Chapter Text
Jaskier steps off the stage, grinning at the applause from his audience. He loves performing at Oxenfurt, and the crowds during the winter holidays are always wonderful.
His happiness is short-lived, however, as he sees Valdo Marx heading his way. The crowd of well-wishers is too thick for him to spot Geralt in time to make an escape.
“Oh Julian, what’s wrong?” Valdo says in mock-sympathy. “Your husband couldn’t be bothered to come see your performance?”
Jaskier opens his mouth to snap—something—he’s not entirely sure what—when Ciri races up to him, vibrating with excitement and too much sugar.
A warm arm wraps around his waist a moment later. “Is he bothering you?” Geralt asks, voice a low rumble in Jaskier’s ears.
“Not at all, love,” Jaskier says, leaning closer. “Geralt, Fiona, this is Valdo Marx. Marx, my husband, Geralt Pancratz, the White Wolf, and our daughter, Fiona.”
Valdo barely spares a glance at Ciri, his attention focused on Geralt as he offers a hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”
Geralt glances at Jaskier with a bemused look—clearly remembering Jaskier’s wish—before taking Valdo’s hand. “I’m sure.”
“You were so good!” Ciri exclaims. “Definitely the best performer!”
Valdo looks like he’s bitten something sour; he had performed right before Jaskier.
“Thank you, dear heart,” Jaskier says.
“She’s right,” Geralt murmurs. Jaskier tries not to preen too obviously as Valdo makes a disgruntled noise about being ignored.
“So,” Valdo says loudly enough to attract Geralt’s attention. “What did dear Julian have to do to convince you to marry him?”
Geralt’s eyes narrow. “What makes you think he had to do any convincing?”
Jaskier clenches his teeth. He doesn’t know what, exactly, Valdo is trying to do, but it’s unlikely to end well.
Valdo chuckles. “Please, we all know he’s been pining for you for, well, years. If you had been interested, surely you would have acted before now?”
Geralt’s glare intensifies, and he lets out a low rumbling growl that makes Valdo take a hasty step back.
“Valdo, is there a point to this?” Jaskier asks.
“Just making conversation.”
“Well, could you maybe not?” Jaskier props a hand on his hip, although he’s not sure how effective the pose is with Geralt still wrapped around him.
Valdo opens his mouth but can’t seem to find any words.
“Can we go get some more honey cakes?” Ciri asks.
“Absolutely,” Jaskier says, taking her hand. “Bye, Valdo!”
Geralt releases Jaskier’s waist but stays close as they make their way through the crowd towards the stands selling food—ignoring Valdo’s spluttered outrage.
**
“I thought he was one of your classmates?” Geralt asks, once Ciri is suitably distracted with a honey cake and Valdo is well out of sight.
“Uhg,” Jaskier groans. “He was. Such a terrible bore. So convinced that he was some sort of prodigy.”
Geralt looks at Jaskier, carefully searching his face for any sign of jest. “A prodigy?”
“Yes. He was one of the youngest in our year; he never let us forget it.” Jaskier tugs at Geralt’s arm. “Now, let's talk about literally anything else. I wish to forget ever seeing that vile man.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt says slowly. “He’s got to be at least twice your age.” Admittedly, Geralt is not the best judge of human aging, but Valdo looked significantly older than Jaskier, hair going grey at the temples and wrinkles around his eyes.
“What are you talking about?” Jaskier asks.
“He’s old,” Geralt says. He feels like he is missing something.
Jaskier huffs, clearly irritated. “Forty is hardly old, Geralt.”
“You aren’t forty,” Geralt argues. That’s middle aged for humans, almost half their life already over. Jaskier cannot be that old.
“That’s very sweet, but I am.” Jaskier pats him on the shoulder. “I was eighteen when we met, and we traveled together for twenty years.”
Geralt frowns down at his drink, trying to reconcile that information. He hadn’t really kept track of how many years he had known the bard; he’d known it was a long time, but not exactly how long. It’s a disturbing realization that Jaskier spent so much of his life following Geralt. It makes Geralt’s treatment of Jaskier seem even more monstrous.
“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice draws him from his thoughts. “Are you alright?”
“Why would you spend your whole youth following me?” Geralt asks before he can stop himself.
Jaskier laughs. “I’m still plenty youthful, witcher.”
Geralt huffs but doesn’t press; he can guess that Jaskier doesn’t want to think about his own mortality, and he can hardly blame him. Geralt doesn’t fear much, but Jaskier’s death is certainly near the top of the list.
**
Geralt manages to put aside his concerns about Jaskier’s mortality, determined to be present for Ciri. He’s noticed the way she prefers to keep him in sight, not straying too far from his side. The size of the crowd clearly makes her uneasy, although the excitement of the music and food seems to outweigh those nerves at the moment. He wants to be ready in case she becomes overwhelmed and needs to leave.
After the faculty performances, there is not much time before they are all ushered into the grand hall of the university for the midwinter feast. The crowd of students and teachers—along with friends and guests from the city and surrounding towns—is nearly overwhelming to Geralt’s senses, and he’s more than happy when Jaskier suggests they leave early, pointing out the way that Ciri seems to be drooping over her plate, clearly exhausted.
Geralt takes a deep breath of the crisp winter air. The cold and quiet outside is a relief after the hall, warm from the boisterous crowd.
“What did you think?” Jaskier asks.
“It was fun!” Ciri says.
Geralt nods his agreement. It wasn’t something he would normally have chosen to attend, but he had enjoyed seeing the way Ciri and Jaskier had lit up in the festive atmosphere. There had been fine food and mulled wine to chase away the chill, and most people didn’t seem phased to have a witcher in their midst. If anything, he drew attention more as the beloved Professor Pankratz’s husband than as a witcher. A source of envy rather than morbid curiosity or fear.
“Perhaps together we’ll be able to convince Geralt to attend a midsummer festival,” Jaskier says to Ciri conspiratorially. “He always said no to me, but maybe he won’t be able to deny the both of us.”
Ciri grins. “If I can convince Grandmother, I’m sure I’ll be able to convince Geralt.”
“Oh, you’re right; he won’t stand a chance.” Jaskier looks over at Geralt and winks.
Geralt tries to school his face into anything other than overwhelmingly fond, but he’s not sure he quite manages. “You two are going to be terrible, aren’t you?”
“Terrible, wonderful—who's to say?”
Geralt snorts.
“See what I’m saying?” Jaskier asks in mock-offront. “He’s terribly rude to me.”
Ciri shrugs. “You’re the one who married him.”
Jaskier gasps. “Betrayed on all sides.”
Ciri knocks her shoulder into his side. “You love us.”
Jaskier wraps an arm around her shoulders. “I do.” He smiles down at Ciri before looking up at Geralt, expression unreadable but heartbeat steady. Geralt smiles at him for a moment before fixing his gaze ahead, feeling warm and hopeful.