Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Winter in Temeria was a hell of a thing. The entire country was, broadly speaking, a damp and slightly rancid place. From the time of the first thaw until the Velen equinox, it was redeemable by virtue of the sweeping golden fields in the countryside and the lush, vibrant forests in the west. Come winter, however, the forests became gray, fractured matchsticks scratching at the sky, the golden fields rotting away into mud and gravel. Even when it wasn’t cold enough to set your teeth on edge it was wet, slimy and miserable. Humans and monsters alike tended to burrow into their respective hovels until the warm rays of the spring sun graced the region once again.

Which is why Geralt, finding himself deep in the south as autumn began turning the landscape around them a fetching red-gold hue, was in desperate need of some quick and easy work. Wintering in Kaer Morhen would be out of the question. There was no way that he could make it to the pass through the Kestrel Mountains before the winter snows claimed the valley. And besides that, he had a particularly aggressive tagalong that he suspected wouldn’t fare nearly as well as Roach might along the steep mountain trails. 

Said tagalong was standing besides Geralt at a notice board in the ramshackle town they’d stopped at for supplies, a pout on his youthful face. He crossed his arms over his chest, the deep navy of his current ensemble stained near black in places from the muck of their travels. “I just think,” he continued, resolutely ignoring the fact that Geralt was ignoring him, “that she cheated us of well-earned income. I mean, ‘a fearsome beast tearing apart the garden and scaring off the sheep.’ Those were her words! ‘Kill the beastie that’s ate my poor Bella.’ That was the job! It’s not our fault the culprit was a wild dog and not a bloody griffin.”

Geralt pulled a flyer down from the board, looking it over before turning it in Jaskier’s direction. “Caravan escort?”

The other man sniffed, eying the paper with a distrustful look. “The last one of those ended poorly. If they want entertainment that’s one thing.”

“Hmm. Roadside protection is asking too much?” He stuck the flyer back in its place, looking over the others again. Nothing too promising - someone asking for help with autumn logging, the herbalist looking for fool’s parsley, a dog gone missing. Not exactly witchers’ work, though he supposed he was reasonably skilled enough in alchemy to dig around for roots and plants if it came to that. 

“It’s not that it’s not a reasonable request,” Jaskier said. “They just always seem to want it for a very particular reason that they aren’t at all ready to discuss with the hired help. It’s just. Well. It’s one thing to prepare oneself for the inevitability of bandits on the road. Quite another to wake in the middle of the night with an assassin’s blade at your throat in nothing but your drawers.” Geralt shot him an amused look. “A situation that you handled admirably. Still. We wouldn’t be in these circumstances if that hag hadn’t skimped on us.”

“Hmm.” People rarely, if ever, paid what they said they would in Geralt’s experience. Once their fear of the monster was assuaged, their distaste for mutants resurfaced with a vengeance. They seemed to have little remorse about trying to weasel their way out of their agreements, though it happened with less and less frequency the longer Jaskier kept his company. 

Geralt glanced back at the bard as he turned away from the unhelpful notice board and back towards Roach. The man had been traveling off and on with him for some time now, though this latest stint had been longer than typical. They crossed paths often enough, but usually Jaskier would only spend a few weeks trekking after the witcher before disappearing back into civilization once again. He would spend his time on the road singing snippets of ballads, humming seemingly thoughtless tunes and plucking the strings of his lute absentmindedly. The witcher would have said that the bard used his time with Geralt to freeload if he didn’t inevitably hear the same snatches of song on the lips of strangers, even in the most remote parts of the land. And he had to admit, his purse had been significantly heavier, the eyes of strangers less accusatory, in the last few years than they had been in decades. 

Jaskier continued, unaware as ever of Geralt's internal musings. “She hired a witcher, and that’s what she should have paid for. I don’t think -” Jaskier was suddenly interrupted by a hand reaching out to snatch at the sleeve of his embroidered doublet. He made a small noise of surprise, likely in reaction both to the hand and to Geralt’s sudden move into his space as he faced the newcomer. “Excuse me!” the bard exclaimed, and Geralt was unsure whether it was directed at him or the assailant. 

Who, fortunately, turned out to be a pleasant looking middle aged woman, who quickly let go of Jaskier’s tunic when Geralt stepped forward. She backed away, shoulders drawn in fear. “F-forgive me, sirah, but if you please, I have a request for you?” 

She phrased the statement as a question, and Geralt attempted to relax his posture invitingly before he realized that her eyes were unfocused and clouded. She was blind. He cleared his throat. “Go on then.”

“Well, sir, um. I heard your companion -” she gestured vaguely in Jaskier’s direction, leaning around Geralt’s shoulder - “mention you work as a witcher? If that’s for true, I would ask for your help. We’ve not much by way of coin, but we’ll find some way to gather a nice pouch for you if you care to help us. We’ve been plagued for too long now, and I’m not sure how much more we can take.” Her hands twisted in her stained apron, which smelled faintly of flour and cloves. A baker, or a baker’s wife.

“What’s the problem?” he asked, cutting to the chase.

“A witch,” she said, her voice pitched slightly lower, as if she feared said witch was listening in. “It began with the chickens. She was takin’ em at night, to use in some foul ritual, and then a pig. And the animals in the wood have all run off, it seems. Samuel, our hunter, hasn’t found more than a few pheasants in weeks, and with the snows comin’ we’ll need meat to dry. A few of our men tried to confront her, and when they came back they were all foul tempered, mean spirited to a one whereas before they were gentle souls. I went to confront the wench myself, and she…” Here the woman grew quiet, drawing herself inwards as she reached up a hand to hesitantly touch below one of her sightless eyes. After a moment she shook herself and stood again, shoulders back in defiance of her plight. “Please, master witcher, help rid us of this scourge and we will find a way to repay you.”

Geralt opened his mouth to speak and found himself cut off by Jaskier, who was already pushing his way forward to gently take the woman’s hand in his own. “My lady, I give you my word that we will do everything in our power to help you with your plight. Consider it done.”

The woman looked near tears. “Oh, bless you both. Bless you.”

Geralt huffed, annoyed at Jaskier accepting his job for him despite the fact that he’d planned to say the same himself, though in significantly less words. “Fine.” Jaskier turned towards him with a bright grin. “Where can we find her?”

* * *

On the plus side, despite the fact that this witch seemed like, well, a bitch, they were typically easier to deal with than monsters. They usually wanted something, or were trying to get something, but they weren’t nearly as difficult to manage as a kikimora or, gods forbid, a sorceress. Most weren’t actually capable of going up against a professional witcher; their magics were more indirect in nature, a glimpse into the future here or slew of bad fortune there. Very few had anything approaching the battle magics wielded by true mages, or even the alchemical knowledge of a witcher. Most could be reasoned with, forced into moving on or, if necessary, put down with a bit of steel. Geralt was sincerely hoping that it wouldn’t come to the later in this case.

Which was why Jaskier had been allowed to tag along, much to Geralt’s chagrin. 

The bard, for his part, seemed happy to have been allowed to come. Despite his detailed and often blatantly exaggerated retellings of Geralt’s exploits, Jaskier was rarely allowed to actually come along for the battles themselves. He had, at this point, utterly perfected the art of sneaking after the witcher on hunts, staying far enough away that Geralt’s heightened senses wouldn’t pick up his presence and closing in when Geralt was distracted by his quarry. It had, to the witcher’s extreme annoyance, actually proved useful once or twice. It wasn’t that his life was typically in danger when he was injured in a fight, but. Well. Having someone around to help patch up his wounds and haul him back to an inn was an improvement on lying in the mud throwing back potions until he could stand again.

This time, Jaskier was traipsing along by the witcher’s side, after he had - again, much to Geralt’s annoyance - convinced the witcher that he would actually be an asset on this particular hunt. Geralt anticipated that this job would involve a lot more talking than fighting, and even he could admit where his skill set ended and Jaskier’s began. In spite of his frequent bouts of oversharing and his tendency towards nervous chatter, the bard was profoundly charismatic. Geralt was made keenly aware of this every time he found himself searching for Jaskier in a crowd or buying the man another round at the bar in spite of his own oft-light coin purse. It wasn’t his fault; Jaskier just did that to people.

He hoped it would come in handy this time around. He really didn’t want to have to kill this witch. 

“So, what do you think she’ll want?” Jaskier said, his eyes on his boots as he unsubtly moved through the underbrush. He’d recently been convinced to finally purchase a pair suitable for traveling, and had immediately had them dyed an aggressive shade of mauve. “New dress? Pearl earrings? Our first born sons?”

“Witchers can’t have children,” Geralt corrected absentmindedly, holding a branch back so that Jaskier could pass. “And I’m assuming you’ve already fathered many.”

The bard spluttered indignantly at him, and Geralt turned around to hide his smirk. He paused suddenly, holding a hand out towards Jaskier to stop both his squawks of protest and his forward momentum. It said much about Jaskier’s character and his time with Geralt that he halted immediately. “I think we’re here.” 

The cottage was small, almost cozy, with smoke curling lazily out of the chimney and ivy clutching the west facing wall. It looked more like a place that someone’s elderly relative might retire to than a witch’s hovel. 

“Looks like a nice place to settle down,” Jaskier pipped, echoing Geralt’s thoughts uncannily. “Should we knock?”

Geralt held up a finger and Jaskier quieted, allowing the witcher to listen. He closed his eyes, breathing slowly through his nose as he peeled away the layers of noise around them. A witcher’s senses were sharp, but often finding specific information in the cacophony of life was like searching for a needle in a haystack. It took years of training to learn how to turn the blunt instrument of their broad senses into a finely honed scalpel. Geralt fell into that place as he had so many times before, concentrating on the house and everything in it. The thick smell of honeysuckle from the plants growing against the side of the cabin, the sweet scent of cedar and pine, the faint rust of old blood. Rustling leaves, the muffled snap of wood burning. No shuffling footsteps, no soft sighs. No heartbeat, fluttering quickly away in comparison to the slow rush in his own ears. 

“She’s not here,” he said a moment later, satisfied that the witch was nowhere in the immediate vicinity. “Stay put. I’ll see if I can find out where she went.” 

“Tch,” Jaskier said, for once following directions as he leaned against a nearby tree. “Out looking for babies to gobble up, perhaps?”

“You’re thinking of witchers,” Geralt quipped, already checking for footprints around the stoop. Jaskier barked a laugh behind him. 

“I had no idea your diet was so restrictive,” the bard replied, mirth coloring his tone. “It’s an honest mixup, you see, witches and witchers.”

It was novel, still, having someone to jest with while in moments like these. Geralt looked up to find Jaskier watching him with an amused expression, something soft in his gaze that Geralt had seen before. It always lingered with him when Jaskier inevitably moved on. He could say with absolute certainty that no one else had ever looked at him like that - with an utter lack of fear and pure, open affection. Feeling off balance, Geralt tried to focus back on what he was doing, away from Jaskier’s too-blue eyes.

This, too, was part of the reason Jaskier wasn’t invited on hunts.

The man was… distracting. Geralt wasn’t sure exactly why. He was loud, and annoying, and occasionally disarmingly funny. And sometimes, when Geralt brushed a leaf out of his hair and Jaskier turned to him with a grateful smile that was devoid of nervousness and the sunlight through the trees made his skin honeyed gold, he was very… something. Something distracting.

It wasn’t great for Geralt’s concentration. 

That’s what he would blame it on, later, when he was cursing himself for not noticing her approach. Jaskier was too busy thinking of something else snappy to say about witchers kidnapping children, and Geralt was too busy not-thinking about the way Jaskier’s eyes shone when he laughed, and the witch walked up already fuming. 

She was tall, almost as tall as Geralt, with brown hair woven through with silver cord and viney tattoos winding up her arms. At first they looked to be flower designs, but Geralt’s keen eyes could make out small, detailed runes etched out between the artwork. The witch’s bright blue eyes, cold as chips of Yuletide frost, bore into him intensely. “You are trespassing,” she said sharply, sliding her hand into a woven bag she had draped over one shoulder. “I told you all not to return here.”

Geralt stood slowly, resisting the urge to look towards Jaskier. From where she was standing, it was possible that the witch could not see him, hidden as he was in the shadows of the forest. She had emerged from another path that came around the backside of the house. Based on her equipment, it looked like she’d been hunting for herbs, possibly near the river to the north of the town. “Folks from the village sent us to discuss the… situation,” he said slowly. “W- I don’t want any trouble.”

The witch gave him a disbelieving glare. “Trouble is all I get these days, witcher. Don’t look surprised, I’ve heard the songs. I’m not a complete recluse. I know the White Wolf, as they call you, or the Butcher of Blaviken. I suppose I should be honored that you’ve graced my small corner of the world.” She spat the words at him, sneering. “Tell those simpering peasants that if they want to burn me at the stake they’ll have to come and light the tinder themselves.”

Geralt sighed. This was more antagonism than he’d hoped to start out with. “Haven’t heard anything about stakes. They just want you to stop stealing chickens.”

“The blood was for protection rites, to protect my home from the whoresons that have given me no rest since I arrived. They came a fortnight back with accusations on their tongues and clevers in their hands, and I turned their fury back towards those they love.” She smirked. “I thought it was poetic.”

“People are always spiteful,” Geralt said, annoyed. “You can’t pay them back in kind.” He wasn’t unsympathetic, of course. Throughout his life he had more often than not been spat on and cursed at whenever he showed his face around humans. They knew that he was other, sensed how dangerous he could be if he decided to turn his skills on the ones who fed him. In his experience, this did not make them more cautious in his presence. People reacted to fear with violence in most cases. But the only appropriate response was to turn the other cheek. He could cleave through an angry mob without a second thought, destroy an entire village if it struck his fancy, but it was not what he had been made for. He had refused to let himself be molded into a monster for decades. The least this woman could do was try the same.

The witch broke him from his frustrated thoughts with a snort. “Easy for you to say. Always moving, never in one place for long. People call you a hero. ‘Friend of humanity.’” She scoffed. “They call me a devil. I could help them, and instead they cast stones my way. No,” she said, eyeing him coldly. “I will not bow to them.”

“I can’t let you continue to do them harm.” He felt tired. This wasn’t how he’d wanted this to go. Against his will, he found himself looking in Jaskier’s direction, and found the bard looking back at him with wide eyes. He seemed conflicted, his hands wringing the strap of his lute case nervously as he looked between Geralt and the source of the witch’s voice. Debating whether to try and step in, solve things diplomatically, Geralt realized. He shook his head slightly, and Jaskier nodded, though his brow furrowed in distress. When Geralt looked back to the witch she was watching him with an expression of disgust. 

“You’re just like them,” she said, her voice angry and filled with grief. “No one understands. No one sees .” She drew herself up, pulling her hand from her bag. In it she clutched a handful of items - herbs, some kind of stone, and what looked like a human ear. “Very well. If you can hear no foul lies and see no bright pyres, you’ll do less harm to me and mine.” She raised her hand.

Several things happened in rapid succession. Geralt drew his silver sword, and ring of metal on metal echoing through the clearing as the witch tossed the objects into the air. He rushed towards her, raising his hand to begin etching the sign of quen . From his left there was a burst of noise, and he had time to think, ah, Jaskier just as the bard tackled the witch to the ground. She landed with a cry and quickly elbowed him in the jaw, a surprising move from someone so slight. Jaskier tumbled off of her from the force of it, and she turned back towards Geralt. Her eyes were full of fury as she opened her mouth and shouted a word.

Geralt’s sword swung down towards her neck, and the world went dark.

Chapter Text

It took him several moments to realize that he was not, in fact, unconscious. The world had gone dark in a way that he had seldom experienced in his life after facing the Trials. It was rare that he found himself in a place where no light was to be found at all, and even then the careful application of Cat was usually enough to help him find his way. Now, though, it was as if he had been suddenly plunged into the deepest cave. He could hear nothing, not the rustle of the forest he’d stood in or the quick, anxious sound of Jaskier’s breathing. 

His initial assumption was that he had been teleported, though he had never known a witch to possess the skill. He also didn’t remember the sickening rush of air past him that typically signaled passage through a portal, for which he was grateful. The smell of the forest was still thick around him, which meant he must still be close by. He could smell Jaskier too, the sour of fear-sweat as well as the sweet almond perfume he had put on that morning. It would have been a relief if not for the thick, cloying smell of fresh blood that flooded his senses. 

“Jaskier,” he said, or attempted to say. No sound came forth, though he could feel the vibration in his throat and the air moving past his lips. He frowned, attempted, “Jaskier,” again, louder this time. Still, nothing.

He felt a sudden hand grip his bicep, and he would have raised the sword still gripped in his other hand if the almond and sunlight scent of Jaskier hadn’t been so close. Geralt reached out automatically instead, finding the bard’s shoulder. He could feel Jaskier’s quick breaths ghosting over his skin, though he could hear nothing.

“Jaskier,” he said, still hearing nothing at all. “I can’t hear you. Are you alright?” A pause, and no response. Oh. “Uh. Tap my shoulder if you can hear me.”

The hand on his bicep disappeared only to tap once, hesitantly, on his shoulder.

“Hmm. Witch dead?” 

A longer pause, and then another tap. Geralt felt a swell of bittersweet relief. At least the job was done, and he wouldn’t have to try and fight the witch in whatever passed for his current state. “We still in the same place?” he asked.

Another tap.

His stomach sank. If that was the case, it meant that it was still daylight in the forest, and he could see nothing. Clearly, the witch had cursed him. That was… unfortunate, to say the least. 

He fell into a crouch, reaching towards the sticky blood smell before him. He felt the rough fabric of the witch’s cotton dress at his fingertips, and pat his way down her sides until he found the bag that she had been carrying. As he did so, he said, “Find the objects she threw when she cast, if you can. A stone, maybe an ear.”

He found himself waiting to hear Jaskier’s response and sighed in frustration when he realized it would not make an appearance. Already this was a nuisance. Instead of trying to find out if Jaskier was following instructions for once, he continued searching the witch. She had a pouch on her belt that was filled with smooth objects, either stones or animal bones, he expected, as well as several flat disks that he thought might be amulets. He collected them all, along with the bag of herbs and spell components, and turned back towards the direction of Jaskier’s almond perfume. “Find anything?”

A long moment, and then he felt a footstep near his knee where it rested on the ground. A second later long fingers tapped once on his shoulder. 

“Good. We need to go back to town.” He stood and held out the objects he’d collected in Jaskier’s general direction, and was relieved when the other man took them out of his hands without protest. Geralt disliked bringing equipment beyond his swords and potions with him on hunts, so Jaskier was the one carrying a bag. He turned away, attempting to roughly retrace his steps back towards where he thought he remembered the path being, but felt a hard tug on his shirtsleeve. He stopped more out of politeness than anything else.

Jaskier released the grip on his sleeve only to take Geralt’s hand, warm skin against his fingers as they were pulled away from his palm. Geralt waited, head turned curiously to the side. He felt the bard put a finger in the middle of his hand, and then a very emphatic question mark was traced onto his skin. Ah.

“It’s a curse,” he said with a sigh. “Until it fades I can’t see or hear. We’re going to go back to the village and see if we can wait it out, and if not we’ll ask if they have anyone who can lift it. Alright?”

There was a heavy pause that Geralt assumed was filled with Jaskier telling him exactly what he thought of the entire situation. He found himself extraordinarily grateful that for once he didn’t actually have to hear it. Silver linings. Finally there was a tap on his shoulder, as if Jaskier had finally remembered that was what Geralt was waiting for. The witcher nodded and turned back to the forest, and promptly walked face first into a tree.

Fuck.

“Fuck,” he said aloud, for clarification. There was no evidence to support it, but he could sense Jaskier laughing at him.

* * *

They ended up making their way back to the village hand in hand, much to Geralt’s embarrassment. Unfortunately there was nothing for it. Though his remaining senses were still as sharp as ever, there was only so much he could tell through smell. If he focused, he could guess how far away a tree was and he had little trouble locating Jaskier, but moving quickly was out of the question. Like all of his brothers, he had learned to fight while blinded, but rarely did these training sessions remove their hearing as well. When he was nearing the end of his training there had been a few weeks where sparring was done with a blindfold on and beeswax stuffed in his ears, as he tried to sense where attacks were coming from based on the air moving against his skin.

He’d been pretty shit at it, and had taken comfort in the fact that he would likely never have to fight in such conditions. The life of a witcher was truly one of unpleasant surprises. 

Fortunately Jaskier seemed to be taking it all in stride, though it was difficult to tell when he couldn’t see the man’s face or hear his complaining. They’d settled on a basic system of communication: one tap for yes, two for no, three for danger. Geralt fervently hoped that they would not have to use the third signal anytime soon.

Jaskier led him through the woods with few issues, keeping mostly to the deer trail they had used to make their way to the witch’s hut. Geralt could tell when they reached the main road once again, feeling the ground even out beneath his feet and the dense smell of the autumn forest fade slightly. He felt a gentle tug where Jaskier’s hand was clasped around his wrist, urging him on in the direction of the town.

The smell of people grew stronger as they approached, until finally Jaskier pulled to a stop in front of him, causing Geralt to bump into his back. He grumbled, annoyed. He made to move forward again but was stopped by Jaskier’s hand, settling firmly just under Geralt’s breastbone. A clear request for him to stop.

For some reason, the simple touch made him feel alarmingly out of breath.

Fortunately the sensation faded quickly as he realized that Jaskier must be talking with someone. He crossed his arms to wait, hoping that the bard had enough sense to be asking someone about either their pay or the curse. Technically they had done the job. The witch certainly wouldn’t be bothering anyone anymore, unless that someone was Geralt. Gods willing they could take their coin and find an inn to crash in for a few days, and hopefully the curse would lift on its own. As Jaskier took his hand again to lead him along the village’s dirt roads, Geralt adamantly hoped that was how it would play out.

* * *

The curse did not lift on its own.

The two of them spent the next several days at the local inn, which if the smell was anything to go by was much closer to a barn than anything else. Still, they had beds and the food was warm, which was more than could be said for nights on the road. And most importantly, the inn was a secure place to wait out the curse.

Often, curses such as these were self-limiting. Sustaining any magic took energy. Sorceresses and mages gave up much to expand their own resources, and the energy for their spells was pulled directly from their own Chaos. It made their magics powerful but volatile, which was why there were so few of them. More casual magical practitioners learned to pull Chaos from other things to fuel their spells. The energy had to come from somewhere, which was why animal sacrifice was so often a part of ritual casting. Plants could sometimes work as well, if the spell was particularly suited to it or if the energy requirements were small. Even a witcher’s Signs drew on the energy reserves of the caster, though the exchange was different than that of a mage. A permanent curse either needed one large sacrifice of energy at its inception, or it would draw on the lifeforce of the one who had received it.

Geralt didn’t feel like his life force was being slowly drained away. Mostly he felt very bored. It had been three days, so far as he could tell, and he had spent most of the time in meditation. Jaskier had been in and out of the room in that time, mostly present in the morning before he would disappear to run errands or bother the townspeople or whatever it was Jaskier did when Geralt wasn’t around. He knew that Jaskier had been playing some in the inn, because when he returned to the room at night he smelled the way he always did after performing - the sweet tang of exertion, lemon from the scented oil he used on his lute, and the beer he never managed to not spill on himself at some point. In the afternoons, he stayed in the room while Geralt meditated or sharpened his blades (again), plucking strings that the witcher couldn’t hear. 

It had been three days, and the curse showed no signs of improvement. Geralt was going to lose his mind if he didn’t leave this damn room, and he was tired of waiting for things to get better. If the curse was going to lift on its own it could do so just as well on the road as here, and if it wasn’t then they needed to start moving now to find a way to lift it. When he’d asked Jaskier whether there was another witch or magic user nearby, he had received a sharp double tap, so they needed to look beyond the immediate area. Deep as they were in the south, Anchor was probably the nearest settlement that qualified as a town and not a village, and it was a good ten days ride north. Once there, however, it was only a few days hard ride to Vizima.

On the morning of the fourth day, Geralt began packing his bags, doing so by muscle memory more than anything. He felt Jaskier’s fingers brush the back of his hand, his initial hesitation faded after the days that they’d been forced to communicate by touch. Geralt found the new physical closeness disorienting, though he attempted to remain clinical about the situation. Now he felt Jaskier turn his hand over and once again press a question mark into his palm.

“We need to move on,” Geralt said. “The curse isn’t lifting on its own. We’ll go to Anchor, hope there’s a more amiable witch there that will help.”

A pause, and then against his palm, more tracing. 

H. O. W.

Geralt released a breath through his nose sharply. “I don’t know, Jaskier. We’ll make do. I’ll ride on Roach, and you can lead her.”

He wasn’t sure if Jaskier had a way of manifesting his emotions in the air or if Geralt was just very good at anticipating his reactions by now, but the grim disbelief in his lack of response was palpable. 

“It’ll be fine, bard. She’ll listen to you.” He finished putting his potions and clothes back neatly in his bag, everything approximately where it should be. “We’ll take it slow. Get ready and be in the stables in fifteen minutes.” It would be closer to thirty if past experience was anything to go by, but he also expected it to take him some time to find the stables and ready Roach on his own. He picked up his bag and exited the room, leaving Jaskier’s pouting behind him. He tried not to let it bother him that he felt disappointed, for some reason, that he couldn't see it.

They set off for Anchor.

* * *

It was remarkable how quickly he and Jaskier established something of a routine on the road. After years of living off and on in each other’s space, it maybe shouldn’t have come as such a surprise that they were so easily able to adjust to the new normal. Hunting proved to be an issue, though Geralt was still decently capable when it came to fishing and they were able to stretch out their stockpile of dried meats and winter vegetables a bit. During the day, they stayed mostly on the road, Jaskier leading while Geralt stayed atop Roach. In the evenings, or whenever Jaskier decided to stop, they would carefully set up camp. Jaskier took to drawing crude imitations of Signs on Geralt’s palm when he wanted an area cleared with aard or the fire set alight with igni . Geralt followed the bard’s mimed instructions as best as he could, trying to remain helpful even in his cursed state. 

It was odd traveling with Jaskier and not hearing him chattering incessantly. It should have made him seem like a quieter presence. Technically, he was. There were no searching notes plucked from the lute as they walked along, no bombardment of questions about monster physiology or his latest contract. And yet despite the persistent silence, Geralt felt keenly aware of Jaskier in a way he never had before.  

It was just… the bard touched him now, all the time. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t ever touched before. Far from it. Jaskier had always been aggressive about invading Geralt’s space with an utter disregard both for propriety and his own personal safety. Even Yennefer and Triss, who were both powerful enough to reduce Geralt to ash if they decided they prefered him that way, were not so bold in their advances. It wasn’t that they were afraid of him, of course. But the act of touch was always done deliberately, with careful consideration of the consequences. Good or bad. 

Jaskier had always touched him like he forgot he shouldn’t. As if his default was touching Geralt - setting a calming hand on his wrist, slapping him on the shoulder in a fit of good spirits, reaching for his arm when the bard was nervous or frightened. There was no careful forethought to how or why. It just happened. 

And Geralt didn’t read too much into it. The bard was touchy with everyone, from Novigrad whores to surly innkeepers and beyond. He invaded people’s space like he had already conquered them, and they let him in without a thought because. Because it was Jaskier . It wasn’t always about flirting, either, though there was plenty of that. Jaskier just liked people, and people liked him, and they wanted to touch him and be touched in return. Geralt should have been annoyed by the constant pokes and bumps and prods. Most people he came across shied away on instinct, and those that didn’t stood in his path out of spite. But because it was Jaskier, Geralt just found himself grateful that the bard was kind enough (or stupid enough) to lay hands on a witcher without fear. 

Now, though. Now Jaskier touched him incessantly, and it was slowly driving Geralt to distraction. Any time he wasn’t on Roach’s back he had Jaskier’s hand wrapped around his wrist or, even more devastatingly, his fingers threaded through his own. Geralt learned to listen to Jaskier through his touch. A downward press against his shoulder meant sit please , a brush of fingers against his knuckles meant hold out your hand . A gentle touch against his lower back was move , a tap on his chest, stop . Jaskier hadn’t managed to find an easy way of saying everything is okay , but Geralt had learned that when he felt a palm pressed to the side of his jaw, Jaskier was just fine. 

So it wasn’t as if he and the bard had never touched before, far from it, but now Geralt awaited every brush of fingertips with anticipation. He felt like an exposed nerve, each gentle and unobtrusive touch coming as a shock despite his expecting it. 

On top of this, he was also just… restless. Though focusing on the varied smells on the road to Anchor proved nearly as interesting as the typical sights and sounds, travel was distressingly tedious without Jaskier’s cacophony of complaints and exclamations. Geralt had assumed that it would be similar to the weeks or months that he often traveled alone, something that he had grown less and less fond of over the years but no less capable of managing. Instead, he felt robbed of the conversation he could have been having, one-sided as it so often seemed. Coming up with ways to insult Jaskier was not nearly as entertaining when he could hear no jabs in response. 

He just missed the distraction, that was all. Despite Geralt’s claims to the contrary, Jaskier was a decent traveling companion most of the time. And if he also missed hearing Jaskier’s clear voice call out in excitement when he saw something interesting, or the way his eyes lit up with mischief when he thought of a particularly scathing rejoinder, well. Some things were best not to dwell on.

When they stopped for the third night on the road and the smell of leftover fish filled their little camp, Geralt was not surprised to feel Jaskier’s hand alight on his shoulder. He was surprised when, a moment later, it migrated to his hair. He’d been wearing a loose approximation of a ponytail for the last few days, unable to really see what he was doing enough for anything more complex. He felt sure hands pull the tie keeping it in place away, and moments later deft fingers were carding through the tangled strands. 

Geralt felt like he was going to crawl out of his own skin. “Jaskier, what are you -” he started, but was stopped when a hand pulled away to tap against his back. Stop . 

Well, fine. He grumbled a bit but settled into Jaskier’s ministrations. A shudder stirred deep in his chest as blunt nails scraped along his scalp, and it took all of his witcher training to push it down. Jaskier had helped wash his hair plenty of times in the past, but as with so many other things, it felt different in the quiet darkness imposed upon him by the curse. Maybe if he could hear Jaskier making glib comments Geralt would be able to distract himself from the way his skin felt tight and raw. As it was he had nothing else to focus on besides the sensation of quick fingers pulling sections into what Geralt assumed was a braid of some kind. 

He imagined, for a moment, that he was the kind of person who experienced this type of casual intimacy on a regular basis. That’s what humans did, right? Mothers hugged their sons when they came home from a day’s work in the fields, sisters clasped arms as they walked through the market, lovers embraced after time apart. He thought maybe, if he thought back far enough, he could remember something like this - his mother with her hands in his hair, pushing it back from his forehead, caressing his cheek with wry affection. No one had touched him like that since then.

He felt fingers brush over the curve of his ear and he exhaled sharply. Well. No one, until Jaskier. 

When the deed was done the bard pat his shoulder once, a broad, friendly gesture that had Geralt reeling after the soft touches of before. As he was trying to recover, a palm was pressed briefly to his jaw, warm and reassuring. Everything is fine . 

Geralt readied himself for sleep in the imposed isolation of the curse and thought that actually, it really wasn’t.

Chapter Text

Geralt realized that they were approaching Anchor long before Jaskier did. Under normal circumstances he might not have noticed it, but focused as he was on the scents surrounding him he easily picked up the faint traces of people in mass on the breeze. Typically it wasn’t a truly welcome smell; Geralt disliked cities on principle. They were too loud and too bright, filled with people that he couldn’t determine the motivations of and monsters that hid in plain sight. He prefered the blunt wilderness, where every creature lived on pure instinct - eat, mate, survive. It didn’t make the fights easier, but it made them easy to understand.

Jaskier led them quickly to an inn, where the thick smell of cooking meat and fresh bread replaced the sour, dirty smell of the town’s main road. Cities, Geralt mused, weren’t all bad, particularly if he could get a hot meal and a bath out of the visit. And they had the added benefit of halting Jaskier’s complaints about dirt under his nails, at least for a bit. Not that Geralt could currently hear them.

It was still fairly early when they arrived in town. After storing their effects safely in the inn, Jaskier led Geralt out and down the main road once again. Before long the dense smell of people was joined by the sweet aroma of honey glazes, jams and warm dough. People brushed past him constantly, and he was glad of Jaskier’s hand around his wrist to keep himself firmly grounded. They stopped occasionally, presumably while Jaskier chatted with various merchants in the - square? marketplace? After several minutes of walking around Geralt felt something soft and slightly sticky pushed into his free hand, and he grunted in annoyance. 

“Jaskier, you’re supposed to be asking about healers. Not sweet rolls.” Jaskier patted his arm, consoling, and Geralt glowered in what he hoped was the bard’s direction. As Jaskier began to pull him along once again, he reluctantly bit into the roll in his hand. It was delicious, subtly packed with spices and coated in a thin sugar glaze. They probably couldn’t afford to spend money on something like this, but Jaskier always enjoyed the finer things.

A few hours passed, and eventually they made their way back to the inn. Once in their room, Geralt said, “Did you find anything?”

There was a quick tap on his shoulder. Yes . Geralt nodded, relieved. “Assuming we’ll go tomorrow.” Another tap. “Is it another witch?”

There was a moment of hesitation, and then a double tap, negative. 

Geralt frowned. “Healer?” This time there was a single affirmative tap, and he nodded again. “Fine. First thing in the morning.”

That night, Geralt stayed down in the tavern attached to the inn while Jaskier performed. While in the previous village he had taken his meals alone in the room while the bard charmed people out of their hard earned coin. Tonight, he was faced with a much more crowded room, judging by the smell. The idea of trying to make his way through the throng without Jaskier’s assistance was unappealing, and the ale was fair. Geralt sat in the booth Jaskier had pushed him into nursing his pint, and waited for the end of the set.

It was exceptionally strange to experience Jaskier performing when he couldn’t hear him. Though he didn’t admit it out loud, the bard was a captivating presence on stage. His voice was simple but clear, never faltering, and his enthusiasm for the songs and the audience was infectious. Geralt often found himself tapping a toe along to the more upbeat tunes despite himself, watching Jaskier as he bobbed around the room. Sometimes Jaskier would look at him with a wink when he mentioned the White Wolf in a ballad, and Geralt would have to turn into his tankard to avoid smiling, or worse, blushing like a youth. 

Now, though, he could only imagine Jaskier’s sly glances as he sat in his booth. During the rowdier songs he could pick up the beat by the sensation of vibrating floorboards as people stomped their feet joyously. The smell of human excitement filled the room, the sharp smell of sweat and enthusiasm. If he concentrated he could almost feel Jaskier’s voice in the air, weaving a greatly exaggerated narrative of his own exploits no doubt. It made something in Geralt’s chest ache dully, though he wasn’t sure why.

When Jaskier finally pulled them through the crowd to their shared room, Geralt felt more intoxicated than the handful of ales he’d had should allow for. A strange sort of frustration filled his chest. When the door closed behind them he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Instead Jaskier’s scent flooded his awareness, sending him even further off balance. He felt Jaskier reach out to touch the side of his jaw a moment later, the soft we’re alright pressed into his skin with hesitation, like a question. Before he could stop himself Geralt found that he had reached out in response, seeking Jaskier’s heartbeat as he pressed his palm to the other man’s chest. He felt a subtle vibration there, like the shudder through the floorboards downstairs that spoke of Jaskier’s singing, and he realized with a start that the bard was still speaking even though Geralt couldn’t hear him.

The sensation abruptly cut off. Feeling slightly beside himself, Geralt said, “Could you sing?”

There was a long moment of hesitation where Geralt wondered if he could perhaps disappear and live the rest of his life as a blind, deaf hermit in the woods. Then the hum resumed under his fingers, rising and falling, hypnotic. When Jaskier pitched his voice low, the sound echoed through his ribcage and shook under Geralt’s palm, only to fall to a whisper on the higher notes. He stood with his hand pressed against the base of Jaskier’s throat as the bard sang, feeling the blood rushing beneath in counterpoint to the vibration. After a few minutes, or perhaps even longer, the hum faded, and Geralt was left with nothing but the sensation of Jaskier’s heavy breaths.

Geralt reluctantly went to move his hand but was stopped by Jaskier’s own palm pressing it back into place. Geralt felt a flush creep up his neck, and he fervently hoped that the room remained dark enough to hide it from Jaskier’s human eyes. He was intensely aware of the bard's breath ghosting over his cheek, the rapid drumbeat of the other man’s heart under his palm. After a moment Jaskier released him, and Geralt retreated slightly, feeling nearly dizzy at the sudden loss of contact. He cleared his throat. “I’m going to meditate. Goodnight.” He didn't wait for a tap in response, unable to stand the thought of Jaskier’s skin against his again so soon. Shuffling a few feet away, he settled into a meditative crouch and tried to ignore the way his hand still felt warm where it had been pressed against Jaskier’s chest.

The bard did not touch him again that night, and Geralt wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved.

* * *

The healer that Jaskier had found lived a ways away from the large town. Geralt knew that it was a ways away because he and Jaskier had been walking along a ragged path through the woods for the last half an hour. The forest was already dominated by the thick smell of rotting leaves, the air here promising the coming of winter in a way that it hadn’t in the south. The damp chill nipped at any exposed skin. It wasn’t enough to bother a witcher, but Geralt hoped that Jaskier had thought to borrow his thicker cloak. Humans were distressingly prone to disease once the weather turned.

Despite Jaskier’s hand in his, it was slow going on the trail. If he didn’t move carefully, any raised root or bush could trip him. Each step was exploratory, his weight kept firmly back until he knew that the ground before him was solid. Jaskier tried to help by leading him around obstacles in their path, but it was difficult for him to communicate exactly what lay in their way. It was several frustrating hours before they reached their destination, and Geralt knew that it would be no better heading back. 

There was no sharp, ozone smell of magic around the hut when they arrived. Instead, the various earthy scents of herbs permeated the area, speaking to the variety of the healer’s remedies. Geralt followed Jaskier past the threshold, the crisp autumn air fading as the warmth from the interior of the hut rose to meet them. He stood for a few minutes as Jaskier presumably conversed with the healer, and then he was pushed into a chair by insistent hands.

The next several hours were a test on his patience. He was poked, prodded, turned this way and that, his ears and eyes examined thoroughly. Determined hands - not Jaskier’s - poured several different concoctions down his throat, none of which seemed to have the desired effect. Finally the ministrations stopped.

Instead, thin fingers reached for his hand and wrapped it around a wooden shaft. By the weight of it he thought it might be something like a bo staff, perhaps a foot shorter than he. The hands showed him how to slide the staff out before him to check the way forward, as elders often did with canes. Geralt had to admit that it was a good solution, and perhaps one that he should have thought of sooner. He had been trained to use a staff for combat, of course, so the weight of it was comfortable to him, and being able to step more surely would certainly be a boon. 

Forced to accept that the healer could do nothing more for them, Jaskier and Geralt set off back towards Anchor and their lodgings. Their time was significantly improved as Geralt quickly learned to test the space before him before stepping. He still stumbled occasionally when the ground became uneven, but there was less of a risk of him tripping bodily over a stone or running into a tree face first. 

He tried not to feel relieved when Jaskier took his hand again to steer them in the direction of the inn.

* * *

Unfortunately the fact that the healer had been unable to help left them back at square one. So far as Jaskier had been able to convey, there were no magic users currently in residence in Anchor, and Geralt assumed that any other healers would be even less helpful than this one. Traveling to Vizima was the next logical step, but the path between Anchor and the larger city was a notoriously dangerous one. The Magpie Forest to the north was always running rampant with wolves, ghouls and wraiths, and Vizima Lake sometimes felt like it had more drowners prowling around than Skellige. Bandits were less of an issue, but with so many nobles and merchants coming from Cidaris and Novigrad it was still a definitive threat. He’d been less concerned about the path from the south, scattered as the villages there tended to be, but the three or four day ride ahead of them would be difficult in his current state. 

Geralt sat cross legged in the middle of their shared room, pulling potions out of his pack to double check. He could still easily tell them apart by smell, and he weighed each in his hand to test their capacity. As he said so, he cleared his throat awkwardly. “I need to go to Vizima,” he said to the silent room. “To see Triss.” He tapped one of the potion bottles in his hand restlessly before forcing himself to still. “She should know how to break this fucking curse.”

He felt a thump in front of him as Jaskier sat across from the potions. He could picture the bard perfectly, if he tried - blue eyes wide and inquisitive as Geralt spoke, hair in disarray from their brief walk through the woods. Jaskier typically did most of the talking in their relationship, but whenever Geralt did speak the bard would go quietly attentive, his full focus on the witcher. Frequently it didn't seem to matter much what Geralt actually said. Jaskier would do as he pleased, regardless, but he still listened to Geralt like he was being told the greatest story he’d ever heard.

Geralt had never realized how much time he spent just looking at the bard, but apparently it had been a frankly embarrassing amount.

Jaskier had not moved to make any sort of contact with him, so apparently he was still waiting for Geralt to continue. He cleared his throat again. “Vizima takes you further from Oxenfurt. The road will be dangerous. If you’re going to go your own way, I just need to -”

He was cut off by a light cuff against his ear. Instinctively he reached up to catch the offending hand, giving Jaskier what he hoped was a deeply offended look. The hand in his own twisted to pull his closer, arm stretched out over the potions between them. Jaskier’s finger touched down lightly to trace on his palm, something that had worked in the past to communicate basic ideas. The path of Jaskier’s finger tingled across his skin, and he almost forgot to keep track of what the bard was trying to say.

I. D. I. O. T.
Geralt let out a grunt that he couldn't hear. “So you’re coming?” A quick tap against his palm, almost before he’d finished speaking. He frowned. “It will be dangerous. And you almost always winter in the city. Are you sure?” Another tap, and then Jaskier gripped his hand fully, warm palm to warm palm. Geralt was frozen in place until the bard finally released him what felt like eons later. Clenching his fist to try and rid himself of the lingering sensation, he said, “Well. Alright. We’ll leave in the morning.”

Chapter Text

Initially the journey to Vizima was smoother than their travels from the south. The road was smoother, well travelled by the constant traffic east to west, and Geralt was more confident in his own movements after days of practice. His communication with Jaskier, while still limited, was better than it had been. They had a system, and it was made easier by the lack of obstacles in their path. The first three days of travel passed easily, and Geralt began to feel that he might have been worried over nothing.

Which was, of course, when they ran into trouble. The evening of the third day they hit the bank of Vizima Lake, where the road began to wrap north towards its namesake. They were making their way along the wet dirt road when Geralt felt Roach falter beneath him, and then Jaskier reached out to tap his knee three times in rapid succession.

Over the past several weeks, Geralt felt that he had become decently in tune with Jaskier’s touch, at least when it came to understanding his mood. When he was annoyed, his touch was brief and sharp; when he was excited it was fast and repetitive. Sometimes it was hesitant or lingering, and Geralt hadn't quite figured those ones out yet, but the feeling was akin to the subdued sense that he got when they sat around the fire at night, Jaskier composing quietly while Geralt made dinner. A few times he had even registered nervousness or fear in Jaskier’s touch, easily identified by the tension in his fingers and the sour smell of his anxiety in the air.

This was nothing compared to the stench of panic that rolled off of the bard now. Geralt was on the ground in an instant, scenting the air as he pulled out his silver sword on reflex. Already the smell of rot and decay was overwhelming the earthy smell of the lakeside, the telltale sign of drowners. A second after his feet sunk into the wet muck, a body slammed into him.

He lashed out on instinct, his blade meeting little resistance as he carved through form in front of him. Immediately the pungent smell of waterlogged flesh intensified, and Geralt felt cold drowner blood splatter across his face and hands. People were always surprised that drowners had red blood. As if they hadn’t been human once too. Geralt took another step forward, feeling the lake water lap at his boots. A small ripple made it rise up to dampen his pant leg, and he turned in a vicious arc to bisect the accompanied lunge from another drowner to his left.

The water around his calves made it easier to predict where they were coming from, but their numbers were enough that a few made some solid hits. Geralt could tell from the immediate burn of the wounds that there were at least some drowned dead among them, the older and more aggressive cousin to the drowner. Ordinarily he could have taken out a group such as this - perhaps five, six? - with one hand tied behind his back, but as it was he had to remain defensive as he waited for them to make a wrong step. Though they weren’t intelligent creatures, they were shockingly strong for their lithe forms, and one wrong swipe of a clawed hand could spell the end.

Finally the ripples around him began to die down, and he had one, maybe two at most left harassing him. It was nearly over. He fell again into his defensive position and waited for the last of the attacks. 

It was then that he smelled it, sudden and sharp against the earthy smell of the drowners. The metallic of human blood, fresh.

Jaskier.

Geralt turned instantly, uncaring of the drowner left behind him. The smell of blood was strong enough that he could follow it right to the source, back towards where he had left Jaskier with Roach. He thought. Fighting in the water had left him slightly disoriented, unsure of where he’d entered, but his feet were leaving the lake now and sinking into the deep mud of the shore. He rushed towards the smell of blood, reaching out a hand in search of the bard -

And was met with the cold, slimy flesh of a drowner. He brought his sword down, feeling it tear through compact muscle and sinew. The rotten smell of drowner guts almost overwhelmed everything else. Geralt felt another set of fingers scrape tell-tale along his armor, ragged claws attempting to pry him open. He flipped his sword around deftly and stabbed backwards into the body behind him, pausing to feel it fall and go still.

Breathing hard, he reached forward, shoving the dead drowner aside. Underneath it he could still smell the thick iron of human blood, Jaskier’s blood. “Jaskier,” he said, frantic. He couldn’t smell anything besides rotting drowner flesh and blood, his and Jaskier’s mixed together with all the muck and grime of the lake shore. He reached down, feeling the soft fabric of the bard’s tunic, the frantic beating of his heart beneath. “Jaskier,” he said again, “are you - did it -”

A hand reached out, cool against Geralt’s flushed skin as it settled against his cheek. We’re okay.

Geralt deflated, one hand still braced on Jaskier’s chest as he allowed himself a moment to breathe through his relief. “Fuck,” he said. He took a deep breath through his nose, trying to let the subdued smell of almond soap quiet his racing pulse. The hand against his cheek moved to card through his hair briefly before Jaskier pushed him back. Geralt went, sitting back on his haunches to allow Jaskier to sit up. “Are you hurt? Don’t lie, I can smell your blood.”

A long pause, and then a single tap. Anger surged through Geralt’s chest, tracing the same path that fear had carved in his chest moments before. If it weren’t for this damn curse he never would have allowed Jaskier to be injured. He should never have let the bard come with him to Vizima in the first place; the road was clearly too dangerous for Geralt in this state, let alone Jaskier. There was little to be done now though, miles away from the nearest settlement. “You could have been killed,” he growled. There was no response. “Where?” He started patting down Jaskier’s chest, looking for the source of the smell. Luckily it was already beginning to turn from the salt-and-metal of fresh blood to the sweet, thick smell of clotting. Still, though, with the smell of rot all around them it was difficult not to be worried.

Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s wandering hands and impatiently set one on his forearm, where Geralt could feel a combination of mud and other fluids on the bard’s skin. He felt upwards as gently as he could, testing the skin until he found the ragged edges of the wound. Jaskier flinched but did not move away. The injury was small, two deep rends in Jaskier’s flesh. “This is a bite,” Geralt said, nearly accusatory. 

A tap against his shoulder in confirmation. “Drowner bites are dangerous, bard. We’ll have to clean it, and you’ll have to take the modified oriole.” Geralt had taken to making human-friendly versions of his potions whenever Jaskier joined him on the road, a combination of witcher alchemy and classical herbalism. Most of the potions he used regularly could be stripped of the components that made them dangerous for humans - light essence, drowner brain, foglet teeth - and still offer some benefit. They would be in the pack with the rest of his supplies. 

He made to stand but was stopped by a finger poking none-to-gently at a claw mark across the back of his hand. A hiss escaped him, more annoyance than pain. He’d not even noticed his own injuries in the midst of the fight, but now that he was paying attention he could feel several across his arms and one on his side. No matter. Nothing he couldn’t handle, and he wasn’t prone to infection as Jaskier would be. “I’m fine,” he said, teeth gritted. “I’m not the one that’s going to die of sepsis.”

He whistled for Roach, and felt her nudge his shoulder a moment later. Even when he’d had a drowner on top of him, she hadn’t strayed far from Jaskier. Geralt made a mental note to give her extra oats when they reached Vizima. “Good girl,” he said, patting her cheek. He took a moment to breathe in her familiar smell, letting it ground him. Reaching into their pack, he rummaged around until he found the appropriately sized bottle, smaller than the ones he used for his own potions. Pulling the stopper out, he sniffed it to make sure it was the correct one before holding it out in Jaskier’s direction. “Drink it now.” The potion should work to clean out poison or infection, but it worked best preventatively. And besides, there was no saying how effective it would be for Jaskier. “We need to set up camp, dress the wound.”

After Jaskier had passed him the empty bottle back, they made their way back to the path and then off it again, into the forested area on the far side of the road. Though there were other risks in the woods, it was less likely that drowners would venture this far from the water. The two men made a quick camp, and then Geralt walked Jaskier through the process of binding his wound.

Once he was satisfied that the smell of Jaskier’s blood was entirely covered by the thick honey and yarrow smell of the healing salve, Geralt began to set up their bedrolls. He had already decided that he wouldn’t sleep tonight, opting to meditate instead. Vizima was only another day’s ride away, maybe two if they were unlucky. He could sleep then. Finished with the beds, he started to fumble for his whetstone when he felt Jaskier’s hand on his arm. 

Geratl paused, waiting for Jaskier to indicate what he wanted. Instead, he felt something - dried meats, a small piece of slightly stale bread - shoved into his hand. Nodding his thanks, he shoved a piece of jerky in his mouth and turned back to his previous task. Again he was stopped by Jaskier’s insistent fingers as they pulled his free hand away. Geralt grunted in annoyance when, a moment later, a damp rag passed over the cut on the back of his hand.

“Jaskier,” he said, “that’s not necessary. I’m fine.” The bard swatted him lightly on the shoulder and returned to cleaning his injuries. Jaskier was often like this, after Geralt was in a fight. Patching up wounds that would heal fine on their own, helping him wash off when he could have done it on his own. In some ways it was infuriating; Geralt was not a child that needed looked after, who needed to be coddled after a small scrape. Still, there was another part of him, a part that he had truly thought himself rid of, that was pathetically grateful for it. If only just to have a moment where Jaskier’s fingers danced sweetly over his skin, exceptionally gentle even as he berated Geralt for his lack of caution. 

Geralt couldn’t hear the chiding, but Jaskier’s hands were still warm and tender against his own. That night Geralt sat with the bard’s back pressed against his thigh, a line of heat that kept him from falling into a truly meditative state. When they got up the next morning Geralt ached from the lack of rest, but the spot that Jaskier had lay was warm until well after they’d set off down the road. 

* * *

They arrived in Vizima late the next day with no further misadventures, much to Geralt’s relief. The gates were crowded with merchants and travelers looking to winter in the capital, and the city’s various urchins moved through the crowd to peddle their wares. Geralt was constantly jostled and grabbed at, though probably not as much as Jaskier, who’s traditionally garb essentially screamed that he was desperate to buy useless bobbles. The smell of people and animals packed tightly together was disorienting, and Geralt fought to focus on following Jaskier’s distinct smell through the crowd. He still smelled faintly of the honey salve they’d reapplied this morning, and the witcher was grateful for the distinct scent to guide him.  

Though Geralt couldn’t be sure of his methods, Jaskier wasted no time in leading them away from the more crowded areas of the city. Geralt had told him in the night before that Triss would likely be at the palace, in her own quarters. Fortunately Geralt was, while not a regular visitor, at the very least known to Foltest and most of the old guard. If they called for Triss they should ideally have little trouble gaining an audience with the sorceress, assuming she wasn’t occupied elsewise. It would be just their luck to find her away on business.  

Eventually the dirt path beneath Geralt’s feet turned to neat cobblestone, and he realized that they must be in the palace courtyard. Jaskier’s hand moved from Geralt’s wrist where it had been guiding him along to take Roach’s reins from him, presumably to pass on to a stable hand. Typically Geralt wouldn’t leave her care to someone else, but in the last few weeks he’d allowed himself to pass her off on occasion. He gave her one final pat on the neck before allowing Jaskier to lead him further into the palace. 

Eventually they came to a stop, and a hand on his shoulder bade him to sit. A moment later he felt Jaskier sit beside him. “Is she here?” he asked the bard. Jaskier pat his hand once. “Hmm.” Hopefully they wouldn’t be kept waiting long, but if Triss was in the middle of something she would be unlikely to drop it without good reason. He settled in to wait, his exhaustion from the night before and the past few weeks in general making it easy to fall into a semi meditative state.

Some time later - it was hard to say, while he was only half aware and there was no light by which to track the time - he felt a hand on his shoulder, rousing him. He turned automatically into Jaskier’s touch before straightening, passing off the motion as a stretch. Another hand reached out to touch his arm, with it the smell of crisp winter apples and the mulled wine Triss prefered in the colder seasons. He found himself smiling slightly as he stood. “Triss,” he said, “good to see you. Or, well. You know.”

You as well, Geralt, came the reply, Triss’ voice echoing through his mind. Geralt was shocked enough that he took a step back, bumping against the cold stone bench behind him. Jaskier’s hand touched briefly against his lower back, and Geralt fought to keep his head clear. If Triss’ voice was in his head then it was very likely that she was as well. Apologies, my friend , Triss continued, her mental voice full of laughter. I have a better way for us to speak, but I need to discuss some things with the bard first. If you’ll follow me back to my quarters we can get this sorted out.

Geralt found himself nodding, thrown off by the sudden presence of another person after weeks of silence. He allowed himself to be led through the palace halls, seeing in his mind’s eye the path that he had walked dozens of times before to Triss’ suite. The distinct smell of Triss’ rooms were unchanged after all these years - dozens of herbs and spices, a whiff of the scented candles that she often burned, and the underlying odor of old blood from when she’d treated various patients, Geralt among them. He was pushed down into one of the many cots in the sorceress’ front room, by hands that were much less accommodating than Jaskier’s. Not for the first time, he found himself grateful that it was Jaskier that had been with him through all of this nonsense. 

Geralt waited in silence as the bard and the sorceress spoke, he presumed. Finally a slender hand returned to place a small clay cup in his grasp. The smell of hemlock and mandrake wafted over him, alongside several others that he couldn't place. He frowned. 

Trust me . Triss’ voice echoed from the depths of his own mind. Geralt sighed and threw back the potion. The effect was almost immediate, his limbs growing sluggish and his eyelids heavy. Triss spoke again, sounding amused again. I’ll see you soon, Geralt.

He fell swiftly into the warm embrace of unconsciousness. 

* * *

Triss was there to greet him when he regained awareness. They were sitting at a table in what looked like a study, the walls lined with books and scrolls that he couldn’t make out the names of. It took him a moment to recognize the significance of the fact that he could see them at all. Triss was smiling at him knowingly, and he thought it just might be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Triss,” he said, fondness for her rising in his chest. In his eagerness to get the curse lifted, he'd almost forgotten to be excited about seeing her. “Did you do it? Where are we?” His own voice rang out clearly in the room, startling him.

Triss’ smile never waned. “Unfortunately not. We’re in a dream, actually. It seemed like the easiest way to speak to you, though I’m not the best at mental magics.”

Geralt tried not to feel disappointed. “It’s good to see you, Triss. Good to see anyone, actually.”

Triss laughed, patting his hand. The touch did not linger. “I imagine that’s true. I’ve already walked your bard through the process, but I thought it would be prudent to keep you updated as well. While we’re out he’s going to collect some of the mundane artifacts that we need to lift the curse. Luckily Jaskier saved the objects the witch used in her curse; makes it much easier to reverse engineer it.”

“Hmm. What do we need?”

“Some odds and ends that I have at my disposal, the items she used in her curse, widow’s ashes. That last bit is what Jaskier went to retrieve. He didn't seem happy about it.” Triss still looked deeply amused.

Geralt snorted. “Jaskier digging in a graveyard. Not exactly his forte. Surprised he went along with it.”

Triss sighed at him, leaning back in her chair. Her vibrant green robe cascaded off of the chair, shimmering in a way that could have been magic or just a part of the dream. Her emerald eyes regarded him sharply, though still with affection. “It doesn’t seem that there’s all that much he wouldn’t do for you,” she said. 

“Hmm.” Geralt felt a blush rising to his cheeks, which he felt was unfair given this wasn’t even his real body. 

“I’m surprised, actually, that you came to me at all. This curse is persistent, but I don’t believe it could withstand a True Act.” She leaned against the table across from him, cupping her cheek in her hand. “It seems to me that you could have broken it at any time.”

Geralt felt his brow lower in confusion. “True Act. What do you mean?”

Triss rolled her eyes, reminding Geralt so much of Yennefer for a moment that he found himself flustered. “An act of true emotion, Geralt. It’s pre-Conjunction magic, the little of it that remains. True love’s kiss is the most typical go-to, especially in the stories. I’m surprised that Jaskier didn’t think of it. He certainly knows the stories.”

Geralt scrambled for a response. “Jaskier isn’t - he doesn’t think of me that way, we’re friends -”

Triss laughed at him then, a full bodied sound that was the very first thing that Geralt had liked about her, besides her kind and intelligent eyes. “Oh, Geralt, dear. You really are the worst at reading people. You really think he follows you around the whole of the Continent for the songs?”

Didn’t he?

Geralt’s chest was tight with panic and, deep down where he’d been storing all of his unending, infuriating thoughts of Jaskier, a longing that ached. Triss had to be reading it wrong. She didn’t understand Jaskier, the way that he loved people so openly, even if only for a moment. It wasn’t that he was in love with Geralt. He was just a little bit in love with everyone. Besides. “Witchers don’t fall in love,” he said. 

The look Triss gave him would have been pity if it had been on anyone else’s face. “They don’t,” she agreed, and it had a weight to it that spoke of feelings long past, something between them that would never come to be. “But they certainly can, can't they?”

Geralt felt the dream starting to fragment away. Triss reached for him again, fingers on the back of his hand. Always so deliberate. “The curse will be broken by sunrise,” she said. “Your bard may sing without pause, but the important bits are in what he doesn't say. Remember that.”

She removed her hand, and Geralt fell back into darkness.

Chapter Text

When Geralt woke he had a moment of utter disorientation, something that he had experienced often since he'd been cursed. Fortunately this time it only took a moment for him to place himself. The sweet herbal smell of Triss’ apartment washed over him, and he let out a relieved breath. His right side was warm from proximity to a fire, so he must be in a bed near the hearth. As he woke, he felt a small poke at his consciousness.

Good morning, Triss’ voice said, echoing oddly in his head. Sorry for the wait, but we’re almost ready.

“Jaskier?” Geralt said, sitting up slowly. There was a pat on his shoulder, and with it a waft of Jaskier’s favorite almond soap, over the faint smell of dirt and decay. The witcher relaxed.

Triss was laughing at him. Your bard is fine. Eager to see your little problem resolved. I’m going to need you to inhale something for me, but I’ll do the rest. Are you ready?

Geralt nodded, and he felt Triss’ long fingers come around the back of his head, holding him in place. He had the sudden urge to shake her off, a deep instinct that fought against even such a simple restraint. Another hand reached to stop him with a touch his chest, a simple request for stillness. Geralt settled, and Jaskier’s hand stayed in place. A moment later something was held below his nose, a sharp and acrid smoke invading his senses. Forcing himself to breathe in slowly, he let the fumes fill his lungs. For several minutes nothing changed, and then Triss released him. Geralt sat for a moment, and then there was a shift around his ears as if he were high on a mountain.

“Try opening your eyes,” Triss said, and for a moment Geralt thought it had been in his head. His eyes flew open, startled to realize he'd heard them said aloud. With a rush the sound hit him all at once - the crackle of the fire, the insects buzzing outside, the twin human heartbeats before him.

He had to blink a few times to focus his vision. When he opened his eyes again he saw Jaskier beaming at him, Triss standing arms crossed by his side. Geralt glanced at Triss but found his vision sliding back to the bard, drinking in the sight of him. He’d almost forgotten how blue his eyes were, how his hair curled just a bit over his eyes when he was sweaty as he was now. “I have so much new material for you to hear,” Jaskier said, still grinning, too close as always.

Geralt rolled his eyes, but couldn't hope to smother the smile on his own face. “You really dug up a grave,” he said. “Can smell it on you. Wouldn't have thought you capable.”

Jaskier opened his mouth, no doubt to voice an indignant response, but Triss interrupted him. “I wouldn't mind a ballad,” she said, elbowing Jaskier lightly. He whirled away from Geralt to take the sorceress’ hand, bowing low over it as he placed a delicate kiss to her knuckles. Geralt resisted the urge to roll his eyes again.

“My dear,” Jaskier said airily, “your song shall be sung across the lands, the savior of the White Wolf and thus the men of the realm! For who would have protected the innocent through the long night if he were trapped by such a foul curse? You, my lady, are well deserving of a ballad. Oh when the White Wolf in peril was found / A witch with locks like a fiery crown -” Geralt kicked Jaskier, not bothering to be subtle about it. “We’ll workshop it,” Jaskier said, quite loftily for a man that was hopping up and down while he rubbed his ankle.

Triss snorted at their antics. “I look forward to it, Dandelion. In the meantime please feel free to stay as my guests for as long as you please. I will have to continue to tend to my own duties, but you won't want for anything while you’re here.” She turned to leave, but Geralt reached out to take her hand gently. Her bright eyes met his with affection.

“Thanks, Triss,” he said, gruffly. “I owe you.”

“Oh, Geralt,” she said, patting his hand. “There will be rooms made up for you in the guest quarters, if you plan to stay.” She moved towards the door, pushing it open before turning back to them with a grin. “Just let me know if you’ll need one or two.”

She let the door close behind her, leaving the two men spluttering in the room.

* * *

They decided to stay in Vizima for three days to recuperate from the events of the past several weeks. While Geralt was eager to get back on the road, he could tell that Jaskier was glad to be back in the arms of civilization. While he was loath to admit it, he’d been in a place of weakness, and Jaskier had shouldered the burden. The bard deserved as much time off as he wanted to squeeze coins and favors out of fat noblemen. Geralt was lucky the man had only asked for a few days; he would have given him a month or more, if pressed. He could move on by himself, of course. They’d done so in the past, particularly in the winter when Jaskier went to perform and teach in Oxenfurt. But the thought of leaving the bard now hurt. It was nice to have time to watch the bard again as he flit around the palace like he owned it.

And despite his grumbling, it was exceptionally good to hear Jaskier sing again.

Geralt hadn't even noticed, before, how much Jaskier sang. Of course it was all the time , but how every time he heard the bard’s voice he stopped and listened, at least for a moment. It came over the clang of silverware at dinner, making the dull chatter of nobles bearable. It rang out in the gardens near the pavilion Geralt used to train. It haunted him through the walls of his room, the stones not packed tightly enough to keep the sound away. It was lovely, and he had missed it. And now that he was paying attention he realized that Jaskier mostly sang about him.

He wasn't sure what to do with that information.

“Will you travel to Oxenfurt with me?” Jaskier asks on the third day, apropos of nothing. Geralt looks up at him over the small table that they're sharing their breakfast at, startled. Jaskier looks a little startled himself, spoon paused where it was tapping against the rim of his tea. He liked to add a ridiculous amount of sugar to it, though they didn’t often have the leisure.

“You’ve never asked me to go with you before,” Geralt says around a bite of sweetroll.

“Well, no,” Jaskier agreed, his spoon turning nervous circles around the edge of his cup now. “But things are different now. And there should be work in that area, for both of us. You can just drop me off. Or I can show you the best seedy pubs, I know your rough table manners aren't truly suited to the quiet halls of my alma mater.”

“Can't imagine a college for bards is all that quiet,” Geralt said, instead of saying Different how? How have things changed so much in a month, a week, a night? Do you feel it too? Like the thought of you has moved from my head to my chest? Do you feel that? Instead he says, “I’ll ride with you.” Jaskier grinned at him widely and took a large gulp of too-sweet tea, so Geralt would smell the canesugar on his breath all day long. Geralt wondered if there was a deeper curse on him, that made him so incapable of saying what he felt.

* * *

He and Jaskier set off on the road again headed north, and it was almost as if nothing had changed.

It drove Geralt mad, in a way. He couldn't tell if he was the only one who felt like things were different, even if the bard had said as much. Jaskier was certainly more confident in invading Geralt’s space, but he’d never really been shy about it. They bickered less; it was easier to ignore Jaskier’s jibes when he reached out to pat Geralt on the shoulder at the same time. Their silence was more companionable. Geralt hadn't realized that before it had been, if not tense, then not truly relaxed. He wasn't sure which of them had changed, what had made the difference.

Geralt didn't feel as if he'd changed all too much, aside from his tendency to keep tabs on Jaskier by smell now. Perhaps he was more attentive, when Jaskier spoke, not just letting the bard ramble on but actually listening to him. It wasn't even the contents of the lectures and speeches that made him sit up and listen. After so long of not hearing Jaskier’s voice, it was nice to let it wash over him sometimes. It was good to know what Jaskier was thinking again. He’d missed that transparency, in all those weeks of silence. Jaskier always seemed to say exactly what he was thinking.

So what was he thinking about, when he looked at Geralt with shining blue eyes across the campfire? What was he thinking when he massaged sweetly scented salve into Geralt’s newer scars? Or when his touch lingered on Geralt’s shoulder as he wished him a sound sleep?

Triss’ words haunted him. It’s in what he doesn't say.

True love’s kiss.

It was laughable, really. Geralt had wanted people before, and he wasn't childish enough to deny that he wanted Jaskier. Especially now, as more and more often the bard’s fingers send shivers across his skin at the lightest touch. If it were an option, Geralt would have had Jaskier months, maybe years ago.

But true love? Geralt didn't know if he was capable of such a thing. Jaskier was brilliant and charismatic; he could be and had been with anyone he desired. Geralt couldn't even find it in him to tell Jaskier that he considered him a friend.

Sometimes, though, when he looked over at Jaskier’s soft features, he knew that even that would not be enough.

So, he did what he could think to do. He started touching Jaskier back.

At first it was little things. His fingers lingering over the bard’s when they passed something between them; a friendly pat on the shoulder during a conversation; adjusting his shirt before he got up to perform in a small village they stopped in along the way. Jaskier didn’t react to the new invasion of his personal space at all, which was neither good nor bad, Geralt told himself. It just meant Jaskier was comfortable with him, didn’t mind or register his touch, which was something.

He grew bolder. In the evenings around the fire he began to sit closer to the bard, like they had during the curse. He missed the push and pull of those hands more than he could have guessed, but he wasn’t sure how to ask for them to return. So instead he pushed and pulled with his own hands, and in a way it was almost as good. He let Jaskier ride on Roach so they pressed together while they traveled. When they slept, he put his bedroll near the bard's and stayed still when Jaskier rolled into his side in his sleep. Once, memorably, he washed Jaskier’s hair as they bathed in a large stream, as the bard has done for him so many times before.

One crisp but sunny day they were walking side by side down the road, giving Roach a rest, and Jaskier began to sing. It was one of his softer songs, something more for the courts or halls of Oxenfurt than a tavern. Geralt couldn’t really follow the theme, but he turned to watch out of the corner of his eye as Jaskier’s voice rose and fell. He watched, and thought that there was quite possibly nothing he’d ever wanted more than to kiss him in that moment. Instead he reached out and took Jaskier’s hand, because it was the least destructive thing he could think to do. The song abruptly cut off. Geralt’s breath halted in his chest as he waited for Jaskier to ask him what the hell he was doing. A moment later he felt the bard’s fingers squeeze his back ever so gently, and the song resumed, louder than before.

They walked hand in hand for several miles, until Jaskier saw a clump of wildflowers that needed his attention desperately. Geralt watched him bound away, feeling his chest tighten and his fingertips tingle.

* * *

That night, Geralt watched while Jaskier built up the kindling to start the fire. His own work skinning the rabbits for their dinner was long done, so now his full attention was on the bard. He wanted to ask about the hand holding earlier, ask if that was something they could do now. It was so hard to figure out the rules with Jaskier; the man said so much, but Triss was right. Sometimes speaking with him was like talking riddles around a fae. He watched Jaskier and thought about how he could say that he felt him on his skin hours after the lightest touch.

Without looking up from his carefully constructed pyre, Jaskier reached out and pulled Geralt’s hand toward him. He sketched the sign for igni on his palm, absent-minded, a ritual they had done every night for the past several weeks of Geralt’s curse. The witcher watched him breathlessly, taking in the soft curve of Jaskier’s lips as he pursed them in concentration. Suddenly the bard looked up in surprise, bright blue eyes meeting gold. He laughed sheepishly. “I forgot,” he said, and went to release Geralt’s hand.

Geralt reached out, quick as a viper, an arrow from a quiver. He caught Jaskier’s wrist, tried to turn the desperate touch gentle at the last moment. Jaskier looked at him with wide eyes.

“No one touches me like you do,” Geralt said, and he meant, no one touches me like I matter, like I’m a normal fucking person and not a monster, like they want to.

Jaskier blinked, and then went red. Geralt watched it happen, drinking in the sound of Jaskier’s heartbeat as it accelerated. “Sorry,” he said, voice half an octave higher as it always was when he was nervous. “It’s a habit. I’ll stop -”

“Fuck, no, I don’t mean -” Geralt cut him off, unsure of what to say. It felt like the situation was spiraling out of control because he’d opened his mouth for once in his life and of course said the wrong thing. “I like it,” he blurted out. His own face felt hot, and he wished he’d lit the fire so that he could blame it on that. “I don’t want you to stop.” He wanted to look away, but Jaskier’s bright eyes captured him, pinning him in place more thoroughly than a monster with Geralt’s sword to its throat. He could feel nervous sweat pooling at the small of his back.

Jaskier was staring at him with a shocked expression, which was better than anger or disgust. Geralt could hear his racing heart echoing between them, twice the speed of his own. “You never said anything,” Jaskier said, his eyes guarding something. The bard broke his gaze, staring at the waiting kindling before him.

What could Geralt say to that? The accusation rang true. He hadn’t said anything through the long months of travel when he’d craved Jaskier’s touch. Or the weeks of dark and quiet when it became his only anchor in the world. He hadn’t said anything the thousands of times he’d watched Jaskier smile or bite off a witty remark or pick a flower and thought fuck I want to kiss you . He hadn’t said anything when he’d taken Jaskier’s hand; he hadn’t said anything when Jaskier’s fingers squeezed his own. He had watched, and the thought of Jaskier had slipped into his heart and filled his fingertips with longing and he hadn't said anything. Witchers don't fall in love, and they don't ask for someone else's touch.

What had Triss said? They don't, but they can, can't they?

He slid his fingers down to hold Jaskier’s as tenderly as he knew how, and leaned down to brush his lips across them. Jaskier’s head snapped up to watch, and Geralt could hear his breath hitch. “I didn’t know how to ask,” he said, “but I am now.” He pulled Jaskier’s hand to rest against the side of his jaw, as Jaskier had done so many times over the last few weeks. It’s alright. We’re fine.

“Geralt,” Jaskier croaked, turning to face him. His fingers shook in Geralt’s grip. “Am I reading this wrong?” He was breathing hard, and he smelled the way he did before a performance, eager with anticipation and ready to throw himself into the crowd. His eyes flickered down to Geralt’s lips, and Geralt felt like he’d downed a full cocktail of witcher potions.

Feeling bold, Geralt pressed his lips to the center of Jaskier’s palm. Something hot stirred in his chest at the gasp it pulled from the other man. “I never want you to stop touching me,” he said, as if it should have always been that easy. He thought his skin should crawl at the admission, but instead he just felt the truth of the statement through every inch of him.

“Fuck,” Jaskier said, and used his hand to guide Geralt’s mouth to his own.

* * *

Much later, when they were lying together sweaty and sated, Jaskier said, “You should come to Oxenfurt with me.”

Geralt turned his head towards the bard, pushing his nose into the strands of hair that met him. Jaskier was lying nearly on top of him, arm thrown across his chest and legs twining between his own. Geralt felt grounded. He thought that if Triss hadn’t been able to remove the curse, it would have been alright if he’d still had this. Though it was still good to hear the bard’s voice. “I missed you,” he said, breathing in the smell of moss and dirt in Jaskier’s hair.

“I didn’t go anywhere,” Jaskier said. He pulled away slightly to look at Geralt, turning his head to rest on the witcher’s chest.

“Missed talking to you,” Geralt explained. He ran a hand up the bard’s back just to revel in the delighted shiver it pulled from the other man. “I even missed your complaining.”

“And my singing?” Jaskier asked, eyes wide and falsely innocent.

Geralt snorted. “Maybe.”

Jaskier grinned, turning his face away for a moment as it lit up, red covering his cheeks again. He liked to be praised, Geralt had always known that, but it was addicting to see him react to Geralt’s praise. Jaskier turned back towards him and poked him in the chest. “You’re avoiding the question with half-baked flattery.”

“I’m already going to Oxenfurt with you,” Geralt replied easily. “Unless you think we’re headed someplace else.”

“I mean ,” Jaskier said, pushing himself up fully on his elbows now, “that you should come and stay with me. I know it’s not really your scene, but if you’re not going to winter at witcher academy,” Geralt rolled his eyes, “you could just, I don’t know, take on some jobs locally? I have rooms available at the university, or I could set you up with a place to stay in town. We can go to taverns and you can hunt the ghouls that are always bothering the farmers nearby. I won’t even make you come to any fancy parties. And we can do this more.” He shifted his hips suggestively, making Geralt draw in a sharp breath. He dipped his hand down to squeeze the bard’s ass firmly in retaliation, making Jaskier lunge forward to kiss him again.

A moment later he pulled back, though it took him a few tries to make it stick. Geralt instead moved to suck a mark on his neck, feeling a thrill of possessiveness at the action. “Fuck,” Jaskier said, “you’re so distracting . Do you want to or not?”

“Sure,” Geralt said, giving the mark one last kiss. “As long as I don’t have to go to any fancy parties.”

Jaskier lit up, pressing his grinning lips to Geralt’s own. “I can’t make any promises,” he said, “you know how I enjoy quality entertainment.”

“I’ll just have to provide you with plenty of that on my own,” Geralt replied, raising his eyebrows. Jaskier laughed loudly, the sound echoing through the clearing. For a moment Geralt felt like he was just a normal man, part way in love with his best friend and fortunate enough for once to find his feelings returned. Jaskier looked down at him with an expression more open than Geralt had ever seen it, and he thought, Well, maybe more than part way.

Jaskier touched his cheek gently to pull him back into a kiss, the press of we’re just fine into his skin like a promise. And for once, just for a moment, they really were.