts off, brain finally registering that Geralt had turned and is taking the two steps over to the bed. She picks up Jaskier's towel and throws it at her, from the chest like a basketball, and Jaskier lets it hit her in the face.

"Predictable." She rolls over, pushing herself up, grabbing the towel. 

Geralt is back to rifling through her own duffle, though Jaskier can see her clothes and a hairdryer laid out next to it already. 

"Jaskier," she says without looking up from her bag. 

"Mmm?" Geralt's shoulders are just so broad, and the lighting in here isn't great but at this angle from where she's leaning against the shower door frame she can see her back muscles -

"Shower." 

"Yup!" She steps back into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. "Oh for fucks," and she opens the door again, arm reaching out and around the frame, slapping at the wall for a lightswitch. 

The lights and creaky fan come on without her making contact so she calls out "thanks Geralt!" and shuts the door. 

Right. Shower. 

Except her toiletries are still on the bed, outside of the bathroom, where Geralt may or may not be in the process of de-toweling. She opens the door again, and sees her toiletry bag on the floor outside of the door. 

She scoops it up, calling out another "thanks, Geralt!" and shuts the door for a third and final time. 

Jaskier starts the shower, and begins laying out what she'll need on top of the toilet - shampoo, conditioner, the scrap of soap clinging to the bottom of a small Tupperware she repurposed somewhere along the Rust Belt. It’s only when she starts sliding her jeans down over her hips and her spine goes loose and liquid for a moment, that she realizes how wet she is. 

“Um,” she manages, freezing in place. She’s bent over awkwardly, one hand on her waistband, and the other reaching out to the sink for balance, so she straightens up and stands there, jeans halfway down her thighs while she ponders this new information over.

The thing about her job, about being a woman on the road with a bunch of men, is that “be yourself” is really shit advice. She learned early on, from the advice of the older women she encountered but mainly her own experience, that there wasn’t really a middle ground when it came to sex - she either could, or she couldn’t, and that rumours about her decision would spread quickly and irrefutably either way.

“Fuck, okay,” she mutters, and pushes her jeans down and off, taking quick little steps to kick them over her feet. Her underwear go next, and she winces as they peel away from her, damp and heavy. When she straightens up and glances in the mirror, she notices she’s still wearing her t-shirt and struggles out of it, tossing it on top of the pile of clothes growing on the floor.

“Right,” she says, turning her back on the mirror and facing the shower. 

“Right,” she repeats, and climbs in.

Between Geralt’s shower and the time it had taken to undress, the bathroom is warm and steamy and the unfortunately yellowed curtain doesn’t suck inwards and press against her body. She makes quick work of her routine, reaching in and out of the shower for what she needs from off of the toilet, and then - 

Well, she knows what she’d like to do, in an ideal world with her own bed, some privacy, and her fingers.

She bows her head, letting the water fall down over her neck and shoulders, her mother’s lecture on the importance of water conservation ringing between her ears. 

She slides a curious hand between her legs, which comes away slick. Right. Okay. She’s staring down a night in bed with Geralt, she can do this. She needs to do this, needs to get it out of the way as quickly as possible so she can spend more time lying in the dark next to Geralt, listening to her breathe the same air as Jaskier, listening to the small intimacies of her falling asleep, hair fanned out on the pillow.

Jaskier sighs, and slides her hand back.

She repositions her feet on the bottom of the tub, and goes back in.

Maybe if she leaned back on the wall of the shower?

Or one leg up on the lip of the tub, an arm braced against the wall, and the water coming down over her back.

It’s when she catches herself contemplating laying down in a motel bathtub that she finally gives up. She turns the water off after a final, lukewarm rinse, and slides the curtain back. Her towel is sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, so she unfolds it and winds it around her hair, getting the worst of the moisture out. When she wraps the same towel around her body and steps out of the tub, she has to steady herself on the slick floor. It’s then that she recalls she also left her clothing in the motel room, and it’s highly unlikely that Geralt thoughtfully left her sleep clothes on the floor outside the bathroom.

“Fuck me,” she mutters, tucking the end of the towel as tightly as she can before gathering up her belongings and fumbling for the door handle.

It’s not until she’s shoved her way through the door and dumped her belongings in a pile on the bed that she realizes Geralt’s already in the bed.

“Jaskier,” she says. And Jaskier glances up from where she’s staring at the lump of Geralt’s feet under the blankets and feels her heart dip into her stomach for the length of time it takes her brain to reboot.

Geralt’s reclining against the headboard screwed into the wall behind the bed, hands holding a book open on her lap. Half of her hair is tied back in a bun on her head, blown dry, and - oh fuck - she’s wearing little silver reading glasses. 

“I’m, um, clothes,” Jaskier manages, reaching for her bag to grab what she needs without turning too much of her barely covered anything in Geralt’s direction.

Geralt’s squinting now, one hand coming up towards her face, towards her glasses, pulling them down the bridge of her nose until her eyes widen and she freezes in place.

Jaskier takes hold of her entire duffle and retreats to the bathroom.

She rushes through dressing, shoving the clothing into place on her body before snatching her towel up off the ground and tossing it over the curtain rod. She avoids looking at her reflection in the mirror, leaning back against the sink as she brushes her teeth and stares at the shower. She feels wrung out and bloated, wholly unsatisfied, frustrated with the knowledge that Geralt looks as soft as anyone before bed. 

There’s the temptation, for a brief moment, to stick her hands down her pants and try again. She really gives it consideration, but without the sound of the shower running to cover up any noises she might let escape, she can’t risk it.

She turns to spit in the sink, gathers up her bag and heads back out. 

Geralt must have been out of bed, because the hair dryer that had been resting, unplugged, cord coiled against Geralt's bag is now sitting on Jaskier’s pillow, plugged into the outlet that is supposed to be charging her phone.  

She dumps her bag off her shoulder and onto the floor. 

Really? Geralt?" She throws her hands in the air so they can flop down at her sides exasperatedly. "I'm tired," she says, pulling the cord out of the wall and depositing the dryer on Geralt's lap. 

She shudders at the feeling of cold, unfamiliar sheets against her legs, and is moving to prop her pillow up against the headboard when Geralt says "I'll do it."

"Do what," Jaskier asks, suspicion mounting as Geralt turns to unplug her own phone. "Geralt, no, I just want to relax." 

"I would've thought you'd be more open to compromise," Geralt says. She holds out one hand, the other holding the hair dryer at an angle. "It'll be warm," she points out, and then waggles the dryer in her direction while making pointed eye contact as an afterthought. Jaskier feels herself give in, turning in place until her back's to Geralt. She feels Geralt scramble into place behind her, and hears the hair dryer turn on. She twists and sees Geralt pointing the stream of air at her other hand, pausing to adjust the temperature setting. 

Jaskier isn't sure what emotion is on her face when Geralt looks up, but it makes Geralt push her shoulder back around and bring the hair dryer up, apparently satisfied. 

The first brush of hot air on the back of her neck has her shivering, but she quickly relaxes into the heat. The whole ordeal is over quickly, and soon she’s left with soft, dry hair and the lingering feeling of Geralt’s fingers steady on the back of her neck.

“You don’t sing,” Geralt says, as she puts the hairdryer back in her bag.

“Huh?” Jaskier’s tongue almost feels swollen and numb in her mouth, her head full of cotton.

“In the shower, and while I was drying your hair,” Geralt is sliding into bed next to her now, the bed dipping. “You don’t sing. I thought you would.”

Geralt turns to stretch behind her to switch off the lamp, and she’s graced for a second with that visual before the room is lit only by the copper street light coming in through the curtains.

“Goodnight Jaskier,” Geralt says, and Jaskier is still sitting up in bed looking down at Geralt, who is laying flat on her back, perfectly still. 

“You going to sleep?” she asks, and receives a non-committal noise in return. “Do you think I’m going to sleep?” Silence. “Geralt, it’s barely 10.”

“We’re in bed,” Geralt says. “Early start tomorrow and nothing else to do.” 

“We could talk,” Jaskier tries. “We could talk, or, or read, or something else. We could watch tv, or-”

“Tv gives me a headache,” Geralt contributes.

“See, that is something I did not know about you,” Jaskier says. “What else gives you a headache?”

“Certain wines, sustained high-pitched noises,” she’s fighting a smirk, Jaskier can see it. “Dehydration.”

“Oh, have you forgotten to mention that you also breathe? Or eat? Really riveting conversation, Geralt. Thank you.” She scoots down the bed, and falls back against her pillow, curling up on her side. 

“You asked.”

“Yeah, rhetorically. To get a conversation going. Not for you to list off basic bodily functions." Geralt is right there, head turned to the side to smirk at her out of the corner of her eye. She's right there, looking soft and comfortable, and she could reach out and touch her at any time. 

"I'm so sorry, Jaskier," her voice is deep, feigning seriousness. "Please, tell me, what gives you a headache?"

"Okay, we can drop it, thank you Geralt." 

"I'm just trying to get to know you better," she turns her head all the way now, her gaze sincere. "I'm just trying to build our relationship."

"You're trying to rile me up," she retorts, before falling back into her habit of setting up conversational pins for Geralt to try and knock down. "I shan't fall victim to it. I shall rise above." This last part is said with a twinge of a British accent, and she feels Geralt shake once with laughter next to her. 

“Apologies, of course,” Geralt says, turning her head back up to face the ceiling. It’s silent for a beat, and then she says, apropos of nothing, “Wet hair in bed really bothers me.”

“Hmm?” It’s not that she’s not interested in Geralt’s idiosyncrasies; she’s distracted trying to figure out what has her glaring up like she’s trying to bring the roof down on top of them.

“It never used to,” Geralt continues. Every word sounds considered, measured, and Jaskier braces herself for whatever is coming. “But my daughter hated it, growing up. And she’d sing whenever I’d dry her hair. She thought I couldn’t hear her over the noise, she’d stop as soon as I turned it off.” Geralt is smiling fondly up at the ceiling now, words flowing more freely, and Jaskier is frozen in place. 

A kid. She never pictured Geralt as a mother, had always assumed they were mutual in their confirmed bachelorhood. 

“And, I don’t know, as she got older she started doing it herself and I kind of missed it. Now I can’t go to sleep with wet hair.” 

It’s a sweet story, and Jaskier knows, rationally, that she needs to take this as it was meant: an extension of friendship, an effort on Geralt’s part to build on whatever they have between them. She can feel her brain attempting to claw together a suitable response, but before she knows what she’s going to say she opens her mouth. 

“Where’s her dad?” Her eyes are fixed on Geralt’s profile in the dark. 

“Dead,” Geralt says. “Her mom, too.” Jaskier’s heart is thudding in her chest. “I was… a friend of the family, right place, right time.” 

“Thank you for telling me,” Jaskier whispers. There’s way more to this story, but she’s not asking Geralt for anything more than she’s willing to give. 

Geralt turns her head to grin at Jaskier. “Her name is Ciri. She’s 22 now, and the best thing to ever happen to me.” 

“I want to kiss you so bad right now,” Jaskier blurts out, and then has to brace for Geralt’s reaction. It doesn’t come for several seconds.

“Is this, um. Is this a MILF thing?” 

And she sounds so hesitant, but Jaskier cannot help the loud “Ha!” she lets out.

“No, Geralt,” she says, one hand coming up to rest near Geralt’s shoulder. “This isn’t a MILF thing, it’s a you trusting me with this thing. I may have a slight you thing, and am itching to know if it’s mutual or if I should back off. Or both, actually.” 

“Both would be okay?” Geralt asks, and her face is inscrutable in the dark. 

“If both is the truth, then both is perfect,” she winces slightly at the grammar there but lets it sit in the room with them for a moment. 

Geralt rolls up onto one elbow, and she shifts onto her back to keep her face in view. She’s sprawled under Geralt, and finds she doesn’t mind at all. Especially when fingers brush across her cheek on their way to tilt her chin upwards and Geralt’s mouth seals over hers.

The kiss is soft, delicate between them, and it stays that way until Geralt attempts to pull back. Then she hears herself whine and pulls Geralt back down, one arm draped across her shoulders and the other hand coming up to tangle in her hair. Geralt moans in response, pushing closer.

Jaskier isn’t sure how much time has passed when their kisses slow, both of them breathing hard. When she looks at Geralt, her eyes are shot wide, and she ducks in to press another kiss to Jaskier’s cheek.

Jaskier feels herself opening her mouth, feels her heart expanding and pushing words up and out before she has a full grasp on what they are.

"D'you like, like me?" Is what it ends up being, and she closes her eyes in embarrassment. 

“Yeah,” Geralt says.

“Okay,” she replies, and then gets in her head about it. “But I mean like, like like me though.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says seriously, only it’s followed by “I don’t know what that means,” and “but yeah.”

“Bullshit you don’t know what it means, you have a daughter,” Jaskier says, pushing herself up onto one elbow. Geralt moves back to accommodate her, but even so their faces are closer together. 

“Not everyone should know,” Geralt says into the space between them. “Don’t bring it up on the channel.” 

Jaskier takes the thoughts of Ciri, and she’s 22, and Geralt’s daughter and shoves the writhing mass into the corner of her brain marked Not For Public Broadcast. It shares a home with her exact geographical location and swears.

“Gotcha,” she says aloud. “We’re not on the channel now though. Tell me about her.” 

And Geralt says “Not much to tell,” which is how all of her good stories start, she has learned. 

She wriggles down until her arms are wrapped around Geralt’s waist and her head is serviceably on the pillow, but it’s still chiropractic relief when Geralt joins her in being horizontal a few moments later.

One night, somewhere in the Great Lakes, they meet up. Geralt takes her to a small pub on some backroad that they have to taxi to, leaving their cabs at a nearby rest stop. 

As they pull up, Jaskier peers out the window. It’s not fancy, but it’s nice is the thing. It has atmosphere. It’s shrouded by trees, seems like the kind of place to bottle their own jam, and Jaskier is entranced.

“I can see why you wanted to come here,” Jaskier murmurs as they walk up the path towards the door. “It’s lovely.” 

“Mmm,” Geralt hums, hands shoved deep in her pockets. She pulls one out to hold the thick wooden door open for Jaskier, half hiding behind it. Jaskier tries not to give her a funny look as she passes through the door, and isn’t sure how well she succeeds. 

They’re seated, and Geralt picks up the menu, flicking through it quickly before sitting it down again. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, reaching across the table to take her hand. “What’s going on?”

Geralt turns her hand up, taking Jaskier’s hand in hers. “I, um,” Geralt says in a low voice, like the words are being dragged out of her. “I don’t want you to touch me.”

“Oh, um,” Jaskier’s mind is blank. “Okay,” she says, and attempts to pull her hand out of Geralt’s where they’re resting on the table.

“No!” Geralt clutches at her hand, and Jaskier looks down to where they’re still touching, and then back at Geralt. Geralt holds her hand tightly, bringing her other hand up to enfold Jaskier’s. “That’s not -'' and there’s a wordless noise of frustration. 

“It’s okay,” Jaskier murmurs, leaning in closer. Their server is approaching their table, and Jaskier makes eye contact and shakes her head quickly. Then she turns all of her focus back toward Geralt. “I trust you,” she says calmly, despite her heart beating a tattoo in her chest. “Take your time. Do whatever you need to do.” Geralt’s eyes widen, and she nods, sliding her hands away from Jaskier’s, moving out of the booth they’re seated in and walking briskly to the bathroom.

Well.

Jaskier places her hands in her lap, sits and waits. It’s getting to the point where either Geralt has managed to wriggle through the bathroom window and escape, or she’s stress pooping. Jaskier figures it’s 50/50 either way.

She feels a buzz in her pocket, and pulls out her phone. She has a text message from an unknown number.

its hard, it reads. bcuz i like u. i like having sex. but i dont want 2 b touched like that.

Jaskier imagines Geralt painstakingly typing out each letter on her T9 keyboard, reading the words over and over, hitting send and feeling her stomach drop to her shoes.

Okay, she types back, as quickly as she can. Anything you don’t want, we don’t do. What do you mean, though? She hits send, winces, and types Just so I can respect your boundaries and hits send again.

There’s another pause, that she hopes is Geralt typing and not deciding that the window is a viable escape route. She puts her phone down on the table, and forces her hands still. Her leg bounces, but she’s written that off as a lost cause.

Her phone eventually buzzes on the table, and she picks it up, swiping to unlock it.

k ty it says. dont touch my genitals, i dont like it. never have. tits r ok.

Jaskier has to laugh, the absurdity of the situation hitting her.

Thank you for telling me, she sends.You don’t want to keep talking about this do you.

no she gets back. but ill answer ur qs.

She’s typing back a response when she feels a presence at her shoulder. She looks up to see Geralt sliding back into the booth, a small, pleased look on her face.

"Thank you," Geralt says. Sincerity is an emotion that looks good on her face. Jaskier doesn't know why she's surprised.

"Of course," Jaskier says, simply. 

"Not everyone -" Geralt starts, and then stops. "It's not a given," she finishes. "That people understand."

"Let's go with 'that people are understanding,'" Jaskier smiles. "It implies less of an expertise and more of a willingness to learn." And Geralt nods, a hard shake of her head. 

"OK," she says, just as the server approaches their table again.

Geralt orders a pasta dish made with rabbit and olives. Jaskier has a crisis of conscience and orders the ratatouille. They both order wine. Jaskier orders first, and goes for her favourite: the cheapest glass of white. Geralt, to Jaskier's surprise, takes the time to ask for a recommendation from the server. The two of them have a quick conversation about flavour pairings, notes and something about evolution, before Geralt settles on the house white as well.

"What was that?" 

Geralt glances at the table, before bringing her eyes up to Jaskier's. "I like wine," Geralt says defensively, a smile playing on the edges of her lips.

"That's more than liking wine," Jaskier says. "People who 'like wine' select their bottles because they have a poodle on the label. You," she points a finger at Geralt, "you are a wine snob, my friend."

"I like wine," Geralt repeats. "It's," and she pauses, like she's searching for the word. "Good." 

"Sorry, just want to double-check: you're happy with that diction?" And Geralt hums an affirmative, a small smile creasing around her eyes. 

It's hard to look away when their wine is brought over by the server, but she manages long enough to successfully pick up her glass and clink it back against Geralt's. She lets the resonating tone linger in the air, and waits for Geralt to cautiously take a sip, watching as she nods approvingly. 

"It's good. Try it."

Jaskier complies. It is good. Once upon a time she had enough of the requisite vocabulary to bullshit a two sentence review that would serve as small-talk for society's upper echelon, but for Geralt she feigns a contemplative expression, and says "mhmm, yes, strong notes of, of wine in this vintage."

Geralt laughs once, sharp, quick, and brilliant, before schooling her expression back to an attempt at neutral. 

“I know it’s, it’s not, um, exactly fair. What I’m asking,” Geralt’s face twists into a grimace, and Jaskier’s heart leaps into her hands to wrap them around where Geralt’s is resting on the table between them. Geralt isn’t looking at her, her eyes are trained on her wine glass. She’s sliding the base of the stem in small circles, watching as the liquid inside the glass sloshes from side to side. “I just-” and her eyes dart up to Jaskier’s briefly. 

“This is obviously an important conversation,” Jaskier says, holding her gaze across the table and her hand between her palms. “This is important, and I care about it. If you want to hash everything out, right here, right now, we can. Absolutely, we can. But we don’t have to. There will be opportunities to talk, we do all the time.” 

She’s getting into babbling territory, but it is so, so important that Geralt knows this. “Because I care, Geralt. What I don’t care about is any concept of ‘fair’ when it comes to you setting boundaries. I don’t care about that. I couldn’t. Yeah?”

“I don’t want to have this conversation on the radio,” Geralt mumbles. “I’m getting enough shit as is,” and what, okay, pin in that. “I know it’s not ideal, but here- here is best. For me.”

“Hold on,” Jaskier says, holding up one finger while picking up her phone from where it rests on the bench beside her. She flicks over to the open chat window, hits add contact, and types “Trucker MILF Hottie” into the name field. “Hey Geralt,” she says, which tears her gaze from where it’s been boring into the wood panelling surrounding them. “Could I like, call you sometime?”

Her heart melts when Geralt mumbles something about topping up her long distance minutes, and ultimately nods her head. 

Jaskier gets through the holidays, through the mandatory phone call from her parents on Christmas morning, through “if money is the issue we’ll happily loan you what you need, Julia”, through the weeks of increasing frenetic tension and dropping temperatures.

She refuses to sing any of the standard Christmas carols during her time on the airwaves, citing the fact that none of them hold up as good songs outside of the holiday.

She does do a little rendition of Bob and Doug McKenzie’s Twelve Days on the day of, though. It’s just for her, since Geralt has begged off calling or tuning in for the day. She said she’d be taking calls from family, since she won’t visit them until after the holidays - the extra pay is just too tempting. But she’s heard of her plans to take a few weeks off in March, where she’ll stay with her brothers and have Ciri visit for her reading week. 

Jaskier put it in her calendar, both happy for Geralt and filled with dread at the prospect of a full month of Geralt absent on the CB.

In January she asks Geralt for a picture.

“Just any photo of you,” Jaskier begs, Ohio whipping past. Geralt is somewhere in the Atlantic provinces, and their conversation despite the distance still feels as though she’s been granted access to an exclusive club.

She can’t stand whiskey or cigars, but she’d rock a smoking jacket.

“I don’t have a camera,” Geralt is saying through the bluetooth earpieces she bought during a grocery stop at Walmart. She’d left one of them on the passenger seat of Jaskier’s cab when they’d been able to meet for lunch together in New Jersey.

“At this point in our technological development that’s a personal shortcoming rather than an unfortunate circumstance.” The best gift Geralt could have given her is the ability to hear her put upon sighs otherwise masked by the sound of the engine. “Five year olds have cameras now, Geralt. I bet Ciri’s got three, at least. Ciri!” She smacks her hand on the edge of her wheel at her brilliance. “Ciri will send me a picture. Geralt,” she wheedles. “Get Ciri to send me a picture of you, please.”

“Why do you even want one,” Geralt grumbles. “You know what I look like.” 

“I want to set it as your contact photo,” Jaskier says. “So that every time you text or call your face comes up, and I’ll get used to it, and then when we meet in person I hopefully won’t be as starstruck and incoherent.”

“Jask,” Geralt says reproachingly. She sounds uncomfortable, just with that one word, and she lurches into a backpedal.

“I miss you, Geralt.” She says. “I miss you, and this way I’d get to see your face almost every day.” 

There’s a brief silence, and then Geralt’s voice comes in. “Alright,” she says. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Jaksier almost forgets about it, until one day in February she checks her texts and there’s one from an unknown number. She taps it open, leaning back in her seat when it just reads: 10-35 this Jaskier?

10-35 – sensitive information. Hoo-boy, okay, this will have to be handled with caution. She takes a deep breath, swipes the little keyboard into existence and types out No? What do you want with her anyway.

Phone in hand, she hops out of the truck, locking it as she strolls towards the rest stop bathroom. Geralt hates rest stop bathrooms; she’s told Jaskier proudly, on many occasions, the reasons she prefers to pee outside. Jaskier is expecting a STP funnel on her cab seat any day now.

They’ve had arguments about what constitutes adequate cover.

Her phone buzzes, and she swipes to unlock it as she steps into the women’s washroom.  There’s a small line waiting, and she adds herself to their numbers. The text reads Ok, lol, just checking, and the small indicator that the person is typing more pops up. Jaskier locks and shoves her phone in her back pocket, where it buzzes twice more as she moves further up the line. She does her business, goes through the gruelling ordeal of avoiding eye contact with the mirror while she washes her hands, and steps back outdoors. 

The winter air is cold, but the sweater she’s wearing protects her from most of it. She pauses on the sidewalk and slides her phone out of her pocket, trepidation pooling in her gut. 

No one can know you have these, the text reads, especially not Geralt. And then underneath that, a simple Agreed?

Well that depends on what ““these”” are, doesn’t it

To which she gets back Good answer, followed by a series of photographs, and a This is Ciri btw.

Jaskier starts power-walking back to her truck.

She heaves herself back up into the driver’s seat, thumb already motioning to bring the first image full screen. 

It's of Geralt, standing in a paddock, one hand coming up to scratch the horse next to her, the other pointing out into the distance. She's turned in profile, mouth open as though she's explaining something intently. Her… horse clothes? Are well-worn and tailored to her body, and Jaskier feels her mouth go dry. She wants to fall into the photo, push Geralt to the ground and take them off her with her teeth.

She swipes to the next photo. It's of Geralt, seemingly taken a few seconds after the first. She's noticed the photographer now, one hand coming up in an attempt to block the camera ineffectually as she glowers. 

She sets it as her home screen. 

The next image is a selfie taken by a young woman with her arm slung around Geralt's shoulders. Both of their eyes are dancing, their mouths turned down in a mocking moue of displeasure. They're on some kind of boat - a ferry? - with utilitarian raincoats on against the spray behind them. Their hoods are raised and cinched tight around their faces, the only identifying feature of the young woman being a faint scar that cuts across one of her eyes. 

She swipes to the last photo, eyes wide. It's of Geralt, kneeling and sitting back on her heels, back straight, hands resting on her knees. Her face and shoulders are relaxed, and she would look serene if not for the small smirk on her lips and the one eye she has open, glancing at the camera. 

Jaskier becomes aware of her aching back from where she's hunched over her phone, nose inches from the screen. She stretches in her seat, her spine pushing forward until her vision goes bright behind her eyes. She relaxes back, swiping a response on her keyboard.

I'll guard these with my life until Geralt notices my home screen, then all bets are off

And then, belatedly: THANK YOU, CIRI!!

She brings up the first photo and saves it, cropping it into a square around Geralt's ass. As she's setting it as Geralt's contact image a text comes in.

She taps the save button, and then flicks the notification from Geralt open. 

Did u get the pic?

She frowns down at her phone, navigating back to her texts from Ciri. There are still four pictures there, so she fires off a quick Why is Geralt asking about THE picture I received from you? to Ciri. 

Oh shit, forgot to send the pic I got Geralt to approve as a decoy she gets back, followed by another photo. It's from a few years ago - the young woman from the earlier photograph is younger, maybe 15, standing with Geralt in front of one of those hiking trail map kiosks. They're both caught in some kind of conversation,  Ciri with her mouth open, pointing at the map. Geralt is shrugging, an innocent expression on her face. They're both wearing functional outdoor clothes with large backpacks at their hiking-boot-covered feet. 

She saves all of her treasures to her phone, and puts Ciri's contact in. She really needs to get going, had only budgeted her time for a quick bathroom break, but she flips back to her messages with Geralt to confirm that yes, indeed, she has received the photo. She adds as many exclamation points as the situation warrants, which turns out to be nine of them.

Dandelion comes to life under her hands, and she eases her way out of the parking lot. 

Geralt's calling before she hits the highway. 

March approaches. Geralt's due to go off on her leave any day now, and Jaskier has been preparing. 

Emotionally, yes, it will be an odd change of pace from the routine they've hammered out over the last few months. But more importantly, if she puts in the work now, she'll have access to someone with access to Geralt and a camera phone. 

So she's been texting with Ciri. 

It's just been a casual back and forth so far, but she's confident that it will translate to a veritable trove of images when Ciri and Geralt are reunited. It's an investment, and also just been quite fun looking at her day-to-day through new eyes and finding what's interesting enough to share. Ciri sends photos of crowded lecture halls interspersed with expansive nature shots, and Jaskier responds in kind: images of roads and gas stations and various national parks. 

It's a good life she's carved out for herself, supplemented by daydreams of settling down somewhere in the Atlantic provinces one day, learning to knit and making Geralt a bulky fisherman's sweater. But for now, what she has is enough.