Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Julian is tired.

Physically tired, yes - he’s just slain a wyvern and his muscles ache, his body littered with cuts and bruises. Physical exhaustion is nothing he can’t handle. He’s a witcher, after all, and he’s done this for a long time. Which is exactly the problem.

Physical pain is temporary. His body heals far quicker than a human’s, and he knows that by tomorrow, his cuts will be scabbed over and his bruises will be faded. But he’s so tired of it. He’s done this for so goddamn long that it’s become monotonous, that his life has become an endless, relentless cycle of town-contract-monster-money. The monotony blurs his days together, and stretches into his future as far as he can see. 

He continues on the Path because it’s his duty, his responsibility as a witcher, but it’s all become so meaningless. It was so long ago when he started on the Path, bright-eyed and optimistic, ready to rid the world of monsters and aid humanity. He’d been so eager to do the right thing - the sneers from villagers had been disheartening, but he’d ploughed on with the knowledge that he was helping them, that what he was doing was for the better.

Thinking of his past optimism makes Julian smile bitterly. It’s faded over the years, worn down by harsh remarks and hateful eyes and cold, bitter nights when innkeepers refuse to give him a room and chase him out of town, calling him freakmutantmonstergetoutanddon’tcomeback. He’s used to it now, numb to the fearful stares and the insults flung at him everywhere he goes, and he doesn’t let their wariness touch him. But it’s been happening for so long. He doesn’t bother trying to make nice with villagers anymore when in a town, where he used to be able to grin and attempt to make conversation; he interacts with people no more than necessary, and leaves when a contract is done. He knows - he knows that this is the life of a witcher. He’s old, and knows that far too well.

But he’s just so tired.

There’s an exhaustion that seeps deep into his bones, weighing him down. His life is the Path, nothing more, and Julian thinks back to his younger self, how he would be horrified to see how cynical he is now. Bitterly, he wonders what would have happened if his parents hadn’t handed him off to a witcher. He wonders what he would have been like if he’d been human. Would he have grown up surrounded by love and friends and family? Would he have found a lovely girl to be his wife, settling down in a nice village?

Would he have been happy?

Don’t think about things you can’t have. There’s no use in making himself more bitter. There’s no point in ruminating over what could have been. He will always be a witcher, and he cannot change that. 

But he wants a chance at a normal life. Julian’s heard of witchers who’ve retired to live amongst humans, using their hard-earned gold to acquire glamours from mages so that they can blend in.

He supposes he could ask someone for a glamour, he probably has the gold for that, but what would he do with it? All he remembers of his childhood is his training, and he has no skills or hobbies that he could develop. Witchers have no room for distractions, after all.

Gods, he wants to have a normal life, but it’s so utterly inconceivable. He doesn’t have the faintest idea of how he would go about trying to be human, even with a glamour. Humans have livelihoods. They have relationships, and hobbies, and interests, cultivated from childhood. Julian was raised a witcher, and he has none of that. How sad is it, that he doesn’t even know how to be normal?

If he wants to have a normal life, he needs to start from the beginning.

Julian can’t start a human life the way he is now, witcher and all. He needs something more than a glamour.

Perhaps he could call in that favour Tissaia owed him. He’d helped her save a couple of mages a couple years ago and he’d held onto the favour she’d offered him. Tissaia had promised a pretty big favour - apparently saving those mages had meant a lot to her - and it might be big enough for what the idea that’s taking place in his mind.

Maybe he really can start over.

The next day, Julian packs his bags and heads for Aretuza.

“You want to be a human,” Tissaia repeats, doubt colouring her voice.

“That’s what I said,” Julian replies, shifting uncomfortably. He knows, he knows that it’s an awkward thing to ask, that it’s something that might not even be possible or would require copious amounts of power, but he had to ask. “I know it’s weird. I’m just… I want to try my hand at being human. I need a break. Just… let me start over in a human life, let me live it out, and once my human body dies, I will return to being a witcher.”

“There are plenty of other ways to take a break other than asking me to transform you into a human and let you live a human life from scratch,” Tissaia points out dryly.

Julian rubs a hand over his face. “I know. I know, but I just want to get away. Truly get away. All I know is how to be a witcher, and I need to get away from that. Just - just tell me. If you can do it. If you require a greater price than the favour you owed me, I am willing to pay it. Please, Tissaia,” he pleads.

She must hear the desperation leaking out in his voice, because her stern features soften slightly, and she gently lays a hand on his arm. “I can indeed do what you ask, Julian. But you need to be sure.” She looks up at him, searching his eyes. “When you return to being a witcher after your human life, you know that you can never go back. You need to be sure that you will be able to handle knowing that you had a taste of being human, but you never will be again. You, as a human, will have a life, have loved ones, and if you try to return to them as a witcher, they will scorn you. Are you ready for that?”

He hadn’t thought of that. To be honest, he doesn’t know if he will be able to cope, but right now, he’s desperate. He’ll deal with the fallout when it comes, but it doesn’t matter to him now. He wants this, more than he’s ever wanted anything. He doesn’t think he’s felt so strongly since the pain of his Trials.

“I need this, Tissaia,” he says firmly. “I know the risks, but I will handle them when I get there. Just - please.”

Tissaia gives him another searching look, and he returns it steadily. Finally, she nods, and turns away from him, and starts down the dark hallway, beckoning him to follow. Julian trails after her into a room stacked with herbs and potions. His medallion thrums at the sheer amount of chaos packed into the room, the scent of magic potent in the air. Tissaia directs him to sit down in a chair at the side of the room before turning to the shelves and gathering various ingredients, mixing them together.

Julian lets his senses shut down for a bit, focusing on himself and his heartbeat, which is beating faster in his chest as it hits him, truly hits him, that he’s actually going to be human. He’s wanted this for so long, and he’d always thought it to be an impossible dream, but now - now, it’s within reach, and he’s thrumming with anticipation and excitement because. Finally. He’ll have the chance to grow up and be a normal human and… do normal human things, and actually live a life that’s worth living, no matter how finite. 

He’ll get to be human.

As Tissaia putters around the room, he lets his mind wander, thinking up possibilities of what his human life will be like. He thinks he might be suited to a quiet, steady life, or maybe that’s just the witcher in him talking. Maybe he’d live a life completely unlike his life on the Path, filled with joy and people and laughter. He could grow up to be anything, he realises. He’s never known what he would be if he wasn’t a witcher. He doesn’t know where his interests lie outside of fighting monsters.

Well. This is his chance to find out, isn’t it?

Tissaia strides over, a deep purple concoction in her hands which she sets down beside him. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she looks him straight in the eye. 

“Drink this when I tell you to, not a moment sooner or later, unless you want me to mess up the spell.” Her tone is serious, and her gaze unwavering. “The spell will place your consciousness in the body of a human baby, which is essentially your human body before you became a witcher. Your current body will remain, and I will move it to a safe place. You will live your life as if you had been human, without your current memories, and when you die, your consciousness will return to this body, with all memories intact. Now I will ask you one last time: are you absolutely certain that you want to do this?”

Julian smiles at her, excitement building in his heart. “Yes, Tissaia. I am absolutely certain.” Clasping her hand, he gives her a look, trying to convey the sheer gratitude he feels. “Thank you so much for this - you don’t know how much this means to me.”

She squeezes his hand, lips curling slightly, her gaze wistful. “The world isn’t easy for people like us, witcher. I am glad that I can give you this opportunity to experience what none of us ever had. I do hope you make the most of it.” She hands the potion to him, and Julian feels chaos gathering, centering in on Tissaia. “Are you ready?”

He gives her a fierce grin, and she begins chanting in Elder, chaos swirling around her. The magic builds up, and his body starts feeling woozy, and his brain almost feels intoxicated, and -

“Julian, now.”

He drinks, and his head spins. Tissaia is still chanting, chaos building up and up and up until -

A sharp stab of pain, and Julian screams.

Julian Alfred Pankratz is born in Lettenhove, screaming and crying. His parents and his caretakers remark on his considerable lung capacity and the sheer level of volume he exudes. He grows up loving the arts, chasing music and poetry, despite his parents trying to coerce him into the stiff life of a noble. He fidgets when asked to study in the library with dull texts, he sneaks out of his etiquette lessons, he fails to pay attention in combat training (though he has an unusual knack for fighting despite his wandering attention). He secretly steals music books from the library to teach himself, and writes poems and lyrics in a hidden notebook, despite his father’s numerous attempts to beat the creativity out of him. 

He’s loud and bright and brash, and he charms the housekeepers with his joyful smile and melodious laughter. They are protective of him, taking care of him after his father’s beatings. He makes friends with the common folk, who adore him, but the children of nobles stare at him like he’s an outsider. He doesn’t like them, and avoids them as much as he can. 

When Julian is in his teens, he discovers love and infatuation. He chases girl after girl, falling in love just as quickly as he falls out of love (he chases some boys in secret). He rejects the matches his parents try to set up for him, further disappointing his father. He is nothing like what the son of a noble is supposed to be, and his father hates it, hates him. Julian’s father spits at him, calls him a disappointment, a blight on the family’s name, a useless piece of shit who will never get anywhere in life, and Julian leaves. He’s never wanted to inherit his father’s position, anyway, and he has no lost love for his parents.

Julian leaves Lettenhove. He really only misses some of the housekeepers who doted on him, and some of the villagers who he’s befriended, but he wants nothing more than to leave Lettenhove behind and start a new life. 

He goes to Oxenfurt and decides to reinvent himself, not wanting to be associated with Julian Alfred Pankratz. He calls himself Jaskier, and he pursues his passion, soaking up information enthusiastically. He picks up the lute, and he falls head over heels in love with it. He passes his years there with flying colours, with the highest commendations from his professors (take that, Valdo), and sets off to be a travelling bard.

The life of a travelling bard is not easy. He’s young, and unused to roughing it, having grown up in the laps of luxury. But he learns and adapts, and sings to earn coin. He learns how to please people, what types of songs make certain people more receptive, and what songs are more likely to fill his purse. He flits from town to town, singing and charming his way into beds of men and women alike.

He’s not always welcomed, though, which is fine! It’s all part of the learning curve, all contributing to his experience, and he’ll learn from his mistakes. Posada’s audience dislikes him for some reason, but. He meets a witcher. Geralt of Rivia. 

There’s something about him, maybe his white hair or his golden eyes or his two deadly swords, that draws Jaskier to him, that makes Jaskier desperate to be his friend. The witcher isn’t receptive to his attempts, but Jaskier is nothing if not infinitely stubborn and persistent. They get kidnapped by elves, which admittedly isn’t the greatest start to their relationship but hey, friends who get kidnapped together, stay together, right? He also gets a new Elven lute, which is awesome.

Toss A Coin becomes widespread and popular, and people are less hostile to Geralt when they encounter him. Jaskier is very proud of his work, even if Geralt doesn’t deign to show his appreciation or gratitude. Jaskier sticks to Geralt in his travels, and he knows that Geralt is softening towards him, even if he doesn’t express it. Geralt is reluctant to call them friends, which hurts a bit because Jaskier may or may not be a little in love with him, but Jaskier thinks that Geralt might have grown to care for him, just a little. 

In Posada, he’d wanted to befriend the witcher out of some unknown curiosity, and initially, he’d stayed because he saw an opportunity for fame. Now, he stays because he likes Geralt, maybe even loves him, and nothing makes him happier than staying by his side. So he stays, even as Geralt shoots him barbed insults and snaps at him and calls him ‘bard’, because throughout their travels he’s learnt that Geralt is just a fundamentally good person, so unlike anyone he’s ever met.

The witcher is gruff and mostly nonverbal, but his moral compass is unwavering. He never retaliates when villagers spit Butcher at him. He takes contracts for almost no coin when he sees that people are struggling. He’s not particularly nice to Jaskier, but Jaskier is sometimes the recipient of the small acts of kindness Geralt displays occasionally, which make him fall just a little deeper in love.

The ball in Cintra is an absolute disaster, and Geralt leaves cursing Destiny, furious at the world. Jaskier calms him down, but for a long time, Geralt reverts in on himself, pushing Jaskier away. Jaskier fails repeatedly in his attempts to make him feel better, so he decides to give him some space. 

He hates the fact that he is unable to comfort Geralt the way he wants to - they’ve been travelling together for years, and Jaskier has realised that he is well and truly in love with the witcher. Geralt will never love him back, he knows, not because witchers are incapable of feeling emotions (which is complete and utter bullshit, Geralt feels so goddamn deeply), but because, well. 

To say that Geralt cares for him is a stretch, and the idea of Geralt ever loving him is laughable. Geralt’s insults and harsh comments have softened over the years, maybe even containing a bit of fondness, but despite all of Jaskier’s attempts to show Geralt that he cares, Geralt refuses to so much hint at the fact that he likes Jaskier, which hurts. Jaskier has helped Geralt after his hunts, helping him down from the adrenaline and patching up his wounds and washing his armour - he’s even help bathe Geralt several times, for fuck’s sake. 

But it’s fine, because he’s happy with what Geralt can give him - he knows, from little Geralt has told him, that witchers lead hard lives, so Jaskier completely understands that it isn’t easy for Geralt to show affection.

They part for some time, and the next time they meet, Jaskier stumbles upon Geralt fishing in a lake, looking utterly exhausted. He’s fishing for a djinn to help him sleep, which is just ridiculous, and they argue and suddenly his throat is closing up and he can’t breathe and he doesn’t know what’s going on.

After that, a lot happens, including a beautiful but slightly insane sorceress, a crushing moment of devastation when he thinks that Geralt is dead, and yet another crushing moment of devastation when he witnesses Geralt having passionate sex with the crazy witch who threatened to castrate him.

When Geralt emerges looking well-fucked and smitten, Jaskier pushes down his heartbreak. He’s never seen Geralt look so - so infatuated, or dare he say it, in love. Here is Jaskier, having accompanied Geralt for around a decade, and Geralt still hasn’t acknowledged their friendship, and yet, he’s known this woman for a few hours and is completely smitten. 

He doesn’t know why he’s surprised - the sorceress, Yennefer apparently, is breathtakingly gorgeous and insanely powerful. Of course Geralt would fall head over heels in love with her, Jaskier thinks bitterly. He’s just a lowly, annoying, unwanted bard who leeches onto Geralt, who is nowhere near as gorgeous or powerful. 

Over the subsequent years, Yennefer somehow shows up every few months, and she and Geralt disappear to fuck for a few hours, or a few days. It doesn’t bother Jaskier. Not at all. Definitely not. He definitely doesn’t compose maudlin ballads about unrequited love and he definitely doesn’t try to drown his sorrows in alcohol and he definitely isn’t sleeping around to get over his heartbreak. He tries to make himself fall out of love with Geralt, but it seems that Jaskier is physically incapable of not loving the witcher. Jaskier is fine. He’s pined for years. What’s a few more?

Geralt gets roped into a dragon hunt (and Yennefer’s there, because of fucking course she is). When they camp for the night, Jaskier tentatively asks Geralt to go to the coast with him, to get away from everything. He’s never asked anything like this of Geralt before, never asked Geralt to follow him - he bares his heart and offers it to Geralt. If you want it, take it. It’s yours, only yours. But Geralt doesn’t respond, and that night, he heads to Yennefer’s tent. Again, Jaskier doesn’t know why he’s surprised. He’s numb to the heartbreak, sort of. Not really.

And then the next day.

The next day.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

Well then.

He turns and leaves. His heart, which has been broken over and over by Geralt’s harshest comments and by Geralt and Yennefer and has never really healed, lies in pieces, shattered beyond repair. He knows that Geralt was lashing out at him in anger, taking it out on the nearest person - but that’s the thing, isn’t it? Geralt has always taken his anger and hurt out on Jaskier, has done so over two decades, because he knows that Jaskier always, always stays, and will never hold his words against him. 

Jaskier has always been his punching bag, and he’s always endured it, because he knows Geralt has no other outlet. It hurts every time, pierces something deep and irreparable in his fragile heart, but he always tells himself that it’s worth it, that he can bear it to stay by Geralt’s side. Geralt never apologises, but after each outburst, he is always more considerate of Jaskier - taking more breaks, giving him a bigger portion of food, telling him to shut up less often. These small acts of concern always remind Jaskier of why he fell for Geralt in the first place, and, desperate for Geralt’s small affections, he’s always stayed.

Something about this time is different. Maybe it’s the culmination of many years of bearing Geralt’s fury, or maybe he’s witnessed Geralt and Yennefer together one too many times, or maybe because Geralt has rejected him the day after Jaskier opened his heart to him, or maybe it’s because Geralt has never pushed him away so harshly. Maybe it’s all of it, but Jaskier doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to think about the pure anger in Geralt’s voice and the utter hatred in his eyes, about how, for the first time in over two decades, Jaskier had been afraid.

Tears blur his vision as he makes his way down the mountain and he can barely see the path, stumbling over roots and running into stray branches. He needs to get away, get as far as possible from where Geralt is, so he follows the path as best as he can with tears in his eyes. He doesn’t think that he can bear seeing those beautiful golden eyes look at him with such vitriol, he knows that he’s on the verge of breaking. How had he given his heart so completely to someone who he knew would crush it?

The sky is darkening, and Jaskier knows that he will have to set up camp soon. He settles down in the closest clearing he can find, not bothering to scan the area for danger; he’s too drained for that. It’s cold so he starts a fire, and sits on his bedroll staring at the flames.

He wonders if Geralt had ever liked him. He’d thought that their relationship had progressed over the years, but maybe he’s been wilfully blind, choosing to interpret Geralt’s insults as fond teasing when in reality Geralt was annoyed, seeing Geralt’s occasional affectionate actions as caring rather than grudgingly tolerant. He’s probably always been an unwanted burden, his only use being to bring in coin and improve the witcher’s reputation. He’s been an idiot - Geralt obviously preferred being alone, and Jaskier had imposed himself on him. How stupid he’s been, to think that Geralt cared. He’s been -

There’s a howl, loud enough that Jaskier can tell it’s nearby. Too late, he’d forgotten that, when walking up the mountain, Geralt had warned him of the dangers among the trees. Fuck, he’s been stupid. He’d chosen a clearing without assessing whether there was danger nearby. He’d even set up a fire, making him an even more obvious target. 

He tries to stay still, and puts out the fire as silently as he can, hoping that the wolf won’t notice him and pass on, but a cacophony of howls echo through the trees in response to the first one. The howls are loud. Too close. His skin prickles with fear and his breaths come in short, sharp huffs. His heart is beating so loud that he fears that the wolves can hear it.

Leaves crunch behind him and he turns around slowly, fearing what he will see. He curses himself for not bringing a weapon - he thought he’d be with Geralt the whole time, but that was stupid of him. A pair of glowing eyes meets his own as a wolf steps out from behind the bushes.

Fuck.

Blindly fumbling for something, anything to defend himself, he grabs his lute and shakily points it at the wolf, which doesn’t look threatened at all. Right. Why would the wolf fear a lute? Then he hears the sounds of more wolves emerging from the trees, and he realises in horror that he’s surrounded. 

He’s doomed. He can maybe fight off one wolf with his lute, and that’s a big maybe, but a whole pack? Jaskier doesn’t stand a chance.

A searing pain shoots down his back and he screams, realising that a wolf has lunged at him from behind, its claws digging into his back. At the scent of his blood, the rest of the wolves pounce on him, deadly claws raking into him and sharp teeth tearing at his flesh and all he knows is painpainpain.

Jaskier the bard takes his last breath on the mountain. Miles away, in a warded house, Julian the witcher twitches, and opens his eyes for the first time in over four decades.

Chapter Text

Jaskier bolts upright with a scream, his body ringing with the phantom pain of sharp claws tearing him apart.

He ought to be dead. He knows he should be dead - he’d closed his eyes and accepted his fate. He’d been all but torn apart, and he is absolutely certain that he shouldn’t have survived it, so why is he -

A wave of memories floods his mind, driving a lance through his brain. He cries out, he doesn’t know what’s going on, what’s happening to him -

Flashes of memories. His mother’s mouth curls in a sneer as he’s handed off to a man with golden eyes. Swords clash, the impact reverberating through his body, aching from hours of nonstop training. Unbearable agony as mutagens course through his veins and he thinks he’s being ripped apart. A man spits at him, monster. Talons rake down his face; copper fills his mouth. The fire sputters out and he shivers in his bedroll; they chased him out of the village again. Monster. Mutant. Killer. 

Are you ready?

He drinks .

He grips his head in his hands as decades, centuries of memories return to him all at once. The world is too loud, too vivid; his skin feels too sensitive, and he’s overwhelmed by sensation and memory and everything all at once, it’s too much.

He stays in the same position for a while, trying to recall his old meditation techniques as his mind scrambles to sort out the centuries of memories newly returned to his brain. He breathes slowly, matching the steady beat of his heart, so much slower than it had been just moments ago. In, out. 

2 lifetimes entangle in his memories. Julian visits Tissaia, who performs the spell that makes him human. Jaskier is born. Jaskier lives a life, befriends a witcher who pushes him away, and dies at the hands of wolves.

There’s some cruel irony in how the witcher-turned-bard died because of a measly pack of wolves he easily could’ve fought off as a witcher.

And because he just loves reflecting on the joke that is his life, the irony of travelling with a witcher and ending up on the Path anyway (despite wishing to become human precisely to take a break from the Path) is not lost on him, but he’ll deal with that later. He doesn’t feel like thinking right now.

It takes a few minutes, maybe longer, but he feels… marginally better. His head no longer feels like someone is taking a hammer to it repeatedly, and the room has stopped spinning, though it is a little blurry. Blinking several times to clear his vision, he looks up and is overwhelmed by how much everything is, even though there’s little light to illuminate his surroundings. The first thing he sees is the wooden door opposite him. The only light in the room comes from the faint light filtering in from the gap at the bottom of the door, leaving the room in almost complete darkness, but the level of detail he can see is dizzying. Despite the lack of light, he can see every notch and groove in the wood, every little part where it’s been chipped away and weathered; he can see everything, and it’s all so much, too much. 

Witcher senses. Right. He just needs to get used to that again. Decades of being a breakable human with dulled senses have made him unused to the enhanced ones of a witcher.

Once Jaskier’s become slightly more accustomed to how much more the world is (accustomed isn’t the right word, really, his last memories of being Julian are still fresh in his mind; it’s the memories of being Jaskier that make him so unused to all this, and it throws him off, this is so weird, he is Jaskier and he is Julian all at once), he takes stock of his surroundings. He’s definitely not in that room in Aretuza where Tissaia performed the spell - actually, he doesn’t think he’s even in Aretuza anymore. Aretuza has so much chaos thrumming in the air that it riles him up, sets him on edge, but here, it’s just normal. There’s a bit of leftover magic, but he suspects that it’s from the fact that his consciousness or soul or whatever has just returned to his real body.

He’s sitting up on a bed at the edge of a small room. The lack of light and windows makes him think he might be underground, and the door he noticed earlier is directly opposite the bed. The room is pretty bare, with only a desk and a couch. His gear and weapons are laid out on the couch - they look well-preserved, he needs to remember to thank Tissaia at some point - and he’s wearing a loose shirt and trousers. 

There’s a note on the desk. Jaskier walks over and picks it up, recognising Tissaia’a elegant script which he can read with sharp clarity in the darkness of the room.

Julian,

I do not know when you will wake up to read this, but welcome back. I hope you were not too overwhelmed when you returned to your body. As you can probably see, I have taken the liberty of cleaning your gear and I have cast a spell to keep them preserved. Your witcher body has been put in suspense for however long you will be human, so you do not have to worry about it deteriorating over time - your body should be exactly as you remember.

You are currently in the basement of a safehouse in Novigrad. The house is warded and no one else knows it exists, ensuring nothing will bother you. There is also some food in the kitchen, so you can stay and recuperate for some time if you would like. 

I do not know what I will be doing when you wake up, but once you finish reading this letter, burn it. This will inform me that you have woken up, and I shall come as soon as I am able to check if you have suffered any side effects.

Tissaia

Jaskier huffs a little in surprise. Tissaia, checking on him? He hadn’t expected that, but he’s grateful, especially considering how much power the spell must have required. He casts Igni, and a part of him is surprised at how naturally the sign comes to him, but his initial delight is quickly dashed when the weak flame sputters out, barely scorching the edges of the parchment. 

Well, that was just pathetic. He tries again, concentrating a bit harder. This time, he’s successful, and he proudly watches the parchment curl and blacken, though the bright glow of the flame in the darkness of the room hurts his eyes. The scent of smoke and burning parchment assaults his nose, strong and pungent, and he grimaces at how intense it is. Again, Witcher senses. Yay.

Jaskier decides to check out the house, and, forgetting his own strength, rips the door clean off its hinges. It’ll be an interesting time getting used to his witcher-enhanced body again, and it reminds him of his fumbling days after the Trials, when everything had suddenly been too sharp and bright and filled with jarring clarity, and he’d broken everything he touched for days until he learnt to control his strength.

Gingerly, he leans the broken door on the wall and heads for the stairs. His body and movements seem stiff and uncoordinated, and Jaskier nearly trips over the first step, abruptly realising that the ground seems slightly further away than he remembers. Right, he’s a bit taller and broader as a witcher. So that’s why his body feels rather unwieldy. Just another thing he has to deal with, a stranger in his body, yet not at all. 

It’s weird, because his last memories of being Julian haven’t faded the way memories do over time. Tissaia performing the spell is as fresh a memory as the wolves mauling him on the mountain. It’s like having two parallel timelines in his head, sort of. Jaskier can’t really comprehend it, he’s already confused enough as it is, but he’s been Julian longer than he’s ever been Jaskier, so his body isn’t too unfamiliar at least.

His body feels more like his own once he gets to the top of the steps, and he’s relieved that it doesn’t seem to be taking him long to get used to being back in this body. He surveys the room he’s now in. It’s nothing special, with the layout of a generic house, so he heads to the kitchen and grabs a piece of bread from the table. Stuffing it into his mouth, he finally lets himself think about what just happened.

Jaskier wonders if Destiny is fucking with him. Destiny must have taken a liking to the mess that is his life - he’d asked Tissaia to perform that spell on him so that he could live a normal human life, the way he would’ve done if he had not become a witcher. He’d wanted to get away from the life of a witcher, get away from the Path, and yet he’d ended up with a witcher on the Path anyway. Destiny must be having a field day with him.

But, he supposes, he doesn't regret his life as Jaskier. He’d died rather embarrassingly for a witcher, he has to admit, and no one is ever going to know about it (he’d been human at the time, but still). How had he not been able to take on a pack of wolves, for fuck’s sake. They hadn't even been werewolves, and now that he has the benefit of hindsight, he notices that they’d been rather weak and malnourished. Gods, he’s slightly mortified at his own ineptitude.

As Jaskier, he’d grown complacent. He’d grown reliant on Geralt protecting him, and hadn’t seen the point in carrying weapons. Which was stupid. He understands Geralt’s annoyance now, his irritation that Jaskier refused to carry any weapon. Jaskier hadn’t been helpless, he knew how to fight, but apparently not well enough to fend off a pack of hungry wolves.

That’s enough of dwelling on his embarrassing death. His life as Jaskier had been worth it, though the early years at Lettenhove weren’t pleasant. Oxenfurt had been an enlightening experience, and Jaskier is grateful that he had the chance to explore his talents and passions he’d never been able to as a witcher. He wonders if he still has a pleasant singing voice now, but he doesn’t want to try only to end up disappointed - he has no idea if he even has a single musical bone in this body. And his lute - it’s probably a lost cause anyway, smashed to bits by the wolves. 

He had truly enjoyed his travels with Geralt. Jaskier grudgingly admits that, despite having wanted to avoid the Path, he wouldn’t have changed his time with Geralt for anything, even if it had been full of pain and heartbreak. The mountain, though, and the djinn, he wishes he could erase that. Those are perhaps his two biggest regrets.

He can’t be a bard now, he thinks, his heart squeezing painfully in despair. He’s grieving, he realises, and the depth of his emotions are a slight surprise. Yes, witchers do have emotions, Jaskier knows that well, but he’d thought that his had been dulled by long and hard years of hate and vitriol. Now, they’re as raw and fresh as they’d always been when he was human. It’s not unpleasant, the feelings. It’s a part of Jaskier that has been transported into Julian’s body, and he’s glad - he doesn’t think he’d be able to cope with returning to the dulled, numbed emotions he had four decades ago.

So he feels the full impact of his devastation at the thought that he can’t be a bard, not now, not anymore, not ever. People will see his golden eyes and they will sneer at him. A witcher cannot be a bard - bards are harmless, joyous humans, and witchers are decidedly not. 

“When you return to being a witcher after your human life, you know that you can never go back. You need to be sure that you will be able to handle knowing that you had a taste of being human, but you never will be again.” 

These had been Tissaia’s words; he’d dismissed her worries, eager to get on with the spell, but now he understands her concerns all too well. He’d been a bard, perhaps even the Continent’s most popular bard, and he’d loved it. Jaskier loved the joy of people singing along with him, took pride in the fact that people knew his songs wherever he went, revelled in how people were always eager to approach him, indulged in capturing his audience’s attention, basked himself in the beauty of his music. 

He can’t do any of that now, and Jaskier grieves for the loss, heart heavy and aching. He’d managed to discover what he would have been had he not been a witcher, he’d gotten a taste of what could have been, and he will never have it again. Even if he tries it, he will be scorned - he will never play in front of a crowd again, soaking up their enthusiasm and love and joy, and he will never again delight in being the one who captivates people, who places music into their hearts. 

Julian of Cintra will go back to taking contracts, and he dreads it slightly. For over two decades, Jaskier had been loved by others. People were eager to approach him, eager to strike up a conversation with him, eager to initiate contact. Now, when he goes out, people will only see a witcher, and their prejudice will blind them to anything else. It hurts, hurts to think that he will not be welcome amongst those who had accepted him so easily before, that he will once again have to bear the wariness and fear of humans wherever he goes.

People are not warm and welcoming towards witchers, but it’s a slight consolation that his career as a bard had greatly improved the public’s treatment of witchers (he wonders if some part of him had known that he used to be a witcher). Jaskier supposes that he has himself to thank for the improved treatment, and while he can never have his life as Jaskier back, he can take comfort in the fact that he’d made the Path a little more bearable for himself. 

It will be painful, returning to the Path, and bittersweet, watching bards perform in taverns and knowing that he had been them once, but. He doesn’t regret it. His life as Jaskier had given him a reprieve from the grueling life on the Path, and now he will return less drained, less tired than before. He had needed that break, four decades ago, and now that the break is over, he will return to his duties, and he thinks he’s ready.

Once he’s eaten his fill, Jaskier returns to the basement and puts on his gear with slow, practised movements. It’s familiar and unfamiliar all at once, centuries of muscle memory of strapping on his own gear clashing with the more recent ones of helping Geralt into his. He pushes those memories away. He doesn’t want to think about Geralt. The hurt and heartbreak are too fresh and raw and painful, and Jaskier is not in the mood to deal with them right now. Determinedly avoiding thinking about what Geralt would think of him now, he gives his swords a few experimental swings to pull himself out of his thoughts. 

They’re a familiar weight in his hands, the way his lute had been, and he falls back on muscle memory as he goes through a few moves against an invisible opponent, as graceful and lethal as he had been four decades ago. Good, his skills haven’t become rusty. He’d hate to be killed by wolves. Again. 

Sheathing his swords, Jaskier goes up the stairs and heads for the door, ready to leave, when he catches a glimpse of a mirror in the corner of his eyes.

He hesitates. He knows what he looks like, sort of. As a witcher, he’d rarely looked into mirrors, hating his unnatural eyes and brutal scars. More recently, he’d spent decades as Jaskier, vain as a peacock. He’d always taken care to ensure that all visible skin was smooth and unblemished, untouched by age or scars. It scares him that he’ll not recognise himself, that he’ll look into the mirror and see a monstrous face that humans shy away from, hardened by time, so unlike the soft beauty he’d been so proud of as a human.

Fuck. Jaskier might as well just look at his reflection and get it over with, let his appearance be just another thing he needs to get used to, save himself the hurt later.

Jaskier steps up to the mirror, and looks. 

Julian of Cintra stares back at him from the mirror. Julian and Jaskier’s faces bear enough of a resemblance that he might still be recognisable to people who knew him well, though the more… witcher-related features make him seem like a different person entirely. The part of him that’s still Jaskier recoils slightly at the familiar-unfamiliar face. Eerie golden eyes with slitted pupils. Long scars slash across his face, a permanent mark of when he’d gotten careless with a striga. His features, slightly harsher and sharper, and his hair, a pale silver reflecting the stream of light that spills through the windows.

A witcher.

It’s absolutely jarring. There is almost nothing of Jaskier in that reflection. The colourful outfits are gone, replaced by sleek, dark armour. The lute which used to hang off his shoulders is replaced by a pair of swords, long and deadly. Hidden weapons take the place of the little trinkets he’d liked to keep in his pockets. Gone is the bard who’d wowed the Continent with his songs and fame, and Jaskier will never be him again.

Jaskier takes in his reflection for another moment. Once he walks out of that door, he knows, Jaskier will be left behind. So he lets himself think about his lute, his singing, his music, his joy, his love, lets himself feel nostalgic, just for a moment, and no more. He strengthens his resolve, and turns away from the mirror.

From a small, nondescript house in Novigrad, Julian of Cintra steps out into the world for the first time in four decades.

(jaskier looking in the mirror while in a 'i just woke up from a decades-long sleep after frolicking around as a human and getting mauled by wolves' hangover - art by @solardust on tumblr)

(jaskier looking into the mirror - art by @brothebro)

Chapter Text

Being back on the Path is… weird. Julian finds himself reaching for his lute, sometimes, only to be met with the hilt of his sword. He feels an overwhelming urge to chatter to someone, anyone, warring with a cautious silence borne out of years of vigilance. Sometimes he expects Geralt to be there when he turns around, following behind him on Roach (though of course, he never is, and Julian hates how much he misses him).

He craves both company and solitude, and while he’s mostly gotten used to being back in this body, there are still two identities trying to reconcile themselves in his brain. He’s resolved to be Julian, but he’s been Jaskier for four decades, and that’s not something that can be erased easily. 

So he tries to strike a balance between the two, because he’s been Julian longer, but he was Jaskier more recently. He gives in to his urge to compose, scribbling his thoughts in a notebook whenever he makes camp. He allows himself to relax every once a while, living in the moment and letting go of the hypervigilance that had been beaten into him by the cruelty of the world. Sometimes, he lets go of his control enough that his fingers dance through the air as though they were playing a lute.

But he never sings, or hums. It’s too raw, too painful of a reminder of what he will never get back. There’s the fear, of course, that his voice as a witcher contains none of the musical talent he had as a human, and that the years of rough living have abraded his voice to the extent that it’s completely unsuitable for singing.

He doesn’t want to think about the possibility that he may have no musical ability at all, that everything other than his skills as a witcher had been trained out of him. There’s also the fact that there’s no point in singing anymore; it’s a distraction, and people won’t take kindly to a witcher singing anyway, so he might as well not sing and save himself the pain.

So Julian represses the urge to let his voice loose, despite the heartache in his chest whenever he does, and continues on the Path.

He starts taking contracts again, seeing as he can’t make a living as a bard anymore. The first contract he takes, he faces off against a pack of drowners, and there’s a moment as his control slips, and the part of his brain that still thinks he’s a vulnerable human freezes in instinctive fear, muscles seizing, throat locking up.

He half-expects Geralt to come up to defend him, swords singing as he slices through the drowners, but he’s not there, of course he’s not there, and then the first drowner is upon him, swiping at his face. Instinct, honed over centuries, takes over, pushing that human vulnerability to the back of his mind, and he cuts through the drowners with ease.

The fight is over in minutes. His only injury is a shallow cut across his abdomen, but it’s already closing up, and Julian berates himself for even letting himself be injured in such an easy fight. That initial misstep had cost him, thrown him off his rhythm, and he knows that it cannot happen again.

He can’t afford to freeze up in front of another monster - a slow witcher is a dead witcher, and every second counts. So on the trek back to the village, Julian ruthlessly banishes the lingering remnants of his fear. He will not let himself get distracted like this again. It’s a risk he refuses to take.

During the next contract, he doesn’t even hesitate as the wyvern dives at him, rolling out of the way and readying his sword. There isn’t a single trace of fear in his mind and he dispatches the wyvern quickly and neatly.

All his contracts go smoothly after that.

A few contracts in, he gets fed up of walking and carrying his own things, so he gets a strong, swift horse to make his travels easier and names her Pegasus (a name that actually fits her, unlike a certain boring witcher who gives the dullest possible names to his horses).

His journeys are much quicker and much more comfortable with a horse, and he gets slightly outraged at his past self - he had been walking on the road for the past two decades, what had he been thinking, why hadn’t he gotten a horse. Humans are truly stupid sometimes, and yes, that includes the time when he was one. He’s not keen on walking nonstop for hours with the weight of his swords on his back and his pack in his hands, and he’s not ever walking on his journeys again, thank you very much.

At some point, Tissaia pops in to check on him, greeting him with an elegant nod. She barely bats an eye at the monster guts strewn across his body, which disappear with a wave of her hand. Thank the gods - he had not been looking forward to cleaning all that. 

She seems as composed and detached as ever, but there’s a hint of warmth in her eyes as her magic probes at him, checking for any problems in his body that may have carried over, and Julian thanks her profusely for the spell.

“I owed you a favour,” Tissaia says, “and I could tell that your life as a witcher was wearing on you. I have to admit that at the time I was worried about any side effects, but you appear to be fine. I am glad it turned out well for you, Julian. You seem… lighter. It suits you.”

“You don’t know how much it means to me that you did that.” He’s sincere, and he can tell that it throws her off a bit to see him display his gratitude so openly. “You were right; it’s not easy, having two identities yet still being one person, but it was worth it - and I have you to thank for that.”

Tissaia dismisses his repeated expressions of gratitude, but Julian has known her long enough to tell that she’s pleased. 

“How was it?” she asks, a rare gentleness in her voice.

“I don’t regret it,” Julian answers firmly. “It was full of hurt, and pain, but - that’s the joy of a human life, isn’t it? My life was made so much richer with it, as much as it may have hurt, and there were many wonderful moments that I will cherish for the rest of my life.”

Tissaia contemplates him silently, and he adds softly, “I never thought that I’d be able to feel like this. It’s - not easy, dealing with so much, but it was more than worth it.”

“I truly am happy for you, old friend,” Tissaia murmurs, gracing him with a slight smile. “You were able to experience what most of us immortals do not have the opportunity to. You seem much better than I saw you last - your time away was good for you.”

She doesn’t ask after who he’d been in his life, or what he’d done, though Julian thinks that she knows, or at least suspects. He inquires about the decades he missed, but she doesn’t stay long - she’s an important woman with important duties, after all. Before leaving, she promises to keep in touch, then steps into a portal, her robes swishing dramatically behind her as she disappears.

Julian snorts. Sorceresses and their flair for drama.

(It reminds him of a certain violet-eyed witch. He knows that Tissaia trained Yennefer. He remembers, decades ago, Tissaia telling him about a headstrong girl with violet eyes, filled to the brim with magic potential, almost overflowing with the power she had. He doesn’t want to think about Yennefer. Thinking about Yennefer inevitably leads to thinking about Geralt, and he doesn’t want to think about Geralt.)

Julian falls back into his old routine surprisingly easily. He almost expects everything to be the same, but he’s proven wrong when almost every inn is willing to take him in, and people don’t look at him with hatred and terror. Well, not as much as they did decades ago, anyway, before Toss a Coin weaved its way across the Continent. Sometimes, he’s even welcomed as a hero - his silver hair and golden eyes mean that he’s been mistaken as the White Wolf quite a few times, which is amusing but also irritating, given how he’s trying not to think about Geralt. 

He’s still distant from people the way he’d never been as Jaskier, but at least now, he’s not outright hated. It’s different from the rejection he used to face, and he thanks eighteen year old Jaskier for stubbornly sticking to Geralt of Rivia like a particularly annoying barnacle. 

While humans might be slightly nicer towards him, Julian really, really misses the ease he used to feel amongst them. He misses the casual touches and the companionable way conversation flows, even with a stranger. There’s a strange kind of camaraderie between people in a tavern, and Julian misses how easily he used to be able to fall into that, how easily he could weave in and out of crowds and entrance them with his music.

Connecting with humans used to come so easily, and it had been such a natural part of him, but now, he’s been relegated to the outskirts of society, nothing more than an inconvenient outsider. 

No one approaches him anymore. Women don’t look at him coyly as he passes, batting their eyes coquettishly, and no men approach him with a drink and a suggestive glint in their eyes. He misses laughing and letting loose with wild abandon, and it hurts so much because he knows that he will never have any of that again. 

He misses people. 

Julian is stared at, on the streets. His silver hair isn’t exactly inconspicuous, and even when he pulls his hood up, his armour and his swords still mark him out at someone separate, someone different. Merchants don’t make casual conversation with him anymore, eager to get rid of the witcher as soon as possible. People edge away from him in taverns, unwilling to sit near a witcher, and parents hug their children just the slightest bit closer. 

Julian forgets himself, once, shooting a charming smile at a pretty barmaid when she hands him his food, his voice a low purr as he thanks her. Her eyes grow wide and she stumbles back, the putrid scent of disgust filling the air as she scampers away from him into the kitchen.

A sour feeling of bitterness brews in his gut, and he remembers, he’s not Jaskier, not anymore. Julian of Cintra doesn’t smile at pretty barmaids, and they certainly don’t smile back. He barely manages to finish the meal, and the food sits like lead in his stomach for the rest of the night.

He refrains from flirting with anyone after that. 

He misses touch. Jaskier had always been a tactile person, overflowing with more affection than he knew what to do with, and apparently that’s something that has passed on to Julian too, but no one wants to touch a witcher. It leaves him starved and yearning for just a hint of tenderness, for just one kind touch, just one - but of course, there’s none of that, not for someone like him. 

There’s no Geralt for him to shower his affections with anymore, though Geralt wouldn’t want that anyway, had probably hated it every time Jaskier offered to bathe him or braid his hair or give him a hug. Now, the nights on the road are cold and lonely, and he spends his nights in towns alone, in his own bed. 

Julian misses the warmth of touching someone, casually or intimately. He watches as friends embrace, as couples twine themselves around each other, and he aches for the loss of the easy, casual touches he used to take for granted.

More than once, he has to stop himself from instinctively reaching out to touch someone, from leaning a little too close to that cute tailor, or from brushing his hand suggestively along the arm of that bright-eyed herbalist. 

He doesn’t think he can stand the rejection, knowing that touch used to come so freely to him, and that his touch had usually been happily received and reciprocated; now, it will only be met with contempt and revulsion. 

One time, when he passes through Temeria, he fails to catch himself in time, and the stablehand recoils when Julian touches his shoulder, heart beating rabbit quick and body shaking with fear. Since then, Julian has maintained an ironclad control over his instincts, pushing down the tactile nature that two decades as a well-loved bard had cultivated.

There’s a hollowness in him, a void that craves warmth, craves touch, that reaches out for someone, something, but grasps at nothing, leaving him cold and empty. 

It’s terribly lonely, but he’s grateful that there’s rarely true hate directed at him anymore, and the lack of constant hostility deviates from the monotony of the Path, making it far more manageable than before. Trying to distract himself from the oppressive loneliness that weighs on him, he devises ways to brighten the long days on the Path.

His time as a human had done him good, cultivating in him a love of nature and an appreciation for the arts. So now, instead of focusing single-mindedly on the journey ahead, he lets himself bask in the beauty of his surroundings, and brings along books to entertain himself on the road. 

Oxenfurt had created a love not just for music, but for writing and academics and the arts, and he often finds himself penning down his thoughts or jotting down a quick poem. He thinks back to the thick, dusty volumes he had to memorise as part of his training, and, remembering just how utterly dull they were, starts writing a far more interesting record of his own knowledge as a witcher.

It’s a nice balance between Jaskier and Julian, as he lets himself fall back into some of Jaskier’s interests and habits while still maintaining his control as a witcher. It certainly makes the dullness of the Path much easier to bear.

He draws, when he has the ink to spare, draws the breathtaking majesty of mountains and valleys and waterfalls and the quiet beauty of forests and rivers. Once or twice, he catches himself doodling long hair and a square jaw and broad shoulders, and he stops himself before he spirals down that route. 

It’s a pleasant enough life, despite the loneliness, and the Path is far less draining than it used to be. Julian continues like this for just over a year, during which he does a rather good job of not thinking of Geralt and ignoring his broken heart. He’s just returned from killing a bunch of ghouls somewhere in Redania when he hears it.

The Lioness is dead, the villagers whisper among themselves, the stench of fear and dread thick in the air. Nilfgaard’s conquest continues.

Cintra has fallen.

The atmosphere of the village is grim and somber, the knowledge of Nilfgaard’s advancing empire hanging heavily over the village. Julian collects his payment, but his mind is elsewhere.

Ciri. Geralt’s child surprise. Fear coils like a vice around his heart as he wonders if she’s safe, praying to all the gods that she’s alive, because she has to be, she can’t be dead. If she’s in danger, if she’s threatened or hurt or dead, he doesn’t - he doesn’t think that he would be able to deal with it. 

After that disaster in Cintra, Geralt had refused to go anywhere near the city, choosing instead to avoid his destiny. Jaskier, feeling somewhat responsible for being the reason why Geralt was even there in the first place, had convinced Calanthe to let him play during Ciri’s birthdays. 

Initially, it had only been out of a sense of obligation for Geralt’s child surprise, but over the years he’d grown fond of her, and her of him. By the time she was seven, Jaskier was visiting Cintra several times a year. Calanthe grudgingly tolerated his visits despite her disdain for the Law of Surprise, because Ciri liked him and Eist found him entertaining, and she couldn’t send him away without disappointing both of them.

He’d grown close to the Lion Cub of Cintra over his frequent visits, had come to care for her dearly, and now - Cintra’s fallen, and he doesn’t know what happened to her, if she’s alright, and it tears at him to know that she’s in danger.

He hadn’t visited at all over the past year. He didn’t think Calanthe would take kindly to the fact that he was in fact a witcher, and deep down, he feared that Ciri would look at him, at his inhuman eyes and ugly scars, and see him as a monster. She might not even recognise him, he thinks bitterly. Jaskier the bard had been bright and joyous and soft, free with his love and generous with his care. Julian is all brutal, hard edges and lethal violence, silver hair and monstrous golden eyes, not someone that a child would want to be associated with, not someone she should be associated with. 

Ciri must have been confused about why he stopped visiting; he wonders if she misses him, if his visits meant as much to her as they did to him. But Julian’s a coward - he had feared her rejection (even though he knows that she wouldn’t hate him just because he’s a witcher), so he’d stayed away.

He regrets that decision now - he’s missed her so much. He could have been there when Cintra fell, could have protected Ciri and taken her to safety, but he hadn’t been, and now Ciri’s safety is in question.

His Lion Cub. He needs to find her. He needs to protect her.

He packs his bags and leaves in the direction of Cintra. 

(note: these two pieces of fanart were drawn for the previous chapter, i'm just posting them here so that i don't have 4 pieces of art clogging up a single chapter haha)

(jaskier/julian looking into the mirror - art by @astraaeterna)

(jaskier being a sad angsty boy - art by @stars-in-my-damn-eyes)

Chapter Text

Julian doesn’t have a plan in mind. He’s just heading in the general direction of Cintra, which is a bit of a long shot - the Continent’s a big place, and there’s no guarantee that he’ll find Ciri, but he needs to start somewhere .

Maybe Geralt would try to find her. He’s bound to her by destiny, after all, and with how long he’s denounced it, Julian wouldn’t be surprised if destiny decides to come around and bite him in the arse. If Geralt does find her, well, Julian’s not sure what he would do. 

He’s not ready to face Geralt again - he’d pushed away his hurt and pain, ignored it and left it to fester, and now he doesn’t know how to deal with the whirlwind of bitter-anger-hurt-sadness-heartbreak which has taken up a permanent place in his heart. 

Julian would like to think that returning to being a witcher has distanced him from his emotions, but he knows better than anyone that the ‘witchers have no feelings’ thing is bullshit - he feels, and he feels deeply. What he’d felt, and what he still feels, for Geralt is real, and he has loved Geralt for so long that it’s pointless to hope that it will go away. 

He’d done so well for the last year, avoiding any thought of Geralt, but now the floodgates have opened, and everything he’d felt on the mountain comes crashing back in full force.

Whether or not Geralt finds Ciri now, their destinies are intertwined. If Julian wants to protect Ciri, to be part of her life, he will have to face Geralt.

He’ll ignore Geralt as best as he can. If Geralt is insistent on keeping his blessing, he’ll stay out of Geralt’s way, but Julian won’t abandon Ciri even if Geralt wants him gone - he cares for his Lion Cub fiercely, and the only way he will leave her is if she makes him. Even then, he would still make sure to watch over her, because at some point in his visits to Cintra, Ciri had found herself a permanent place in his heart, as close as family.

Julian will not leave Ciri, and if Geralt is with her, Julian will need to keep his emotions in check around him - his bitterness makes him want to lash out at Geralt, who he’d followed with unwavering love and loyalty for two decades without receiving any in return; his anguish makes him want to cry and throw himself into Geralt’s arms, asking for another chance; his anger makes him want to hurt Geralt the way he’d been hurt for so many years. 

He wants to hate Geralt, hate him for the pain and anguish Geralt had caused him for so, so long, but he knows that it’s impossible, that he loves Geralt too much for that.

Gods, emotions are so infuriating. There’s just so much to deal with. Julian’s time as Jaskier had only made him realise the depth of his emotional capacity, unlocking feelings long buried under the veneer of an emotionless witcher. Which is good, because the depth and range of his feelings make his life less dull, but emotions are so inconvenient. 

He actually needs to deal with them instead of pushing them aside, which would have been fine if he was still Jaskier, who’s great at processing all his emotions (well, apart from his love for Geralt, but everything else is fine). Artists are emotional creatures, after all. But as a witcher, it’s really goddamn annoying to try and deal with his feelings when he has centuries of trauma to deal with on top of that. 

Julian’s still better at dealing with them than Geralt though, there’s no doubt about that. Scratch that, Geralt doesn’t deal with his emotions badly. He just doesn’t deal with them, period. Julian knows that Geralt feels deeply, but his emotions are so repressed that he probably thinks he’s having an allergic reaction or something whenever he starts having feelings. 

It’s not completely Geralt’s fault - that man has been a victim of the worst that mankind has to offer, has seen untold horrors in the world, has been unfairly subject to hatred and cruelty; and yet, he’s still one of the best men Julian has ever known, and so, so kind and good, even if he doesn’t know or acknowledge it himself (it’s one of the reasons why Julian is so irreversibly in love with him).

Julian can’t really blame Geralt for not processing his emotions properly, but regardless, Geralt had caused him mountains of hurt, built up over two decades, and Julian’s not sure he can keep it together in front of Ciri. 

He decides that he will handle his turmoil over Geralt when the time comes. Right now, his priority is to focus on finding Ciri, and he can’t let his feelings towards Geralt cloud it. 

So Julian rides from town to town, listening to rumours of Cintra. He follows the rumours to refugee camps, scaring the poor refugees as they’re treated to the terrifying sight of a witcher on a mission stalking through their camps. 

Keeping an eye out for pale blonde hair, he scours the camps, and the forests around them. Ciri would have a unique scent - he hadn’t been able to smell it as Jaskier, but he’s fairly sure that she’s inherited Pavetta’s talent for magic, so he keeps his senses on alert for the telltale tinge of chaos.

Two weeks, and Julian still hasn’t found her. He’s gotten little sleep over these two weeks, pushing himself to cover as much distance as possible - the longer he takes to find her, the longer Ciri is exposed to danger. 

But he hasn’t had any success in even catching a trace of her scent and chaos. He can’t very well ask around for a pale-haired, green-eyed girl, which would raise suspicion and draw attention as to why a witcher would be looking for a random girl, and Julian has no desire to bring his search to the attention of Nilfgaard.

Nilfgaard is aware that Ciri has escaped and they’re looking for her - he’d fought off a dozen of them just four days ago - and he cannot let them succeed. The fact that they’re still looking at least indicates that they haven’t found her yet, but despite her power, she’s young and vulnerable, and Julian knows that it’s only a matter of time.

He has to get to her before Nilfgaard does.

Another five days later, and Julian is exhausted and ready to drop. When he stops for a break by a small stream, he almost falls face-first into the stream in his fatigue. So much for his witcher reflexes.

Pegasus nickers disapprovingly at him, and he groans in response. “I know, I need to rest. I just - I can’t afford to waste any time.”

Pegasus knocks her head into his shoulders none too gently. 

“Fine, fine. I’ll find an inn for the night and get some sleep, but then we’re off immediately, okay?”

Pegasus is more tired than he is, her exhaustion evident in the sweat dripping down her body. Julian’s pushed her nonstop, and though he gets her food every time they pass through a town, she hasn’t been getting much rest either. 

Neither of them will have the energy they need to go after Ciri if they keep this up, and he knows that it’s the logical thing to get sufficient rest before heading off again. If he keeps going at this rate, he’s going to be useless in finding Ciri, much less protecting her. Hell, he probably won’t be able to fight off a few Nilfgaardian soldiers in his tired state. 

So yes, it’s the logical thing to do, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it. 

He directs Pegasus to the next town. Squashing down his inner voice that tells him to go after Ciri, don’t stop until she’s safe, he stables Pegasus and asks for a room in the closest inn.

The innkeeper eyes him warily but names his price. It’s much higher than what Julian would usually be willing to pay, but at this point, he simply can’t be arsed to go and find another inn. He’s counting out the coins needed when something hard hits his back, and an empty tankard clatters to the floor.

It doesn’t hurt, of course. He’s in armour, and he’s had much worse. But he’s tired, tired from weeks of travel with almost no rest, goddamnit, and he doesn’t have the patience to deal with bullshit like this. Slowly, Julian turns around, cold eyes roaming the room.

It’s not hard to find the culprit. There’s a group of men in the corner, faces flushed from alcohol, all of them sneering at him as they crowd around the only man in the group who doesn’t have a tankard of ale in his hands, congratulating him on his throw and cheering about how it serves that filthy mutant right. They’re all drunk, barely able to hold themselves up, and Julian is ready to let it slide and walk away, not wanting to cause a scene.

Then the men catch Julian looking at them and they launch into jeers and taunts, and start pelting him with whatever they have on hand. Another tankard flies over his head and various fruits and assorted objects find their mark on his body, and the men descend into raucous laughter. 

Julian grits his teeth. It’s not the first time he has faced such treatment, and it won’t be the last. He should leave, ignore the men and go to his room. He’s well aware that retaliation will make it worse. 

But his time as Jaskier had awakened an outrage in him, a simmering anger directed at those who unfairly treat witchers with violence and hatred. There had been too many occasions when Geralt had to hold Jaskier back from punching people who spat butcher at Geralt, and it’s this part of him that urges Julian to stand up for himself. 

Julian is tired of receiving such utter contempt when he’s done nothing to deserve it. Coupled with how he’s irritated and wound up from a lack of rest, frustrated from his failed attempts to find Ciri, Julian is not in the mood to do the reasonable thing. 

It’s a bad idea. But Julian is tired and angry and done, so he puts down his purse and stalks towards the men. People scuttle out of his way at the menacing expression on his face, but Julian’s not planning on doing anything violent. He’s just so over all of this and wants to give the men a piece of his mind. 

“Filthy fucking mutant,” one of the men spits at Julian as he approaches. 

“How original,” Julian remarks in a low growl, and gives a slow, mocking clap. Some of the men edge away from him, their bravado fading when coming face to face with the anger of a witcher. 

Julian bares his teeth at them in a facsimile of a smile. “I’ve never heard that before. Two points for creativity.”

The man who threw the first tankard at him pushes to the front of the group, eyes wild and crazed as he stumbles towards Julian and shakily points a finger at him. 

“We don’t want none of your kind here,” he slurs out. He tries to glare, but it’s made ineffective by his inebriated expression. “We already got one of ya beasts passing by yesterday, we don’t need no more of you, polluting our town.”

The man tries to shove him, but Julian is unmoving and the man falls on his arse instead. He struggles to get up, yelling more obscenities at him, beastmonstermutant, but Julian’s mind is elsewhere. 

The man mentioned another witcher passing by yesterday. It could’ve been any witcher, of course. There really isn’t any reason to suppose it’s Geralt.

But it could be. And Ciri could be with him.

If this were any other occasion, Julian would be walking away, seeing no point in engaging with people who treat him with prejudice and hatred. But this concerns Ciri, and Geralt, and Nilfgaard could find them at any moment, so before he can think this through, Julian strides forward and roughly grabs the man’s collar, lifting him up and slamming him against the wall. 

“Tell me about the other witcher,” he snarls. The other men try to pry Julian off him, but they’re no match for his strength. Julian keeps the man against the wall with one hand, and with the other, he draws a dagger and points it at the other men threateningly. 

Even in their drunken states, the men have enough sense not to run into the blade of a witcher, so Julian turns his gaze back onto the man struggling in his grip. The man’s bloodshot eyes are filled with loathing, but no fear, not yet. His mouth opens and closes, but he doesn’t say a word.

“Tell me,” Julian growls, pressing the man harder against the wall. When he gets no response, Julian raises the dagger with a vicious smile, lightly touching the tip of it to the skin of the man’s stomach.

The man gulps, finally starting to look intimidated. Julian’s smile doesn’t waver as he digs the dagger inwards ever so slightly in a silent threat, a hairsbreadth away from breaking skin, and the man gasps in a frantic breath as he visibly pisses himself.

“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you, please let me go,” he babbles frantically, breath coming in sharp bursts. Julian steps back calmly, letting the man drop to the ground in a pitiful heap of his own piss, and tilts his head in an invitation to continue.

“He - he left yesterday,” the man stutters. “He - it was the Toss a Coin one, the Butcher.” He spits out the last word, and Julian snarls at that hateful moniker - he thought he’d wiped that horrible name from the minds of people, but apparently not. 

The man flinches back, but continues, “We didn’t want him here - your kind go around causing nothing but trouble, and now you’re here, and you -”

His mouth snaps shut when Julian’s glare intensifies, daring the man to insult him again. 

Julian crouches down to the fallen man slowly, every move a wordless threat. He makes a show out of it as he leans in to look the man fully in the eyes, long hair falling around his face as he plays the part of the fearsome, dangerous witcher.

His time with Geralt must have rubbed off on him. Julian stares at the man with his own version of Geralt’s patented scary face, and demands, “Was there anyone with him.”

“Y-yes,” the man stammers shakily, his voice high and reedy with fear. “A little girl, don’t know what she was doing with a fucking muta - with him. We tried to chase him out, but he was already leaving.”

“Where did they go.” 

Gods above, he even sounds like Geralt now, not a single inflection to his words. 

“N-north, they went north! They rode out of here quick, and we didn’t - we didn’t follow them too far, just wanted them out of here, don’t need your fucking kind contaminating this place -”

And now he’s back on the insults. Julian suppresses the overwhelming urge to punch this man in the jaw, not wanting to worsen the situation, and straightens up, sheathing his dagger. The entirety of the room is dead silent, watching him in apprehension like he’s going to slaughter them all, which really doesn’t bode well for his reputation.

But he got what he needed, so he ignores the frightened stares and strides back to the frozen innkeeper, whose mouth is hanging slightly open.

“Room,” Julian demands, handing over a few coins, not bothering to count. He doesn’t like how he’s once again taking a page out of Geralt’s book by resorting to his monosyllabic speech, but Julian has to admit that it does wonders for intimidating people.

For a moment, the innkeeper looks like he wants to refuse, but he evidently doesn’t want to incur the wrath of an angry witcher, so he hands over a key to Julian with a tremor in his hands.

Julian takes the key and gives the innkeeper his sweetest smile, the one that makes men and women fall head over heels for Jaskier the bard, but it only makes the innkeeper cringe in fear. Rude. 

“Have a nice evening, sir,” he says, making sure that the man in the corner hears him, and heads up the stairs to his room. The chatter starts up behind him as he leaves, and he catches more than a few hateful phrases thrown at him. 

Well. That hadn’t gone particularly well. Julian tries to do things as nonviolently as possible, not wanting to taint the reputation of witchers even further, but he’d just been so frustrated with his fruitless search, and men assailing him had been the tipping point. 

It’s no excuse for losing his temper, he knows, and there may be consequences tomorrow, but he doubts that the man would have let up any information otherwise. As he enters the room, Julian thinks about how he has met way too many men like that - bursting with arrogance and bravado as they try to challenge a witcher, but ending up cowering in fear when it backfires in their faces.

Thanks to Toss a Coin, Julian hasn’t encountered many men like this since he’d gone back to being a witcher (though he’d met plenty before that), and this is probably the first time he has been physically assaulted since returning to the path.

He’s reminded of the numerous times when he’d gotten riled up whenever Geralt had been on the receiving end of such unreasonable hatred, when he’d fought tooth and nail to retaliate against the bastards who’d dared to insult Geralt, when he’d gotten so infuriated that Geralt had to physically hold him back from severely injuring those people.

Julian is now on the receiving end of the hatred of humans, and he can’t very well stand up for himself the way he’d just done, the way Jaskier had done for Geralt, without bringing in more prejudice against his kind. 

He smiles bitterly. When he’d been Jaskier, he’d pretty much been overflowing with outrage at the way the world unfairly treated witchers, filled with righteous anger at the senseless prejudice of humans. 

Now, Julian still feels a modicum of that outrage, but he’s more or less resigned to this treatment. If he stands up for himself the way he had done for Geralt, Julian won’t be seen as a human bard trying to defend a witcher, but as a witcher committing undue aggression against humans. 

His actions just now will have ramifications, even if he hadn’t harmed anyone. This is just another thing that he could’ve gotten away with as a human, but is unacceptable for a witcher, and Julian is fairly sure that he’ll be attacked in his sleep or at some point tomorrow. 

But he can’t dwell on this, Julian reminds himself. He’ll deal with the consequences when they come. Right now, there are more important things to focus on than the pity party he’s throwing himself - namely, what the man had revealed. 

The man had confirmed that Geralt had come through the village, and that he had been with a little girl. Geralt’s not the type to take up random children, so it’s almost definitely Ciri. Looks like the idiot finally owned up to his responsibility after denying it for so long. 

He’d also revealed that they had gone north, so at least Julian has somewhere to start when looking for them.

Making sure that the door is locked, he sighs in frustration and starts pacing. He wants to go after them right now, to catch up to them as soon as possible and see if Ciri’s safe, but he forces himself to think rationally. 

Pegasus needs to rest fully. She can’t go on for much longer if Julian insists on going right now. Even if she manages to go on for some time, he probably won’t be able to catch up with them, especially since they’ve had a day’s head start. Besides, Julian doesn’t need to fear for Ciri’s safety now that she’s in Geralt’s care. Geralt is one of the best witchers around - he’s more than enough protection for Ciri, so she’s safe with him. 

He’ll go after them tomorrow, Julian concludes. He’ll get enough sleep, gather supplies in town, then ride after them with Pegasus. If he’s lucky, he’ll be able to avoid any confrontations as a result of his reckless actions which would delay his journey, but he knows better than to hope. 

Julian hopes that he’ll catch up to them soon - he doesn’t suppose that they’re as far ahead as Geralt could have been, had he been alone. Ciri’s still a child, after all, and needs proper rest, and she’s not used to life on the road, which would slow them down. With Geralt needing to accommodate Ciri’s needs, Julian speculates that he’ll be able to catch up with them in a day, maybe two. 

Okay, okay. He lets out a slow breath. He doesn’t need to rush. Ciri is safe. Geralt is with her.

It takes some time for him to calm down completely, to assuage his own worries to the point where he’s no longer buzzing with nervous energy, but once the frenzy in his mind has stilled, he realises that he’s absolutely shattered. 

Over the last few weeks, it had only been adrenaline and sheer stubborn will that had spurred him on, making up for his lack of sleep. But now, he feels all that exhaustion catch up to him, and the moment he manages to stumble into bed, he’s out like a light.

art by @astraaeterna

Chapter Text

No one comes for Julian that night (he’d half-expected someone to take revenge after his outburst), and he wakes feeling relaxed and well-rested, ready to get back on the road. It’s not past noon yet, he observes as he peers out of the window, which is good - he won’t be wasting too much daylight. 

Briskly, he prepares for the day, and heads down to return the key. The atmosphere is subdued, as conversations die down and a wary silence takes over the moment he enters, but Julian heads straight to the innkeeper, who stinks of terror and keeps his gaze averted as he fumbles with the key.

Ignoring the weight of the frightened stares, he leaves the inn and heads to the market to buy whatever he may need for the journey ahead. If Geralt is with Ciri, he won’t want to risk going into town all that often to prevent Ciri from being recognised, so Julian stocks up on food and supplies for all three of them. 

It’s a bit presumptuous to think that Geralt and Ciri would even let him travel with them, given what he now is, and how he and Geralt had parted ways, but Julian buys enough for all three of them anyway, because he’s considerate like that.

As he wanders through the market and the shops, Julian is relieved to find that no one seems to have gossiped about his outburst last night, though he suspects that last night’s witnesses are currently too hungover to do so. People in town treat him the way they always treat a witcher - with wariness, some with more animosity and some with less, like he’s a skittish wild animal who might attack them any moment, but nothing out of the ordinary for him.

Still, Julian doesn’t want to risk it in case someone decides to go around spreading news of what happened and people decide to chase him out of town, so he finishes his purchases as quickly as possible, and goes to collect Pegasus from the stables.

That’s when his luck runs out. He should’ve known it was too good to be true that no one had ambushed him in town after last night, but he’d been optimistic. Now, looking at the twenty or so people standing between him and Pegasus, armed with knives and pitchforks and spears, Julian berates himself for being so careless.

He can’t hinder his journey any further - he needs to get to Ciri as soon as possible, so he spreads his arms in a gesture of peace, not wanting to get involved in more conflict than necessary.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble -”

A pudgy man interrupts him, raising a heavy axe threateningly. 

“We heard what you did last night at the inn, witcher.” He spits out the title like it’s something foul in his mouth. “You think you can get away with treating one of our own like that? You foul creatures don’t deserve to exist, nothing more than scum.”

Normally, Julian would deliver a scathing retort, but he needs to get to Ciri, so he bites back the remark on his tongue and swallows his pride, trying to pacify the men.

“I really don’t want any trouble,” he tries to reason, making himself sound as harmless as possible. “I’ll get out of your hair right now, just let me get to my horse and you can be rid of me.”

“The only good way to be rid of you monsters is to kill you.” A tall woman shakes her knife at him with a snarl. “Too many of you freaks running around and bringing unrest to our villages.”

The first man steps forward, face twisted in a cruel grin. 

“You lot waltz into our towns with your freaky golden eyes and white hair, all high and mighty with your swords, and you think we’ll just roll over and take it?” He sneers, voice filled with loathing. “We’re happy to get rid of you, for the sake of everyone else.”

“Don’t do this,” Julian implores, keeping his arms open even as he itches to reach for his sword. “I’ll leave right now and I won’t step into this town again.”

“Damn right you won’t step into this town again,” someone hisses, and then there’s an axe swinging towards his head, forcing him to duck out of the way quickly.

Looks like the peaceful option is out.

Julian doesn’t draw his swords - he wants to limit the damage as much as possible, so he swiftly knocks aside the man with the axe, delivering a non-lethal blow that knocks him unconscious. He unsheathes his daggers just in time to parry a blow from his left, and now there are several people on him at once, isn’t that just great. 

He refrains from causing serious harm to anyone, keeping his blows non-lethal as he strikes down one person after another, but reigning in his strength costs him, distracting him from fully focusing on all the threats. As Julian dodges a swipe from a large butcher’s knife and knocks another man’s feet out from under him, an arrow strikes him in the shoulder, and he hisses in pain.

There are only four people left standing, and Julian spies the archer a small distance away, another arrow already nocked and ready. 

The arrow hasn’t buried too deeply into his shoulder, his armour having absorbed much of the impact, so he forges through the pain. Keeping a cautious eye on the archer, Julian lunges at the remaining people, drawing on his inhuman agility to evade their blows skilfully. He quickly jabs at the pressure points of two of the remaining attackers before they can react. They crumple, and Julian forcefully jams the hilt of his dagger over the head of the third attacker to knock him out, then punches the lights out of the last one as she attempts to stab him with her spear. 

His enhanced senses alert him to a shift in the air, and Julian gracefully spins to one side as an arrow whizzes through the air where he had been standing previously. Faster than the human eye can track, Julian throws his dagger with brutal precision, striking the archer in the leg and making him drop his bow as he falls to the floor with a cry.

Surveying the damage he had done, Julian groans. Shit. He had hoped that there wouldn’t be any trouble, but he should’ve expected that there would be consequences for his behaviour last night - people are always itching for a way to blame witchers.

Julian has to get out of this town as quickly as possible before more people are sent after him. Bracing himself, he pulls the arrow out of his shoulder with a grunt of pain. The archer hadn’t been very good - the arrow has only just pierced through his armour, and isn’t too deeply embedded into his shoulder. He can feel the wound healing already - he reckons that it’ll be fine by the next day.

Julian casts a quick glance around the area. All of his attackers are down on the ground or unconscious, posing no further threat to his escape, so he quickly retrieves the dagger he threw and gets onto Pegasus.

Then he’s heading north as quickly as possible, keen to get away from that village. He makes sure not to jolt his wound too much, not wanting it to be a hindrance if he does find Ciri and he needs to defend her. 

Well! That had been an utter disaster - he’d hoped to get in and out of town quickly without trouble, but he was stupid last night and lost his temper.

Julian hadn’t hurt anyone at the inn, but he knows that humans will take any little thing as justification for attacking a witcher. This is especially true now that Jaskier the bard has mysteriously disappeared, and there’s no one singing the praises of witchers anymore, meaning that the tentative peace between humans and witchers is crumbling.

Julian shouldn’t have threatened the man. Maybe he would have gotten answers even if he hadn’t busted out the dagger, maybe the drunk men would have been willing to tell him all about the disgusting mutant that passed through their town the day before, or maybe someone would have informed him.

Maybe he hadn’t needed to resort to violence. If Julian hadn’t lost his temper last night, no one would have attacked him, and he wouldn’t be worrying about someone coming after him. 

Not for the first time, Julian longs for the time when he’d been welcome among humans, when the worst thing that could’ve happened was being chased out of the house by an angry husband, when he wouldn’t be attacked simply for his species. It had been so easy then, being so readily accepted amongst humans, and now he’s back to being the recipient of society’s prejudice.

The events of the past two days have only served as a reminder of how deeply ingrained society’s hatred for witchers is. As much as he’d tried to improve their reputation, Julian knows that there’s still a lot of work to be done.

Hopefully, this won’t create another Butcher of Blaviken situation. He’d spent long enough trying to erase that name from the public’s minds, and he doesn’t fancy a similar title for himself. 

Julian wants to believe that the fact that he hadn’t killed anyone would pacify people slightly, but he knows that the hatred of humans enables them to distort the truth, and he dreads how much it will worsen the reputation of witchers. He hates to think that someone would twist the events, perhaps talking of how he had knocked out twenty innocent people without mercy, how he had been needlessly brutal and violent.

So much for all the work he had done as Jaskier.

Eager to put as much distance between him and the town as possible, Julian pushes Pegasus hard for a few hours. Once he’s certain that no one is after him, he slows their pace to a steady trot, and checks on his wound. It hurts when he touches it, but the worst part has healed, and he’ll probably be fine by tomorrow.

In his haste to escape, Julian hadn’t really kept a close eye on his direction of travel, so he double-checks their course to ensure that they’re still travelling north. He’s pretty sure that Geralt is heading north because he wants to get away from Nilfgaard, yes, but more likely to keep Ciri safe at Kaer Morhen, which is… not a bad idea, actually. 

No humans know where Kaer Morhen is, and even if they somehow found out, it isn’t easily accessible by humans anyway, almost impossible, in fact, due to the hostile terrain and climate. It’s well-defended by multiple deadly, highly trained witchers, and it’s also a place to train Ciri to defend herself, especially considering that the Princess of Cintra is now a prime target for those in league with Nilfgaard.

Glad to know that Geralt at least has a destination in mind, Julian continues north for the rest of the day, only stopping for breaks to check on his wound and for Pegasus to regain her strength. 

He covers as much ground as possible until the sun sets fully and darkness obscures his vision, forcing him to camp for the night. At first light, he gathers his things and urges Pegasus on. 

It’s a few hours later when he catches the scent of another witcher, tinged with chaos. Not just another witcher - it’s Geralt. Somehow, even though Julian has never caught Geralt’s scent with his witcher-enhanced senses, he just knows that it’s him, knows it deep in his bones. 

Geralt doesn’t smell like onion, much to Julian’s disappointment. He can’t really place the scent, but it’s warm and pleasant and makes him think of home.

Pushing Pegasus on as quickly as he dares, he follows the scent. He’s getting closer, and will likely catch up to Geralt within the hour, maybe sooner.

Around half an hour later, Julian realises that something is very wrong. At first, the only people he’d been able to smell were Geralt and Ciri, but a few new scents had crept in a few minutes ago. Julian had ignored them, dismissing them as travellers who happened to cross their path, but now the new scents are intermingling with Geralt and Ciri’s in a way that definitely does not indicate a coincidental meeting.

The mix of scents are getting stronger, and Julian is certain that he’s only a few minutes away. Dread pools in his stomach as he realises that it’s not just a few travellers, like he thought. There’s definitely more than a few, at least twenty, maybe even thirty, and the coppery tang of blood hangs heavy in the air. 

Fuck, this is bad. Someone must be after Ciri, and judging by the fact that Geralt and Ciri’s scents are still strong, they weren’t able to get away - the travellers must have gotten them. The travellers (if they even are travellers, more likely mercenaries of a sort) must be skilled, to be able to overwhelm Geralt - after all, Julian has seen him take down thirty men without breaking a sweat. 

Heart racing, he tries to push down his fear, focusing intently on what’s ahead.

Ciri needs him. Geralt needs him.

“Go, go, go,” he urges Pegasus, and she speeds up to a fast gallop. “Good girl.”

He’s close. Less than a minute away, and the scent of blood grows thicker. It’s mostly human blood, but he can smell that some of it is Geralt’s, enough to know that Geralt has lost more blood than is ideal for a witcher.

He needs to be there now.

And - there. Just slightly off the road, he hears the sound of raucous laughter. There’s no sound of fighting, no clashing of blades or screams of pain. The fight must be over, and the bastards who are after Ciri are probably celebrating. 

Swearing under his breath, Julian slides off Pegasus. He grabs his weapons and unsheathes his steel sword, checking that he has his potions on him, just in case. He doesn’t know what he’s up against and he may need them, depending on the situation and how many enemies there are.

He rolls his injured shoulder, assessing its condition. It’s mostly healed, and Julian is certain that it won’t bother him in the fight unless something goes very, very wrong.

There won’t be time for anything to go wrong. Julian will make sure that the fight is over too quickly for that.

“Stay here, Pegasus,” he commands. She dips her head, and Julian sets off in the direction where he’d heard the laughter, pulling his hair into a hasty bun as he goes.

He keeps to the shadows, sticking close to the trees, and spots them. Geralt and Ciri are tied to a tree. Geralt is bleeding from a cut on his forehead, and there are multiple gashes on his body, soaking his armour with blood. They’re bleeding sluggishly, where they would usually be scabbing over by now, and Julian is worried because that means Geralt hasn’t been at his full strength lately, and he clearly can’t afford to lose any more blood.

Geralt looks furious, straining to get out of his bindings, but his wounds have evidently weakened him too much, rendering his struggles futile. Ciri is next to him. There’s terror in her eyes but she refuses to show it, hiding her fear behind a ferocious glare. Some of her captors eye her warily, and Julian almost smiles - there’s his fierce Lion Cub.

Taking stock of the area, he spots a dark pile of what must be Geralt’s gear on the far side of the camp, and there are maybe fifteen, sixteen bodies on the ground, downed by Geralt’s sword. Geralt can usually take more men than that, which means that either he was too tired to fight at his best, or that the people he fought were skilled.

Looking at the people who remain standing, Julian has a sinking suspicion that it’s the latter (though the former still holds true). There are around ten people left alive, mingling around a fire. They look triumphant as they celebrate their victory, careless in a way that indicates their confidence in their abilities. They occasionally throw a taunt at Geralt and Ciri, and Julian grinds his teeth, holding back a snarl. Those smug fucking bastards.

Though they move like highly trained fighters, they have let down their guard, clearly not expecting anyone to rescue Geralt and Ciri, or assured enough in their skill to take care of anyone who would dare try. 

Julian hisses in fury at the sheer arrogance they exude. He wants to rip their fucking throats out. 

They may be skilled, but Julian is a witcher. No matter how good they are, he can handle ten humans. He wants to kill them slowly, make them pay for even daring to look at the two most important people to him, but Geralt and Ciri’s lives are in danger, so he buries the urge to take revenge and centres himself, readies his blade.

They don’t see him coming.

Julian swings his steel sword at the man nearest to him, taking off his head, and takes advantage of his surprise entrance to throw a knife with deadly accuracy at another. The knife thuds into the man’s chest, straight into his heart, and Julian grins savagely as he raises his sword to parry an incoming strike. Julian kicks his assailant in the stomach, right into one of her friends, sending them both stumbling back. 

Twisting out of the way of a dagger, he gets under another woman’s guard and slashes at her chest, leaving a deep gash, then immediately raises his hand to cast Aard at the attackers converging on him. Please. As if they could overpower a witcher with numbers alone. Several people are thrown backwards, and a corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile. 

Take that, you fucking idiots.

The fight becomes a bit of a blur after that, as Julian slashes and stabs and whirls his way through his attackers. The elastic holding his hair back snaps as he ducks under a swinging sword, and Julian curses as his silver strands obscure his vision for a moment. Someone takes advantage of his distraction to slice a shallow cut onto his right arm, and fuck, he’d known that he should’ve cut his hair at some point, and now his laziness is coming back to bite him in the arse.

Shaking his hair out of his face, Julian snarls at the man who did it, who has the sense to look intimidated as Julian advances on him menacingly. Julian slits his throat, watching him gurgle on his blood with satisfaction.

Serves that dickhead right.

There are two people left, a man and a woman, both bleeding from multiple cuts which Julian had proudly inflicted. Julian tilts his head, giving them a deadly look.

“Well?” He spins his blood-coated sword in his hand, and bares his teeth at them in a predatory grin. Nodding at the dead bodies around him, Julian purrs out, “Going to come at me, fools? Or are you going to run back to your mommas like the babies you are?”

The man’s face turns a truly horrifying shade of red (Julian fears for his blood flow), and charges at him with a guttural scream, sword swinging. His companion joins him, but Julian isn’t intimidated in the slightest - he had just killed eight people with barely a scratch, after all. 

Well, there’s the cut on his arm, but it doesn’t really hurt and it’s already healing, so it doesn’t count. 

Julian blocks the man’s strike lazily, ducking under the woman’s sword. He’s all but won this fight - he’s far more skilled, and they’re tired and injured - so he lets himself toy with them a bit, amused as they attempt to throw themselves at him, only for him to evade their attacks with casual ease.

Then he catches a glimpse of silver hair at the corner of his eye, and remembers why he’s here. 

Time to end this.

Julian swiftly cuts them down, and casts a cursory glance around the area to ensure that no one’s left alive. A dark vindictiveness rises in his chest to see Ciri and Geralt’s captors all dead in a pile of their own blood.

After all, they attacked and captured Ciri and Geralt, and Julian thinks that they deserve worse for what they’ve done - death is too kind for people like them - but they’re already dead, and there’s nothing he can do now.

Once he’s certain that they’re all well and truly dead, Julian turns and heads over to Geralt and Ciri.

Chapter Text

As Julian approaches, Ciri and Geralt watch him warily, Ciri’s face filled with suspicion and Geralt’s golden eyes narrowing.

Julian pauses. Why are they looking at him like that? He’d thought that they would be grateful that he had come to save them, but apparently not. 

Maybe Geralt’s still mad from the mountain, and Ciri’s annoyed that he hasn’t visited her in over a year? It would make sense, he thinks. Perhaps they don’t even want to see him, and want him out of their lives. 

It’s a rather hurtful thought, but Julian is used to rejection, so he wouldn’t be surprised.

… On second thought, they probably don’t recognise that he’s Jaskier. 

Right.

Also, he’s covered in blood and he just slaughtered ten highly skilled mercenaries with ease, so Julian supposes that it’s reasonable that they’re looking at him with distrust.

Julian raises his hands in a gesture of peace. “Look, I don’t mean you any harm. I’m just going to cut your bindings, now, okay?” Slowly, telegraphing his movements, he kneels down and takes out a knife. 

Ciri flinches slightly, recoiling away from him, which, well, hurts. He never thought he’d see the day when his Lion Cub is afraid of him, and he knows that Ciri probably doesn’t know he’s Jaskier, and her wariness is justified, but something in him still cracks as he’s reminded of all the times humans have flinched from his touch. 

He carefully places his knife on the bindings, movements slow to show that he means no harm. “I’m not going to hurt you, please don’t stab me once you’re free,” Julian says as he starts cutting through the bindings. “That would be very inconvenient. I do quite like having my life intact, you know.”

As he saws at the thick ropes, Julian ponders how he’s going to break it to them. Clearly, they don’t recognise him, which is just rude on Geralt’s part, they’d travelled together for over two decades, surely the bastard at least knows what his face looks like. 

Even though he looks a little different as a witcher, surely it isn’t that much different. He’s pretty sure that he still resembles Jaskier well enough, even though his face is marred by scars, and his hair and eyes are different, and there’s the blood splattering across his face and obscuring his features, but still.

… Yeah, Julian sees why they don’t recognise them.

Should he break it to them? Let them figure it out themselves? Deny any and all knowledge of Jaskier?

If he tells them, will Geralt tell him to fuck off, like he did last time? Will he look at Julian in hate and disgust that he dared to come after Geralt, even after Geralt told him in no uncertain terms to leave?

Ugh. This is why he kept to himself over the past year. Apparently it’s hard to deal with how to reveal the fact that the helpless human bard they knew is actually a witcher. Who knew?

He saws off the last bit of rope and stands, putting his knife back. Once free, Geralt steps in front of Ciri protectively, shielding her behind him as golden eyes glaring into Julian’s own. He looks exhausted, bags under his eyes and bleeding profusely from his wounds, but he still makes an admirable effort to intimidate Julian, looming over him with a menacing expression. 

Well, unfortunately for him, Julian’s dealt with Geralt’s scary face for a long time, and isn’t intimidated in the slightest. Anyone else would probably piss themselves, but at this point Julian thinks that Geralt just looks like a disgruntled puppy, and about as threatening as one. 

He glares back. 

“Well…?” Julian drawls, wiping the blood from his sword without taking his eyes off Geralt. “Not going to thank me for saving your lives?”

Geralt doesn’t respond, glaring even harder. Julian sighs internally. Typical. 

“A thank you would be nice,” he says pointedly. “I know you have your stubborn pride or whatever, but we both know you wouldn’t have gotten out of that unless you were very, very lucky. You’re weak from blood loss, and you’re disarmed. You wouldn’t have escaped.”

A grunt. Valiantly, Julian fights the urge to roll his eyes so hard that he can feel a headache building at the sheer effort it takes to restrain himself. Oh, for fuck’s sake. 

“Look.” He’s exasperated, he’s annoyed, he knows Geralt has a thing about not needing others, but Julian literally just saved their lives. He would appreciate Geralt toning down his hostility for once. Apparently it’s too much to ask for Geralt to ever show him any ounce of positive emotion. 

“I don’t mean you any harm, I promise. You need help, and you need to get away from here as soon as possible because Nilfgaard has people everywhere, so will you just let me help?”

Geralt stares at him before slowly stepping away from Ciri, still close enough to protect her, but far enough that Julian can tell it’s a show of reluctant acceptance.

“I need my swords and my gear,” Geralt finally grunts out, heading to a bush on the far side of the clearing, where his captors had haphazardly dumped his things. Ciri trails after him, and Julian stays where he is, watching them. 

“Are you okay?” Geralt murmurs to Ciri, and Julian is astounded at the softness in his tone. He’s never heard Geralt sound like that before, so full of concern and affection, like he truly cares. 

Part of him is upset that Geralt has always been capable of being soft but has never shown it to him, having only ever been on the receiving end of pointed jabs and barbed words, but a larger part of Julian is grateful that Geralt truly cares for Ciri - that girl deserves all the care in the world, and Julian has no doubt that Geralt, in all his hidden kindness, will give it to her.

Ciri shuffles closer to Geralt, casting a wary glance at Julian. He’s used to her looking at him with joy and affection, nothing like the guarded suspicion she’s currently directing at him, and his heart squeezes painfully. 

“I’m fine, Geralt,” she reassures him. “They wanted me unharmed, I think. But you’re wounded. Are you okay?”

Like this, Julian can practically see the bonds of destiny wrapping around them as Geralt’s expression turns tender (why has he never seen this side of Geralt before?). Geralt places his hand on Ciri’s head and gives her a comforting smile (a smile, Julian can count on one hand the number of times Geralt’s smile had been directed at him over two decades). 

“I’m fine,” Geralt tells her, voice so, so gentle. “Just need a bit of healing, and I’ll be fine in no time, I promise.”

That was a lot of words, and Julian is impressed - looks like Ciri brings out the less quiet side of Geralt, the more affectionate side of him that is willing to use his words and open with his care.

“Can we trust him?” Clearly, Ciri isn’t aware of the extent of witcher hearing even as she whispers the question. Julian pretends not to hear her, inspecting his sword. “Who is he, another witcher? Do you know him?”

Ciri might not know the range of witcher hearing, but Geralt does, and Julian can feel Geralt’s gaze on him. He ignores it resolutely. 

“Hmm,” is all Geralt deigns to say, not answering Ciri’s question as he leads her back to where Julian is standing. 

“I can patch you up,” Julian offers once they reach him. Geralt eyes him with distrust, and Julian heaves a theatrical sigh. “If I was going to kill you, or take you to Nilfgaard, I would’ve done it while you were vulnerable and unarmed.”

“Hmm.” Geralt is tense, sizing him up. “And I’m just supposed to believe you.”

“You’re weak and injured,” Julian says pointedly. “Do you have a better option?”

“I don’t know you,” Geralt counters, and Julian has to hold himself back from recoiling, keeping his expression passive. Had Geralt paid so little attention to him in all the time they’d been travelling together that he doesn’t even know what Jaskier’s face looks like?

“And I just freed you,” Julian snaps coldly, mustering up a glare to cover his hurt at the reminder that Geralt had never truly cared for him, had paid so little attention to him that he couldn’t even recognise Jaskier in Julian. He’d given two decades of his life to Geralt, and Geralt hadn’t even bothered to learn what he looked like. “I have no reason to harm either of you, I assure you.”

Geralt makes an admirable attempt to draw himself up to his full height, but his wounds clearly hinder him as he barely manages to hide a wince of pain. “And why would I trust you?” Geralt asks derisively, stance rigid as he shifts to stand in front of Ciri once again. 

Well. Maybe Julian shouldn’t have glared if he wanted to make Geralt trust him. That had, admittedly, not been a good move, so Julian softens his tone. “Look, I’m just trying to help, here. Just - let me, okay?”

The last part comes out a bit more desperate than he would like, and he definitely sounds like he cares, way more than a random stranger should. Hopefully Geralt’s too tired to notice.

Geralt stares at him for a few seconds, expression inscrutable, during which Julian does his best to appear helpful and unthreatening - which is hard, considering his swords and his armour and his witcher mutations, and oh, has he mentioned that he’s covered in blood?

Finally, Geralt grunts in affirmation (that’s his okay fine but I don’t like it grunt, see? Julian speaks Geralt fluently), his rigid posture relaxing just the slightest bit. Julian heaves an inward sigh of relief at Geralt’s reluctant cooperation, and digs a potion out of his bag.

He hands the potion to Geralt, who takes it warily.

“What is this.” 

“This is my own personal concoction, and it will heal you up faster than your own potions,” Julian says proudly. Bless his alchemical training. 

Geralt sniffs at the potion, as if making sure that Julian didn’t just hand him poison - how rude, as if Julian would ever poison him. He’s pissed at Geralt, but not that pissed. After a few moments of staring at the potion like it might transform into a basilisk and attack him, Geralt grudgingly gulps down the potion.

“It will staunch your bleeding a bit, but you’ve got a lot of wounds, and some of them are deep. You need to patch them up.” Julian eyes the numerous gashes on Geralt’s body, blood seeping through his armour. He winces and adds, “I’ve got some bandages on my horse - she’s not far, and I can patch you up until you heal up or find a healer.”

Before Geralt can stir up more shit about not trusting him, Julian deliberately turns his back on him and Ciri, and starts walking to Pegasus. Geralt will hopefully recognise it as a show of trust - after all, witchers never expose their backs to anyone. 

Julian breathes a sigh of relief as Geralt and Ciri follow him to Pegasus after a moment’s pause - where is Roach, he wonders - and he takes out a few of his medical supplies. 

“Do you want to do it yourself, or shall I?”

Geralt takes the supplies without a word, and settles down to clean his wounds. Ciri sticks close to him, looking anxious and wringing her hands - she must want to help but not know how. Julian itches to comfort her, a deep instinct within him urging him to pull her into his arms and wipe the worried look from her face, but he can’t. She doesn’t know him - Julian is nothing more than a stranger to her.

Julian isn’t Jaskier anymore, and he has no right to take care of Ciri the way he had done as Jaskier. So he stands back, hands twitching at his sides, helpless to do anything to assuage her worries, to make everything better. 

“Why,” Geralt grunts. He stops, and Julian shoots him a questioning look. Geralt could be asking a lot of things, and he needs to learn to use his words before Julian can answer. 

“Why are you helping us.” Geralt grits out. He sways slightly, and Ciri rushes to steady him. Julian aches to run to him, to patch him up and hold him close and help him recover, but it’s not his place, not anymore. 

Not after the mountain, not since he’s returned to being a witcher. With how Geralt feels about him (if life could give me one blessing -), how he’s always treated him (we’re not friends), Julian’s not sure it was ever his place. 

“Why are you helping us,” Geralt repeats when Julian fails to answer the first time. He continues, voice growing stronger, “Who are you?”

Ah. The moment of truth.

The thing is, Julian hasn’t figured out what to say.

So he tells the truth.

“Julian of -” he almost adds Cintra, but he remembers that Ciri’s here, and he probably shouldn’t say it, seeing how she’s just lost her home and her family, and he has no desire to bring it up and remind her of the pain. “- the Manticore school,” he finishes smoothly. 

He mentally pats himself on the back for such a great catch. It’s still the truth if he omits a few key details, right? Just a few! It’s not like they’re important or anything. He’s not lying about his identity, really. He is Julian, after all. He just… neglected to mention that he’s also Jaskier.

Geralt’s gaze is assessing when he looks up from his wounds. “I thought all the Manticores were dead.”

Thanks for the reminder, Geralt. As if seeing Geralt and Ciri hadn’t dredged up enough past memories, Geralt just had to bring up the painful reminder that all of Julian’s brothers are dead.

Before he’d begged Tissaia for that favour, there had still been one or two members of his schools roaming around. When he returned to the Path, Julian had expected that they would still be around, only to find out two months later that the last surviving member of his school had died sometime during his life as Jaskier. 

After that, Julian had tried not to think about the fact that all the other members of his school are dead, that he’s the only Manticore left in the world, that he’d been off gallivanting as Jaskier when his last remaining brother who’d survived the Mass Hunt had died.

Gods above, Julian sounds like such a pathetic loner when he puts it that way. Sure, he’s always worked on his own - his school never had the best reputation, resulting in the Mass Hunt, and he avoided interacting with members of his school as much as possible to try and distance himself from their reputation. 

Even so, the other Manticores were still from his school and he’d even trained together with some of them, and the thought that he’s the only one left hurts, reminds him that he’s truly alone in the world, now.

The aftermath of the Mass Hunt had been bad enough - it had left them scattered, and Julian had no idea who had still been alive, but at least he’d known that there were still some Manticores out there. When he had received confirmation that he was the only one left…

Sometimes, Julian wonders if he’s simply destined to be alone. 

This is no time to get maudlin. Shaking himself from his pitiful wallowing, Julian gestures to his medallion, and says dryly, “Clearly not.”

Geralt looks like he wants to ask more, but he suddenly winces and clutches at his side, letting out a pained grunt as he doubles over.

Geralt’s hands aren’t doing a very good job of covering up the source of his pain, and with a jolt, Julian realises that Geralt is clutching at a deep stab wound. 

He’s rushing to check on it before Geralt can get a word out, prying Geralt’s hands off the wound and ignoring his confused growl. How had Julian not noticed the massive fucking stab wound? No wonder all of Geralt’s wounds are healing so slowly, fuck, how is he even upright at this point?

“Shit, I didn’t see the stab wound,” Julian says, reaching for his kit. Geralt blinks at him, eyes hazy with pain and confusion as Julian frantically searches through his supplies.  “We need to clean it, fuck, I don’t have all my supplies, where’s the rest of my kit?”

In the urgency of the moment, it doesn’t occur to Julian that he’s a stranger to Geralt still, and that he should probably tamp down his worry - a stranger wouldn’t be fretting over Geralt so anxiously. Geralt looks confused at the concern on Julian’s face, but Julian is panicking too much over Geralt’s fucking stab wound to worry about that. 

Julian needs the rest of his kit, which is with Pegasus, but he can’t leave Geralt’s side since he needs to keep working on the wound, so he doesn’t even hesitate to call for Ciri. 

“Ciri,” he says absently as he keeps his focus on helping Geralt, missing the way both Geralt and Ciri flinch at his use of her name. “Can you get the rest of my kit from Pegasus’ saddlebags, cub? It’s in the brown bag.”

“How do you know my name?” Ciri sounds shocked and fearful, why does she sound like that? Of course he knows her name, he’s -

Oh, right. He keeps forgetting.

Geralt snarls and leaps away from Julian, pulling Ciri behind him, no doubt aggravating his injuries in the process. He draws his sword and points it at Julian, glaring at him threateningly. Ciri has a hand on the dagger at her hip, green eyes blazing with suspicion, and chaos thrums in the air.

Julian is really loving the trust here. It’s extremely fun, being perceived as a threat by the two most important people in his life, truly a novel experience. 

“You know her name.” Geralt’s voice is low and threatening. “What do you want?”

Julian sighs. It was bound to come up eventually, but he’d hoped to do it without any itchy hands on pointy weapons. Why does Geralt think violence is the solution to everything? 

He’d hoped to reveal his identity once Geralt recovers, or just not reveal his identity at all, but well. He doesn’t fancy getting stabbed, and the sword pointing at him doesn’t really give him an option. Well, the sword doesn’t really concern him - Geralt is weak and woozy from blood loss, and he must be using the last of his energy to stay upright. Julian can take him easily, but he never wanted their reunion to go this way.

“Look, like I said, I’m not here to harm you,” Julian says placatingly. “Just - sit back down, okay? You got stabbed, you shouldn’t be moving, just sit down and I can explain.”

The sword doesn’t waver.

“What. Do. You. Want.” Geralt bites out through gritted teeth. 

They’re doing this, then.

Julian crosses his arms, facing Geralt and Ciri fully. “Do I, I don’t know, maybe remind you of someone?” When he’s met with twin blank, uncomprehending stares, he exhales loudly, prompting, “Maybe take a closer look at my face? The scars are pretty ugly, I’m aware, but surely they’re not so bad that you can’t even bear having a closer look at my face.”

There’s a moment of silence. Julian waits.

Geralt’s eyes roam over his face, no doubt taking in his scars and golden eyes and silver hair. It takes a few seconds, which somehow stretch agonisingly long as Julian waits for them to realise.

He refrains from fidgeting under their searching gazes, keeping his posture stiff and tense. Julian despises exposing his horrifically scarred face to people, hates being subject to intense scrutiny like this - he knows his features are inhuman, and his scars are ugly, and he absolutely can’t stand people looking at his face so closely, because it always ends up in rejection or revulsion.

But it’s Geralt and Ciri, and Julian needs them to know, so he clenches his fists and lets them appraise him. 

Let them reject him, if they want. Julian is prepared. He may not recover from their rejection, but he’s known far too much of it, and he wouldn’t be surprised if it happens. 

When Ciri lets out a small, high gasp in disbelief, Julian assumes she’s figured it out. He meets her stricken gaze with a sorrowful look, lingering for a brief second before turning his stare to Geralt, watching as recognition slowly dawns on those golden eyes and as his features slacken in shock.

“No… it’s not possible,” Geralt breathes out, staring at Julian like he might disappear if he looks away. He takes an unsteady step forward and drops his sword to the ground. “Ja - he’s dead. I saw his body. You can’t - he can’t - you can’t be him.”

The sheer anguish in his voice has Julian stumbling back in surprise, but he doesn’t get far before Geralt is lunging for him, gripping his shoulders and desperately taking in his face with agonised eyes. 

Julian freezes, too stunned to break free from Geralt’s hold as Geralt stares at him with such emotion and clutches at him like he doesn’t ever want to let him go, looks at Julian like he doesn’t think Julian is real, like he’s a ghost.

Not quite comprehending what’s happening, Julian stutters, “W-what -”

Geralt’s eyes roam his face, searching his eyes, and his expression crumples in sheer devastation. “It’s - it’s you,” he murmurs, desperately drinking in Julian’s face. “But - how? You’re - Jaskier, you’re dead, I - I saw you, what…”

Geralt sounds like he’s been torn in half, grieving and miserable, and his eyes look half-wild as they flicker over Julian, as if he’s trying to reassure himself that Julian is here, that he’s real and alive.

But - what does Geralt mean when he says that Julian’s dead? Geralt wouldn’t know that unless he’d followed Julian down the mountain, and Julian had assumed Geralt wouldn’t follow in the direction he went, had thought he would have taken another route, considering what he’d said on the mountain. But if he had followed Julian…

He must have found the body. Julian’s heart pangs slightly in pain for Geralt. No matter whether Geralt had cared for him or not, they’d still known each other for over twenty years, and seeing Jaskier’s body utterly mauled by wolves must not have been a pleasant sight.

So Geralt had thought him dead for over a year.

But why does he sound so - so heartbroken over it? It contradicts what Julian knows Geralt thinks - that he’s a nuisance, a bother, a bard who doesn’t know when to stop, that Geralt is better off without him. Surely, there’s no reason for Geralt to sound so utterly torn up about it.

“You, you were -” Whatever Geralt was going to say is cut off as he crumples to the ground with a grunt of pain, grasping at his wound. Breaking out of his shock, Julian drops to his knees next to him, swearing as he frantically applies pressure to Geralt’s side.

“I told you, you fucking idiot, to sit back down because you have a motherfucking stab wound, and you didn’t listen to me, like you never do, you colossal moron, and now look what just happened,” Julian snaps irritably at Geralt, who’s staring up at him with dazed eyes. 

Julian hears Ciri rifling through his bags to find his kit - she’s always been a smart and resourceful girl - as he turns his full focus to not letting Geralt bleed out too badly. 

“For once in your life you could have listened to me, but no, you had to do the stubborn witcher act, again. Also,” he adds when Geralt tries to speak, “I’m still mad at you, so if you feel the urge to say anything like what you said last time we saw each other, keep in mind that I have a very sharp needle in my hand.” 

He hasn’t talked this much in one go in months. It seems that Geralt brings out the chatty, human side of him, but right now, he can’t bring himself to care.

Geralt opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but is clearly in too much pain to do so. Julian glares at him to convey don’t you dare make a sound until I’m done patching you up, brandishing the needle to emphasise his point, and Geralt wisely snaps his mouth shut.

Ciri hands him a small bag, and Julian flashes her a grateful smile before turning his attention fully onto the wound. He drowns out the rest of the world as he works, barely aware of Ciri hovering anxiously behind him, and once he’s finished the last stitch, he slumps back as the adrenaline buzzing through his veins fades away, leaving him exhausted.

Both Geralt and Ciri are staring at him. Julian is so over all the staring - there’s been a lot of that today, and apparently he doesn’t like being the centre of attention as much as he used to.

“Jaskier?” Ciri’s the one who pipes up, her voice hesitant. Geralt flinches slightly at the name - Julian wonders why. Surely Geralt can’t miss him, right? Julian had given him his one blessing, after all. “Is that… is that really you?”

Julian lets himself smile softly, opening his arms. “Come here, cub.”

Without hesitation, Ciri launches herself into his arms, and he catches her easily. She clutches at him tightly, burying her face into his shoulder, and Julian wraps his arms around her. It’s been far too long. 

And it’s - it’s the first kind touch he’s felt in over a year, the first time someone has touched him without the intent to harm, without wariness or fear, and Julian hadn’t realised how much he has missed touches like this, filled with care and love and trust. He tightens the embrace, and something in his chest loosens, the part which he had closed off to the rest of the world, now opening up and filling with warmth.

As Ciri clings to him, Julian is surprised that she trusts him so easily, not even doubting his identity, but he supposes that she must know him better than he’d thought. He’d know Ciri anywhere, after all, and it must be the same for her.

“Geralt said you were dead.” Her voice is muffled and slightly choked up, voice breaking on the last word and oh no she’s crying, and he feels a slight impulse to cry, too. Tears seep through his armour, and Julian strokes her hair gently, the way he does every time she’s in his arms. 

His heart breaks for her - he can’t imagine what she must have felt, thinking that he was dead, how much she must have hurt. He makes a soothing noise, tucking her closer to him, aware that Geralt is watching them.

“They’re dead, Jaskier. Grandmother, Eist, Mousesack - they’re all dead, they’re gone,” Ciri whimpers, and pain washes over Julian like a wave. Gods, she’s lost so much. “And I thought - I thought I’d lost you too, and I -”

Her body shakes with sobs, and Julian blinks back the burning in his eyes, soothing her gently. “There, there, cub,” he murmurs, turning his face into her pale hair and breathing her in. She’s a familiar warmth in his arms, though he has to mind his strength now, and oh, he’s missed her. 

“I’m here, see? I’m alive and - well, it’s a long story, and I know I look different, and I’m not as pretty as I used to be.” He tries for a rueful smile. “But I’m right here, sweetheart. Don’t cry, cub, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”

Ciri hiccups and looks up at him. It takes everything in Julian to keep himself from turning his face away from her, to hide his awful scars and unnatural eyes, and he holds her gaze steadily, trying to convey that it’s him, he’s Jaskier, he’s here.

“Jaskier,” her voice is a whisper, hoarse from crying. “What happened?”

“It’s a long story,” he reiterates gently, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. Casting a quick glance at Geralt, who’s looking at them with pained, dazed eyes, Julian stands up, lifting Ciri with him. “I promise I’ll tell you later, but we really need to get somewhere safe so Geralt can recover, just in case there’s anyone after you still.”

Ciri lets herself be pulled up, eyes still watery, but something about her gaze tells Julian that he’ll be fielding a lot of questions later. For now, he heads over to Geralt, Ciri clinging to him like a lifeline.

“Where’s Roach?” Julian asks. He hadn’t seen her near where Geralt and Ciri had been attacked, and she hasn’t yet emerged mysteriously from the forest the way she does after a hunt.

“She ran off,” Ciri answers for Geralt, her voice still trembling slightly. “We don’t know where she went.”

Alright, he can deal with that. “Did she run off from where you were attacked just now?”

Ciri nods. 

That makes it easier for Julian, then. “I can track her down, bring her back.” 

Geralt is opening his mouth, probably to protest that he should be the one to do it, and Julian is done with his utter foolishness. 

“Geralt, you’re in no shape to be going after Roach right now,” Julian asserts firmly before Geralt can get a word out. “I’ll go and bring her back, and you’re going to stay here with Ciri.” 

Now it’s Ciri who looks mutinous, her sorrow swept away by her desire to not be left aside. 

They’re both headstrong, stubborn idiots who don’t know their limits. No wonder destiny bound them together. Who’s even going to reign them in when they get like this? Gods help him, is he the unlucky bastard who has to deal with them? How is Julian even going to begin doing that? One was hard enough to deal with, and there are two of them now.

Dear gods, Ciri truly is Geralt’s child surprise. They deserve each other. 

Of course Julian decided to care for the two most stubborn people on the Continent. Just his luck.

“Ciri, Geralt is in no shape to fight,” Julian tells her, fighting to keep the exasperation out of his voice. That, at least, makes her look marginally less annoyed. “If anyone comes, you’ll need to defend him.”

The dagger at Ciri’s hip is steel, so Julian takes a silver dagger of his own from a hidden sheath and presses it into Ciri’s hands. She handles it with familiarity - unsurprising for the granddaughter of the Lioness of Cintra and Geralt’s child surprise. 

When she grows up, she’s going to be a hell of a formidable fighter, and no one will dare cross her.

“I won’t be long,” Julian promises. He squeezes Ciri’s hand gently and she clutches at him, unwilling to part with him after having thought him dead for so long. 

It pains Julian to do so, but he raises an eyebrow at her expectantly until she reluctantly lets go, and he heads back to the clearing. Quickly catching onto the scent of a horse, he follows it and finds Roach nipping at some berries a few minutes later.

“Hey, Roach,” Julian coos, stroking a hand down her mane gently. She nuzzles into his hand, and he smiles at the familiar gesture. 

“Yeah, girl, I missed you too. Let’s get you back to Geralt, shall we?”

He manages, with minimal resistance, to lead Roach back to Ciri and Geralt, whose eyes don’t even brighten at the sight of his beloved horse, instead staring at Julian with a mixture of sadness and disbelief.

Choosing to dissect that look later, Julian asks, “Can you get on Roach?”

Geralt struggles to his feet, lips tightening with pain. He staggers over to Roach, attempting to heave himself onto the saddle, but immediately doubles over with a pained groan, clutching at his side. 

Julian approaches him slowly, arms poised to help him, but he pauses before he gets too close to Geralt, unsure if Geralt would even want Julian to touch him. But Geralt is still stubbornly trying to get onto Roach on his own, and regardless of what Geralt thinks of him, Julian decides that he will not tolerate such foolhardy stupidity. 

“Let me help,” he implores. Geralt growls in frustration, refusing to meet his eyes, still panting from the effort he’d exerted. 

Julian sets his jaw. He’s had enough of Geralt’s stupid pride. This happens every time - Geralt gets hurt and needs help, Geralt refuses to accept help, Geralt’s stubbornness makes the whole situation worse, all because he refuses to let Julian help. 

“I know you hate me and want me out of your life,” Julian snaps. “And I could let you continue being a stubborn arse, but I care for Ciri, and you’re of no use to her if you make your injuries worse by straining them. Let me help.”

Ignoring Geralt’s glare, he grabs Geralt and lifts him easily onto the saddle, careful not to aggravate his wounds further. He does not focus on the warmth radiating from Geralt’s skin and the familiar feeling of his hands on Geralt; Julian doesn’t let his touch linger, doesn’t let himself take more than he should. 

The frustration has faded from Geralt’s eyes, and now he’s watching Julian with an expression that he can’t read, leaning heavily on Roach. 

Deciding that he’s had enough of trying to decipher Geralt for the day, Julian tiredly asks, already anticipating the answer, “Will you be alright riding on your own or do you need support? I don’t want you to keel over as we’re riding.”

He fully expects Geralt to say no, he’s fine, with that look in his eyes that says I can take care of myself and I don’t need anyone, so he’s already turning to Pegasus when Geralt reluctantly mumbles, “I - I think I may need some support.”

It takes Julian a few stunned seconds to register what Geralt just said. Geralt had actually admitted to needing help. From him.

Today is a day of surprises, it seems.

“Oh, uh, well then.” Still slightly shocked, Julian turns a tired smile on Citi. “Looks like you’re riding Pegasus on your own, cub, is that alright?” 

When Ciri nods in assent, Julian gives her a boost onto Pegasus, who whuffs at her, making her giggle. He’s not worried about her riding alone - she was raised royal, she’s not going to have a problem riding Pegasus, so he refrains from fussing over her and decides it’s time to get this over with and face Geralt. 

He stops in front of Roach, stroking her mane. “I’m going to get on you now, alright girl? I know Geralt doesn’t like me touching you, but he’s hurt, so he doesn’t get a say in this.” 

Well. No point in putting this off. Julian pulls himself onto Roach behind Geralt, and hesitantly asks, “Uh. Is it alright if I. Hold on to you?” 

Why is this so awkward? He hastens to add, “So I can make sure that if you fall unconscious or something then you won’t fall off. I’m not going to impose more on you than I have to. You can just ignore me.” 

And now he’s rambling.

Bits and pieces of Jaskier are resurfacing the longer he spends around Geralt and Ciri, and Julian feels… he thought he had resolved his conflict over his two intertwining lives, but apparently he hasn’t, and this unpleasant realisation leaves a leaden weight in his stomach.

Geralt grumbles an acknowledgement, and Julian wraps his arms around Geralt, careful to avoid his injuries. Fuck, this shouldn’t feel as good as it does. He can count the number of times he’s gotten to touch Geralt like this on one hand, and he remembers every single incident, remembers how intimate it had been each time. 

He’s enjoying this closeness way too much, and he reminds himself firmly that Geralt hates being touched, hates his touch. This touch is nothing more than perfunctory, its only purpose to ensure that Julian doesn’t fall off Roach.

It’s nothing more than that.

When Roach and Pegasus start moving, Julian sways and tightens his grip slightly to steady himself, and Geralt stiffens, his body a long line of tension against Julian’s. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Julian says quickly, loosening his grip as much as he dares. Clearly, Geralt doesn’t want Julian to touch him, which isn’t a surprise since he’d spent two decades evading Jaskier’s touches, and, well, Geralt just isn’t an affectionate person. 

Also, now that the adrenaline from the fight has worn off, the memory of the mountain resurfaces and nags at him, tugs at his heart, reminds him that Geralt doesn’t want him in his life and that once he’s recovered, he’ll probably send him away, so there’s no reason for Julian to feel hurt that Geralt isn’t receptive to his touch. After all, Geralt’s rejection is something that he’s always known far too well. 

(It doesn’t make it hurt any less.)

Geralt makes a low sound in his chest. 

“Don’t be,” he rumbles, and Julian blinks in surprise. “It’s. Fine. If you want to hold on tighter. I don’t mind.”

Well, that sounded like it was hard to get out. Surprised at the words, but unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth, Julian hesitantly lets his arms wrap a bit more tightly around Geralt so that he doesn’t feel like he could fall off any moment. He tries not to think about the intimacy of this position, about the steady warmth of Geralt’s body in front of his and the way his long hair tickles Julian’s face - it’s all too much. 

They ride silently for a while, knowing that their priority is to get as far away from where they were attacked as possible, but not going so quickly that Geralt’s wounds are jolted too hard. They keep off the main road to make sure no one catches sight of them, and Julian keeps an eye out for somewhere they can camp, while constantly making sure that Ciri’s alright on her own.

It’s a while before Geralt speaks, his voice so low that Julian wouldn’t have heard him if not for his enhanced hearing. 

“I don’t,” Geralt mumbles vaguely, sounding like he’s struggling for words.

Confused, Julian prompts, “You don’t…?”

A grunt. “What you said earlier. About me hating you. I don’t.”

Julian raises his eyebrows in shock, unsure if he heard Geralt correctly. “Say what, now?”

Geralt grumbles lowly, and Julian knows that he means ‘I’ve talked too much and I’m done with verbalising’, so he’s left on his own to ponder what Geralt said. 

Geralt doesn’t hate him? 

“Could’ve fooled me,” he mutters under his breath, unable to keep the bitterness out of his tone. Geralt must hear it, judging by the slight intake of breath and the newfound tension in his shoulders. 

Thankfully, Ciri saves them from further discussion of a very uncomfortable period in their lives by pointing out a small cave, obscured by twisting vines. It’s well-hidden enough that most wouldn’t give it a second glance, so Julian deems it suitable to stay for the night, or, if it’s safe, until Geralt fully recovers.

He dismounts, wordlessly helping Geralt down without meeting his eyes and carries Ciri down from Pegasus as well, then heads into the cave.

(art by @brothebro)

Chapter Text

The cave is slightly damp and Julian spies a few bugs scuttling around, but it’s bare and mostly clean, so he dumps his bags in one corner and motions for Geralt and Ciri to do the same.

But Geralt doesn’t move from the entrance of the cave, leaning heavily against Roach as he stares at Julian, brows furrowed.

“Jaskier,” he says quietly. “What -”

“You don’t get to call me that,” Julian cuts in, voice hard. “That’s not my name anymore. It’s Julian to you.”

He struggles to keep his voice even, barely restraining his fury. How dare Geralt say his name like that, soft and pained, like he’s worried, like he cares. 

He doesn’t fucking care , Julian reminds himself viciously. Geralt had made that clear on the mountain, and so many times before that. He would do well not to keep his hopes up, not to be as naively optimistic as he used to be. It’s taken two decades, but Julian can learn to take a hint, and give Geralt the blessed silence he so desires.

Geralt flinches. He looks - hurt, almost. Julian hates that he instinctively wants to go and wrap Geralt into a long hug until the hurt look is gone, until the furrows between his brows soften and until the pain in his eyes fades.

Geralt has never liked him. Geralt hates his touch. Julian knows this, so why is his instinctive reaction to Geralt’s hurt to hug him until all his worries are gone? When will Julian learn that Geralt doesn’t want him?

And Geralt has absolutely no right to look hurt. He had gotten his one blessing, after all - Geralt mentioned earlier that he’d seen Jaskier’s body; he should be pleased, not - not hurt, or devastated, or whatever this look on his face is.

“Julian, then.” Geralt’s voice is still soft, and surely Julian must be imagining the sadness there. “What happened? I - I thought you were dead.”

His voice breaks on the last word, and there’s more emotion in his voice than Julian has ever heard over the past twenty years - Geralt sounds agonised, voice rough with pain and grief, and Julian had not expected that. 

There’s no reason for Geralt to be this torn up over his death. Julian hadn’t expected Geralt to grieve for him, and he fails to see why Geralt looks and sounds so utterly heartbroken, when all Geralt has done over two decades is push him away.

Geralt moves unsteadily into the cave towards Julian, eyes fixed on him with a look of anguish and - dare he say - longing. That throws Julian off guard, and as he fumbles for a response, unsure how to react to Geralt’s uncharacteristic display of emotion, Geralt continues, moving closer.

“There was - I saw. I saw your body. It was -” Geralt squeezes his eyes shut, voice pained. “It was torn apart - you were dead. And now, you - how are you a witcher?”

“You should rest, Geralt,” Julian deflects, taken aback by the overwhelming emotion in those golden eyes. 

There’s no easy way to respond to what Geralt has said - that he thinks Julian was dead, that he saw his body, that he’s now a witcher. There’s no easy way to respond to Geralt’s unexpected grief over his death, to how Geralt actually seems to care. 

Julian doesn’t know how to go about explaining this whole mess, and he’s unable to comprehend that Geralt might actually feel something over his apparent death, so he decides to delay this confrontation until Geralt’s not moments away from collapsing. 

For the sake of Geralt’s health, of course. Julian’s not avoiding the elephant in the room, no he isn’t. This definitely isn’t a cowardly retreat.

Geralt ignores Julian’s deflection and keeps advancing towards him with those eyes, and he’s so close now that Julian can feel the heat emanating from his body. Julian isn’t ready to deal with that, so he turns to Ciri, who’d been watching their exchange with wide eyes. 

“Don’t you agree, Ciri?” Julian asks Ciri, pointedly taking a step away from Geralt and inclining his head in Geralt’s direction. “He needs rest, don’t you think?”

Ciri crosses her arms, eyes darting from Geralt to Julian. 

“He does, but,” she hesitates, weighing her words, and Julian gets the foreboding feeling that he won’t like what she has to say. “I want answers too. You said it was a long story, but we’re safe here now, aren’t we? We have time, and you can explain as Geralt recovers.”

Her tone is firm and demanding, not taking no for an answer. The Lion Cub of Cintra indeed. Yet again, Julian bemoans his luck. Ciri is exactly like Geralt, relentless in pursuing what she wants. Of course Julian would end up saddled with two of them.

And somehow they’re the two most important people in his life. 

“Well,” he tries, really not wanting to have that conversation now. “Let’s all rest for now, shall we? I’d rather explain when we’re all well-rested and not on the verge of collapse.”

Ciri looks like she wants to forcibly drag answers from him, but clearly sees the logic in his argument as she sighs in defeat and plops onto her bedroll. Geralt takes a little longer to comply, still staring at Julian with those damn eyes, but when Julian glares at him pointedly, he grumbles and lays out his bedroll. 

“I’m going to hunt some food for us and scout the area,” Julian announces once he’s satisfied that they’re done with trying to pry an explanation from him. He starts heading towards the mouth of the cave. 

“You two should rest, get some sleep - you’ve had a bit of a stressful day. I’ll be back in a few hours, and I’ll have food once you’re rested.”

Geralt growls. “What? No.” He struggles to get up, but Ciri forces him to stay put with a hand on his shoulder, worry crossing her face. “Like hell you’re going alone. I’m coming with you.”

Julian narrows his eyes at Geralt. Geralt is being his stubbornly overbearing self again, as if Julian is a helpless damsel who needs protection, and annoyance bubbles in his gut. This is not the time for Geralt’s protective instincts to rear up, especially since he’s made it clear how little he cares for Julian, and Julian doesn’t need his help anyway.

“One,” Julian says, exasperated, “You’re in no shape to go with me. You’d be more of a burden than a help in this state, so stay here and rest. Two, if you’re worried I can’t take care of myself, well, I just rescued you from being taken to Nilfgaard, so I’ll be fine. Just stay and rest, and once I’m back, I can explain everything.”

Geralt looks pained, eyes fixed resolutely on him like he doesn’t want to let Julian out of his sight. 

“I - last time we parted, you ended up - ended up,” he swallows, clearly unable to say the words. “I can’t let you - I need to see you, I can’t just let you go.”

His tone is pleading, but his words remind Julian of callous, harsh words thrown at him on a mountaintop, of the shattered remains of his heart that still lie there, and he just doesn’t understand why Geralt sounds so broken up over his supposed death. Bitterness rises in Julian, leaving an unpleasant, acrid taste on his tongue, and he lashes out instinctively with careless disregard for Geralt’s anguish. 

“Oh, sorry,” Julian says, tone mocking, “So now you want to employ my, ah, what did you call it, my shit-shovelling services?”

Next to them, Ciri sucks in a sharp breath at his biting words. Geralt reels back, his expression turning stricken, devastation evident in every inch of his face.

Fuck. Maybe Julian went a bit too far and was a bit cruel - regardless of whether Geralt had cared for Jaskier, he’d still seen the dead body of his relatively long time travel companion, and he must understandably be slightly traumatised by it. 

Julian is sure that Geralt’s distress will pass once he’s fully comprehended that Julian is, in fact, alive, but for now, he resolves to be more sensitive about his ‘death’, because an emotional Geralt isn’t a Geralt that Julian has experience in handling. He reaches out hesitantly to place his hand on Geralt’s arm, unsure if the touch is welcome but wanting to provide a semblance of comfort, and when golden eyes are raised to meet Julian’s own, he’s surprised to see Geralt’s eyes shining. 

Gods, Geralt is crying, and the astonishing sight is more than enough to dispel Julian of the bitterness he had felt. These past few hours have been so utterly bizarre, with Geralt actually grieving Jaskier’s death, and showing so much more emotion than Julian has ever seen. 

It’s new and strange and completely unexpected, and Julian doesn’t know how to deal with it, with this unfamiliar side of Geralt he’s never encountered before, with how his heart aches to see Geralt, usually so stoic and strong, on the verge of tears. 

Julian squeezes Geralt’s arm awkwardly, trying to provide some reassurance. Geralt’s hand immediately comes up to cover his, holding onto him so tightly that it’s almost painful.

“Stay,” Geralt pleads, a barely there tremble in his voice, and he sounds so desperate that Julian almost caves.

“I’ll be fine, Geralt, I promise,” Julian says softly, chest tightening at the brightness in Geralt’s eyes. “I’m more than capable of defending myself, you saw that earlier, and I won’t be long. I’ll come back, don’t worry.”

Never in his life has he seen Geralt so unwilling to part from him, so unwilling to let him go, and it awakens a thrumming warmth inside him, soothes some of his hurt and heartbreak, to see that maybe, just maybe, Geralt cares. 

Gently, he pries Geralt’s hand off his own, and readies himself to leave, giving Ciri a quick kiss on her forehead. 

“You’ll be careful?” Ciri asks quietly, fidgeting. Julian’s heart crumbles for her, for how much she must have lost over the past weeks, a loss that a young girl shouldn’t have to endure - and now he’s leaving her, so soon after she found out that he’s not actually dead.

“I will,” Julian promises gently. He refuses to be another loss in her life. “I’ll come back safe.”

The last part is directed at both of them. Neither of them look reassured - in fact, both of them look at him with eyes willing him not to go, to stay with them, and he almost gives in, but they need to eat, and to rest, so he forces himself to walk out of the cave, giving them one last reassuring smile before he heads out. 

Julian starts scouting the area, checking for any threats in the vicinity. A few minutes into his scouting, he finds a stream and decides to wash his face and his gear quickly, but freezes at the sight of his reflection.

He looks… blood is splattered across his face, the reddish brown accentuating the monstrous yellow of his eyes. His hideous scars are somehow made more prominent by the blood on his face, and sections of his silver hair are stained copper, crusty with dried blood, the long strands tangled and matted.

He looks savage, vicious, ruthless.

He looks utterly inhuman.

Julian flinches away from his reflection, from the violence rooted in it, and wonders if he’s still a good man. Since going back on the Path, Julian has only raised his blade against monsters, creatures without humanity or sentience, which have attacked children and innocent villagers and ruined the lives of many. But now...

Two nights ago, he had threatened a man with a smile on his face. 

The day before, he had knocked out twenty villagers with no more than his daggers. 

Just now, he had slaughtered ten mercenaries without mercy, and even now, he doesn’t feel a single shred of remorse for their deaths, considering what they had done to Geralt and Ciri.

It’s nothing Julian hasn’t done before, of course, but it’s different somehow, now that he’s lived a human life. He knows that what he did had been necessary - had he not threatened the drunk man, he wouldn’t have caught up to Ciri and Geralt in time. He’d fought the twenty men in self-defence, refraining from killing any of them. He’d killed the ten men because they had harmed Geralt and Ciri, and were going to take them to Nilfgaard.

Yet, he still wonders if he’d done the right thing. Experiencing a human life has made him soft - before, he wouldn’t have batted an eye at his actions. Now, he wonders if he’s no better than the people he’d killed.

Julian scrubs furiously at his face and hair, determined to get rid of every trace of blood. He wants to cleanse himself of the blood on his hands, of his nature as a witcher, as something inhuman, but it’s impossible, and even when clean, the face that stares back at him is the face of a killer, completely unrecognisable as the human he had been.

No wonder Geralt and Ciri had looked at him with wariness when he approached them. No wonder they’d been aghast when they realised he was Jaskier.

Jaskier was the person they’d always known. Aggressive at times, yes, but always loving and caring and generous. Undoubtedly capable of punching a prejudiced dickhead in a tavern, but not capable of slaughtering dozens of people in cold blood.

How must they look at him now, knowing that he killed ten people without hesitation? They must be disgusted - he is so unlike the Jaskier they’d known, and Julian wouldn’t be surprised if they reject him when he gives them the full story.

He buries his face in his hands, choking back the involuntary sob that rises in his throat. Julian is a witcher. He has faced rejection many, many times over his long life, but this time...

He doesn’t think he can bear it if Ciri rejects him, if Geralt turns him away once again. Seeing them had once again dredged up his turmoil over his identity, the tenuous peace he’d created between Jaskier and Julian resurfacing, ready to snap at any given moment.

He thinks he’ll shatter if they look at him with hateful, disgusted eyes, the same eyes humans direct at him when he walks through a town or a village, covered in the entrails of a monster. Julian should be stronger than that - he was made to be stronger than that, but Geralt and Ciri had wormed their way into his heart, carving for themselves a place so deep that Julian will break if they reject him and hate him for tainting Jaskier’s care and love.

His mentor would’ve been disgusted at how easily Julian had let himself care for them, at how they had come to mean so much to him that he’s placed himself at their mercy. 

They could destroy him with one word, Julian knows. And he would let them. 

Rising unsteadily from the river bank, Julian returns to his scouting and dithers as long as he dares, simultaneously wanting to return as soon as possible so he can watch over Ciri, and wanting to delay the inevitable conversation, and subsequent rejection, as long as possible. He scouts the area twice for any sign of danger, setting traps for those who might come near. 

Once he reluctantly decides that he’s scouted the area enough, he quickly hunts down a deer and several rabbits, which should be enough to sustain them for at least two meals.

Julian drags his feet on his way back to the cave, but he’s fully aware that the conversation needs to happen at some point, and there’s no point in him dragging out the inevitable rejection, so he steels himself and heads into the cave.

The first thing he notices is that Geralt and Ciri are slumped against one another on top of Geralt’s bedroll, which is just unfairly adorable - in that moment, they truly look like father and daughter, and Julian’s heart warms with fondness at the two of them finding solace in one another. They’ve both endured more pain in their lives than they deserve, and he’s unspeakably glad that they have each other now.

Geralt is asleep - his heartbeat is slow and steady, his breathing even, so Julian keeps his steps soundless as he enters, setting down the corpses of the animals as silently as possible. 

Geralt looks a little pale, but some of his wounds are healing, and Julian worries. Geralt must truly be beyond exhausted - he hadn’t even stirred when Julian entered, where he’d usually be on full alert by now, a hand on his sword and body tensed to attack. 

Geralt must’ve been drained even before the mercenaries attacked him - there’s no way that his injuries are healing this slowly otherwise, sapping so much of his energy. Julian had originally estimated that they’d stay put for a day, or two at most, but he revises that estimate up to at least three or four days to let Geralt fully regain his strength.

Ciri cracks an eye open as Julian heads to where his own things are. He motions for her to stay where she is, to not wake Geralt, but, wrinkling her nose at him defiantly, she carefully wiggles out of Geralt’s grasp. Geralt shifts a little, letting out a disgruntled sound, but thankfully doesn’t wake.

Julian sighs, part exasperation and part fondness, as Ciri walks over to him. “He could’ve woken up.”

“But he didn’t,” Ciri replies smugly, keeping her voice down. She sits down on Julian’s bedroll - what’s with this girl and taking other people’s bedrolls? - and tugs his hand demandingly. “I already cuddled with him for a few hours. Now let me cuddle with you.”

Julian gives in, letting her pull him down. After all, he has never been good at resisting what Ciri wants - he always obliges her in the end. He sits down next to her, and Ciri curls into him without hesitation, a position familiar from his frequent visits to Cintra.

Hands hovering in the air, Julian flounders a little, unsure of what to do. He could wrap his arms around her in the position that is as familiar to him as the way he wields his blades, but he holds back, not knowing if she’d take kindly to him touching her now that he’s, well, no longer the Jaskier she knew. 

What if she’s so disgusted by him that she doesn’t want his hands on her?

He must hesitate a few seconds too long, because Ciri looks up at him with annoyed eyes.

“What are you doing, Jaskier?” she grumbles petulantly, tugging at the straps of his armour. “Cuddle me.”

“Are you… sure you want to do that?” Julian points out hesitantly. He shoots a quick glance at Geralt to make sure they’re not disturbing him, but Geralt is completely knocked out. Making a gesture at his scarred face, he continues, “I’m, well, you know. You sure you still want me to cuddle you?” 

“What do you mean, Jaskier,” Ciri grumps exasperatedly, and grabs his right arm, putting it around her. “We cuddle all the time, of course I want to cuddle you. Unless you… don’t want to?”

At the end, her voice trails off, the grumpy tone fading to something more frail, more vulnerable. Julian absolutely can’t stand how unsure she sounds, as if he would ever not want to hold her close.

He’s quick to reassure her, letting his hands run through her hair, resolutely not thinking about how his hands are calloused from his swords and knives, how his hands have killed so many.

There is so much blood on his hands.

“Of course I want to, cub,” he soothes, and Ciri relaxes against him, “What I mean is, are you sure you want to cuddle me, when I’m like - like this?” He draws his hands away from her hair, clenching them at his sides. Monster mutant freak beast. “I… know I’m different.”

At that, Ciri sits up fully, and Julian mourns the loss of her familiar warmth. She’s frowning at him, as if trying to puzzle out what he means. “Jaskier, I don’t understand.”

“I’m not… I’m not the person you knew,” Julian mutters, his jaw tightening at the reminder that he is no longer the Jaskier Ciri knew and loved. Ciri stares at him for a moment before her face crumples in realisation.

“Oh, Jaskier,” she breathes. She lunges to wrap him in a tight hug, and Julian’s arms remain frozen. It’s been so long since someone has voluntarily touched him, much less hugged him, that he’s unsure of how to react.

“Is this about you being a witcher? Because I can assure you that I don’t mind cuddling witchers. Geralt gives great hugs.” Then her voice grows softer, more serious, as she buries her face into the crook of his neck. 

“I wouldn’t reject you, Jaskier, you know that, right? You were - you’ve always been like family to me.”

Julian blinks, stunned. Then he slowly puts his arms around Ciri’s small body, holding her close, and he feels it when her body starts trembling with sobs. “I - when Geralt told me you were dead, I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know what to do, everyone in my family was dead - Grandmother was dead, Mousesack was dead, and I couldn’t handle you being dead as well.”

Ciri sniffs wetly, and all of Julian’s initial doubts fly out of his mind as he holds her tighter, murmuring, “I’m here, Ciri, I’m right here. I’m alive, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know that now. But when Geralt told me, about - about -” Ciri breaks off with an agonised gasp, and she presses her hands against her eyes as she attempts to collect herself. “All I could think of was that I never, I never told you how much you meant to me, how - how much I always looked forward to your visits. You’ve always been a constant in my life, and when you stopped visiting for a year, I was so worried.”

She pauses to take a breath, and Julian stays silent, knowing that she has more to say. 

“When I thought I’d lost you, I - I, it was horrible, Jaskier.” Her voice heaves with a fresh round of tears. “I was devastated, and I can’t lose you, Jaskier, I can’t lose another member of my family, I can’t.”

At that, Ciri descends into shaking sobs, muffled against Julian’s armour. He can do nothing except rub soothing circles in her back, murmuring soft comforts and reassurances in her ears, that he’s here, he’s here with her, that he won’t leave her, not ever.

Eventually, her sobs subside into soft sniffles, and Julian rocks her back and forth as gently as he can, the way he had done after her parents had died, when she’d hidden in his arms for three nights straight as he helped her through her grief.

Gods, how had he survived without a single kind touch over the past year? Already, something inside him is mending, Ciri’s gentle, trusting touch slowly closing a void within him that had widened with every cruel word and hateful glance.

He’s missed her so much. He hadn’t thought he would get to have this again - Ciri letting herself be vulnerable with him, letting him hug her and comfort her, and the loneliness he had felt over the past year slowly fades.

“Shh,” he soothes, trying to lighten her mood. “I’m a witcher now, aren’t I, Ciri? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re pretty hard to kill.”

That elicits a small smile from Ciri as she looks up at him with red-rimmed eyes, tear tracks drying on her cheeks. 

“I’m holding you to that,” Ciri declares firmly. “You’re not allowed to die on me.”

Julian hesitates, unwelcome uncertainty once again creeping into his mind. “You’re not - afraid of me? Of what I am now? I - what I just did was pretty awful, Ciri.”

“I could never be afraid of you, Jaskier. You’re my family,” Ciri tells him, eyes wide and guileless. “And you did what you had to, to help me and Geralt. Who knows what would’ve happened if you hadn’t helped us?”

Julian must still look unsure, because Ciri gives him an exasperated sigh which has so much sheer attitude that she must have learnt it from Calanthe.

“Witchers are idiots. You’re exactly the same as Geralt, you know?” She lays her head back on his chest, making herself comfortable. “He did the same thing, the I’m a monster and you shouldn’t trust me self-deprecating speech. But I know that both of you are softies with golden hearts and you just think that you’re monsters, but you’re not.”

Julian’s heart bursts with fondness at how much kindness and acceptance Ciri is capable of. Doubt still lingers in his mind, but for the moment, he lets himself believe that Ciri truly isn’t rejecting him.

“I was terrified that you would hate me,” Julian confesses softly, honest in a way he only can with Ciri, and perhaps Geralt. “That you’d look at me and realise I’m a monster, disgusted that I’ve tainted who Jaskier was. I’m a witcher, a killer, and I’m not - I’m not the person you knew, the person who was kind and loving.”

Ciri huffs in indignation. “You’re still Jaskier.” When Julian opens his mouth to protest, Ciri cuts him off.

“Don’t say anything. You’re an idiot. You’re not as different as you’ve built yourself up to be - maybe a bit harder and more dangerous, but you’re as gentle and caring as you’ve ever been.” Ciri snuggles closer to him as she speaks, continuing, “You saved me from Nilfgaard, you held me when I cried, and you still say that you’re a horrible person?”

“Ciri, I -” Julian interjects, but Ciri speaks over him. 

“Because all I see is the same Jaskier who’s always cared for me no matter what, even if you look a bit different.” At that, her tone turns expectant. “Which you still need to explain, by the way.”

“I’ll explain once Geralt’s awake,” Julian promises, tenderness seeping into his tone. 

“You’d better,” Ciri says with an imperious sniff.

It’s so much more than he’d expected, and Julian marvels at the fact that she’s accepted him so readily and not pushed him away, still slightly in shock that she’s letting him hold her. 

His heart feels lighter, now that he knows Ciri isn’t disgusted by him, but there’s still a trickle of dread and doubt that won’t go away, a feeling that whispers that Ciri will change her mind, that one day she’ll look at him and realise who he really is, and she’ll reject him, hate him for taking Jaskier from her. She’ll hate Julian for tarnishing the Jaskier she’d known, the Jaskier who was kind and loving, and turning him into a vicious, monstrous killer.

“You don’t mind if I call you Jaskier, right?” Ciri asks softly, breaking through his thoughts. “Or do you want me to call you Julian?”

Julian pauses, contemplating. He’s not Jaskier, not anymore - it’s a name that he feels he cannot fit into now, but it doesn’t feel right for Ciri to call him Julian.

“You can still call me Jaskier, if you want,” Julian hesitates, a suggestion tugging at his mind.

No one has called him Julek in decades. Julian remembers Triss (where is she now, what if she’s dead, what if she’s gone, succumbed to the Path?) , remembers her easy, gentle smile as she teased him, remembers the way she would brew new and wonderful potions by his side, the murmur of Julek soft and sweet despite the harshness of the Path. Julian remembers Marek, remembers how he would sling his arm around Julian’s shoulders with an easy grin, spar with him as he called out playful taunts, clasp his hand in brotherly affection, and the sudden memory makes Julian ache from how much he misses him.

“You’re my brother, Julek, my best friend,” Marek would say with a fond smile whenever they travelled together. “Don’t be such a downer, we have many years ahead of us still!”

But Marek had been wrong, had been so, so wrong. They’d been in Temeria when the Mass Hunt started, and Julian remembers all too vividly the horror he’d felt when he returned from a hunt to the sight of dozens of humans descending on Marek outside an inn.

There had been so many that they were impossible for Marek to fight off alone, and Marek had caught his eye, yelling, “I’ll hold them off! Go, Julek, run!”

Julian had been paralysed, too far away to help his brother, his best friend, only able to watch helplessly as Marek stood his ground with nothing but his swords, ready to hold the mob off alone. When Julian finally shook himself out of his paralysis, ready to dive in and help, Marek screamed in pain as a sword was driven through his heart. 

Julian had been just close enough to see Marek’s mouth form the words Julek, go before his body went still. The mob was preoccupied with Marek’s body, celebrating the death of a Manticore witcher, and Julian had burned with fury and wrath, the anger clashing with anguish and grief. 

He’d wanted to slaughter them for killing his brother, take revenge on them until they felt the pain he did, but the least he could do was to honour Marek’s last wish for Julian to go, so he’d run, run as far as his legs could take him, far away from the place where his best friend had died, and Julian had been completely unable to stop it. 

It haunts him, still, the memory of Marek’s death, and Julian’s own incompetence and failure to save his best friend, who had been through everything with him - the training, the Trials, their first hunts, the hate from humans.

Julek, Marek had called him. His best friend. And Julian had failed him in the worst way possible.

After that, Julian had vowed never to let anyone close enough to call him that diminutive, to never let anyone hurt him the same way, but looking at Ciri snuggled up against him, warm and trusting, he knows -  she’s his family and he cares for her deeply, and he wants her to call him that.

“Jaskier?” Ciri questions, concerned. 

“I’m fine, just -” Julian shakes himself out of his memories. “You can also call me Julek,” Julian adds with a painful squeeze in his chest as the memory of Marek crying Julek, go! surfaces, but the pain is quickly overcome by a gentle tenderness as he opens himself up to Ciri, lets her past the barriers of his closed-off heart.

“Julek,” Ciri repeats, and beams at him. “It suits you.”

She wriggles against him and her expression turns playful.

“You know,” Ciri begins impishly, poking Julian in the chest, and her voice takes on a faux haughty tone. “You’re clearly no less stupid than before. Those thoughts you’ve been having are extraordinarily idiotic, and you should rid yourself of such ridiculous notions immediately.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Julian gasps deferentially. Suddenly, in Ciri’s presence, he’s more Jaskier than Julian, falling into a familiar theatrical tone as he plays up his antics. “I shall banish such horrendous thoughts from my mind, dispel them into the ether, where they will -” 

His dramatics are cut off when Ciri wrinkles her nose at him, annoyed, and pinches his hand for mocking her. He pretends to be hurt, clutching his hand to his chest dramatically.

Goofing off is not something Julian of Cintra does. The line between Jaskier and Julian is blurring, but Julian can’t bring himself to care as Ciri dissolves into quiet giggles at his antics, and Julian watches her fondly, unspeakably glad that he’s still capable of making her laugh like that. 

Perhaps he is slipping more and more into being Jaskier, but his Lion Cub is smiling even after experiencing such tragedy, and Julian knows that even if being around Ciri brings back the struggles of reconciling Jaskier and Julian, it will be worth it, as long as Ciri remains happy, unburdened by the cruelty of the world.

“I love you, Julek.” she whispers once her giggles fade. “Don’t you ever let yourself forget that.”

“I love you too, Ciri.” he murmurs, holding her close. “Rest, cub. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Ciri shuts her eyes obediently, and moments later, her breathing evens out as she drifts off to sleep. The trust in that action makes Julian feel impossibly tender, and so, so grateful that Ciri still finds him trustworthy enough to fall asleep against, that she considers him close enough to be family. 

Filled with warmth and fondness and love, Julian lets the even rise and fall of Ciri’s breaths lull him to sleep, darkness overtaking him peacefully, and his dreams are pleasant for the first time in a year.

Chapter Text

When Julian wakes up, he tenses at the feeling of a warm body pressed to his side, so used to waking up alone that it takes him a moment to regain his bearings and remember his conversation with Ciri before he’d fallen asleep.

Opening his eyes, he looks down at Ciri, who’s wrapped safely in his arms, expression peaceful as her chest rises and falls steadily. A tingling warmth grows in his heart as he realises that there isn’t a hint of distrust or fear on her face at being so close to a witcher. At the realisation that Ciri still trusts him enough to fall asleep against him, a deep ache within him begins to fade, an ache that had grown over a year of being deprived of touch.

It takes Julian another moment to realise that this is the first time in over a year that he’s woken up feeling safe, that he’s not on edge and alert the moment he wakes up. His body is loose, shoulders relaxed and free of tension in a way he hasn’t felt in so long - well, mostly. Past Julian had been stupid enought to fall asleep in armour, which is never a good idea.

Even so, it doesn’t detract from how at ease he feels. He’d almost forgotten how it felt to wake up without instinctively reaching for his daggers. 

Blinking blearily, he looks around the cave. Everything is the way it was before he fell asleep, and there are no intruding scents other than Geralt and Ciri’s, so Julian lets his defences fall. There’s no danger here.

“You’re awake,” Geralt rumbles, low enough that he doesn’t wake Ciri, and Julian snaps his gaze up to meet Geralt’s. 

Julian doesn’t know what to make of the expression he sees on Geralt’s face. There’s an unfamiliar fondness in his expression as he looks at Ciri curled up in Julian’s arms, but it’s replaced by a raw, deep pain when he turns his gaze to Julian. 

“What gave it away?” Julian tries to joke, but it falls flat, neither of them being in the mood for lightheartedness. 

There’s a tension between them, one that Jaskier would’ve broken with his ceaseless chatter, but Julian has no idea what to say. 

What does he even say to the man who had pushed him away and broken his heart? What does Julian say to Geralt, who had thought him dead?

Unable to come up with something, anything, Julian grasps desperately for something that doesn’t address the issue that they really should talk about. 

“How’s your wound?” 

“Healing,” Geralt replies. His pursed lips indicate that this is not what he wants to talk about. 

Oh, Julian knows exactly what Geralt wants to discuss, and he is very much not looking forward to that conversation. 

“Oh, good,” Julian says tentatively, and they lapse into yet another awkward silence.

Bugs scuttle across the cave floor, every step clearly audible to Julian’s sensitive ears in the uncomfortable silence. From outside floats in the melodious chirping of birds and the soft whistle of wind, rustling plants and leaves, the peaceful sounds seemingly an ironic prelude to the imminent conflict Julian is expecting. 

He studiously avoids looking at Geralt, examining a small crack in the cave wall with immense interest. A crack. How very fascinating.

Surprisingly, Geralt is the one to break the mounting tension. 

“You’re good with her,” he remarks softly, gazing at the way Ciri is nestled comfortably in Julian’s arms.

Julian keeps his reply short. “I’ve known her for a long time.”

Undeterred, Geralt presses on, tone inquisitive. “She told me you visited her in Cintra.”

“Quite frequently, yes.” Julian sends a fond smile at the princess who’d grown as close to him as family. “We grew close.”

“She doesn’t take to me the way she does to you,” Geralt murmurs, brows drawing together. “I don’t - I’m not good with children.”

Julian pauses, deliberating whether he should reassure Geralt or not. Geralt isn’t - bad with children, per se. Ciri seems fond of him, and Julian is sure that if Geralt tries, any child would love him - his kindness and goodness would ensure that. Alas, Geralt avoids children at all costs, and Julian doubts that his grunts will serve him well, unless he learns to use his words. 

“You will learn,” Julian says, surprised at how civil he sounds. “She’s your child surprise. I’m sure you will endear yourself to her.”

“I’m not like you. It’s - stuff like this doesn’t come easy to me.” Geralt drags in a heavy breath. “She likes you, but I. I don’t know how to... care for her. Not like you do.”

“You never deigned to visit her before,” Julian points out. Harsh, perhaps, but true. 

Geralt lowers his gaze regretfully. “I know, and I shouldn’t have done that. You took it upon yourself to keep an eye on her for me, and I…”

Julian doesn’t know how to respond to Geralt’s display of regret. Geralt so rarely acknowledges his failings, and yet, he’s doing so now. 

Julian stays quiet, picking at a loose thread on his trousers, and lets their conversation trail off into yet another moment of tense silence. 

This had never been the dynamic between them. Jaskier had always been the vocal one, filling up the silences with songs and stories, and Geralt had contributed with noncommittal grunts and occasional insults. 

Now, Julian doesn’t feel like talking, wanting to delay the inevitable, but Geralt is undoubtedly expecting Julian to be the one to keep the conversation going. Well, Julian’s not going to do that, because Geralt clearly wants to initiate that conversation, which Julian very much does not want to have. Also, it’s a good opportunity for Geralt to learn to use his words. 

They avoid each other’s gazes for a few minutes. Julian focuses on Ciri’s gentle breathing against him, matching his own to her steady rhythm of in, out. In, out. He startles slightly when Geralt speaks

“I’m sorry.” Geralt’s voice is rough, but his tone is genuine and raw with emotion. 

Julian blinks at him. Two decades, and Julian had never once heard those two words pass Geralt’s lips. 

Geralt must hear his unspoken excuse me?, because he repeats his words, firmer and no less genuine. 

“I’m sorry, Jas - Julian. What I said before we parted - they were unwarranted, and you did not deserve my anger.” Geralt’s eyes bore into Julian’s pleadingly, willing him to listen to every word. 

Julian tenses, careful not to jostle Ciri. How surprising. An apology, would you look at that? Geralt will have to do better than this if he wants to earn Julian’s forgiveness, but at least he seems to have expanded his vocabulary beyond ‘hmm’ and ‘shut the fuck up, Jaskier’.

“You’ve - you have never deserved to be on the receiving end of my anger,” Geralt rasps, worrying his lip. “Not once. And I’m sorry.”

Julian thinks back to the numerous times Geralt had lashed out at him whenever his mood was down. The dragon hunt had been far from the first time - there had been many such incidents over the years when Geralt had blown up at Jaskier over things that had nothing to do with him. 

“I was your punching bag, and yet I never left you,” Julian mutters, low and bitter. “How pitiful I was, always coming back for more, only to be the subject of your anger, again and again.”

Geralt’s knuckles are white from how hard he’s clenching them, tension evident. “I… know. I’m sorry for that,” he whispers. “You endured my insults and my temper for many years, none of which you deserved.” 

“No,” Julian agrees, voice hard. “I deserved better than that.”

“You did.” Geralt takes a shaky breath. “There is nothing I regret more than not showing you how much I’ve always cared.”

Julian barks out a harsh laugh, and Geralt flinches at the sound as Ciri slumbers on, unaware of the conflict rising around her. “Oh, you cared? You did such a great job of showing it, you -”

Geralt powers on, interrupting Julian. “I’ve always cared, but instead, I - I pushed you away cruelly every time,” here, his voice breaks, his expression fracturing, “and - I’m so sorry for how I’ve treated you all these years, Jaskier.”

Jaskier, Geralt calls him, in a voice that is beyond broken, so utterly shattered, overflowing with so much grief that Julian forgets to correct him on the name. 

Jaskier, Geralt says, murmuring the name like it’s something to cherish, like he never wants to let go. 

Geralt looks broken, something irreparably shattered in his golden eyes. His gaze never strays from Julian as he continues haltingly, “I’ve always needed you - you are more than a worthy travel companion. You’ve always been - you are my friend.” 

Geralt’s voice wobbles on that word, his eyes starting to look tearful again, and wow, Julian had not expected this behaviour. 

Julian remembers how he’d asked Geralt to accept him as a friend, as a worthy travel companion - Geralt had rejected both, and now…

“Would’ve been nice if you told me that a year ago.” A year too late, Geralt. 

“And I regret never telling you that before you - you.” Before you died. It’s unspoken, but Julian hears it loud and clear. Geralt squeezes his eyes shut. “When I saw - when I saw your body, I was devastated.” 

Geralt’s breathing is fast and uneven, a far cry from the usual slow, steady breathing of witchers. Julian is stunned into silence as words pour out of Geralt in a way that Julian has never experienced before. 

“I couldn’t bear the fact that my last - my last words to you were so harsh,” Geralt chokes out, “and that you, you died thinking that I never cared for you.” 

Julian watches, frozen in shock, as a tear rolls down Geralt’s cheek, and Geralt makes no move to wipe it away, eyes filled with grief and pain as they remain fixed on Julian. 

“You died.” It’s a whisper, holding endless grief. “I never thought I could feel loss like that,” Geralt murmurs. “Seeing you dead - it broke something in me, Jaskier.”

He swallows heavily, throat bobbing. “No one has ever meant so much to me, and I cannot express how deeply I regret that you thought otherwise.”

Julian just sits there, not quite able to comprehend everything that Geralt just said. Geralt’s words have completely overturned what Julian had believed Geralt thought of him - Geralt cares for him, Geralt thinks that they’re friends, Geralt regrets his dismissive actions over the years - and Julian doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to believe. He doesn’t know if a tearful apology makes up for the years of pain and hurt. 

So he tries for levity, unable to deal with the turbulent thoughts and emotions scrambling around his head. 

“Wow, Geralt, I think that was more than all you’ve said to me over the past twenty years combined.”

Julian does not expect to see Geralt’s mouth quiver, and more tears to spill down his face, and he panics. 

“I - shit, Geralt, are you - what do I -”

Geralt cuts through his fumbled words in a trembling voice. 

“I’m so sorry, Jaskier,” he chokes out. “You - you think that I don’t value you, that I see your company as no more than a nuisance, and I hate myself for making you think that.”

“Hey, I don’t think that,” Julian lies, trying to reassure him, but Geralt gives him a look, and Julian amends, stuttering, “Well, I did - I do, but you… it’s not…”

Geralt shuts his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, moisture clings to his lashes, shining in the dim light that filters through the entrance of the cave. “I’m sorry I ever let you think that.”

Well. Geralt’s actions towards him during the course of their companionship certainly hadn’t helped. He’s apologising now, but had it truly taken Jaskier’s death to see the cruelty in his actions? 

Julian knows that Geralt, like every witcher, has trauma regarding attachment and letting other people in. Hell, Julian himself isn’t great at opening up either, but Geralt had said some truly hurtful things to him over the years, building and building until something snapped after the dragon hunt. 

Geralt’s visible grief almost sways Julian. He almost lets himself forgive Geralt at the mere sight of his tears, but he reminds himself that he’d dedicated half of his mortal lifetime to Geralt, and had only gotten scraps in return. 

“You, you just told me a lot, Geralt,” Julian says slowly, struggling against the unspoken plea in Geralt’s eyes. “You need to let me process it, because it completely goes against my impression of what you think of me.”

Geralt winces. “And that’s my fault,” he says softly, gaze full of self-loathing. “And I will regret it for the rest of my life.”

Julian falls silent at the unadulterated honestly in Geralt’s tone. He sneaks a glance at Ciri to check that they haven’t woken her - her eyes are closed, her breathing even, surprisingly still asleep. 

Julian chooses his next words carefully. 

“I’ll be honest with you, Geralt, I don’t know what to say to all that,” Julian tells him. Geralt lowers his head, eyes deeply regretful, his lips twisted in a bitter downturn. 

“You hurt me deeply, Geralt, more than you know.” A soft, pained laugh rips out of Julian’s throat. I was in love with you, you know? “After being friends - no, after travelling together for so long, you still didn’t hesitate to say such words to me.” I felt like I had my heart ripped apart.

“Jaskier…”

“Call me Julian, please. It hurts less that way,” Julian whispers, a heavy lump in his throat.

Geralt swallows. “Julian. I -”

“I accept your apology, Geralt,” Julian interrupts, making every effort to keep his voice from trembling. He’s a witcher. He’s stronger than this. “For what you said on the mountain. But your actions over all these years… I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive you fully. I don’t - I don’t think we can just go back to the way we were.”

Julian won’t go back to their old dynamic - with him giving and giving and giving, offering his heart to Geralt, only to be rejected and pushed away and ignored, crushed underneath the weight of barbed insults and undeserved anger. He refuses to be trampled beneath Geralt’s words and actions. Not again. 

Geralt dips his head in solemn understanding. “I understand. This is more than I could’ve hoped for, after the unforgivable way I’ve treated you. I will make it up to you, Julian,” he vows, more sincere than Julian’s ever heard him sound, and despite Julian’s attempts to crush it, hope blooms tentatively in his chest.

“That is,” Geralt wets his lips, as if gathering his courage. “That is, if you’ll give me a chance to prove myself a worthy travel companion.”

Those had been Jaskier’s words, on the mountain, when he’d bared his heart to Geralt and asked him to go to the coast. Hearing them now, from Geralt’s lips, Julian feels his heart soften towards the man who had torn it apart, and gods, he’ll always be weak for Geralt, won’t he?

Unable to help himself, Julian gives Geralt a tremulous smile, the hope in his chest expanding, even as a rational part of his brain cautions him, you’ll only get hurt again. “You’re asking me to travel with you?”

“Like you weren’t going to travel with us anyway,” Geralt says with a pointed glance at Ciri. “But yes. I’m asking you to travel with us.”

It means something, Julian knows. This is Geralt extending a tentative hand, willing to change and accommodate Julian. Before, he had never asked - Jaskier had always followed without question, and maybe - maybe this is Geralt’s first step towards making things better between them. 

“You’re travelling with us?” Ciri joins in, blinking awake. Julian hadn’t felt her wake up - perhaps she’d been listening the whole time, but he supposes that if she can fool a witcher into thinking she’s asleep, he’ll let her eavesdrop to her heart’s content. Shifting a bit, he lets her settle in a more comfortable position against him. 

“Sorry, Ciri,” Julian murmurs apologetically. “Did we wake you?”

“Well, I only just woke up to Geralt asking you to travel with us.” Ciri punctuates her sentence with a yawn. “Well? You’re travelling with us, right, Julek?”

Geralt blinks at the diminutive, but Julian ignores him as he runs a hand through Ciri’s hair. Julian has never been able to resist Ciri. Those eyes could soften the heart of even the most hardened man. 

“Is that even a question, cub?” He pokes her nose playfully as the earlier tension dissipates, and she bats his hand away, sticking her tongue out at him. “Of course I’ll travel with you. You never had to ask.”

Ciri lights up, and Julian is helpless to do anything but smile tenderly at the joy on her face. 

“I’m glad, Jaskier. I really missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Julian replies, recalling the hollow loneliness over the past year as he made sure to avoid Cintra, not ready to face Ciri as a witcher. This loneliness is washed away by the reassurance of her small body tucked into his side - had he truly stayed away from his Lion Cub for so long? 

Geralt is looking at them with an expression so achingly fond that something in Julian constricts, tightening with emotion that he doesn't want to unpack. Their eyes meet, and Julian’s heart does a familiar, complicated dance in his chest at the warmth he sees there. 

Gods, he really isn’t used to that, to Geralt looking at him like he’s worth something, and it toys with the tiny bud of hope in his chest even as he tries to crush it ruthlessly, telling himself that this - this apparent affection Geralt has for him will pass once he’s fully comprehended that Julian isn’t dead after all. Never has Julian seen Geralt wear such a look on his face - it’s impossible that Geralt’s feelings are what Julian perceives them to be.

Geralt is desperate to absolve his guilt over Jaskier’s death, that’s all. There’s nothing more to it. 

Julian knows this, but he’s no less affected by Geralt’s strange, new mannerisms. How is Julian even going to deal with his extraordinarily complicated feelings towards Geralt when he’s travelling with him? 

He’s said this before, but emotions are infuriating. 

“Julek,” Ciri whines, bringing Julian’s attention back to her. “You promised us the explanation.”

“I did indeed,” Julian says with a sigh. Well. Here it is. 

He starts from the beginning. 

“I was a witcher long before I was ever Jaskier. It was -” Julian laughs, the hollow sound echoing within the cave walls. “I don’t even know how long ago it was.”

His voice grows quiet as he delves into the memories of his painful past. “I’m a witcher of the Manticore school, but I told you that already. You might have heard of me,” Julian directs this at Geralt. “Julian of Cintra.”

Geralt’s eyes go comically round. “You’re that Julian?”

“Yes, I’m that Julian, Geralt,” Julian repeats dryly. “How many witchers named Julian from the Manticore school are there?”

Geralt makes to respond, likely with sarcasm, but Ciri tugs at Julian’s arm, demanding his attention.

“Cintra?” Ciri questions, twisting to look up at him sharply. She clutches at his arm, bouncing a little. “You’re from Cintra too?”

Julian winces. This is why he hadn’t wanted to bring up his witcher name earlier - Ciri is searching desperately for companionship after she’s lost everything she has ever known. 

He lays a gentle hand on her back. “I’m not from Cintra, I’m afraid.” 

“Oh.” Ciri wilts, the tight grip on Julian’s arm loosening. 

Hating to see Ciri disappointed, Julian leans forward, injecting more lightness into his voice. “Young me decided to choose a random place by throwing a knife at a map, blindfolded, and the knife happened to land on Cintra, so that’s how I ended up with the name.”

Ciri straightens, biting her lip. “Where are you really from, then?”

“I don’t remember,” Julian says, keeping his tone from dipping into his dark past. That’s... a mildly traumatic matter which Ciri shouldn’t hear about. Witcher childhoods aren’t exactly pleasant, after all. “My tutors never told me, so I decided to choose somewhere random.”

“Of course you’d do it by throwing a knife at a map,” Geralt mutters, amused, and Julian gapes at him, forgetting his conflicted feelings about Geralt in favour of indignance.

“You - you -” As Julian flails slightly, taking dramatic offence to Geralt’s words in a way only a bard can, Geralt smirks at him, leaning back against the cave wall languidly.

Julian won’t let him have the satisfaction of witnessing Julian throw a tantrum over a small dig. He won’t! “I feel like that’s meant to be a dig at me, but I’ll take it as a compliment,” Julian declares, lifting his chin. “And you’re one to talk, Geralt, considering your first choice for your name.”

This time it’s his turn to smirk and lean back smugly as Ciri looks between them, shooting an inquisitive stare at Geralt, whose shoulders curl inwards just the smallest bit.

“I regret ever telling you that,” Geralt grumbles, but he’s smiling (smiling!!!) slightly. “I was very drunk.”

“Tell me!” Ciri bursts out, vibrating slightly against Julian. “What was it?”

“I’ll tell you later, cub.” Ciri sticks out her bottom lip and slumps petulantly, but they’re getting off topic, and Julian wants to get this conversation over with as soon as possible. “Obviously, I was on the Path for a long time, and it just… with the treatment by humans and the sheer monotony of it. It just started weighing on me.”

When Julian looks up, Geralt’s gaze is filled with sorrow and far too much understanding. This is the plight of every witcher - to fight, to be shunned by those you help, to repeat the same routine every single day for decades, centuries.

“It really didn’t help when humans decided to, well,” Julian swallows at the painful memory. “You know. The Mass Hunt.”

Julek, run -

The loss of their brethren is something both he and Geralt have too much experience with. And Ciri as well, now. Gods, what a group they make, practically drowning in the blood of those they have lost.

“It wasn’t the tipping point, but it sure didn’t help my state of mind. Actually, I’m not sure what the tipping point was, or if there even was any.” Julian smiles bitterly, remembering how tired he’d felt. “I was nothing more than a weapon and I just - couldn’t take it anymore. I wanted a normal life. So I went to Tissaia.”

“Tissaia,” Geralt repeats. “As in Tissaia de Vries, Rectoress of Aretuza?”

“Yes, Geralt, that’s what I said,” remarks Julian, tone dry. “We’re buddies, didn’t you know?”

Geralt blinks, mouthing buddies? as his face pinches with confusion, and Julian continues, slightly amused, “Well, she owed me a pretty big favour, so I asked her to do a spell for me.”

“To make you human,” Ciri breathes, eyes wide. 

Julian smiles at her. “Precisely! I asked her to fully transport my - consciousness, or whatever, into a human body, so I could start a human life from scratch, without any memories of my previous life.”

“So you were never hiding your identity from me?” Geralt questions, looking relieved.

“No, I wasn’t,” Julian confirms, and frowns, puzzled. “You thought I was hiding it from you?”

Geralt shrugs guiltily, looking away. “I’ve been wondering about the possibilities since you turned up yesterday. I thought - I didn’t think a spell to let you live a full human life was possible.”

There’s a hint of wistfulness in his voice, sharp and bittersweet. Julian can’t blame him. He has no doubt that every witcher, at some point, has wondered the same thing. 

What would their life have been like if they hadn’t been dragged forcefully from their childhood to become a witcher?

“Neither did I,” Julian admits. He thinks of all the years when he’d known nothing outside of the Path. He thinks of his friends, his brothers, Marek; he thinks of the witchers from other schools he’s met on the Path - all of them have been worn down and weathered by the life of a witcher. All of them have given up hope on being anything else. 

“But I would never have lied to you about this if I knew. My life as Jaskier - I was completely human.” It still catches him off guard, sometimes, when he thinks about having lived a truly human life, after so long of thinking it impossible. “And I lived it the way I would have if I hadn’t been a witcher.”

“Why are you back in this body, then?” Geralt asks. Right after the question is out of his mouth, his face pales in realisation.

Well, no point beating around the bush. “I died,” Julian says bluntly, and Geralt and Ciri flinch in unison.

Julian should’ve softened the blow of his words - he knows now that his death had truly hurt them, even Geralt, and that the reminder of his death must have dredged up some truly horrid emotions. 

Ciri is tense against his side, eyes trained on the ground, and Julian starts to rub soothing circles into her back; Geralt’s face is pinched with anguish, a faraway look in his eyes, perhaps recalling the sight of Jaskier’s body, so Julian reaches out to squeeze his hand in comfort. Geralt’s fingers tighten around Julian’s hand, preventing Julian from drawing it back.

He continues, softening his tone. “Tissaia ensured that this body was preserved, and my consciousness returned to this body after my death, with memories of both lives intact. Since then, I’ve returned to the Path, and when I heard about Cintra, I started searching for you. And, well, here we are.”

“It... must’ve been hard for you,” Geralt rumbles. His shoulders are drawn with tension as he gives Julian a painfully sad look, emotions uncharacteristically on display. “I know you’ve always been - you love being around people, and now…”

The pretty barmaid who’d stumbled away from him when he smiled. The stablehand in Temeria who’d recoiled in fear from his touch. The men at the inn jeering at him as several objects fly at his back. People staring at him in suspicion as he passes, clutching their children closer.

Geralt’s words dredge up the sting of rejection that Julian hates, the reminder that he will never be liked or wanted or loved again, but Geralt - Geralt is making an effort to reach out, to let down the walls he’s built and expose a tiny bit of himself for Julian to see, and Julian’s heart bursts with fondness at the kindness Geralt is showing him, a kindness that Julian had always known that Geralt was capable of, but Geralt always refused to show it. 

To have Geralt saying such words, seeming to care for Julian - it makes him want to leap into Geralt’s arms and beg for every scrap of affection he’s willing to give, the way he’d done for two decades.

But he remembers himself, young and desperate for one kind word, for one tender look, laying himself at Geralt’s feet only to be spat on, kicked away, and yet, always returning, always grasping for that small bit of affection Geralt deigns to show him once every few years.

What if - what if Geralt’s apparent kindness is nothing more than a result of his grief over Jaskier’s death, and eventually things will return to what they were? Geralt’s current kindness will fade once he realises that Julian is well and truly alive, and he has no need to assuage his guilt over Jaskier’s death.

Julian pulls his hand out of Geralt’s grasp and curls it into a fist on his lap.

“It is. And having two vastly different sets of lives is rather… disorientating, I suppose.” No embellishments, no overly flowery use of language, no dramatics. “But I’m adjusting, and I’m getting better.” 

Geralt’s actually starting to look concerned, if Julian’s eyes are being deceived, and he waves it off blithely. “Don’t worry about me. It’s a journey I must take, and being human has done me more good than harm.”

“We’ll help you adjust,” Ciri offers earnestly, blinking wide green eyes at him.

“I appreciate it, cub,” Julian returns, ruffling her hair. 

Geralt grunts a little, apparently having exhausted his capacity for words for the day, but Julian knows that it’s a grunt of agreement, so despite his misgivings, he allows himself to give Geralt a tentative smile. 

Perhaps he can take this small step towards reconciliation. He will keep himself in check, of course, and not hope for too much, but it wouldn’t hurt to try and fix his relationship with Geralt. 

For a moment, Geralt looks conflicted, but slowly, the edges of his lips tick up slightly, and Julian’s heart trips a little at the sight of his gentle smile. 

Ugh. His heart is a traitor. 

If a smile from Geralt is enough to break down Julian’s resolve not to run back into Geralt’s arms...

“I’m hungry,” Ciri announces, changing the topic abruptly. “Can we please eat?”

“Your wish is my command, princess,” Julian proclaims with a flourish, the bard in him rearing as he bows as dramatically as he can. Gently lifting Ciri off him, he heads to where he had dumped the animals he hunted. 

As he skins the deer, Ciri clambers over to Geralt, quick footsteps loud in the small cave. They have a hushed conversation of are you okay and I’m fine, what about you, and gods, they haven’t even known each other long and they already care about one another so much, their father-daughter relationship is just so adorable. 

A small seed of insecurity plants itself within him, and he almost stabs the deer when the thought surfaces. 

Perhaps Ciri won’t need him anymore. Why would she? She has Geralt, who is more than capable of protecting her and training her. Geralt, as grumpy as he seems, is good and noble with an enormous capacity to care for people, and he will dote on her, give her the love she deserves. She won’t need Julian, broken and monstrous, when she has Geralt. Julian has no reason to stay by her side.

His knuckles tighten around the knife, and as he continues skinning the deer, his movements are leaden and heavy. He is happy for them, truly. They both deserve the love they find in each other, after suffering so much. Why would Julian come between that? Destiny tied Ciri to Geralt, not to him; who is he to challenge the bonds of destiny?

He moves the knife back and forth, slow and methodical, taking extra care with cutting it up as Geralt and Ciri continue their hushed conversation behind him, their rapport easy in a way only fondness and familiarity can build, Geralt’s words flowing out of him without struggle.

There isn’t a single grunt in their conversation.

By the time Julian is finally done, Geralt has started a fire and he takes the meat from Julian to roast it.

As Julian fixes his eyes on the flickering flames, there’s a small shuffling sound to his right, and he turns his head to see Ciri scooting towards him now that Geralt is occupied with the meat. 

She tilts her head, studying his face intently. “You know, it’s a bit strange, seeing you with long white hair.” 

Jaskier didn’t have white hair, long and tangled. Jaskier had thick brown hair, short and groomed and styled to perfection, the envy of men and women alike. 

It’s yet another reminder of how Julian simply isn’t Jaskier, how he’s now nothing more than a machine bred to kill. The white hair is a stark reminder of that. 

Keeping his thoughts from his face, Julian quirks a brow at Ciri, and she exclaims quickly, “It’s not bad! I’m just not used to it, but it suits you. Do all witchers have white hair and yellow eyes?”

It suits you . Well, that certainly had not been what he’d expected her to say. Her tone is bereft of judgement, only genuine curiosity as she looks between his and Geralt’s hair, eyes alight with interest. 

“No,” Geralt answers, surprisingly before Julian can. “Most only have yellow eyes. My hair was the result of further experimental mutagens.”

“Mutagens?” Ciri inquires.

“We’re given mutagens during the procedure to be made into witchers,” Geralt explains to Ciri, then looks at Julian curiously. “Did you get extra mutations as well?”

“What gave it away?” Julian teases. They’re not judging him, he tells himself. Merely curious. “Surely not the hair.”

“I always thought I was the only one to get extra mutations. I didn’t think the other schools tried it,” Geralt says softly. “It’s not an experience that I would wish on my worst enemy.”

“No,” Julian murmurs, solemn. “It’s not.”

They share a silent moment of understanding. The agonising pain when he felt like his body was being ripped apart. What had felt like days upon days of endless screaming until he’d gone completely voiceless. The searing torment as his body was destroyed and remade into the perfect killing machine. 

“Besides,” Julian adds, hating to dwell on such memories. His body tingles with the phantom pain of ripping, burning, being remade, and he pulls himself out of his thoughts, his voice a playful lilt. “Where do you think your school got the formula?”

Geralt’s eyes widen in surprise. “You got them before me?” he asks incredulously, before shaking his head. “That was a stupid question. I keep forgetting that you’re that Julian.”

How interesting. “That Julian, huh,” Julian muses. “I wasn’t quite aware that my… fame reached your ears.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grumbles as his lips twist slightly. “I can’t believe you’re older than me.”

Julian lets out an inelegant snort, lacing his hands behind his head. “That’s what you fixate on?”

“You’re both old,” Ciri butts in, reaching up to tug at Julian’s hair, which is rough with tangles as her fingers get snared in the freshly-dried waves, and he squawks in indignation. “You’re both like centuries old, and you both have white hair. See? You’re both old men.”

Julian gasps in mock offence. “Ciri, how dare you call me old? I have a very youthful visage, I’ve been told.” He grasps at his chest dramatically. “I am truly wounded Ciri, whatever shall I do?”

Geralt and Ciri roll their eyes in unison, and Julian is struck by the utter familiarity of it, of him jesting and his companions feigning exasperation. This tendency for dramatics is all Jaskier, and Julian really isn’t sure what to make of that, of the fact that Geralt and Ciri have managed to drag up the shattered remains of Jaskier that occasionally resurface in Julian. 

For a year, Julian had tried to bury the remains, wanting to put behind him a life he would never regain. Less than a day with Ciri and Geralt, and all that work has been undone, as bits and pieces of Jaskier find their way to the surface. 

He doesn’t know if he likes it. 

“See, I told you. You’re no less of an idiot than before,” Ciri says smugly, before her tone softens. “But seriously, Jaskier, I’m just not used to it. It’s not a bad look - I think you look quite nice.”

“Sure, cub,” Julian replies indulgently, self-consciously running a hand through the knotted waves of his hair. 

“You do,” Geralt rumbles in agreement with Ciri, then promptly turns red. 

Well, would you look at that . A rather pleasant surprise, Julian must admit - this is perhaps as close to a compliment as Geralt is willing to give, and he’s blushing. 

So Geralt is capable of letting himself blush, which is new and exciting information that makes Julian feel a little fuzzy, which. No. Why does he like this? Nope. Absolutely not. 

Julian chides himself. There’s no point in getting his hopes up, even as his enhanced hearing picks up how Geralt’s heartbeat has sped up slightly. 

As if Geralt would ever mean any compliment he says to Julian. As if Geralt would ever compliment Julian’s appearance, scarred and so unlike the soft beauty that Jaskier’s face had.

To distract himself from the lovely shade of pink that Geralt’s face is turning, Julian says grandly, “Well, thank you! Guess we match, don’t we, Geralt? There are two White Wolves now, how about that?”

He’s babbling a bit, and Julian never babbles, not the way Jaskier did. The words bubble up in his throat and he’s helpless to stop them, which isn’t helped by the fact that Geralt’s blush hasn’t gone away. 

It is unfairly distracting, and apparently Julian’s heart really, really likes that, even though he knows that Geralt’s blush is merely due to the fact that he’d accidentally misspoken, and not because he’d truly agreed with Ciri. 

Ducking his head a little, Geralt mumbles, “That title was your doing in the first place.”

“The deer looks cooked,” Ciri interrupts, looking highly amused at both of them. There’s a peculiar look on her face, as if she’s torn between rolling her eyes at them and bursting into laughter at how hopeless they are, and Julian supposes that it’s fair enough. He and Geralt haven’t really regained their old dynamic - not that Julian wants to - and conversation is rather… stilted between them. 

But Ciri’s words provide a welcomed distraction from that damned blush, and Julian hastens to check and make sure the deer is edible, then passes some meat over to Geralt and Ciri. 

When they start eating, Julian scrambles to regain control over his emotions. He’s a witcher, goddamnit. He shouldn’t be so easily affected by someone blushing - he’s trained to have better control than that. 

But apparently, anything involving Geralt throws everything he’s learnt as a witcher straight out of the window, leaving him as a bumbling human bard in a witcher’s body. 

They finish off their meal in silence, Geralt hunching in on himself just the slightest bit, his discomfort at having blushed so plainly obvious that Julian almost wants to laugh. 

Over the past few hours, Geralt has shown his emotions more openly than Julian has ever seen. He’s obviously not used to baring himself in such a way, but Julian notes with delight that Geralt isn’t completely shutting him out the way he would’ve done before - instead, he’s letting Julian see his discomfort, and it warms Julian’s heart to know that Geralt is trying, that he’s willing to try and change.

It’s something, at least, even if Geralt will inevitably leave him in the end. He will enjoy it while it lasts.

And it won’t last - Julian knows that with utter certainty. Once Geralt has recovered, he will have changed his mind about Julian travelling with them. If he doesn’t change his mind then, he will at some point on the road, as he realises that Julian isn’t Jaskier, that his old travel companion is well and truly gone.

But for now, Geralt is letting down his walls, and Julian will take what he can.

Over the course of the meal, Geralt gradually unfurls from his hunched position, and Julian decides that it's his turn to demand explanations.

“So,” Julian says. “How did the two of you manage to find each other?”

“Well,” Ciri starts, eyes brightening as she finishes her portion of the meat and claps her hands together, preparing to launch into her story. “After Cintra was attacked…”

Chapter Text

Once Ciri wraps up her story with her and Geralt getting attacked, and Geralt has communicated his in a few well-placed grunts, Julian notes that Geralt’s eyes are drooping, his healing clearly taking a lot of energy out of him. 

“Go to sleep, Geralt.” When Julian is met with an annoyed grunt, he groans. Why is Geralt so goddamn stubborn. “Geralt, get some rest and heal up, or you’re basically useless.”

Geralt glares at him, but Julian is unfazed and glares back, unrelenting. He knows his glare is a lot more effective than it had been when he was human, so it’s not surprising that Geralt drops his gaze first, grumbling in dissent. 

Ciri giggles a bit at how disgruntled Geralt looks as he slumps into his bedroll, and Julian has to fight back a smile as well. Geralt shoots a grouchy glare at Ciri, but it’s half-hearted at best, and the intended effect is undermined by how he’s wrapped up (quite adorably) in his bedroll and the way the corners of his lips tilt up slightly. 

Julian can’t deal with this. Grumpy Geralt is way too adorable, and Julian hates how much he likes it. It’s not the sort of grumpy that Julian is used to - not Geralt’s angry, grouchy silence on their travels, but of a more playful grumpiness that exposes his fondness for Ciri, and despite his efforts to tamp it down, a flickering warmth spreads in Julian’s chest. 

Geralt dozes for most of the day, and Julian passes the time by telling Ciri of his adventures, which she listens to with rapt attention and wide eyes. She knows of his travels as Jaskier, but not as Julian, and she’s delighted at how readily he offers up stories of his travels. 

It’s rather - stilted, at first. He hasn’t needed to talk so much in a year, hasn’t needed to tell any tales or embellish his stories, but he quickly settles into the familiarity of detailing his journeys to Ciri, complete with flourishes and exaggerated detail that has her giggling. 

After some time, Ciri starts yawning, face scrunching tiredly, and Julian nudges her gently. 

“Go to sleep, cub,” he says softly, nodding to her bedroll. “I’ll tell you more tomorrow.”

Ciri blinks slowly at him. “Can I,” she swallows, fidgeting with her pale hair. “I don’t. I miss you, Jaskier, can I…”

She trails off, and Julian gives her a small smile and lifts his arm encouragingly. She scrambles to tuck herself against him, and Julian curls his arm around her, cocooning her in a warm embrace. 

Julian doesn’t sleep. He stays awake, keeping watch for any danger as Geralt and Ciri slumber on. They look so peaceful. Geralt’s face is entirely relaxed in a way that Julian has rarely seen - when they’d travelled together, Geralt had always been a light sleeper, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice, and he never let his guard down even in sleep.

Geralt’s injuries must have taken a lot out of him for him to look so - unguarded, and Julian lets himself look, lets himself take in a soft, open Geralt for a single moment, before he averts his gaze. 

Geralt isn’t his to look at. Never has been.

He falls into a half-meditative state, keeping himself alert and jolting into full awareness at every rustle of a leaf. He hadn’t gotten much sleep over the past few days, and his eyes droop as the haziness of sleep threatens to take over his mind, but he stubbornly forces himself to stay awake, reminding himself that Nilfgaard could find them at any time, and looking at Geralt and Ciri’s faces, peaceful and vulnerable in sleep, Julian refuses to let any harm come to them.

Geralt stays asleep for a long time, his body recuperating from his numerous wounds, not even waking when Ciri does. Julian regales Ciri with more tales of his own adventures, answering her questions indulgently as she bounces against him. 

Sometime during the second day, Geralt finally wakes up, blinking blearily as Ciri stops in the middle of babbling and launches herself at him.

“Geralt!” Ciri cries, and Geralt catches her in his arms with a grunt. “You’re awake!”

Geralt hums, a gentle sound as he runs a careful hand through her hair.

“You feeling better?” Julian asks tentatively, eyeing where Geralt’s stab wound is. He’d changed the bandages while Geralt was asleep, and blood is no longer seeping through the bandages, but given how stiff Geralt’s movements are as he cradles Ciri in his arms, Julian suspects that it’s likely not fully healed yet.

“Yes,” Geralt grunts, turning to look at Julian. His eyes narrow as they settle on Julian’s face, taking note of the dark circles under Julian’s eyes, and Geralt frowns in disapproval.

Julian ignores him. 

Geralt stares pointedly at Julian, a stare that says get some fucking sleep, and Julian stubbornly keeps his eyes wide open as he busies himself with his potions. 

Geralt’s stare bores into his head. Julian refuses to budge, but Ciri tugs at his hand, looking at him pleadingly.

“Please get some sleep, Julek?”

This is not playing fair. Both of them know that Julian is absolutely helpless at refusing Ciri - Geralt has a small smirk tugging at his lips, smug. 

Geralt does not get to be smug. He is as susceptible to Ciri’s puppy eyes as Julian is, so he does not have the upper hand here. In fact, he’s even more susceptible than Julian, because, unlike Julian, he hasn’t yet had years to build up a resistance to it (though Julian’s resistance is admittedly flimsy at best - Ciri’s eyes have some power of their own).

Repressing the near overwhelming urge to pout petulantly at both of them, Julian relents. “Fine,” he mutters reluctantly. Ciri grins triumphantly and Geralt even lets his gaze soften a little. “But only because I’m rather exhausted, not because you asked.”

“Sure,” Geralt grunts, somehow injecting a truly admirable amount of sarcasm into that one word.

Geralt is insufferable, and Julian scrunches his nose at him to convey that he does not appreciate the sarcasm. This, disappointingly, elicits no reaction from Geralt aside from a small twitch in his brow.

“You have to wake me up after a few hours, okay?” Julian demands. 

“Hmm.”

Ciri’s eyes sparkle, but she says nothing.

“I’d better be woken up in no more than a few hours,” Julian warns as he climbs into his bedroll.

And again, “Hmm.”

Earlier, Julian had wondered why Geralt was being so verbose - now, he’s gone back to those motherfucking grunts, apparently having used up his quota of words in the foreseeable future. How convenient for him.

“I’m serious,” Julian says warningly.

“Go to sleep, Julek,” Ciri sighs exasperatedly, rolling her eyes.

Well, who is he to resist a command from a princess?

He’s out the moment he closes his eyes.

They, in fact, don’t wake him up after a few hours. When Julian wakes up, he realises that at least seven hours have passed, judging by how the sky is almost completely dark, and he’d fallen asleep when the sun was high in the sky.

He props himself up and narrows his eyes at Geralt and Ciri across the cave. “I thought I said a few hours.”

“Technically, we never actually agreed,” Ciri points out, her smile devious.

Julian sighs, but he can’t help smiling. “What am I going to do with you, huh?”

Ciri beams back at him. “You needed the sleep.”

Julian doesn’t respond, knowing that she’s right - he does feel well-rested, more relaxed than he has been in a while.  But he’s not about to admit that he was wrong in refusing to sleep.

“We leave tomorrow,” Geralt says, poking at the fire.

Julian shoots a pointed look at the bandage wrapped around Geralt’s stab wound. “No, we’re not.”

“We’ve stayed too long. Someone could come after us.”

“And you need time to recover,” Julian points out.

Geralt glares. “I’m fine.”

“Right.” Julian eyes the stab wound skeptically. There’s a tension in Geralt’s posture that indicates he’s still in pain, even as he tries not to favour his side when he moves.

“I’m fine,” Geralt growls. “We need to go.”

Julian turns a helpless glance towards Ciri. “He’s being stubborn. Ciri -”

“Geralt is right,” Ciri cuts in. She’s tapping her foot, fidgeting impatiently, and Julian realises that she must be antsy at being cooped up for so long. He feels a pang of guilt for making her stay put for so long, when her teenage body craves freedom and movement. “We should leave. We’ll just travel more carefully so he can heal fully on the road.”

Once again, they gang up against Julian. He sighs, seeing no option but to give in. “Fine. We leave tomorrow morning. But,” he narrows his eyes at Geralt. “If I find you doing anything stupid…”

“Hmm.”

Fucking witcher should learn to use his words.

The next morning, they pack their bags and continue north. Geralt is almost fully healed, so Julian grudgingly gives in when Geralt insists on travelling at a faster pace.

Being back on the Path with Geralt, and now Ciri, is nothing like Julian’s year alone on the Path, and simultaneously everything and nothing at all like the years he’d travelled with Geralt. 

There’s a familiarity to having Geralt by his side on the road again, a familiarity that ignites something warm within Julian, and Julian douses it with an ice cold reminder that sooner or later, Geralt will push him away. It’s inevitable, even as Ciri chatters at both of them, her small body pressed against Julian’s chest. It’s only a matter of time before Geralt realises that Jaskier is truly gone, before he decides that he and Ciri are better off without Julian, and tells him to leave.

It’s only a matter of time before Ciri realises this too. 

Julian ruthlessly squashes any hope that dares to rise within his chest. His time with Ciri and Geralt is limited, and he will make the most out of the time he has left.

But Geralt isn’t making it easy.

Geralt is acting… different. Of course, Julian hadn’t expected that they would immediately go back to their previous dynamic, but he certainly hadn’t expected Geralt to show him the same care he shows Ciri. While Julian is more than capable of taking care of himself now, Geralt insists on doing everything - hunting, scouting ahead, setting up camp - where he used to grunt at Jaskier to do his part.

The first night they stop to camp, Geralt doesn’t even let Julian offer to scout and hunt before he vanishes into the trees, leaving Julian blinking at his back in befuddlement at the haste with which Geralt had practically dashed into the forest. 

When Geralt returns, a few rabbits and a pile of firewood in his hands, Julian tries to take the firewood so that Geralt can skin the rabbits, but Geralt glares at him when he reaches out to take it.

“What are you doing?” Julian asks, annoyed. Back then, Geralt had griped endlessly about how Jaskier refused to help, always sitting on his lazy arse - now, when Julian offers to help, he’s greeted with hostility.

Geralt is so confusing.

Geralt grunts in response, setting down the wood and casting Igni. Julian could’ve done that. What is Geralt doing?

And then Geralt hogs the rabbits to himself, refusing to let Julian help with skinning them, and had it not been for Ciri grabbing his attention, Julian would have marched up to Geralt and demanded what the fuck he was thinking.

Since when has Geralt been happy to let Julian sit on his arse and do nothing?

Julian can understand that Geralt wants to fuss over Ciri, taking care of her in his own way, but when this behaviour is turned towards Julian, he’s so goddamn confused. As Julian closes his eyes on his bedroll that night, he realises that Geralt must be doing it out of a sense of guilt - he must still feel guilty for his outburst on the mountain, wanting to make it up to Julian and gain his forgiveness.

Julian twists on his bedroll, turning his back to where Geralt is taking first watch, and grits his teeth. Geralt is an idiot if he thinks coddling him will make Julian forgive him. Julian doesn’t need coddling. He doesn’t need to be taken care of - he can do that by himself, and if Geralt wants to earn Julian’s forgiveness, he’ll need to try being Julian’s friend, not his caretaker.

There’s a part of him, a part that Julian had tried to bury deep into the recesses of his mind, that hums with happiness at the care Geralt is showing him, but Julian knows the truth. Geralt has never cared for him, and his current actions are nothing more than acting out of a sense of guilt - Julian refuses to delude himself into thinking that Geralt would actually care for him. The thought is laughable.

The next morning, Julian is determined not to let Geralt fuss over him like that again, but apparently, Geralt is out to constantly surprise Julian. 

Geralt is as monosyllabic as ever - clearly, the past days had been a fluke - but he’s communicating in more than grunts and the occasional ‘fuck’ or ‘shut up’. Julian had expected Geralt to be as silent as he’d always been, so when Geralt readily answers a question that Ciri asks, Julian almost chokes on his spit.

Geralt voluntarily giving out information? Julian must be dreaming.

And there’s more. Over the past couple days, Julian has already witnessed how gentle Geralt is with Ciri, but it seems to be dialled up to the maximum on the road, with how openly affectionate he is with her.

It’s rather amusing to see Geralt’s excessive fussing with how overprotective he is of Ciri, yet still trying to maintain a gruff demeanour. His grumpy exterior doesn’t fool either Julian or Ciri, and something in Julian softens as he gets to fully witness how gentle Geralt is with Ciri - how he ensures her comfort as best as he can, giving her the best portions of food and letting her ride Roach. 

At night, Ciri cuddles with either Geralt or Julian, depending on who’s taking first watch, and every time he witnesses Geralt pulling Ciri close, a tender expression on his face, Julian’s heart melts into putty.

He yearns for Geralt just as much as ever, and seeing how soft Geralt is capable of being doesn’t help. Being away from Geralt for a year and returning to being a witcher hasn’t diminished Julian’s feelings for Geralt. If anything, well, they say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Julian still isn’t ready to forgive Geralt completely, but Geralt isn’t making that easy.

Their dynamic is different from how it used to be. Back then, Jaskier had filled the silence, chattering away or singing or playing his lute, while Geralt stayed silent. Now, Julian is more withdrawn, preferring to talk less, and to his surprise, Geralt actually starts initiating conversations with him and Ciri. 

The first time Geralt points something out to Julian, remarking on the beauty of the field of wildflowers they’re passing, Julian is stunned into silence, unable to believe that Geralt is actually inviting him to talk. After a too-long pause, during which something in Geralt’s face shutters, Julian responds haltingly to Geralt’s remark, and notes with disbelief that a small, pleased smile gradually appears on Geralt’s face as Julian talks.

What.

It doesn’t get any less surprising each time Geralt starts a conversation. Geralt asks about Julian’s adventures, and willingly recounts some of his own. Julian has heard some of Geralt’s adventures, having experienced a few of them and persistently wrangling some others out of Geralt. The stories are most likely for Ciri’s benefit, but the fact that Geralt is sharing his own experiences willingly - well.

At first, Julian thinks that Geralt is only doing it for Ciri, but Geralt doesn’t just talk to Ciri - he’s interacting with Julian, and for the first time, their conversations consist of actual contributions on Geralt’s part, not just Julian rambling away. 

But just as Geralt seems to be opening up, Julian is more closed-off than he was as Jaskier, and judging by the concerned glances they throw at him when he’s not looking, Geralt and Ciri know it too. 

Julian’s not trying to be reserved on purpose. He’s just - he’s not Jaskier anymore. Sure, parts of Jaskier rear up from time to time, like when he sometimes rambles on about his adventures to Ciri, but for the most part, he’s just Julian, and Julian is a witcher. While he’s certainly more verbose than Geralt, he struggles to find the ease with which he used to carry a conversation.

As a witcher, Julian had never needed to use his words. He’s always been fond of books, something that he’d retained as Jaskier, but during Julian’s life on the Path, no one had really given him the opportunity to express himself, and it’s evident in the occasional heavy silence that descends on them as they travel.

At least Geralt gets the peace he’d always desired.

After a year of travelling alone, it’s a bit of an adjustment to have not just one, but two travelling companions. 

He and Geralt can’t forge on with their witcher stamina; instead, they need to accommodate Ciri’s needs - she’s unaccustomed to life on the road, needing more breaks as she tires far more easily. Another problem is that they’re always travelling and sleeping rough, since they can’t stop in towns unless they absolutely need to. 

One witcher draws enough attention, much less two witchers, both having distinct white hair and golden eyes, and they don’t need anyone talking about two witchers travelling with a young girl. 

For a few days, they live on their dwindling resources, but Geralt’s injury means that he needs food to keep up his healing, so Julian’s food stash is steadily decreasing.

They need to lay low, but along with Geralt’s injury, the days they’d spent in the cave had depleted their supplies. They need to replenish what they have, especially as they’re nearing Kaer Morhen and the frost of winter is creeping in, and while Julian and Geralt are more than capable of withstanding the cold, Ciri shivers violently at night even when she cuddles up to one of them, and her teeth chatter even during the day. 

They’re around two weeks from Kaer Morhen, a few miles away from a reasonably large town. It’s the perfect place to stock up for the remaining journey, and they can ride hard and fast for the remaining two weeks without stopping at any towns.

But when Julian suggests that they make a quick stop at the town to replenish what they have, Geralt vehemently disagrees.

“We need more coin, Geralt, you know I’m right,” Julian points out. “We’re running out of supplies, and we need to get adequate clothing for Ciri, especially since it’s getting colder.”

“It’s not safe for us to even think about going into towns or villages,” Geralt fires back, verbose in a way he usually isn’t. “What if someone sees us?”

Geralt is right. Townsfolk love gossip, and with only two white-haired witchers on the Continent, the presence of either of them is bound to send ripples across a town.

Julian sighs in defeat. “I’ll go alone, then,” he compromises. “I’ll find a contract, complete the contract, get the coin, buy what we need, then we can be on our way.”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “You,” he growls, “are not going alone.”

Oh, he did not just imply that Julian is incompetent and incapable of taking on a contract alone. Pissed at how Geralt underestimates him, pride rearing, Julian takes a step forward and raises his chin challengingly. 

“And why is that?” he questions, glaring Geralt down fiercely. He refuses to tolerate any insults against his abilities as a witcher, especially not since he’s weathered far too many blows to his pride from Geralt over the years.

Geralt blinks, taken aback. “Because - because,” he drags a hand down his face in frustration. “I. You just.”

When it’s clear that Geralt can’t find a reasonable justification, Julian bares his teeth smugly. “My hair may be as distinctive as yours, Geralt, but I am not as recognisable as you are. Nilfgaard thinks Ciri is with Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf. No one knows about Julian of Cintra. I can be done within a day.”

Geralt is grinding his teeth so hard that Julian can practically hear it. “It’s just. It’s not safe.”

“Better than to let Ciri freeze to death as we journey to Kaer Morhen,” Julian rebuts calmly.

“Fuck, Jask - Julian,” Geralt bursts out, furious. “I just - I can’t let you go alone, okay? I won’t be able to live with myself if anything happens to you.”

The again goes unsaid, but they both know it’s there, lingering at the end of Geralt’s outburst.

Well then.

“Doubting my capabilities?” Julian questions mockingly. Geralt’s words are - sweet, perhaps, but it grates at Julian’s pride that Geralt thinks he needs coddling. He does not. He’s a highly-trained and experienced witcher, and he’s older than Geralt, for fuck’s sake. Geralt’s overprotective complex can fuck off. “Because I can assure you, I can take care of myself just fine.”

“It’s not that,” Geralt grunts, eyes shifting around uncomfortably. “You - I can’t lose you. Again.”

Julian sighs, anger flowing out of him at the reminder of Geralt’s guilt over Jaskier’s death. “I know you understandably feel horrible about my apparent death, still,” he murmurs, unable to stop himself from reaching out to clasp Geralt’s hands, hating the anguish that sits heavy on Geralt’s face. “But you can’t coddle me, Geralt. I need you to realise that I am no less capable than you are.”

“I know you are,” Geralt says, a hint of pain creeping into his voice. He shuts his eyes. “Believe me, I know. I just hate not being there to protect you.”

His instinctive reaction is to lash out at Geralt for thinking that Julian needs protecting. His second reaction involves his heart speeding up slightly at Geralt’s words, at how Geralt sounds like he actually cares for Julian beyond what he means to Ciri. How is Julian going to keep his heart intact if Geralt keeps saying such things?

“I understand, Geralt.” Julian’s body has a mind of its own as he raises a hand to cup Geralt’s face, even as a mantra repeats in his mind ‘If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!’’

Geralt’s golden eyes meet Julian’s own, filled with such sadness that Julian almost believes that Geralt truly cares for him.

“You can help me on the contract, if you’re really desperate,” Julian acquiesces, “but I’m going into town alone. That’s all I can give you.”

Geralt still looks dissatisfied at this, but one look from Julian quells any further argument, and he grunts in reluctant agreement.

Julian pulls away hastily, stepping back from Geralt. Trying to touch Geralt - how stupid of him, getting his hopes up when they will inevitably be crushed. He would do well not to buy into how worried Geralt seems - it’s nothing more than a byproduct of Geralt’s guilt, after all. 

The next day, Julian heads to the nearest town, leaving Geralt and Ciri behind. There is, indeed, a contract in town, a relatively well-paying one for a griffin nearby. He spares a few minutes to go into the town’s apothecary to buy ingredients for his potions, before heading back to where Geralt and Ciri are waiting.

“There’s a griffin somewhere in the fields,” Julian informs Geralt, who’s pacing anxiously. “I can take it alone, or -”

“I’m coming with you,” Geralt interrupts bluntly, heading to where his swords are stashed.

Julian sighs. “Seriously, Geralt, I can do it alone. Someone needs to look after Ciri.”

“I can take care of myself just fine!” Ciri protests. Julian shoots her a stern look, but she forges on. “I’ve accompanied Geralt on hunts before, I can keep myself safe.”

“Ciri -” Julian starts, but Geralt turns to look at him, eyes blazing. “I’m coming with you,” he repeats, and Julian knows that tone. It’s the tone Geralt uses when nothing will change his mind, and Julian runs a hand through his hair in frustration. Stubborn fucking witcher.

“Fine,” he allows grudgingly. “But only because a griffin shouldn’t be too hard to take down with the two of us.”

It’s not hard to find the griffin. Julian and Geralt make sure Ciri is a safe distance away with the horses, sheltered by the forest and equipped with a silver dagger just in case.

“Don’t try to help us,” Julian warns sternly. “Stay back, no matter how bad it looks.”

Ciri’s eyes are wide with apprehension, but she huffs at him indignantly. “I know the drill, Jaskier. I’ve done this before.”

Julian frets a little, fussing over Ciri, because Geralt might have done this with her, but Julian hasn’t, so excuse him for being a bit overbearing. Ciri grows impatient by the third time Julian checks that she’s holding onto the dagger, and pushes at his chest, annoyed. “Go, Jaskier, I’ll be fine.”

Julian exhales, not wanting to leave her alone, but he knows that they need to kill the griffin before it takes off and they need to track it again. 

“Alright, cub, I trust you. Be careful, okay?” He drops a quick kiss onto the top of her head and heads to where Geralt is hovering impatiently, sword already drawn.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Julian says in response to Geralt’s raised eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you were any better the first time you brought her on a hunt.”

“Let’s just go,” Geralt grunts, pulling out a potion.

“Wait!” Julian grabs Geralt’s arm, stopping him from downing the potion, and he gets a glare in response. Julian rolls his eyes. “You’re travelling with a Manticore, for gods’ sake. You’re not drinking your piss-poor potions under my watch.”

Pulling out two vials, he hands one to Geralt, who glares at it suspiciously. “It’s nothing bad Geralt, relax. It’s just an enhanced version of your regular battle potion, with less of the adverse side effects.” At Geralt’s inquisitive look, he explains, “We specialise in alchemy, Geralt, what did you expect?”

Not waiting for Geralt’s answer, Julian uncorks his own vial and swallows the potion, awakening his senses as the world snaps into acute clarity. Drawing his sword, he nods towards where the griffin is feasting on its latest kill. “Come on, Geralt.”

But Geralt is staring at him with his mouth slightly open, his own vial still full. There’s shock and slight unease in his eyes, and Julian realises that this is the first time Geralt has seen him under the effects of a potion - black eyes, skin a deathly pallor, black veins spiderwebbing around his eyes, under his scars.

He looks away, pushing down the ugly thoughts of disgusting inhuman monster abomination that bubble up, pushing down the knowledge that Geralt has witnessed yet another monstrous part of him, his perception of Jaskier undoubtedly being torn down and tainted every time Julian does something that is decidedly not human. Now is not the time for his pathetic self-pity.

“Geralt.” The painful thoughts of how Geralt must think him monstrous make Julian’s tone harsh, and Geralt quickly blinks out of his daze and drinks the potion.

Eyes black as midnight meet Julian’s own as Geralt gives him a small nod, something shaken still lingering in his expression even as he stalks towards the griffin. Julian follows suit, banishing all his self-pitying thoughts into the corner of his mind where he keeps all his self-hatred, a corner that grows with every passing day.

Julian does not like their current strategy. He prefers taking time to plan, scouting the terrain for things he can use to his advantage. He prefers brewing up bombs and concoctions catered to the fight he will be facing. He doesn’t need to, of course - Julian is a skilled and experienced witcher, and he can easily take on most monsters even without preparation, but the sense of satisfaction when he dispatches a monster with a well-executed plan is unparalleled.

But they need to get over this hunt as quickly as possible so that Julian can collect the reward and replenish their supplies before daylight runs out, and get far away from the town in case his presence draws unwanted attention. So they proceed without a proper plan despite Julian’s misgivings, leaving Ciri behind as they approach the griffin.

They split up, Julian taking the left while Geralt takes the right. They’re still too far away for the griffin to sense them as it gnaws on its meal, and Julian palms a throwing knife with the hand that’s not holding his sword, tensing in preparation for the fight.

Across the field, Geralt meets Julian’s eyes and raises his hand in the sign of Igni. A burst of fire singes one of the griffin’s wings and it lets out an unholy screech, the sound grating at Julian’s hearing, made infinitely more sensitive by his potion. His alchemical skills are both a curse and a blessing, it seems.

The griffin takes to the air, but its flight is made slightly unsteady by its burnt wing even as it dives at Geralt, who rolls out of the way. Geralt slashes at the griffin but only manages a shallow gash before he has to dodge a swipe from its claws.

With the griffin focused on Geralt, Julian flings his knife, which embeds into the griffin’s back, deep enough to hinder its movements but not deep enough to kill it. Fuck, he’d been aiming for a wing - the griffin is moving too much. The griffin roars and whirls to face Julian, lunging at him with claws outstretched and beak wide open. Julian ducks under its lunge, narrowly avoiding its talons and raising his sword to slice across its underbelly, nimbly leaping out of range of its sweeping limbs and landing next to Geralt.

The griffin, wounded and furious, flies out of range of their swords. It spreads his wings wide and roars at them, the sound so loud that Julian swears his ears bleed, and the force of it knocks both him and Geralt onto the ground, leaving them disoriented, which gives the griffin an opportunity to swoop down at them in its signature deadly move.

“Fuck,” Julian hisses, barely dodging the assault. But one good thing about barely managing to avoid the attack is that he’s left close to the griffin, close enough to score a deep gash across its wing, not enough to stop the wing from moving, but enough to stop it from flying, forcing it to face him and Geralt on the ground.

Geralt blasts it with Aard, and Julian immediately lunges to stab it, managing to get a quick strike before the griffin sweeps a limb at him and he’s forced to jump out of the way. As the griffin pursues Julian, Geralt remains behind it, watching for an opening as Julian ducks and jumps over its strikes, slicing at it whenever possible.

All of a sudden, the griffin wheels on Geralt with surprising speed, striking out with its talons so quickly that Geralt gets caught in the arm, leaving a deep gash that makes the sword in his hands tremble slightly.

“Geralt!” Julian yells, swinging his sword at the griffin to bring its attention back to him. In its injured state, the griffin gets desperate, its strikes getting sloppier but also faster and more frequent, forcing Julian to back out of its way, unable to find an opening.

“I’m fine,” Geralt grunts, switching his sword to his other hand as he throws himself back into the fight.

But the distraction costs Julian, and the griffin is surprisingly fast as it leaps at him, knocking him to the ground as its beak snaps furiously. A claw slices across his face, and Julian feels the shallow cut opening up, blood running down his face.

Oh, the griffin is going to pay.

The blood running down his face enters his mouth, filling it with the unpleasant copper taste of blood. With a fierce snarl, Julian attempts to rid himself of the horrible taste by wiping the blood from his mouth, and forcefully stabs the griffin’s eye as its head gets dangerously close to him.

It screeches again, and Julian advances on it, burying a dagger in one of its legs as it attempts to attack him with its talons. Julian grins savagely as it stumbles, movements going sluggish. Serves that fucking bastard right for wounding his face, which Julian is not happy about. Yes, the cut is already healing, shallow enough that it won’t scar, but it got blood in his mouth, and the blood is drying on his face, which is now plastered with strands of hair that had fallen loose from his braid.

The griffin is visibly weakening as it scrambles away from Julian, who is stalking towards it with a menacing grin and a theatrical spin of his sword, and in its haste to get away from Julian, it stumbles right into Geralt’s blade. Geralt drags his sword up where it’s buried into the griffin’s side, before yanking it out. Bleeding out from multiple injuries, the griffin tries for one last assault, swiping desperately at Julian.

Julian easily weaves out of the way and casts a hasty Aard, knocking the griffin to the ground, and Geralt is on it in two quick strides, finishing it off with a forceful blow to the head.

“Motherfucker,” Julian snarls ferociously. Retrieving his dagger from the griffin’s leg, he stabs it one last time for good measure. He wipes at his face again, trying to get rid of the coppery taste of blood, but his cut has already clotted and the blood is already dry on his face. “Ugh, this tastes disgusting. Why do vampires even like blood?”

Regardless, the ugly griffin which had the audacity to wound Julian’s face is already dead, so Julian bares his teeth at the corpse as he wipes the blood off his dagger and returns it to its hidden sheath. When he looks up at Geralt, ready to offer a sardonic quip, the words die in his throat at Geralt’s wide-eyed stare, the pitch black of his eyes fading back into familiar gold as he stares at Julian, frozen in place.

Julian doesn’t know what to make of how Geralt is looking at him, a peculiar mix of shock and something like awe, and his sight, still enhanced by the potion, picks up the faintest pink tint that tips Geralt’s ears, but surely that can’t be right. There’s no reason for Geralt to look at him in - in awe, or respect, or wonder, or anything along such lines, because why would Geralt look at him like that?

There’s also something else in his gaze that Julian doesn’t dare read into, because that would be edging into dangerous territory, so he averts his eyes and lops off the griffin’s head to use as proof of the kill. He tries to ignore the uncomfortable weight of Geralt’s eyes on him as he collects various body parts for his potions.

Once he’s done, he says gruffly, “Let’s go.” He picks up the head - ew, this has always been his least favourite part, griffin heads are disgusting - and starts walking back to where they’d left Ciri.

After a moment, he hears Geralt start following him, an uncomfortable tingle at the back of his neck telling him that Geralt is still staring.

Julian is done with this. 

Dropping the head on the ground, he whirls around to face Geralt, crossing his arms and planting his feets firmly. 

“What is your problem?” Julian demands, narrowing his eyes at Geralt, who looks taken aback at his outburst. “If you have a problem, hash it out here, before we get back to Ciri.”

“I don’t… have a problem,” Geralt returns, puzzled.

Julian barks out a hollow laugh, Geralt flinching at the harsh sound. “Sure you don’t,” Julian sneers, taking a few steps forward to jab a finger in Geralt’s chest. “Why the fuck are you looking at me like that, then?”

Geralt looks lost. “I… what?” Confusion spreads across his face, and oh, how dare he look confused. Geralt knows full well how he’s looking at Julian.

“You - you,” Julian squeezes his eyes shut for a second, exhaling sharply. The nerve of that man. “You keep staring at me,” Julian spits out, glaring at Geralt, whose face is inches from his. “Why.”

“I - I… There’s no problem,” Geralt says slowly, tone cautious. “Just, I don’t know, just -”

“What.”

“Surprised,” Geralt says hesitantly. “It’s just - weird, seeing you fight.”

Julian scoffs. There’s something more to it, something Geralt isn’t saying. Julian knows that he’s holding back, he’s hiding something, and there’s a sinking feeling of dread that maybe Geralt has finally realised how monstrous Julian is. 

Julian curses himself inwardly - he’d grinned at the griffin when wounding it, what kind of person does that, of course Geralt would think him a horrible person.

But he decides not to interrogate Geralt now, so he takes a step back, face blank, picking up the griffin head and resumes walking back to Ciri. Julian doesn’t think he can bear it if Geralt rejects him to his face. 

Yes, Geralt had apologised to him in the cave, promising to make it up to him, but after this fight, Julian has no doubt that Geralt will see that Julian bears no resemblance to Jaskier, and will decide that while he had wanted to make it up to Jaskier, Julian is undeniably not Jaskier, so Geralt will have no qualms pushing him away. Again.

Perhaps Geralt had cared for Jaskier. Perhaps he still cares for Jaskier.

But Julian is not Jaskier. He is a stranger to Geralt, someone with his old travel companion’s memories but a different person entirely, weathered and scarred and brutal, and the griffin fight must have opened Geralt’s eyes to that.

Quick steps approach him, and Julian tenses as a hand closes around his arm.

“Wait,” Geralt rasps.

Chapter Text

Julian tugs his arm out of Geralt’s grip and continues walking, looking forward resolutely.

Behind him, Geralt lets out an annoyed grunt and grasps Julian’s shoulder. “Julian -”

He’s cut off as Julian shoves him back, rounding on Geralt as hurt and anger war in his heart. “Don’t,” Julian snarls, face twisting into a scowl. Let Geralt see how monstrous he truly can be. “Touch me.”

Geralt stumbles back. “I’m sorry,” he rumbles, something stricken in his expression as he withdraws his hand, and Julian tries not to ache at the loss. “I. It’s not.” His jaw tightens. “Fuck.”

“I get it, Geralt,” Julian snaps coldly. “You’ve just realised that I’m nothing like the bard you remember, I’m inhuman, monstrous, stuff like that, yes, I’ve heard all of that before, so just spit it out. I know what I am.”

Geralt reels back. “What? No.” He takes a tentative step towards Julian. “You’re not monstrous, that’s not. I wasn’t thinking that.”

“No?” Julian challenges. He bares his teeth in a vicious grin, and he hates it, hates exposing this part of himself to Geralt, but. Better to push Geralt away on his own terms, than to have Geralt reject him later and leave him aching and empty. Again. “Oh, I’m sure you don’t think that, Geralt. There must be some other reason for why you’re looking at me like - like -”

“Stop trying to push me away, Julian,” Geralt says resolutely. “I don’t find you inhuman, or monstrous, or whatever you think you are.”

“Oh, right.” Julian stalks slowly towards Geralt, eyes narrowed in a glare. “Forgive if I find it rather hard to believe you.”

Geralt’s shoulders slump. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault that you think this way, but,” a deep breath, heart rate picking up slightly, “I want you to know that - that you could never be monstrous to me.” There’s a deep earnestness in Geralt’s voice, eyes pleasing as they gaze into Julian’s. “I’m sorry if I somehow made you think that this is how I see you, because it’s not.”

They’re pretty words, more than Geralt had ever said to him during their travels, and Julian wants to believe them, but he won’t let himself, he can’t let himself be hurt again, and he schools his face back into neutrality, a hard mask that wraps around him in protection. “Right. We should get back to Ciri.”

This time, Geralt doesn’t try to stop Julian, following him silently as they head back to Ciri. When they finally reach her, Ciri is tense, keeping a white-knuckled grip on her dagger as she paces next to the horses. Upon spotting them, tired and bloody, she sags in relief.

“Hey, cub,” Julian greets, pasting a soft smile on his face. “I’d hug you, but I don’t think I’m quite… clean, at the moment.”

“Julek,” Ciri whispers. “You came back.”

Gods, she must still fear losing him, and Julian can’t blame her, not after she’s lost so much.

“I came back,” he confirms, and barely manages to drop the griffin’s head before Ciri throws herself at him. “Oh, cub,” he murmurs as she presses her face into his armour, heedless of the blood and guts. “I would never leave you, Ciri. I promise.”

He tries not to think about how he will probably need to break that promise. Judging by his reaction, Geralt is undoubtedly repulsed by Julian’s earlier actions. Even if he doesn’t tell Julian to leave today, Julian can’t help the sinking dread that Geralt may push him away soon, and, as much as it hurts his heart, he’ll likely have to part with Geralt and Ciri.

He doesn’t want to break his promise to Ciri, doesn’t want to be yet another loss in her life, but Julian already is someone she’s lost. He’s not Jaskier. Jaskier is dead, and he’s Julian, and Ciri will realise that soon enough, just as Geralt has.

Once Ciri finally disentangles herself from him, Julian bids a quick farewell to her, determinedly avoiding Geralt’s gaze, and heads quickly back into town, collecting the money for the contract and selling various griffin parts. Hood up, he swiftly goes through the shops, picking out a warm cloak for Ciri, a few daggers, restocking their supplies. 

He hears snatches of gossip on the wind, his hearing picking up conversations far beyond the range of human hearing. There is talk of a white-haired witcher attacking villagers in a town, and Julian keeps his hood pulled as far down as possible, praying that no one will catch a glimpse of his hair and eyes.

He’s on edge the whole time he stays in the town, staying alert for anyone recognising him, and tension bleeds out of his shoulders the moment he steps back on the road to return to where Geralt and Ciri are waiting. 

He’d known that there would be consequences for his actions - the humans may not connect it to Julian, but Geralt is well-known for being a white-haired witcher, and Julian hates to think that his actions may have consequences for Geralt. Thank the gods that they’ll be up in Kaer Morhen for the winter, after which the rumours will hopefully have died down.

Well. Julian will most likely not be in Kaer Morhen, and perhaps it’s for the best that he won’t be. He doesn’t need to taint their memories of the bard they had known, and it will be better for him, as well, that he won’t get too attached and once again experience the heartbreak of rejection.

As they set out on the road, Julian does his best to ignore Geralt, focusing his attention on Ciri. That continues as they set up camp, keeping his attention on taking out his own supplies even as he feels Geralt’s gaze burning into his back.

“I’m going to take a quick walk,” Ciri announces suddenly, dumping her bedroll onto the ground. She looks at Julian, then turns her gaze to Geralt, something pointed in her expression. 

Every time they stop for the night, Ciri goes off to wander alone. The first time she’d insisted on taking a walk on her own, both Geralt and Julian had vehemently protested, unwilling to let her out of their sight, but Ciri had pointed out that with both of their enhanced senses, they would get to the danger before it would have the chance to harm her. They’d conceded to her point, knowing that she needed some time to herself, so every time they set up camp, Ciri heads off for a walk, returning before dinner.

This time, Ciri must have picked up on the tension between them, if her pointed stare is anything to go by. Julian listens as her footsteps fade, far enough that she won’t hear them, but close enough for both Julian and Geralt to keep tabs on her.

Julian preoccupies himself with putting away his swords, desperately trying to ignore Geralt walking up to him, and braces himself for rejection.

He’d enjoyed it while it lasted.

“Julian,” Geralt rumbles from behind him, and Julian lets out a quiet exhale as he puts down his swords and turns around.

This is it.

“Geralt,” Julian returns, crossing his arms. He waits.

Geralt is looking at him, studying him, and Julian pushes down the urge to hide his face from scrutiny, from Geralt’s unreadable expression as he stares at Julian.

“Are you done looking?” Julian bites out, struggling to keep his voice even. “If you want me to leave, just tell me and get it over with.”

Geralt blinks. “I’m not… I’m not going to tell you to leave.”

Raising an eyebrow skeptically, Julian remarks, “Oh, sure.”

“I’m really not -” Geralt groans, and drags a hand across his face. “Fuck, I’m bad at this, but. Please believe me when I say I won’t tell you to leave. Not ever again.”

Something has cracked open in Geralt’s face, something open and vulnerable crossing his expression as he fixes his eyes on Julian, something pleading that tugs at the quivering thread of hope in Julian’s heart.

And gods, does he want to believe Geralt. He wants to believe Geralt’s words so badly that he aches with it, but he can’t, he can’t. He refuses to open his heart to Geralt only for it to be torn apart again.

Geralt is only doing this out of a sense of misplaced obligation to his dead bard. Julian is nothing to him.

“Let me make this clear,” Julian asserts, keeping the tremble out of his voice. “I’m not your bard, Geralt.”

“I know that,” Geralt interrupts, his arm raising as if reaching out to Julian. “Fuck, Julian, I know that, I look at you and I -” a deep intake of breath, a shaky exhale, “I know. But please, I - I…”

Geralt trails off, gritting his teeth, and Julian turns his gaze away, fixing it on the thorny bush beside him. Geralt has all but admitted that he’s realised that Julian is not Jaskier, and Julian braces himself for words that would sting as much as Geralt’s words on the mountain.

“I…” Geralt works his jaw. “I. I care for you, Julian, and I know I’ve… wronged you many times, and I wish to make up for it. I won’t ask you to leave, truly.”

Julian can’t help it. He scoffs derisively. “You care for me, huh.”

“I - I do,” Geralt says, imploring. Slowly, he reaches out and covers Julian’s hand with his own, and Julian doesn’t pull away, even as his common sense tells him don’t get hurt again. “I know you’re not - you’re not -” Geralt squeezes his eyes shut, “You’re not the same person, but I still care for you. And I refuse to let you go again.”

“I don’t know if I can believe this, Geralt,” Julian rasps, unable to help himself from softening as Geralt’s touch unlocks something within him. “I saw how you looked at me today. I’m monstrous, horrible, and you’ve seen it. I’m not Jaskier, and if you’re caring for me because you feel some kind of misplaced guilt -”

“I’ve always cared for you.” Geralt sounds distraught, his eyes shattered and sad. “I’m sorry I never properly showed you, and now you don’t believe me. Please, let me show how much I do care.”

Julian wants to give in -

“I don’t need a repeat of what happened the last time we parted,” Julian replies stiffly, fists clenching under Geralt’s gentle touch. He makes to pull away, but Geralt clings on, his grip tight and bordering on desperate.

“There won’t be a repeat,” Geralt vows. He lifts a hand hesitantly, hovering by Julian’s face. “And you - you’re not monstrous, or any other terrible thing you call yourself.”

Geralt’s hand is so close to Julian’s face that he can feel the warmth radiating from it, and he suppresses the urge to lean forward, to let his cheek make contact with the palm of Geralt’s hand. Instead, he leans back slightly, away from the prospect of Geralt’s touch.

He can’t - he can’t have this. 

 Julian averts his eyes. He wants to believe every single word that’s coming out of Geralt’s mouth, wants to believe that Geralt cares for him and wants him to stay and doesn’t think him a monster, but he knows better. He can’t get his hopes up, he knows better. The long years of living have told him that. Aleksandra, Erik, Kalina - they had all told him that. 

He will always, always be rejected in the end.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” Julian says quietly. He should take a step back, distance himself from how close Geralt is, but he’s selfish, he’s always been selfish, wanting to bask in the warmth of Geralt’s presence for a little while longer before it’s taken from him.

“I meant every word,” Geralt pleads, his hand quivering slightly from where it still hovers by Jualin’s face. “Julian, please believe me.”

Julian laughs, brittle and hollow. “As much as I’d like to hold on to that foolish hope, I can’t.” It takes everything in him, but he wrenches his hands from Geralt’s grip and forces himself to take a step back, putting distance between them. “You’re absolved of your guilt, Geralt. Please just - just stop. You don’t have to try and assuage your regret, okay?”

Geralt reels back, looking stricken. “I - that’s not - I’m not -”

Julian barrels on, hating how he’s putting himself forward for rejection, but unable to stop himself. “If I tell you I forgive you, will you just - stop saying things like that. I forgive you, Geralt, okay? Just -”

“I meant what I said,” Geralt whispers, trying to reach out to him. “I’m not - saying these out of guilt. I meant every word.”

He sounds so sincere. Julian can’t give in, can’t give Geralt that power over him again. He will not be lulled into a false sense of hope that Geralt cares for him and won’t ask him to leave. He refuses to let his heart be broken so easily again.

“No, you don’t,” Julian hisses, nails biting into his palms. “I. Forgive. You. Okay? You can stop lying, Geralt.”

Faster than Julian can react, Geralt lunges forward and wraps Julian in a tight embrace. Julian freezes in disbelief that Geralt is hugging him, face buried into Julian’s shoulder.

Geralt has rarely, if ever, initiated contact with him before, and certainly not like this. 

Geralt’s arms are tight around him, his voice muffled as he says, “None of that was a lie, Julian. I - I -” Julian feels Geralt inhale deeply. “I’m sorry that I ever made you feel that I don’t care for you. I was horrible to you, and I can’t blame you for thinking that I’ll make you leave, but - please, give me a chance.”

This is unfair. So utterly unfair. How is Julian supposed to say no to Geralt when he’s surrounded by Geralt’s warmth, their bodies pressed tight against each other?

When Julian doesn’t answer, Geralt swallows, and Julian feels the movement against his shoulder. “You have no reason to believe me, but - please.”

Geralt is pleading, and he sounds so goddamn genuine, and he’s hugging Julian, and -

“I’ll stay.” Julian’s voice is barely a whisper. “I don’t know if I can believe you, but I - I’ll stay.”

Geralt isn’t asking him to leave. Maybe that will change in the future, but Julian has always been so, so weak for Geralt, and with Geralt pleading and apologising and showing his emotions and hugging him, Julian can’t resist.

Geralt’s arms tighten around him. “I’ll make it up to you,” Geralt promises. “You won’t - I’ll show you that I care. I won’t leave you ever again.”

Julian closes his eyes, ignoring the slight pricking at the back of them, and lets himself relax, dropping his forehead onto Geralt’s shoulder. He says nothing, selfishly enjoying the warmth of Geralt’s arms around him. Geralt hugging him like this may never happen again, so he lets himself bask in it, soaking this moment in and committing every sensation to memory.

“I’m not saying this out of guilt that I want to get rid of,” Geralt murmurs after a while, his breath hot against Julian’s neck. “It’s you, and I truly care for you. I will do anything in my power to show you.”

Julian hums, a low sound, and Geralt shivers slightly against him. “Sure.”

This is nice. Julian wants to stay in this moment forever, pretending that Geralt is hugging him because he cares, but the sound of Ciri’s footsteps getting louder pulls him back into reality.

Geralt must hear it as well, letting go of Julian, and Julian pushes down the disappointment that rises as Geralt unwraps his arms.

He looks awkwardly to where his bags are laid out. “Um. Right -”

And then a warm hand is cupping his face, calluses rough against his cheek, and Julian swallows as he meets Geralt’s eyes, glowing golden with something almost tender.

“Listen to me, Julian. I care. I never truly appreciated how much I cared for you until you d - until I lost you.” Ciri’s footsteps grow ever closer, but Geralt keeps his gaze fixed on Julian, his voice firm. “I will not make that mistake again. I’m not planning on letting you go. Ever.”

“Geralt…”

Julian wants to crumple into Geralt’s arms, wants to soak up Geralt’s words until he believes them, until they’re true, because these words are everything that Julian has wanted to hear - an admission that Geralt cares, that Geralt wants him around, and he gulps slightly, unable to believe the words that are coming out of Geralt’s mouth. 

“I can’t live without you, Julian.” Geralt is close, too close and not close enough, every word that Geralt speaks casting a burst of warmth on Julian’s face. “I’ll show you that I care. I promise.”

He’s so close. Julian can make out every fleck of gold in Geralt’s eyes, eyes that practically radiate sincerity, and Geralt is going to kill him, with his words and his eyes and his proximity, and Julian’s mouth falls open when Geralt’s thumb swipes across his cheek. 

Then Ciri is upon them, and Geralt’s hand lingers for a moment before he tucks Julian’s hair behind his ear and withdraws his hand. Stunned, Julian can do nothing but blink as Geralt steps back, just as Ciri emerges from the trees.

“You done?” she asks cheerfully, plopping herself down by the fire. Slowly, Julian makes himself walk over to a fallen log and sits himself down, and Geralt does the same.

When neither of them answer, Ciri rolls her eyes and huffs. “You’d better be,” she grumbles, poking at the fire with a stick. “The two of you are so stupid sometimes.”

“Hey,” Julian protests, finally finding his voice. “I’m plenty smart.”

There’s a soft snort from Geralt, and Julian braces himself for a scathing comment about his intellect, but when he looks up, Geralt’s eyes are sparkling with amusement, not a hint of malice in them.

And if Julian’s too-slow heart stutters slightly, that’s no one’s business but his. 

“If you say so.” Ciri looks between the two of them, raising an eyebrow. “Gods, the two of you, I -” she shakes her head with a laugh.

Geralt reaches out and ruffles her hair, and Ciri shrieks in indignation, launching herself at Geralt, hands outstretched, but Geralt catches her easily, holding her flailing arms away from his head, and Julian watches with a smile as Ciri fails to break Geralt’s grip.

“Geralt!” she squeals, and Geralt lets go of her with a low chuckle. Pouting, she sits down, smoothing down her hair with a disgruntled huff, and Julian smiles softly as he starts preparing their dinner. 

He wants to keep this forever. 

Their dinner that night is a quiet affair. Julian turns Geralt’s words over in his head, wondering if he dares to believe them, dares to believe that Geralt isn’t keeping him around out of a sense of misplaced guilt, but because he truly wants Julian here. 

He thinks of the strange look in Geralt’s eyes when he’d looked at Julian, black-eyed and bloody after the griffin fight, and he almost flinches at the thought, at what Geralt must think of him - but he remembers the sincerity colouring Geralt’s voice just now, the way his arms had encircled Julian in an almost desperate embrace, and Julian - Julian doesn’t know what to believe. 

Geralt is similarly contemplative, staring silently at Julian over the fire, eyes sad and thoughtful. Julian wonders what’s going through his head, whether he’s comparing him to Jaskier, whether he misses the human that Julian had been. He surely must, for Jaskier is everything that Julian wishes he could’ve been, and he curses his past self for being so careless as he’d headed down the mountain. 

Had he not attracted those wolves, Jaskier would still be alive, instead of Julian, and both Geralt and Ciri would have their human bard by their side instead of this strange witcher, who bears the face of the man they’d known but is so utterly different. 

“Jaskier,” Ciri murmurs once their dinner is done, breaking the silence. Julian hums in assent. 

“The scars look painful,” she says tentatively, as if unsure whether she should bring it up. “Do they still hurt?”

For a moment, Julian feels the phantom pain of deadly talons raking across his face, raking through flesh, a rush of burning agony tearing into skin. All he can smell is blood, blood, blood, his vision coated in red as he blinks the blood from his eyes and  - the sensation is gone in a flash. 

Forcing down his disorientation, he gives Ciri a smile. “Not anymore,” he reassures, and her tense body relaxes. “It was a long time ago.”

Geralt makes a pained noise, and Julian glances at him curiously. “What?”

Geralt works his jaw, the telltale sign that he’s struggling to verbalise his thoughts. “I just. They look. I don’t like seeing you hurt,” he grates out, the words not coming easily to him, but visibly honest. 

Julian winces. His usually impeccable control over his actions slips the more time he spends with Geralt and Ciri, and he wonders if that’s a good thing. “I know they’re rather - unattractive -”

“They’re not!” Geralt interjects quickly. A flash of embarrassment crosses his face at his own reaction before he immediately schools it back into blankness. 

Looks like Julian isn’t the only one whose control is slipping. A warmth spreads in his stomach at the sight of Geralt failing to tamp down his emotional reactions, a sign that maybe Geralt is finally letting Julian past the impenetrable walls he had painstakingly built.

“Oh?” Julian questions, a smile tugging at his lips teasingly, letting himself open up to Geralt slightly. 

The tips of Geralt’s ears turn pink even as his expression remains stoic, and Julian stares, fascinated at the colour that’s creeping out from under his shirt.

“They’re not. Not ugly,” Geralt reiterates. The pink darkens. Oh, wow. “I just. I know it happened before we met. But.”

He hesitates, eyes darting around nervously before they settle back on Julian’s. “I hate that I wasn’t able to protect you.”

“Oh,” Julian murmurs. Geralt sounds pained at the thought that he wasn’t able to protect Julian and - Geralt is going to kill him. “I, uh. Thanks, I guess. I mean, you couldn’t have protected me. I got a bit careless.”

“What happened?” Ciri asks, before making a face at herself. “Wait, that was rude. You don’t have to answer that.”

“I don’t mind,” Julian says. “It was a striga. It was like that fight you had with that princess?” 

He directs the question at Geralt, who grunts in agreement. 

“They demanded that I reverse the curse, but they didn’t tell me that there were several bruxae in the area, near where the striga resided. Long story short, there were a lot of them, I was underprepared, got careless and distracted, the striga did that.” He gestures to his face. “Goodbye, pretty face.”

“Don’t worry, Julek,” Ciri coos. “You’re still very pretty.”

Julian laughs, a sliver of self-deprecation unwittingly creeping into the sound. “Yes, yes. All the ladies and the men want a piece of this.” He gestures to his (disfigured, monstrous, ugly) face and paints a smile on it. It feels forced and horrible, no doubt twisting his (hideous, grotesque, disgusting) scars. “I mean, who wouldn’t?”

But they both know him too well to buy into his facade - Geralt makes a low, upset rumble that sounds like it’s been dragged out of him, and Ciri’s playful demeanour fades into something sadder and more serious.

She snuggles up to Julian’s side and turns her face up to look at him. “Your scars don’t make you ugly, Jaskier.” Her voice is solemn, her eyes fixed intently on his.

“Of course they don’t, cub,” Julian replies indulgently. Ciri is too sweet to him - she doesn’t have to try and reassure him about his scars. He knows full well how they look, knows it in people’s reactions to them, how they stare in horrified curiosity, how they flinch and recoil, how their eyes skirt away from his face when speaking.

He’s glad that Ciri is trying to make him feel better, though. He appreciates her effort, but Julian has no doubt that deep down, his scars must generate a sense of unavoidable horror and disgust.

“Julian.” Ciri’s voice is sharp and demanding as she snaps his name. Julian blinks at her, plastering the smile, which had slipped for a second, back onto his face. She’s never called him ‘Julian’ before - it’s always been Julek, or Jaskier, but never Julian. She must be serious.

“I mean it, Julek,” she tells him, her tone gentling, but no less meaningful. “They’re not ugly. I don’t know what’s going on in your head right now, but truly, your scars don’t make you look monstrous, or whatever stupid thing you’re thinking.”

Julian cracks a smile, small and genuine. “If you say so, Ciri,” he replies softly, even as doubt colours his words. He’s spent too many years of people taking one look at his face and recoiling from what they see, too many years fielding hatred and disgust and rejection, but maybe, if Ciri truly means it, he can start to believe her.

“She’s right,” Geralt grunts. His eyes trace over Julian’s face, and Julian braces for Geralt’s expression to twist into something disgusted or horrified, but it doesn’t, instead growing more soft and tender. “You never let me feel bad about my scars. You shouldn’t feel bad about yours.”

“That’s different,” Julian protests. Geralt is beautiful where Julian is not, his scars a reflection of strength and his willingness to put others’ lives before his own. Geralt’s scars don’t mar his face like an eternal brand of his failure, don’t disfigure his face so much that people recoil from it. Julian’s scars are horrible, hideous, even if Ciri and Geralt say otherwise - there will always be a part of them that is disgusted by his scars, by how they destroy the face of the bard they had known, replacing it with the visage of a monster.

“It’s not,” Geralt says, reaching out hesitantly, stopping halfway before he can touch Julian’s face. “You once told me that my scars are a sign of how I’ve survived against the worst of what the world has thrown at me. Why isn’t it the same for your scars?”

Julian doesn’t answer, watching the flames flicker and crackle, gentle plumes of smoke curling in the air. After a moment, he murmurs, “Your scars aren’t like mine, Geralt.”

“Just because my scars aren’t on my face doesn’t mean that our scars are different,” Geralt points out, and gods damn him, why is he being so eloquent and reasonable? 

Ciri wraps her arms around Julian, bumping her head against his chin. “Geralt is actually communicating for once, Julek,” she giggles, muffled against his neck. “Don’t let his words go to waste.”

Pulling a page out of Geralt’s book, Julian lets out a hum. He desperately wants to cling to the belief that, for Geralt and Ciri, his scars aren’t as ugly as he thinks they are, but there’s a dark, roiling pit in his mind, a pit that whispers you’re inhumanmonstrousuglymutantbeast, a pit that’s been building and building since he first set foot on the Path, a pit that had disappeared for the four decades when he’d been Jaskier, but had come back in full force since he’s returned to being Julian.

But something about Ciri’s reassurance, and by extension Geralt’s, brings light to the darkness that perpetually lurks in his mind, even if it never fully disappears. “Alright, cub,” Julian murmurs, warmth spreading through him as Ciri nestles easily against him. “Your wish is my command.”

Geralt grunts, and Julian looks up to be met with furrowed brows as Geralt stares at Julian, clearly unconvinced about Julian’s concession to Ciri. Julian looks away.

Even now, Geralt still knows him far too well.

“Julek.” There’s a small tug at Julian’s scalp, and he realises with a jolt that Ciri has been playing with his hair, twisting the messy waves around her fingers. 

“Yes, Ciri?” Julian asks, his mood quickly shifting to something more amused as he feels another tug at his scalp.

“Can I…” Ciri hesitates and pulls away slightly, eyes uncertain as she looks at Julian imploringly. Disentangling her finger’s from Julian’s hair, she bites her lip. “Can I, uh, braid your hair?”

Ciri wants to braid his hair?

Julian hasn’t really paid attention to his hair in over a year, not since he’d woken up in Tissaia’s safehouse in Novigrad. He’d let it grow out, never bothering to shorten it, only occasionally going through some of his meticulous hair care routines left over from his time as a vain human bard. 

He ties it up or throws it into a bun or a messy braid when he needs to fight, but otherwise, Julian doesn’t really pay much attention to his hair, not the way he had as Jaskier, and Ciri’s offer to braid his hair, when he hasn’t cared for it in so long, catches him off guard, his mouth dropping open slightly.

When Julian doesn’t respond immediately, Ciri grows antsy, wringing her hands as she exclaims, “I don’t - it was just a suggestion, of course, you don’t have to do it -”

Julian cuts her off gently, unwilling to let Ciri think that he’s rejecting her offer. “It’s fine, cub,” he reassures, and Ciri’s face lights up in excitement. “I would love to have you braid my hair.”

Ciri claps her hands together as she clambers up, grinning. “Yes!” she cheers, dancing around to Julian’s back. Geralt is watching them silently, fond eyes tracking Ciri’s movements, and it’s so warm and sweet and domestic and - it’s like they’re a family.

Something huge and beautiful swells in Julian’s heart, even as he tries to tamp it down, reminding himself that this temporary, that this won’t last. 

“Geralt doesn’t let me braid his hair,” Ciri complains as she runs deft fingers through Julian’s hair, smoothing it out, and Julian holds back a wince as she works through the tangles. “He always says to leave it. And well, his hair is rather awful anyway, isn’t it? He doesn’t take care of it properly. I bet it feels like straw.”

Julian is thrown back into a memory, many years ago, when Geralt had been so injured after a contract that he hadn’t made a single sound of dissent as Jaskier had patched up his wounds and hoisted him into the bath. Jaskier had bathed Geralt carefully, cleaning the grime from his skin, washing blood and guts out of his hair. For once, with Geralt unable to protest, he’d used his own products, leaving a pleasant smell on Geralt’s skin, and Geralt’s silver hair had been soft and silky, the way it so rarely was.

“He should take care of it properly,” Julian agrees, thinking of the few times Geralt had allowed him the privilege of touching his hair, how soft Geralt’s hair had been under his fingertips, how he hadn’t been able to resist running his fingers through it as Geralt slept, but Julian smiles and teases, “Unfortunately, I haven’t had the pleasure of touching his hair much, but when I have, well, I must say that you’re right, Ciri.”

“Hey,” Geralt protests, a hand raising to touch his hair self-consciously as Ciri giggles, jostling Julian’s head.

“Well, you haven’t been taking care of yours properly either,” Ciri admonishes, tugging Julian’s hair for emphasis. “We’ll get you back into the habit of making it nice and soft.”

Julian winces at yet another reminder that he’s not who he used to be. Jaskier never would have let his hair fall to such a state - he’d kept it trimmed and styled, always careful to use products that kept his hair soft and shiny. Now, Julian’s hair has grown past his shoulders in wavy tangles, and he only bothers to care for it every once in a while.

Ciri runs her fingers through his hair, humming softly as she pulls his hair into an intricate braid, and Geralt’s lips are tilted upwards just the slightest bit as he watches them. It’s a soft, tender moment that makes his heart feel full, and he wonders how long he’ll get to have moments like this, with the smell of happiness and contentment wafting off Ciri, and with Geralt watching the two of them with fond eyes.

“Hold still, Jaskier,” Ciri grumbles as she pulls at the hair at the top of Julian’s head, and he huffs a small laugh before settling down, letting her tug and pull at his hair to her heart’s content, her fingers lightly scratching at his scalp as she brushes them through the long, wavy strands. 

“Geralt,” Ciri commands distractedly, her hands working on the hair behind Julian’s ear. “Go pick some flowers.”

Geralt blinks, eyes refocusing on Ciri, and Julian wonders what Geralt had been thinking before. “What?”

“Get some flowers.” Ciri sounds exasperated, jerking her towards the bushes to the side. “I’m going to braid them into his hair.”

“But -” Geralt’s protest is quelled when Ciri makes a shooing gesture at him, and he heads over to the edge of the clearing, examining the bushes and the flowers that sprout from the ground. Julian watches in amusement. The great Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, listening to the every whim of his child surprise. But then again, Julian would do the same for her.

Ciri is tying back the braid, securing it before she twists the tail of the braid around his head, doing… something that pins it in place, just as Geralt heads over with an assortment of various flowers in his hands.

“There wasn’t much,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck as he uses his other hand to thrust the flowers at Ciri, a handful of colourful blossoms, an ensemble of pink and purple and yellow.

Ciri scrutinises the flowers, and Julian fights back a smile at how tense Geralt looks, as if he’s nervous about her response, and he has to stop himself from laughing outright when Geralt slumps in relief at Ciri’s approving nod.

Gods, Geralt really does care for Ciri. He’ll make such a great father. 

Julian doesn’t get to see what flowers Geralt has picked, because Ciri has taken them into her hands, tucking them into the tightly woven braid around Julian’s head. Geralt lingers by their side, hands twitching as he watches Ciri meticulously arrange the flowers into Julian’s braid.

Julian closes his eyes, relaxing into the sensation of the gentle nudge of Ciri’s hands and the careful probe of her fingers as she weaves the blossoms through the braid. This is… nice, surprisingly nice, and Julian feels cocooned in safety and warmth, surrounded by the two most important people in his life in a moment of domestic peace, the earlier conflict with Geralt forgotten. 

Finally, Ciri’s hands lift from his head and Julian opens his eyes just as she announces, “Done!”

Julian turns around to face Ciri, who is beaming brightly at him with a proud smile on her face, taking in her work.

“You look good!” she cheers, and Julian’s heart grows tenfold as he reaches out to pull her into a quick hug, the heat from the fire warming his cheeks at her eager compliment. 

“All thanks to you, cub,” Julian replies fondly, carefully touching his fingers to his head. Ciri has done a braid that goes around his head, almost like a crown, and as his fingers brush past the gentle ridges of the braid, he feels the soft caress of blossoms, their leaves grazing his hands, and he breathes in the soothing floral scent that now surrounds him.

“He looks good, doesn’t he, Geralt?” Ciri asks, a glint in her eyes that looks far too mischievous for Julian’s liking as she nudges Geralt with her elbow. 

“Um,” Geralt grunts. His eyes are fixed on Julian, wide and golden as they dart from his hair to his face, flicking downwards for a moment before settling on Julian’s face again. “Hm. Yes. He… does.”

“Don’t strain yourself for my sake,” Julian says wryly. Geralt has always struggled to compliment him, and Julian isn’t surprised that even now, he’s still struggling. For all the talk about scars earlier, maybe Geralt truly finds him so repulsive that he can’t even bear to lie and compliment Julian, and there’s a pang of pain in his heart.

Maybe he’ll always be ugly to Geralt.

“Geralt,” Ciri’s reprimands as she slaps Geralt’s arm, scowling at him.

Geralt bites his lip. “Um.” 

Julian’s enhanced senses must be failing, because a hint of colour has bloomed on Geralt’s cheeks, and surely Geralt can’t be blushing. Well, the campfire is rather hot, Julian supposes. 

“You look good,” Geralt rumbles, and Julian looks at him, startled. There's a hint of colour tinting the tips of Geralt's ears as he stares at Julian, stumbling over his words. “I. Really. The braid is beautiful, and it - it looks good on you. Really good.”

Julian ducks his head slightly, avoiding Geralt’s too-sincere gaze, averting his eyes from that damned blush, because Geralt can’t just say stuff like that, looking like he means it while he blushes so prettily that Julian has the urge to pull him in for a kiss. 

The heat of the campfire must be getting to both of them, because Julian feels slightly too warm as well. It's not a surprise that both of them are feeling warm, since their mutations mean that they run hot. Maybe Geralt even overexerted himself picking those flowers earlier.

That's the only plausible reason for why Geralt is blushing. There's no way that Geralt is blushing because of him. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and he realises that he’s biting his lip, a nervous habit left over from his time as Jaskier. Geralt lets out a strangled noise, and Julian looks up to see Geralt’s gaze fixed on his lips. 

“Geralt?” he asks tentatively, and Geralt’s gaze flits back up to his eyes. 

“You’re beautiful,” Geralt blurts out, and somehow, the campfire grows hotter, and Julian feels the heat creeping over his skin, the same way the heat is staining Geralt’s cheeks. Geralt’s eyes roam Julian’s face, and there’s something almost appreciative in his eyes, but Julian’s pretty sure that his eyes must be deceiving him. 

“Um,” Geralt stammers. He licks his lips, and Julian stares. “Pretty.”

“Oh,” Julian says very calmly. He does not squeak. Not at all. 

He thinks that Ciri heaves a heavy, tired sigh next to him, and out of the corner of his eyes, he catches her pinching the bridge of her nose. 

“Gods give me patience,” she mutters under her breath, but Julian hears her well enough. He wonders what she’s talking about. 

For a moment, there’s silence. It’s really too hot, and Julian longs for the cold bite of the winter wind. 

“Geralt, Jaskier.” Ciri’s exasperated voice cuts through the quiet, and they swing their heads to look at her in unison. “The fire is out.”

“Um, oh,” Julian says, looking towards where their campfire has burned out, leaving a pile of charred wood. Hands fumbling slightly, he casts a quick Igni, and the campfire starts burning merrily again. “Sorry, Ciri, I didn’t notice. Are you cold?”

“Yes,” she deadpans, and drags her bedroll closer to the fire. “Aren’t you?”

Julian doesn’t answer, opting to head over to where his supplies are, cheeks still burning slightly as he mutters. “I’ll take first watch.”

“Right, okay. Yeah, sure,” Geralt stutters as he slowly makes his way over to his bedroll. “Um. Thanks.”

Julian keeps his gaze on the fire as he feels Ciri drift off to sleep, her breathing slowing and becoming deep and even. Geralt shifts a few times, his heart rate spiking every few seconds, but eventually, Julian hears his breathing even out, and he relaxes, breathing a sigh of relief as he buries his head in his hands. 

Gods, that was -

Beautiful , Geralt had called him, pink blossoming across his cheeks. Pretty, Geralt had stuttered, his golden eyes bright and warm and alight with something in the glow of the fire.

Julian groans softly into his hands. At this rate, he’s going to be putty in Geralt’s hands before they even get to Kaer Morhen, and it terrifies him that he doesn’t mind, even as he tries desperately to grasp onto his resolve to not get his heart broken again, but Geralt really isn’t making this easy.

It’s only a matter of time before Julian gives in fully to Geralt once again, his heart open and yearning, and he wonders if he’ll survive another blow, another rejection.

Or maybe, just maybe -

Gods, Julian wants to hope. He really, really does. 

Julian stays in this position, breathing deeply as the blossoms in his hair tickle the edges of his fingers, and he wonders if he should take the braid off. After all, a fancy braid with flowers isn’t fitting for a witcher, sharp and lethal and deadly, but the petals are soft against his fingers, and Julian thinks of Ciri’s eager smile and Geralt’s fumbling words, thinks of the bard he’d been over a year ago.

The next morning, when Geralt wakes up, he lifts a gentle hand and runs it across the braid crowning Julian’s head, his fingers catching on a peony that mirrors the colour of both of their cheeks, and when Ciri wakes up and sees the flowers still adorning Julian’s head, her grin is as bright as the sun.

The braid and the flowers stay.

Chapter Text

Geralt has gotten restless.

For the past few days, they’ve been riding nonstop, only occasionally taking breaks when Ciri needs to. They stop for the night, and they travel again at first light. On the road, they’re all tense, not knowing when someone might ambush them, and Julian can tell that their travels are taking their toll on Geralt.

Geralt is more irritable, and though he tries to hide it, sometimes he responds to Julian or Ciri with short, snappish replies, and when they stop for the night, he paces around their camp, wringing his hands. Julian can hear him shifting in his sleep, fidgeting and turning over in his bedroll.

Geralt has never done well with such monotonous travel. He’s used to stopping in towns every few days and taking a contract to slay a monster, but now, they haven’t fought a monster in a while, and Julian realises that Geralt must be getting restless for something to do.

So when Ciri points out a hot spring, eyes bright with excitement, Julian ignores Geralt’s protests and puts his foot down on stopping for the rest of the day, and it’s worth it to see Ciri light up after several long days of nonstop travel.

Steam clouds the warm air as they dump their belongings a small distance away from the spring. Ciri is vibrating in excitement, gaze fixed on the hot spring as she bounces from one foot to another. 

“Can I - can I?” she pleads, and Julian softens at her wide eyes, her clasped hands. 

“Go, cub. We’ll leave you to it for a bit.”

Beaming, Ciri shoos them off as she bounds towards the spring, and as they give Ciri the privacy to bathe, Julian pulls Geralt aside so they’re out of Ciri’s sight but well within hearing range.

“We’re sparring,” Julian tells him, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Geralt quirks a brow. “What?”

“We’re sparring,” Julian repeats, heading over to his pack to grab his steel sword. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve been restless, and you’re putting us all on edge.”

“I’m not -” Geralt sputters, and Julian bends down to retrieve his own sword and Geralt’s. There’s a choking sound, and when Geralt speaks up again, his voice is pitched higher, “W-what - Julian, what are you doing?”

“We’re sparring, Geralt.” Julian turns around, a sword in each hand. Geralt is staring at him with his mouth slightly open, and when Julian walks over to him, his throat bobs, eyes flickering down to Julian’s hands. “So that you can release some energy.”

He hands Geralt’s sword to him, and Geralt takes it, brow furrowed. “But -”

Julian lunges at Geralt, sword swinging, and Geralt brings up his own sword to block the blow, their swords clashing with a resounding clang, and Julian bares his teeth in a savage grin as he brings his sword back, readying himself for another blow. 

They circle each other, and Geralt’s brows are furrowed as he says, “Julian, I - I don’t want to hurt you -”

Julian rolls his eyes. For fuck’s sake. 

He presses forward in a flurry of strikes, forcing Geralt onto the defensive as Julian pushes him back, his strikes swift and sure. 

“You won’t hurt me,” Julian pants as he ducks under Geralt’s blade, angling a strike to Geralt’s midriff, which Geralt dodges. “Shut - up - and - fight me.”

Geralt narrows his eyes, and leaps towards Julian, faster than the human eye can follow, but Julian isn’t human. He parries Geralt’s strike and swiftly sweeps out a leg, knocking Geralt’s feet from under him. Geralt neatly tucks into a roll, avoiding another swipe from Julian’s sword and comes up standing, backing away, eyes calculating. 

Julian sinks into a fighting stance, sword at the ready as he braces himself for attack. Sure enough, Geralt slashes at him with a feint, and Julian barely manages to avoid his sword, returning with a few lightning-quick strikes of his own. 

Then Geralt brings his sword down hard, and Julian blocks it, arms straining with the effort to keep Geralt’s enhanced strength at bay as their eyes meet over their locked blades. 

“See?” Julian purrs. He puts in an extra burst of strength and pushes back against Geralt’s sword, the sudden move knocking Geralt a step backwards. “You can’t hurt me.”

Geralt is breathing heavily, eyes wide and fixed on Julian as he adjusts his grip on his sword and clears his throat. “Uh. Right.” His voice is breathy, and Julian feels a spark of satisfaction at managing to tire Geralt out slightly. “Shall we… ah, continue?”

Julian shrugs, spinning his sword, and Geralt’s eyes track his movements before refocusing, steadying his blade, and Julian grins and charges forward.

They spar for a while, starting slow and speeding up as they assess each other. Julian knows Geralt’s fighting style well, having accompanied him on hunts for two decades, but Geralt is unfamiliar with Julian’s, and Julian uses that to his advantage as he varies his attacks, never letting Geralt catch on to any pattern, forcing Geralt to focus fully on evading and countering Julian’s unpredictable attacks. 

After some time, Ciri emerges, hair damp and a satisfied smile on her face as she lays on her bedroll, watching them spar, but soon, she falls asleep to the sound of their swords. 

By that time, they’ve been sparring long enough that Julian’s shirt has started getting uncomfortable as sweat sticks the fabric to his body. Geralt is the best sparring partner he’s had in a long time - they’re evenly matched in both strength and skill, meaning Julian actually has to work to keep up with Geralt, and combined with the heat from the hot spring, Julian is sweating a lot from exertion, his hair plastering to his face, and it’s starting to irritate him.

“Ugh,” he complains, twisting his blade quickly to disarm Geralt before he takes a step back. “Wait a moment, I’m just gonna -”

He puts his sword down and yanks his shirt over his head before tossing it aside. “One second,” Julian mutters, pulling the leather tie from his wrist and reaching up to tie his hair up, annoyed at the way the long strands fall in his face and obscure his vision. He needs a haircut - long hair is a hassle, especially for a witcher, and as much as he enjoys the way Ciri braids his hair, it’s irritating to tie it up whenever he needs to fight. How does Geralt handle his?

“Right, we can continue,” Julian says brightly once he’s done, hair securely tied back and his upper body refreshingly free of his too-tight shirt, and he picks up his sword, readying himself for another round.

But Geralt is frozen in place, his grip on his sword slackening as he stares at Julian with wide eyes. His gaze lingers on Julian’s face for a moment before it trails down, fixing on Julian’s chest, and Julian stiffens, knowing that, just like his face, his chest is marred with scars from centuries of monsters and fights, marked by long decades of bloodshed, of conflict, of violence. 

Julian fights the urge to put his shirt back on and hide his chest from view. After all, Geralt’s own chest is marred with his own fair share of scars, so he likely isn’t judging Julian, but a traitorous part of him whispers that Geralt is once again realising just how different Julian is from Jaskier - Jaskier’s body had been unmarred, bereft of any scars, smooth and visually pleasing, unmarked by decades on the Path, but Julian… 

Scars criss-cross his body, raised and bumpy, slicing multiple jagged white lines across his chest. His body is an ugly sight, he knows that very well, and certainly not as appealing as Jaskier’s had been, and Julian tries to tell himself that Geralt is trying, that Geralt won’t reject him simply for this. He tells himself that after their talk about scars a few days ago, after Geralt’s pleading words and desperate embrace, Geralt truly is trying, and he won’t push Julian away simply for his scars. 

But Julian knows what he looks like. He knows that his scars are ugly, no matter what Geralt or Ciri say - he’s been told that many, many times. And he knows that Geralt misses Jaskier still, and seeing Julian like this, battered and scarred and broken - it’s a reminder of the blood that coats Julian’s hands, blood collected over decades, over centuries, blood that Jaskier’s hands had been free of. 

It’s a reminder that Julian is no longer Jaskier. 

Geralt licks his lips, sucking in an audible breath, and Julian can’t blame him for being shocked - he knows that his body is not a pretty sight, and he fights the urge to lash out, reminding himself that pushing back at Geralt would do him no good, and would almost certainly set back the tentative truce that they’ve made. 

“Geralt?” Julian asks, keeping his voice even, his face unreadable. When Geralt doesn’t respond, eyes glazed, Julian sighs loudly, crossing his arms. Geralt’s jaw goes slack, and Julian tries not to lash out defensively. “Geralt.”

Geralt’s eyes snap up to Julian’s face, and Julian realises that Geralt’s face is flushed a soft shade of pink. He wonders idly whether the exertion from sparring has been getting to Geralt too, and he’s unable to tamp down the slight glow of satisfaction he inwardly feels at the fact that his fighting skills are a challenge for the great White Wolf.

“Yes,” Geralt breathes out, voice faint. He blinks once, twice, gaze darting downwards before he meets Julian’s eyes once again, and Julian’s heart stutters. Geralt’s pupils are slightly dilated, the slit pupils rounder than usual, and Julian tries not to think about why. “Mm. Uh, yes.”

Julian raises an eyebrow, trying to seem unaffected by the sight of Geralt’s pupils. “Yes?”

Geralt looks away, throat bobbing as he flushes darker. “Hm.”

That’s a ‘hm’ that Julian can’t decipher for once, and he can’t guess at what Geralt’s thinking. Thoughts war in Julian’s head, thoughts of hiding his gruesome scars from Geralt, thoughts of how unexpectedly fun it is to spar with Geralt, thoughts of how far down Geralt’s blush goes -

Julian cuts himself off from veering into dangerous, unpredictable territory, cuts himself off from hoping, bringing himself back to the present as he adjusts his grip on his sword and lunges forward, desperate for the clash of blades to drown out the forbidden thoughts creeping into his mind. Geralt parries his strike, but the attempt seems almost feeble, and Julian presses forward with a feint before darting in to attack, which Geralt just barely dodges, his cheeks pink as his eyes flick around, going from Julian’s blade to his face before skittering away, only looking back just in time to see Julian attack. 

There’s a tenseness in Geralt’s posture that hadn’t been there earlier, knuckles gripped too tightly around his sword, less strength behind his blows as he fends Julian off with more and more difficulty, and Julian frowns as he sidesteps a slow, sloppy strike from Geralt too easily. 

Surely Geralt can’t be getting tired so early, not after he’s been pent up for days, itching to release some energy in a good fight, and worry bubbles up in Julian. Maybe Geralt is worried about Ciri - Julian ducks under Geralt’s blade - or maybe Nilfgaard has him on edge - he angles his sword towards Geralt’s midriff - or maybe he’s contemplating Julian’s scarred body, truly realising that Julian truly is no longer a bard, no longer human as their blades meet in a clash of sparks. 

Gritting his teeth, Julian throws himself back into the fight, forcing Geralt to retreat further on the defensive. When Geralt reacts a second too slow, Julian quickly disarms him with a quick twist of his sword and kicks Geralt’s feet out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. Julian pins Geralt down with a knee pressed firmly against his chest, resting the edge of his sword on Geralt’s throat as he uses his other hand to keep Geralt’s sword arm in a firm, unyielding grip. 

“Yield?” Julian rasps, panting slightly. Geralt’s face is directly below his, and he’s looking up at Julian with wide, wide eyes, likely surprised that Julian has beaten him, and he makes such a wonderful sight, with cheeks rosy from exertion and silver hair mused from the fight, mouth falling open slightly, and Julian tries not to think about how utterly enticing it is to have Geralt below him, at his mercy.

Julian watches as Geralt swallows, throat bobbing beneath the sharp steel of Julian’s blade, his pupils blown wide as he stares up at Julian, chest heaving as he takes in short, sharp breaths, and it’s almost too much.

“Uh, mmf,” Geralt stutters, and is he that shocked that Julian has beaten him? He’s seen Julian fight, he’s fought with Julian, he should know that Julian isn’t some helpless damsel, not the way Jaskier had been. Julian narrows his eyes, squaring his shoulders defensively as the edge of his sword hovers just the slightest bit closer to Geralt’s throat. 

Geralt’s heartbeat quickens, and Julian quickly pulls his sword back, berating himself for letting his control slip, even for a second. Julian wonders what Geralt thinks of him now, sword resting just above Geralt’s throat, pinning him to the ground and keeping him from moving; he wonders what Geralt sees when he looks at Julian. His bard? A strange, unfamiliar, horrendously scarred witcher? 

Underneath Julian’s hand, Geralt’s arm flexes, and his eyes flit down to Julian’s shoulders, moving down his chest and his arms, lingering for a moment on Julian’s blade before he glances upwards again. 

“I - I yield,” Geralt breathes out, and suddenly, the moment is too intimate, too charged with something, something dangerous and unthinkable and forbidden, and Julian immediately lifts his sword off Geralt's throat and clambers off, tossing his sword his sword to the side as turmoil churns within him, confusion and doubt and hope.

How could he have done that, Julian wonders, breathing in deeply to calm his too-quick heart. The feeling of the warmth of Geralt’s body, pressed so close to his, stays stubbornly in his mind, and the part of Julian that had been deprived of warmth and company and touch for over a year longs for more, longs to bring their bodies close once again so Julian can fill that aching emptiness within him, but Julian can’t - he knows he can't have that. He can’t. 

“Never thought I’d see the day the great Geralt of Rivia would yield to me,” Julian remarks as dryly as he can. Trying to seem calm and unaffected by that too-intimate moment seconds ago, he stretches lazily, relishing in the way his muscles stretch and pop. “Another?”

Geralt makes a sound that’s almost akin to a squeak, and his cheeks darken further as he stares at Julian, something burning behind his eyes, and Julian has to look away for a moment as his heart quickens and reaches out and yearns, yearns for something he knows he can never have. 

He wants -

“I, uh - I think we should wash up.” Geralt’s words are hurried, tripping over each other as he fumbles with them, and Julian arches a brow, hiding his relief. He doesn’t think he can take any more of - of that. Whatever that was. 

“This soon?” 

“Hm,” Geralt responds, and wow, Julian must really have tired him out with the sparring, if his racing heart and heavy breathing are anything to go by. Geralt’s pent-up energy must have been released surprisingly quickly, and well, Julian is slightly disappointed that he won’t get some more good sparring in, but the forbidden tension between them is so thick that it would be better for Julian’s poor heart if they stop.

“Sure, but don’t take out your restlessness on Ciri and I,” Julian drawls, striding back to his packs to stash away his sword, then pulls his hair tie out, quickly raking his hand through the sweaty strands of his hair. 

“... Right,” Geralt whispers faintly, voice barely audible, and Julian straightens, turning back around. 

“Well, shall we?” He gestures to the hot spring, the water steamy and welcoming. Walking past a slumbering Ciri, Julian presses a quick kiss to her forehead before he heads towards the hot spring and strips to his underthings, tossing his trousers to the side, and when Geralt lets out yet another choked sound, Julian tilts his head at him questioningly.

“Don’t be such a prude, Geralt, we’ve seen each other naked countless times,” Julian chides, even as insecurity once again creeps into his mind. Geralt must be shocked at how thoroughly scarred his body is, how rough it is in comparison to Jaskier’s smooth, unmarred skin, and Julian fights the urge to hide his body from Geralt’s scrutiny, choosing instead to run and leap into the water, executing a tight flip in the air before he dives neatly into the water.

The water is pleasantly warm, and Julian indulges in the comfort and security of being underwater before he resurfaces, pushing his hair out of his face. Geralt still stands in the same position, something unfocused in his gaze, and Julian pushes and pushes at the ugly, awful thoughts clawing into his mind, thoughts about Geralt how must see him now. He thinks of you’re beautiful from a few days ago, when they’d sat around that campfire and Ciri had woven flowers into Julian’s hair, when Geralt had blushed and stuttered and stared at him with something like wonder, and Julian wonders if the sight of his body, the scarred skin marking how he’s made for violence and pain, has made Geralt see him for who he really is. 

Inhuman. Monster. Killer.

Certainly not Jaskier, the bright and beautiful and joyous bard. 

Underneath the surface, Julian clenches his fists. He’d wanted to hope, but…

“Come on, Geralt!” Julian calls, forcing his fists to unclench, pushing harder at the ugly thoughts infiltrating his mind. 

Geralt visibly shakes himself as his eyes refocus, and he strips quickly and methodically. Julian has seen Geralt’s naked body many times before, has helped wash blood and grime from it, has run his hands over it, but the sight never gets old, so Julian sneaks a few quick glances when Geralt isn’t looking, letting himself indulge slightly, but otherwise, he doesn’t let himself stare as shamelessly as he used to.

He doesn’t have the right to ogle Geralt’s body, not when their truce is so tentative, not when he still can’t believe that Geralt truly cares for him, not when he knows that Geralt would never look at him like that. Geralt isn’t his, has never been his, will never be his. Part of Julian may always, always yearn for him but - he can’t let himself hope. 

Geralt slips into the water with far less grace and theatrics than Julian, dunking his head beneath the surface, and this is all so, so familiar, a position they’ve been in so many times when they’d bathed together on the road, whether in a river or a lake or a bath at the inn. Julian’s fingers twitch with the memory of being buried in Geralt’s silver hair, of running over Geralt’s body with soap on his hands, of the quiet intimacy that they so rarely shared on the road when Geralt would, for once, let his guard down, and on instinct, memories dancing before his eyes and mingling with the steam, Julian finds himself reaching for Geralt.

“Here, let me,” he murmurs, and Geralt watches him with wide, disbelieving eyes as he reaches up to run his fingers through Geralt’s wet, tangled hair.

Julian works his fingers deftly through the tangles, familiar from many years of washing the grime from Geralt’s hair, his fingers remembering the motions of washing it free of monster guts and twigs and dirt, and Geralt melts into him, body going pliant beneath the water as he sways towards Julian.

“One moment,” Julian says, pulling his fingers free of Geralt’s hair and wading quickly to the shore, grabbing a few of his oils and soaps, the ones that he remembers Geralt liking. Geralt hasn’t moved from his position when Julian returns, and Julian settles into the easy, familiar routine of bathing Geralt and washing him, rubbing the soap over his naked body and working it into his hair, and Julian lets his hands work automatically through familiar, practised movements, the ghost of memory guiding him.

Then Geralt lets out a soft hum of contentment as Julian works his fingers through his hair, and all of a sudden, ice washes through Julian, the cold wave of realisation crashing into him. What is he doing? He’s - he’s bathing Geralt, like old times, like Geralt hadn’t pushed him away, like they’re back to their old dynamic and nothing has changed and Julian is still Jaskier, human and unscarred and happy, and Julian - not Jaskier, never Jaskier, not anymore - yanks his hand free of Geralt’s silver strands, taking a hasty step back, water splashing around him.

“Jaskier?” Geralt mumbles, his voice hazy and distant. His shoulders are free of tension, his posture relaxed and loose, and fuck, what had Julian been doing? He’d forgotten himself, forgotten that they’re not Geralt and Jaskier, witcher and bard, travelling together across the Continent. He’s not Geralt’s bard anymore, and it’s no longer his place to - to bathe Geralt and put his hands all over his glorious naked body. Geralt wouldn’t want him to, anyway, not with how Julian is - Julian, a witcher, blood on his hands with scars to show for all the violence seeped into his long life. Why would Geralt ever want Julian’s hands on him?

Jaskier , Geralt had mumbled, and Julian swallows the sudden bitterness on his tongue. Jaskier, Geralt had said, not Julian, because of course Geralt would call out for Jaskier instead. 

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Julian says, struggling to keep his voice even and calm. He digs his fingers into his arm, trying to dispel the memory of tangling his fingers in wet strands, running them over tense muscles and pale, wet skin, but his mind stubbornly clings to these memories, these sensations, and Julian aches to reach out to Geralt and touch him, but he can’t, he can’t.

“Mm, what…” Geralt shakes his head, droplets flying, and when he speaks again, his voice sounds clearer. “Why did you stop?”

A hysterical laugh bursts from Julian’s mouth. “Why did I stop? Why do you think, Geralt?”

Geralt turns around to face him. His eyes are still slightly glazed over, but his brows are furrowed as he meets Julian’s eyes. “I - it was good. I don’t - I don’t understand.”

“You - you -” Julian inhales deeply through his nose, shutting his eyes for a brief second, and when he opens them again, he keeps his expression blank. “You can’t just - I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have initiated this and I - we can’t do this.”

A multitude of emotions flits over Geralt’s face, and Julian forces himself not to reach out and offer comfort, reminding himself that their friendship is still mending, and that despite Geralt’s pleas from a few days earlier, it still isn’t Julian’s place. It might have been Jaskier’s place once, but Julian? 

Julian is - well, Julian isn’t Jaskier, and there’s no reason for Geralt to want another witcher’s hands all over him, touching him tenderly, touching him like they’re close, like Geralt trusts him, like Geralt cares.

It’s hard to remind himself of that when Geralt makes such an enticing sight before him, a pink flush running over his gloriously naked body, the colour creeping down his chest as water drips from his hair, and Julian has to force himself to look away, has to dig his nails into his palms, forcing himself to pull away.

“I…” Geralt swallows. “I don’t - I thought we were fine.”

“But we - we can’t just do this, Geralt!” Julian bursts out, and he has to reign in his emotions, pushing them back deep into his chest before he continues, voice marginally calmer, “We’re not - you don’t want me to do this. We can’t just go back to how we used to be, and besides, you never liked my help anyway. Don’t pretend that you do now, out of a sense of guilt or because you’re trying to make it up to me, just - don’t.”

Geralt takes a step towards him, eyes wide as he stutters, “But I think - it’s not - I liked it, I liked you bathing me again, like… like old times. It was. It was nice.”

And Geralt is getting close, too close, close enough that Julian can feel the warmth from his body, can make out the mix of colours in his golden eyes, and it’s too much, a reminder of what he wants, a reminder of what he can’t have, because Julian can’t let himself have this, even as Geralt says pretty words like I liked it and it was nice, even as Julian wants so badly for those words to be true.

Julian can’t bring himself to believe it. He can’t let himself believe it, because he might fall deeper and deeper, leaving him unable to get out, leaving himself vulnerable and open, and Julian is under no illusions that Geralt wants more than what they have, that Geralt looks at him and sees something good, something that he likes and cares for and wants to cherish. Geralt has Yennefer, and he certainly doesn’t want Julian like that. Julian shouldn’t get his hopes up; he knows better. 

And yet, Geralt’s eyes are wide and earnest as he reaches for Julian, circling his fingers around Julian’s wrist. “I liked it,” he repeats, tugging Julian closer, and Julian is helpless to resist. “You don’t have to pull away, Julian. It was nice. I… I missed it.”

Julian swallows, Geralt’s touch burning and burning into his wrist, reminding him of how long it’s been since someone touched him without the intent to harm. It feels so, so good, and Julian craves more. 

“I don’t…” The sensation of Geralt’s hand encircling his wrist muddles Julian’s words and thoughts after a year of being deprived of any kind, gentle touch, after a year of being achingly lonely. “We can’t…”

“What if I told you that I truly want this?” Geralt asks, gazing at him. “I know you’re wary, but… I don’t mind you bathing me. I - I,” he shifts from foot to foot, tongue darting out to wet his lips, “I always liked it, and I - I’m sorry that I never showed it. Unless… unless you don’t like it?”

“Of course I liked it!” Julian blurts, and immediately wants to take it back. What is it about Geralt and his wide eyes and his proximity that makes Julian feel so vulnerable, that makes confession after confession spill from his lips? He feels too exposed, baring himself to Geralt with all his secrets, like he’s still a human bard who’s a little too honest and open, and Julian tries to push his feelings down, tries to remind himself of his scars, his swords, his inhuman golden eyes. “I just - you…”

Geralt guides Julian’s hand to his hair, looking at Julian pleadingly. “Please?” he whispers, and Julian’s sharp canines dig harshly into his bottom lip as his fingers curl instinctively into Geralt’s hair. “I missed this. I don’t mind you doing this, so if you - if you want…”

Slowly, Julian raises his other hand and places it in Geralt’s hair, and when Geralt smiles, soft and sweet, eyes crinkling at the corners, Julian’s too-slow heart stutters. Geralt turns around, and Julian lets his fingers work through Geralt’s hair once again, conscious of how his hands are calloused from the grips of his swords and marked by long years of conflict, sifting through the tangles as Geralt leans into his touch.

“When you were gone,” Geralt mumbles, and Julian’s hands pause for a moment. “I thought… I thought I would never have you touch me like that again.” A shaky exhale, a pause, and Julian makes his fingers start moving again. 

“I thought no one would ever touch me like that, without fear or hatred,” Geralt breathes out quietly. “And I… it was horrible.”

Maybe there’s something about having Geralt’s back turned to him, something about the intimacy of this situation, and Julian finds himself admitting, “I thought you never liked my touches. You always…”

“I pushed you away.” Julian thinks that he can hear shame in Geralt’s voice as his shoulders curl inwards slightly. “I was foolish, and I never should’ve done that. You - you touched me like no one else has done, like I wasn’t the Butcher of Blaviken. Like I was someone - someone who deserved care.”

“You do,” Julian says fiercely. Even now, he feels strongly on that - Geralt deserves love. He’s been through so much, has been subject to so much undeserved hatred, especially after the Blaviken incident, and Julian hates that Geralt doesn’t get gentle, kind touches, doesn’t get soft, sweet words. He hates that Geralt doesn’t get love. “Geralt… you do deserve care.”

“How can you say that?” There’s anguish in Geralt’s voice, and Julian yearns to hold him tight, hold him close, yearns to touch. “After what I’ve done to you? After what I’ve said?”

Julian breathes out sharply. “I won’t deny that I was hurt,” he admits, and Geralt flinches underneath his hands. Julian resumes stroking his fingers through Geralt’s hair, hoping to provide grounding reassurance, and continues, “But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve care. You are a good person.”

“Jaskier, I…” Geralt breathes out, and Julian flinches at the sound of his old name. Again. 

He should’ve known. 

Hope is a dangerous, dangerous thing. 

He untangles his fingers from Geralt’s hair, stepping back. “It’s Julian.”

Of course Geralt still thinks he’s Jaskier, Julian thinks bitterly. The bard, bright and warm and soft, the human, joyous and unscarred and filled with boundless love. Of course Geralt still looks at him and sees Jaskier, of course Geralt still sees Jaskier when it’s Julian who’s bathing Geralt, washing his hair with scarred, rough hands, callused from a sword. Not from a lute. 

How had Julian forgotten that? How had Julian forgotten that Geralt will always, always see the human bard in him, a human bard that Julian can never measure up to?

Geralt whips around to face him, and Julian schools his expression into neutrality. 

“Julian, I was - I didn’t…” Geralt stutters, and Julian turns his back on Geralt as he strides to the shore, reaching for the soap.

“It’s fine,” he says curtly as he lathers the soap over his body, quick and perfunctory, not bothering to take more time than needed, all too aware of what his body looks like. The sooner he’s done, the sooner he can wrap himself in his armour and hide his body from Geralt’s view. 

The sound of sloshing water, and then Geralt’s warm presence is by his side. “I’m sorry,” Geralt murmurs, sounding desperately sad. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s fine,” Julian repeats, keeping his head lowered and his eyes trained on his own body as he quickly washes himself down, staring at the numerous scars, slashes and gouges and cuts littered across his torso, horrible and disgustingly marred, barely hidden by the hair dusted across his chest. “Don’t… don’t worry about it.”

Gods, all he wants is for Geralt to see him, to see Julian of Cintra, not just Jaskier the bard. And maybe Geralt does see him, sees the monstrous features and the horrific scars, and maybe Geralt hates Julian for tainting the memory of Jaskier. Maybe he’s desperate to find a sliver of Jaskier within Julian, desperate to return to how they were.

No one has ever truly seen Julian of Cintra and thought him worthy of trust or care or love. No one, save for Marek, his dearest brother, who’s been dead for decades now; no one, save for Triss, who Julian hasn’t seen for so painfully long, who might be alive but could very well be dead. No one after them has ever accepted Julian, scars and swords and blood and all, and wrapped him in their arms. 

Jaw tightening, Julian dunks his head into the water, washing the grime from his hair, the long strands getting caught in his fingers. He ignores Geralt resolutely, even though he’s acutely aware of Geralt’s presence by his side. Why is Geralt still here, with him?

When he resurfaces, Geralt is staring at him, a hand hovering between them, and Julian stares at it for a moment before looking up to meet sad golden eyes. 

“Julian,” Geralt murmurs, saying his name like it’s something worth cherishing, like Geralt cares enough to bother enjoying the sound of Julian’s name in his mouth, and Julian can’t take it, he’s overwhelmed and reeling in confusion and hurt and drowning deep in self-doubt and he can’t take it.

“Let’s go,” Julian mutters, averting his gaze and making his way towards the shore, wading through the hot water. 

Then he feels Geralt’s gentle touch run over his shoulders, the pads of his fingertips rough with calluses, and, unable to stop himself, Julian lets out an almost imperceptible shudder. He has to physically hold himself back from leaning into the touch, from greedily soaking up Geralt’s warmth, and it’s getting harder and harder to remind himself of his resolve, of his broken hope. 

“Julian,” Geralt repeats, and Julian refuses to turn around, he can’t turn around, knowing he’ll crumble when he meets Geralt’s eyes, knowing he’ll give in, as he always does. “Julian, please. It wasn’t - please don’t shut me out again.”

“We should go back to Ciri,” Julian says, but he doesn’t move towards the shore, the desperation in Geralt’s voice keeping his feet rooted in place. “I…”

“I’m sorry for calling you Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice comes from behind him, so much sincerity in it that Julian wants so badly to believe him. “I know you aren’t Jaskier anymore. I was - I was just -”

“You miss the human bard I used to be, I know,” Julian snaps flatly, letting out a sharp exhale. “You don’t need to tell me. I understand.”

“Yes, I miss him,” Geralt admits, and Julian flinches, his gaze flicking down his body, taking in the rough, scarred skin, taking in his hands, callused from his sword and drenched in blood, and thinks of his eyes, beastly and golden, his face, ugly and monstrous. He’d expected Geralt to miss who he used to be, he’d braced himself for that, but it still pierces him to hear Geralt say it. “But I know you’re not him, and you’re right here with me. I care for you, Julian. Please, please look at me.”

Julian lowers his head, Geralt’s featherlight touch a blazing warmth on his back, a magnet that draws him in and whispers at him to give in, give in, and he grits out weakly, “We should leave.”

“Julian, please.” There’s something in the way Geralt says his name that finally breaks down his resolve, and Julian twists his head to look at Geralt, who meets his eyes with something pleading and soft in his gaze that Julian can scarcely believe is directed at him, and -

Hope has destroyed him time and time again over the long course of his life, and yet Julian falls for its enticing warmth every single time. 

Julian reaches up to cover Geralt’s hand, still lingering on his shoulder, and Geralt gives him a tremulous smile that Julian wants to taste on his lips. Hesitantly, Julian lets his own mouth tilt up in a small smile, and Geralt tangles their fingers together, calluses against calluses. They stare at each other, gold on gold, for a long, stretched-out moment, steam rising between them as Julian breathes in, breathes out, listens to the slow thump of Geralt’s heartbeat, and Geralt looks at him steadily, no disgust or hatred or anger or fear in his eyes, only a soft, thrumming warmth that Julian longs to sink into. 

“Hm,” Geralt rumbles, and Julian recognises the tone of that low hum - it means Geralt is happy, he’s content, and Julian bites his lip at the thought that Geralt is happy and content here, with him, just the two of them and the warmth of the hot spring and their lion cub slumbering a small distance away. Geralt’s soft hum pushes the dark insecurity of Julian’s thoughts away, pushes away the reminder of the violence that sings within him, of the blood that’s seeped deep into his scarred skin, and filling him with the gentle glow of hope, of belonging. 

Tugging at Geralt’s hand, Julian leads him silently back to the shore, their fingers still entwined between them, Geralt’s touch and proximity sending sparks of warmth through Julian, a balm to that lonely, aching hollow within him. When they reach their belongings, Julian reluctantly untangles their hands and pulls on his clothes, watching as dark fabric covers his marred skin. 

When he’s done, he glances up to see Geralt is looking at him with soft eyes, and his fingers tingle with the memory of Geralt’s tender touch. 

“That was - that was. Nice,” Geralt mumbles, his cheeks tinted a faint red from the heat of the hot spring. “I missed it - I missed you - uh, we should do it again?”

His voice pitches into a question, tentative and unsure, and Julian thinks that maybe - maybe Geralt is as uncertain about the dynamic between them as he is, maybe Geralt truly wants to repair things between them - between him and Julian, not just him and Jaskier. 

“Yeah,” Julian murmurs, making his way next to where Ciri is sleeping and sitting on his bedroll. “I mean, if you - only if you want to, of course.”

He still can’t see why Geralt could possibly want to, why Geralt would even want Julian’s hands on him, a reminder of the bard he used to know, Julian’s scars and swords a reminder that he is no longer Geralt’s bard, but Geralt lets out a pleased hum at his response and Julian wants Geralt to accept him even if part of him screams that it’s impossible, yearning for that quiet intimacy that had passed between them earlier. 

“I want to.” Geralt settles himself next to Julian, looking at him with serious eyes. “I promise.”

Laying down, Ciri on his left and Geralt on his right, Julian lets himself bask in the sound of that promise, in the soft glow of hope pushing against the dark thoughts that roil within him, telling him that Geralt hates him for taking away his bard, is disgusted with him for the blood on his hands. He holds that hope in his chest, knowing that he’s been crushed before, again and again, but maybe this time - maybe Geralt will be different. 

Gods, he hopes so. 

“Goodnight, Geralt,” Julian whispers before he shuts his eyes. 

“Goodnight, Julian,” Geralt whispers back, fondness thick in his voice, and before sleep takes him, Julian thinks that he feels a rough, callused hand run through his hair, brushing over his cheeks, and he falls asleep in a haze of syrupy warmth and something that he hasn’t felt since returning to this life, something that he thinks might be content.