Archive of Our Own ^beta

One:

Jaskier hummed to himself as he popped another piece of stew soaked bread into his mouth, savouring the flavour. He looked about the inn, trying to read the room and decide if playing for the crowd would go over well. He had rolled into town alongside a couple of sweet men who were headed further north than he, and they had left that morning. Now, as night fell, Jaskier wondered if he ought to stay a bit longer, or head out the next day. Crowds had been quiet and disinterested in his playing, and so in turn he wasn’t making much coin, but it was rather drizzly outside and didn’t appear as though it would let up any time soon.

The door opened with a bang, and just like the few others about the open space, his eyes were immediately drawn to the imposing figure filling the door frame. A man with heavy leather armour, but instead of black it was brown, and two swords, both pointed to the same side instead of crossed. He stepped forward, and the light flickered in his eyes, pupils narrowing in the light, but they were a deep russet instead of a golden yellow. A witcher, to be sure, but not Geralt.

Something in Jaskier’s chest tightened. Excitement, sure. Curiosity, most certainly. Disappointment, perhaps. But a disappointment that was easy to push aside in favour of the much more interesting feelings.

The witcher approached a man drinking at the bar and deposited a scary big talon on top of the counter.

“Your monster is dead. My payment.” His voice wasn’t as deep as Geralt’s but his words were just as clipped, his tone just as guarded.

Oh, Jaskier knew he had to speak with him. Another witcher! He’d learn how much of Geralt was just Geralt, and how much was witcher. The man paid, and the whispers of the patrons swelled as he immediately turned to leave out the door again. Jaskier didn’t hesitate, abandoning his stew and bread and ale for something he was much more hungry for. He caught the door right before it closed behind the witcher, and called out.

“Oi, witcher!” Jaskier practically jumped for joy when he did in fact pause and turn to look at him, and the annoyance in his expression was almost familiar, and just like with Geralt, it didn’t deter him in the slightest. This close, Jaskier could now see a long scar running down his face, over his eye, and Jaskier tried not to think about how he might have gotten such a thing. “Hello! What’s your name?” He asked, tone chipper and light.

The witcher cocked his head to the side, narrowing his eyes. “Why?” He demanded.

“Well, I don’t think it’s quite polite to go about just calling you ‘witcher,’ is it?” Jaskier replied smoothly. “There are lots of witchers, and I’d like to address you individually.”

To Jaskier’s surprise, the witcher snorted out a sarcastic laugh. “Lots, huh?”

“Well, maybe not lots,” Jaskier conceded, “but my point still stands.” Then, in what he deemed to be a stroke of genius, introduced himself first, as though to break the ice. “I’m Jaskier the bard, lovely to make your acquaintance.” He gave a tiny nod of his head as a bow, hand on his chest and other arm fanned out.

A strange look passed over the witcher’s face. Something akin to a surprise, or maybe a realisation. “Lambert.” He said, now properly looking at Jaskier. “You are the one who writes the songs about us. About Geralt.”

And oh, how the simple acknowledgement felt ever so much like praise. Jaskier confirmed the statement brightly, a huge smile plastered across his face.

“You shouldn’t glamourize this life,” Lambert scolded, and something about his disapproving tone made Jaskier wilt slightly. “This is a curse, and you sing like it’s a positive.”

“Well, a good artist can find the light even in the darkest of situations,” He replied sternly. “Do all witchers hate art?” He asked, more to himself than anything.

But Lambert replied. “No.”

He turned to continue on his way, and Jaskier, desperate to continue the conversation, called out and grabbed his arm, “Wait! Where are you going? It’s dark out, where are you staying the night?”

Lambert gave him a critical look, and shook off his loose grasp. “I’ll make camp when I tire, I guess. Why?”

“Oh,” Jaskier was a bit confused by that. It was night, and drizzly, why bother to travel? He supposed Lambert must be desperately low on coin, so he did the only reasonable thing he could think. “Well, I’ve rented a room here. If you like, you can stay the night there. And before you try, there’d be no need to pay me back or anything.”

Lambert looked like he had been slapped with a wet fish, the way his jaw dropped open and his eyes widened. Of course, his expression snapped back into a carefully guarded expression once more, but Jaskier was secretly quite pleased with himself to have caused the break in the armour. Geralt’s default defensive expression was a deep scowl or a furrowed brow. It seemed that Lambert’s was more of a stuffy, upturned nose sort of look, as though he wanted people to be embarrassed for trying to approach him. Luckily, Jaskier didn’t embarrass easily.

“That’s ill-advised,” Lambert said, crossing his arms. “I’m not really trying to piss off Geralt, the innkeeper would have a fit, and I’m on a schedule to get to Gelibol.”

“Geralt’s not here,” Jaskier replied, trying very hard to not make it sound like a terribly sad thing to say. “We separated a month or so ago near Brugge and I haven’t seen him again yet. So there’s plenty space. You can take the bed, even!” He didn’t mind sharing a bed with a witcher, as he had plenty of times with Geralt in the past, but he imagined that since Lambert didn’t know him, he’d likely find it uncomfortable. Jaskier knew that if Lambert accepted a comfortable arrangement, he could surely weasel a story or two out of him, or maybe even get him to answer a couple questions Geralt wouldn’t.

“A month, huh?” Lambert seemed to consider that the more intriguing detail, rather than the proffered bed. “Well, that would explain why I didn’t place you right away.”

“What do you mean?”

Instead of answering his question, Lambert instead said, “While your offer is a testament to your bull-headed attempt to befriend our kind, I’ll have to pass. Like I said, schedule.”

Jaskier tried not to pout, but Geralt did often call him whiny, so he likely failed. He changed his approach. “Perhaps I could accompany you then? Just for a-”

Lambert let out another sudden laugh, this time louder and more sincere. “Hell no,” Lambert said as soon as he finished with his outburst. “Gods, if your first little plan wasn’t bad enough. Do you have a death wish?”

Jaskier grew annoyed. Clearly this witcher knew Geralt, and had heard of him and how he would travel with Geralt. Why did he think he was unable to travel, just to Gelibol no less! “There’s no reason to say that! I’m quite a capable travelling companion, witcher senses or no, I’ve not gotten myself killed yet, have I?” Jaskier defends himself, taking a step closer to Lambert as though daring him to contradict him.

“That’s not what I-” Lambert gave him a confused look, but just shook his head, cutting off his own sentence, and stepped back, distancing himself from Jaskier once again. “Good to meet you, or whatever,” Lambert ends their meeting, turning and leaving. He threw one last sentiment over his shoulder. “I’ll let Geralt know we met.”

-

It was about a week later when Jaskier was plucked from where he stood, yelping as the scruff of his top was pulled backwards away from the open space and onto a little path between buildings.

“What the- Oh! Geralt!” Shock quickly dissipated into happiness as he turned to find who had so unceremoniously accosted him. “How good to see you again!”

But Geralt looked like he thought the exact opposite sentiment. He looked, quite frankly, put out. “You met Lambert.” It wasn’t a question, but it was a prod. And Jaskier needed very little prodding.

“Yes, I did! I believe he took out a harpy nest for a little town, if I identified the talon he had in his grasp correctly. You know, I thought all witchers would have white hair, but I suppose that’s-”

“You asked to travel with him,” Geralt interrupted. The way he said it, again, though worded as a statement, was an insistent opening to further explanation.

But Jaskier didn’t have one for that statement. “Yes? I wasn’t travelling with anyone else at the time,” Jaskier said. “He said he was going to Gelibod, and I was going the same way anyways, but he insisted on heading off alone. I even offered to share my inn room with him for the night, which I thought was quite polite of me,” he complained.

“Your room?” Jaskier could tell that Geralt was upset. His expression was carefully neutral, but his words were tight, and his hands were stiff by his sides, not lax. Jaskier was quite proud of the way he had learned Geralt’s secret little tells, but now as they played out, Jaskier just wished he knew why.

“I was trying to be nice, but apparently you’re not the only witcher who’s too grumpy for their own good,” Jaskier teased, but Geralt didn’t give any sort of little retort or snort or eye roll or anything. In fact, the downturn of his lips only deepened, and his eyes were cast towards the ground. And oh, something clicked. “Geralt, are you jealous?”

Geralt’s reaction was immediate. He pulled back sharply, eyes snapping from the ground to Jaskier’s, then away again just as quick, and one of his hands balled up into a fist as he said, just a touch too roughly, “No.”

Jaskier’s heart felt like it was going to explode, and his stomach fluttered with imagined butterflies. He smiled so hard he knew his cheeks would hurt. “Oh no, you are… Of course, you have no reason to be, but it is rather endearing to know you want me all for yourself.”

“Jaskier-” Geralt’s tone was a warning, but Jaskier breezed right past it.

“I promise I wasn’t planning to replace you with another witcher, my dear. I simply wanted to get to know your kin,” Jaskier swore, and gave Geralt a reassuring wink. “I’m afraid you’re lucky enough to be stuck with my charming looks and winning personality for the foreseeable future.” Geralt seemed almost convinced, so Jaskier reached his arms up and clasped them around Geralt’s neck, pulling him in for a hug. Geralt froze minutely in his arms before hesitantly placing his own around Jaskier, and settled his nose under Jaskier’s jaw, Jaskier’s chin resting on the shoulder of his armour. Jaskier always felt a sort of pride when Geralt accepted his affection. It had taken him damn long enough to start to, Jaskier thought he deserved a medal of valour or something. When he pulled away, Geralt seemed more properly convinced, and Jaskier asked what brought him to the town.

“Ghouls,” Geralt replied, and the two fell back into their easy rhythm.

Well, almost.

Something had changed, though.

Geralt had never been one for casual touch. Jaskier was, and didn’t ever hesitate to tap, swat, squeeze, prod, or otherwise pester Geralt or any other person willing to put up with his antics. It was just how he was. Geralt nearly never reciprocated these unnecessary acts, and Jaskier was fine with this, but as they travelled together over the next few weeks, Geralt seemed… more near, somehow. Jaskier thought it might be because of Jaskier’s recent reassurance, or maybe it was because the ale at the tavern was terribly delicious and easy to drink, easy to get drunk on. Or maybe it was that silly jealousy, finally making Geralt crack.

He sat nearer to the stage as Jaskier performed, trading his preferred dark quiet corner for the bar seat on the end nearest to Jaskier. His arm, normally loose and barely-there on Jaskier’s shoulder or arm as they lay to sleep, turned into a proper grip as Geralt pulled him in closer. A few times, when they finished speaking to someone, Geralt had even clasped his shoulder, or grabbed his arm to steer him away, preventing him from keeping them longer than necessary.

At the moment, Geralt leaned deeper into Jaskier’s touch while he washed the muck from his hunt out of his hair, deep enough that Jaskier was actually having to put in effort to hold up Geralt’s head at the proper angle. And Jaskier, normally quick to tease, didn’t dare risk putting Geralt off of this. He was terribly worried that if he even acknowledged it, if Geralt distinctly noticed him noticing at all, that Geralt would pull back again, and that was the last thing Jaskier wanted.

So, Jaskier just continued to hum and detangle Geralt’s hair, talking about whatever unrelated thought popped into his head.

Selfishly, he knew, Jaskier mentally joked to himself that if a little bit of jealousy got him this, then he ought to make Geralt jealous more often. Of course, he wouldn’t, probably, but it was still an entertaining bit of fantasy.

-

Two:

“Bard!” A loud voice called out, sounding terribly sharp and icy, and Jaskier nearly jumped out of his skin, thankfully not dropping the jar of honey he had been haggling the price of. He turned to see an incredibly broad, but not necessarily tall, man with a large facial scar along his cheek and across his lip, but an even bigger smile, which threw off the trajectory of what Jaskier was expecting to see. The man was an imposing figure, but Jaskier’s eye caught the glint of a medallion, and he noticed the unnaturally sharp pale green of his eyes, and he was suddenly much less scared and much more curious- another witcher.

He set back down the jar, now completely distracted, and stepped away from the stall, drawing closer to the witcher. “Hello! Jaskier’s the name, and you?” He smiled brightly to match the witcher’s. After knowing Geralt, and having met Lambert, he almost thought no witchers smiled so freely, but this one…

“I know your name, I’m Eskel.” His voice remained sounding almost like a bark, and Jaskier figured it was not dissimilar to Geralt’s rumbly growl. It wasn’t inherently a reflection of his mood, it simply was. Eskel looked about and asked, “Is Geralt here with you?”

“Oh, no,” Jaskier clarified. “He was headed east, I believe. I had a friend to visit in Kovir, but I’m on my way back down south now.”

“Really? I didn’t know you travelled by yourself,” Eskel said.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Jaskier questioned, then found a much more pertinent question. “And what would you know of my travelling habits?”

Eskel shrugged, then turned his attention to the booth Jaskier had been perusing, and took up a few carrots, apples, and leafy greens. Before the merchant could complain, Eskel handed over the payment with a much softer spoken ‘thank you,’ as though trying to not scare the man, and well, Jaskier decided he might as well buy his honey.

“When will you see Geralt again?” Eskel asked, beginning to walk away. Jaskier, of course, kept up, falling into step beside him. Eskel likely knew he would, too.

“Well, we planned to meet back up somewhere along Pontar, so optimistically in about a week. Would you like to come along to see him as well?” Jaskier asked.

Eskel laughed. It was a loud, sincere thing, and Jaskier immediately wondered if Geralt might sound like that if he were to laugh so carefree. Jaskier could almost, almost picture it. “No, it seems we’ll be headed in opposite directions. Have a wyvern or two to manage for a friend further North. Stopped here just to help with a couple drowners.”

“Oh, how boring for you then,” Jaskier replied. He might not be a witcher himself, but even just in travelling with Geralt, he had grown bored of drowners.

Eskel nodded, “Can be, when it’s all you’ve gotten in a long time. But it puts coins in the pocket, and almost never results in injuries, so can I really complain?”

“Very true, that.” Jaskier came to a stop as their walk crossed by the town’s tavern. “Would you like to stop in for a drink? My treat! I’d love to take the opportunity to talk to you. Pick your brain, perhaps.”

Something sneaky glinted in Eskel’s eye. If it were his own face, Jaskier would think it was mischief, but what could be mischievous about sharing a drink?

“Well, since you offered,” he replied, and led the way inside, brushing past Jaskier to order the drinks with his own coin instead. Meanwhile, Jaskier started looking about for corner seating, but it seemed the couple of shadowy tables were already occupied. He heard a shuffle behind him, and turned to see Eskel settling into a barstool. Right, in every way this witcher was upturning what he had seen from the previous two. So, he really might answer some questions then.

Jaskier settled in beside him and grabbed his drink, taking a sip before launching into his chatter. “You know, I feel like quite the lucky man, running into not one, not two, but three witchers in my travels. And here I thought Geralt might’ve been pulling my leg about the rest of you even existing, the way he plays his cards so close to his chest.” That earned a laugh, so he eagerly kept talking. “Of course, he isn’t the type to give up many of his little secrets easily, so I suppose him mentioning other witchers at all could be considered a victory. Still, I’m surprised you all don’t want to meet up along the path during the year more often. He’s mentioned he sees you all during the winter, of course, but still. You’d think you lot would team up to take down, like, trolls, or whatever else is particularly difficult.”

Eskel frowned slightly. “I don’t think I’d want to fight a troll in the first place, they’re not so bad if you just talk to them…”

“Well not trolls then,” Jaskier quickly agreed. “But there are other beasts that are hard to kill that you could help each other with.”

“We have, and we do,” Eskel corrected. “But it’s pretty uncommon. If we split up, then we can help more people, kill more monsters. And besides, have you met Geralt? He’s a drag to travel with.” Eskel pitched his voice slightly lower, quieter, and mimicked Geralt, “I’m a loner, I don’t need anybody or anything. I don’t like getting involved with people’s affairs, even though that’s all I do.”

Jaskier laughed. “Aha, so it’s not a witcher thing, it’s just Geralt who’s so dramatically stony.”

Eskel tapped the rim of his mug thoughtfully. “I’d say it’s a mix of both, really. Being a witcher is… it can be a right bitch for sure. And Geralt got it worse, of course, but I do think the world has hardened him more than any mutations have.”

“Yes, I’m very aware of how witchers are treated,” Jaskier said sourly. Then paused. “Wait, what do you mean, he got it worse?”

“Y’know, the second round?” Eskel’s words went over Jaskier’s head, and it must’ve shown in his expression as the witcher let out the most annoyed grunting sigh Jaskier might’ve ever heard, and that was saying something considering all the annoyed noises he’d made Geralt produce over the years. “Okay, do you know what the Witcher Trials are- or, were?”

And suddenly the mood sobered. “Geralt has told me a little,” Jaskier confirmed. “Terrible, to subject children to such pain and-”

Eskel cut him off quickly. “Right well, Geralt went through the Grasses twice, Grasses was one of the trials. Mutations. He might’ve gone through more again but, well, that one stands out because…” Eskel, who until then had been jovial and easy-going, seemed to struggle to get out his thoughts. Jaskier dared not interrupt. After a slight pause, he continued. “A few different adepts were chosen to go through a second round as well, but only Geralt survived it. That’s why there’s the running joke he’s our strongest wolf,” Eskel scrounged up a lop-sided grin. “It’s because he very probably is. They put his ass through the worst of it.” Eskel took a long drink, and Jaskier felt a bit sick, pushing his own drink away slightly.

“Geralt never told me that.”

Eskel nodded his head. “Of course not, he’d rather run himself through with his own sword than talk about himself.”

They both fell silent for a moment, but Jaskier was never good with quiet, so he asked a question, any question, something to lighten the mood, perhaps. Eskel and him continued to talk at length for a fair while, Jaskier interrogating him on monsters, potions, and swapping stories of their travels. There were moments where Eskel wouldn't divulge more, but Jaskier just moved onto the next thought in his head, quite used to the fact that he couldn't always have the answers he wanted by this point. Jaskier eventually circled back to what Eskel had mentioned when they first sat down to drink. “So, wyverns? On your way to take them out for a friend, you said?”

But it seemed that was the wrong thing to say, because Eskel’s brow furrowed, and he tossed back his last gulp of ale before pushing his chair away from the counter and stretching. “Yes. I’d better be leaving to get there, I suppose.”

“Two seems difficult,” Jaskier said. “Anyone there to help you?”

“Yes, the friend,” Eskel grinned as though he had just told a rather excellent joke, but Jaskier wasn’t in on it.

Instead, he was a bit worried. He recalled an occasion when Geralt had returned, swaying, from hunting a wyvern and had to be stitched back up. He had been so worried for Geralt, and now Eskel was going to fight two... “A very strong friend, I hope?”

“No need to worry for me, bard,” Eskel said in a reassuring tone, and Jaskier barely had a moment to register that there was once more a rather mischievous glint in his eye before Eskel had him swept up in an embrace, his broad shoulders and chest completely enveloping Jaskier. It was a bear hug, but from a wolf witcher. A wolf hug, then, Jaskier thought in a moment of childish humour, and accepted the gesture, having to carefully avoid sword and dagger decorating Eskel. He pulled away quickly, and patted Jaskier’s head before giving a friendly goodbye, and headed towards the door. Jaskier sat, stunned for a moment, before beaming a self-satisfied smile. If he wasn’t mistaken, he was fairly sure he just made a friend.

-

“... Until the waves… no no… mmhmmmhm, when the waves… when the waters still… mmhmmmhm, when the waters still…” Jaskier hummed, composing as he walked along the way the river beside him flowed. He had hopped off the wagon he had bribed a ride on as soon as the blue water had come into view, and now followed it admittedly a bit blindly, waiting for Geralt to find him as he always did when they had these sort of imprecise meeting locations.

“Mmhmmmhm… when the water stills… and the… birds cease to sing… mmhmmmhmmhm… the cold winter air… cold winter… wind begins to sting… no, almost, not quite… hard to compose about winter in the summer, hm,” he spoke to himself, and to the chipmunk that ran across his path. Just then, from the treeline, he saw a familiar brown mare and black armoured, white haired witcher emerge, and a grin split across Jaskier’s face. “Geralt!” he couldn’t help but call out, even if it was obvious that Geralt already saw him, and he rushed from the riverside towards where Geralt was coming from, tossing his arms around him. “I take it the bullvore was no match for you, then?” He said as he pulled away again.

“Something like that,” Geralt agreed, but quickly continued on. “So, Eskel was around?” He said it in a casual, flippant tone. It was very artificial.

Jaskier blanched. “Eskel? What, why? How did you know I met him? He said he was headed north.”

“You smell of him,” Geralt said, and Jaskier felt heat rise to his face. Geralt could tell who he’d been around by smell alone. How utterly ridiculous and barbaric. He didn’t know why, but that made him feel… well, a great number of ways, none of which he was prepared to acknowledge in this conversation.

“Smell?”

Geralt made a slightly sour face. “Reek.”

He quickly settled on offended. “Rude! I do not reek, thank you. It’s not as if bathes are readily available when you're out on the road, and I only just came to the river a few hours ago, pardon me for wanting to find you first. Besides, you’re one to talk, you- you oaf!” And then, as though some devious, insidious little worm made specifically to cause trouble had grabbed the single brain cell that controlled his mouth, he tacked on, “Eskel was very nice, by the way. We got on splendidly, not that you asked.”

“Clearly.” Geralt’s reply was short, borderline petulant.

Jaskier pushed a bit harder. “Such a dear. On his way to handle a wyvern problem. If we hadn’t arranged to meet I’d have gone with him to see the fuss. Would’ve made for a wonderful ballad, I’m sure.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Geralt’s hand balled into a fist before releasing, as though he were imagining strangling Jaskier. Or Eskel. Or an imaginary monster. Probably one of the first two, though.

Jaskier took pity on him. “Like I said, I was hurrying here to meet you,” he smiled warmly, and turned to Roach. “And this sweet girl, of course. How are you, my dear?” He stroked her mane, and made a kissing noise at her.

Geralt went ahead and began to unload his supplies to make camp, and Jaskier took that as his cue to drop his own down and help prepare a campfire. But Geralt stopped him. “I’ll do it,” he said gruffly.

“Well then what else would you have me do?”

“Go wash.”

Jaskier stared. Geralt was being completely serious. “You cannot be serious.”

Geralt quirked a brow. “Since when do you not want to bathe?”

“When did I say- Oh you absolute… fustilug, what, because I ’smell’ like I met Eskel, I don’t know why I even bother-” Despite his offended grumbling, Jaskier did want to wash, so he complied, finding a part of the river that looked a bit clearer and shallower, not exactly keen on being caught up in a strong wave or having algae muck in his hair. He was almost out of his preferred soap, and silently cursed himself for not thinking to buy more. Still, he took his time, enjoying the cool river water, until he noticed that Geralt had gotten the fire started up, the bedrolls laid out, and his swords set aside. Roach was milling about, snuffling among the grass, and Geralt was sitting by the fire, tending to a cooking hare.

Jaskier finished up, and after yelling at Geralt to toss him a change of clothes, got out, shaking off most of the water that now felt chilly under the waning summer sun. He slipped on his trousers, then picked up the shirt.

A shirt that was most certainly not his. For one thing, Jaskier was fairly certain he didn't own anything black except possibly underclothes, and for another, he was pretty sure he had seen this exact shirt on Geralt at some point. Okay, fine, multiple points. The point being that this wasn't Jaskier's, it was Geralt's. He was pretty positive that it would’ve been nearly impossible for Geralt to have accidentally thrown over something of his own as opposed to Jaskier’s, mainly because they had only just met up and their stuff hadn’t had the opportunity to get mixed up.

But then that meant that it was intentional. Jaskier wanted to ask why, but he didn’t want to make Geralt regret it. Actually, in all honesty, Jaskier wanted to tease Geralt, because he figured it had something to do with Eskel and the whole smell thing, because he found it kind of funny and could think of at least five different ways to poke fun, but he knew that if he did that then Geralt might never recover. Or, maybe he was way overthinking things and Geralt had just thrown a random shirt over, and saying something would only make him seem a fool. So, Jaskier did the only reasonable thing and put the shirt on.

He did, however, raise his eyebrows and give a smirk when he made his way back over, pulling on the collar of the shirt in a silent acknowledgement. He might not say anything, but Jaskier couldn’t not point it out. Geralt’s gaze roamed down from Jaskier’s expression to his chest before he turned back to his task at hand, leaving Jaskier feeling certain it had quite definitely been intentional. Still, not easily dissuaded, Jaskier plopped down next to Geralt, less than an inch from being in his lap, and leaned forward, inhaling the cooked food.

“Mm, smells good,” and Jaskier shot a sly look at Geralt. And the fact that Geralt steadily didn’t reply or react in absolutely any way, even minutely, was a response in and of itself.

Hours later, after the sun had set and they began to settle in to sleep, Jaskier abandoned where his own bedding was laid out and made his way over to Geralt.

“Scoot,” Jaskier said, and Geralt just stared at him owlishly. “Move over, I’m trying to lay down.”

“You have a bedroll,” Geralt replied, but despite himself he still did in fact scoot.

“Yes, I suppose I do,” Jaskier agreed, and flopped down next to Geralt, immediately toasty warm tucked up close to him under the snug blankets.

Jaskier rested one hand under his own head and the other lightly against Geralt’s chest, playfully tugging on the ties of his shirt. Geralt settled his arm around Jaskier’s waist, and slid his eyes closed. Jaskier did try to just close his eyes as well, but he couldn’t help drinking in the view. It wasn’t a particularly new view for Jaskier, but it didn’t make it any less special. Geralt was so rarely visibly relaxed, and Jaskier liked to face him when they shared a bed so he could get to see it. They shared beds more and more over time. Jaskier tried hard not to let it go to his head.

“Jaskier,” Geralt grumbled without opening his eyes.

“Yes?”

“Close your eyes and go to sleep.”

Jaskier sputtered. “W- I- That’s-”

Geralt cracked open an eye, his lips twitching up into an amused grin, and oh, Jaskier’s heart fluttered, and he knew Geralt could hear it this close, which only made it flutter more. Geralt pulled him more flush to his chest, and ducked his head under Jaskier’s chin, preventing Jaskier from seeing his expression any more and said, “Go to sleep.”

Jaskier could feel Geralt’s breath, each exhale tickling his collarbone, and he had to fight to keep his own breaths even, timing his with Geralt’s. Timing them worked, and soon he was able to fall asleep, warm and content.

-

When he met Lambert, he hadn’t really understood why Geralt’s reaction had been what it was. When he met Eskel, he had gotten a bit further, understanding pieces but not quite placing the full puzzle together. Touching, casual touches that Geralt did with no other, at least that Jaskier saw. Sharing his cloak and shirts given the slightest excuse. Sharing food, not just fish or bread over a campsite, but pushing food from his own plate in taverns onto Jaskier’s, reaching over and breaking off a bit off whatever Jaskier was having to try it.

It only grew after they had kissed (among other things) the first time, Jaskier plucking up the courage one afternoon when Geralt had stolen a couple of his grapes, and Jaskier, in a moment of blind lovesickness, had toppled forward and kissed him, claiming to be trying to steal the flavour of the grapes back from Geralt. Geralt, for his part, limited his personal crisis over the situation before admitting he reciprocated. After that, Geralt seemed glued to Jaskier, not that he’d ever complain. A hand at his elbow, fingers in his hair, a firm palm pressed to his lower back. And after Jaskier performed, Geralt would always pull him in for an embrace, whether it be an all-encompassing hug or a searing kiss, both pleased Jaskier.

Jaskier noticed patterns.

When Jaskier was handled by others, Geralt would replace their touch with his own at the earliest convenience. Jaskier honestly wondered if Geralt even truly realised that he did it, or at least the extent to which he did. A woman touches his arm in shy flirtation, Geralt grabs him in the same spot next time he pulls him off somewhere. A man flicks his hair teasingly, and Geralt runs his fingers through his bangs, ‘fixing’ them. An audience member gets handsy as he performs, fluttering a hand across Jaskier’s chest, and Jaskier is laid out underneath Geralt the same night, Geralt’s hands roaming and caressing and his kisses travelling further south. Like he was trying to erase their presence there with his own.

Geralt had preferred perfumes and colognes of Jaskier’s. And Jaskier, considering himself a connoisseur of such things when he had the luxury to be, had very carefully curated his collection to things that Geralt seemed to not mind and, even better, possibly like. He learned that Geralt preferred no cologne or perfumes at all, which Jaskier could abide by on the road, but within towns and cities, he’d wear other scents that Geralt liked almost as much. Jaskier never even had to directly ask. He was able to tell simply by Geralt’s sniffing. He hadn’t even realised that was what it was, at first. He just thought that Geralt just hugged that way, pressing his face (read- nose) into Jaskier’s neck, practically nuzzling if Jaskier dared to use such a word. But it was when Jaskier had just happened upon one of the scents that Geralt liked, and he had breathed in deeply while holding Jaskier against a wall, having fully paused a make out session to do so, that Jaskier realised what Geralt had been doing the entire time. Jaskier, as experienced in the realm of love and lust and intrigue and intimacy as he was, hadn’t encountered such behaviour before. It’d be a lie to say it didn’t go straight to his dick, especially when Geralt pressed an open mouth kiss to the spot right after.

He also learned that the press of Geralt’s nose wasn’t necessarily a sexual behaviour. Jaskier wondered what, exactly, it was. Geralt would do it when he was injured and feeling particularly grateful to be alive. He’d do it when they’d be separated for a while, which happened less and less, and then again when they met back up. He’d do it when they fell asleep at night. Really, Jaskier thought, he just seemed to do it whenever the fancy struck him.

Jaskier had questioned the behaviour exactly twice. The first time, Geralt hadn’t engaged in the line of conversation, and stopped doing it all together. The second time, Jaskier was practically begging Geralt to start doing it again, not because he particularly cared for the act itself either way, but because he desperately wanted to be able to share whatever intimacy Geralt wanted to have, wanted to accept all of him, and quite frankly he had gotten quite used to the act. Geralt, clearly embarrassed over the whole thing, relented to Jaskier’s encouragement, and Jaskier never questioned it again. It was simply filed away as one of the many witchery things that made Geralt uncomfortable to talk about, much like his slightly too-large canines, or his appearances when using certain potions.

Still, he’d tilt his head to give Geralt more access, and the invitation never failed to entice Geralt. He’d teasingly ask how he smelled, and Geralt would huff and grumble and Jaskier imagined that if he were the sort who was prone to do so, Geralt would’ve blushed. He had even taken to mirroring some actions of Geralt’s back to him, purposefully sharing food even when they had no reason to, insisting himself upon Geralt’s arm or hand as they wandered through a crowd.

One notable occasion, after a lovely hot bath shared with nothing more heinous than some dirt to clean off their bodies for once, while they were lazily making use of a free afternoon and a comfortable bed, Jaskier had dared to experiment. He leaned down and skimmed his nose from Geralt’s frankly ridiculously built pectoral, up along his clavicle, across his neck and up to his jaw, inhaling steadily, purposefully, deeply. There he stopped to press an open mouth kiss to his throat, tongue pressing and tasting the clean skin and feeling the slight stubble there. Jaskier smelled nothing of note, himself, just remnants of bathwater and hints of soap, but it didn’t really matter, because that wasn’t why he had done it. He had done it to elicit a reaction from Geralt, and oh, how he had gotten a reaction, a whole night’s worth of reaction…

Jaskier filed that particular trick away for future use, perhaps for bribery, or special occasions. He wouldn’t want the novelty to wear off, after all.

-

Three:

It was raining something fierce, and Jaskier was pissed at how stubborn the man was being.

Jaskier was starting to wonder if he had a spell put over him to meet witchers wherever he went.

“Let me help you, you git!” He demanded as the witcher tried to get his feet under himself. Jaskier, determined to not be pushed away again, once more grabbed the witcher’s arm to help steady him. “Fucking hell, where are your potions?” Jaskier demanded, practically having to shout over a crack of thunder.

“Clearly not here,” the witcher managed to grunt out, apparently finally relenting to Jaskier’s assistance.

“Great.” Jaskier suppressed an eyeroll. “Okay, come on! We need to get you under some coverage.”

“Cave,” the witcher said. “Not far… that way,” he waved a hand vaguely left, so Jaskier arranged himself better under the witcher’s arm and helped him hobble vaguely left. Thankfully, this witcher had a leaner build than Geralt, and Jaskier had plenty experience pulling about Geralt in this way, so the task wasn’t as arduous as it could’ve been.

When they arrived at the little cave, the witcher pitched forward and laid down with a heavy ”Oof.”

Jaskier reached for the first strap on his armour he saw to start working it off, but the witcher shoved him away a bit harder than Jaskier thought necessary. “We need to assess your-”

“I’ll do it, fuck off.”

“Fine. And no potions, okay, do you have a medkit? Wraps, stitching needles and thread?” Jaskier interrogated as the witcher began to throw off his armour.

“Went over the side of a cliff, along with my damn horse,” he said, sour tone understandable all things considered.

Jaskier nodded to himself. “Right, well, I’ll be back shortly, so… stay put.” He left the cave and backtracked where they came from, finding his own bag and lute and scooping them both up before heading back to the cave. When he returned, the witcher’s chest was exposed, revealing a huge gash running from his chest down to his hip, jagged and deep.

Jaskier sat by the witcher, trying to ignore how queasy he felt, cracked open his travel bag, and hesitated for only a moment before pulling out the one solitary swallow potion he had demanded from Geralt to keep on hand in case of an emergency. This, Jaskier figured, certainly counted.

“How did you get that?” The witcher raised a brow, sounding almost impressed.

“Don’t worry about that, just take it,” Jaskier insisted, and the witcher didn’t argue, just sniffed it before gulping it down in two quick huge swigs. “Good, yes, now, let me-” Jaskier pulled out a needle and thread. “I’m not the best, but I do have some experience here, if you’d like the help.”

Unfortunately, the witcher’s trust of him stopped there, and he took the tools from Jaskier to do it himself, but Jaskier understood. It had taken Geralt awhile to allow him to help with such things, too. And so, Jaskier turned to his lute, tuning where it had gone off a bit from travel and being dropped hastily.

He hadn’t intended to get caught out in a storm, of course. Few did. But it had been a lovely day, and the clouds only decided to roll across the sky as he was nearing the small town that he had intended to meet Geralt in after having gone to compete in a literary competition further west. But instead of finding Geralt in town, he had stumbled upon yet another witcher, unconscious and bleeding out, a massive, horrifying dead beast inches away. Jaskier had shaken him awake, and after almost being slashed with a dagger, Jaskier jumped back and clarified he was trying to help.

Now he was stuck in a cave, waiting out the weather with an injured witcher that was notably not Geralt.

“What’s your name?” Jaskier asked. “I’m Jaskier the bard, at your service.”

“Aiden.” Chartreuse eyes glinted through the low light of the cave.

“Very nice to meet you, Aiden, though I’m sure the circumstances could’ve been better.” Adien gave an approximation of a laugh at that, and Jaskier continued. “Once the rain lets up and the swallow heals you up some, we can head into town. Geralt’s there and had a full potion stock, last I saw.”

“Geralt?” Aiden questioned. “The wolf? Ha. That explains you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you’re the one Lambert told me about, right? You tried to get him in your bed?” Aiden smirked.

The words tumbled out of Jaskier’s mouth almost faster than he could pronounce them. “It wasn’t like that at all, I was simply trying to offer him room and board for the evening, so he wouldn’t have to sleep outside, nothing untoward. I know I have a reputation as a lover, but rest assured, my motivation with Lambert was purely-”

“I’m kidding, geez, calm down,” Aiden said, waving an arm airily. “I know you and Geralt have your wolf thing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jaskier replied, honestly unknowing yet somehow flustered at the wording. Granted, he and Geralt had, since he’d met Lambert, had... er, a shift in dynamic, but that said he didn’t see how it was relevant or otherwise pertinent to what this witcher was-

“Lambert is the same with me,” Aiden continued instead of acknowledging the question. “It’s a mutation thing, of course, but since I’m from a different school, I got a different mix of mutagens, so I won’t pretend to get it. I just roll with it.”

“A different school?” Jaskier had a lot of questions, but he had to pick one, and that was it.

“School of the Cat, one of the few left,” Aiden gave a grim smile.

“Oh, I’ve never met any witchers from other schools!” Jaskier noted, distinctly remembering Lambert and Eskel’s wolf medallions that matched Geralt’s. “Do you have a cat medallion, then? Can I see it? Does yours vibrate around magic too?” He subconsciously drew closer to Aiden as he spoke, excited, but Aiden’s hand closed around his medallion and shot Jaskier a dirty look, so he backed up slightly again.

“Lambert wasn’t kidding, you’re nosey as hell,” Aiden noted, and then abruptly whipped his head towards the cave’s entrance. “Hm, seems like we won’t have to wait til we get to town to see your wolf after all.”

Jaskier took a beat to understand what Aiden was saying, but the moment it clicked he immediately rushed towards the entrance. “Geralt!” He couldn’t see him anywhere, but that mattered little. If Aiden knew he was near, then he could hear Jaskier. Only the rain kept him from going out of the cave.

-

Geralt came into view moments later, and Jaskier didn’t even have the chance to greet him properly before he was being pulled into a sudden, tight hug. Which would ordinarily be nice, except…

“I had just started to dry out,” Jaskier complained toothlessly as Geralt’s cold nose burrowed into the space between his collarbone and neck and rain slicked hands pressed into his back, chilling him. A puff of warmth exhaled along his skin was his only reply, and Jaskier suppressed a shiver. “Why did you come out here in this downpour?” Roach meandered passed them with a huff, going deeper into the cave and tossing her mane.

“Heard people talking about the fiend wandering around the woods here. Figured it’d be your luck to stumble onto it.”

Jaskier grinned. “Aw, you were worried about me,” he teased in a sing-song tone.

“I was just thinking I could pawn the lute off your corpse to get enough money for a little vacation,” Geralt countered, and pulled away (but only slightly) as Jaskier objected loudly, only then paying any mind to Aiden. “You take the contract?”

“Yeah,” Aiden replied. “Jaskier here had a handy little potion on him to help out, though if you care to double dose me, I wouldn’t complain.”

Geralt grunted, and without letting go of Jaskier made his way over to Aiden, forcing him to come right along, not that he’d complain. Geralt looked over Aiden’s injury before calling over Roach. He pulled out a couple vials and handed them over.

Aiden downed them quickly, visibly gagging on the last one, before passing back the now empty bottles. "Thanks," he said, and thumped his head back against the rock wall. He looked ready to pass out, but Jaskier imagined that, much like Geralt, he wouldn't be able to sleep in such close quarters with strangers while injured and unable to properly defend himself or make a speedy escape if needed.

Geralt, for his part, finally removed himself from Jaskier and took to circling about the cave, and hummed disapprovingly before rounding back to roach and digging through a saddle bag. He pulled out a sparse bit of coal, and before Geralt could even begin to use it to build a fire, Aiden gave a sound of dissent that was practically a hiss.

“Don’t.” Aiden demanded. “I’m fine."

Geralt didn’t give pause. “Not for you,” he replied, giving a pointed look at Jaskier, and it sounded almost like a challenge for Aiden to try and stop him.

Aiden didn’t rise to it, but Jaskier did. “I’m fine too!” he rushed to say, and continued before Geralt could contest. “With or without the rain, it’s still a warm summer day, and the sun will dry me out just fine when it returns. Please, save it for the winter, or some worse circumstance, when my poor human constitution actually needs it."

This time, Geralt visibly hesitated, then grunted in annoyance and dropped the coal unceremoniously back into the bag. “Fine, if you want to be damp it’s not my problem.” Geralt sat, then, cross legged and straight backed across the cave from Aiden, not directly in front of him, instead a bit closer to the mouth of the cave. Jaskier knew it was a defensive move, as if providing protection for his fellow witcher from the outside world as he healed. It made Jaskier’s heart squeeze with affection. Apparently, Aiden caught on to what Geralt had done as well, because he gave a low snicker, but some of the tension in his shoulders did drop a bit, and Jaskier felt proud on Geralt’s behalf.

Jaskier flounced over to Geralt and without another thought flopped down next to him and burrowed under his arm.

“I’d apologise for cozying up to another witcher, but-"

“Jaskier.” Geralt cut off his playful light tone with one of warning.

Jaskier didn’t pay it any mind. “-but it was an emergency after all, so I’m not sorry at all. But, Mr. Possessive, if you want to-”

“Enough.” This time, Geralt’s tone took on an edge of actually being upset, and Jaskier promptly snapped his mouth shut.

And so, stuck in the cave with Aiden, Roach, and Geralt, waiting for the storm to pass, Jaskier couldn’t help but feel a pout coming on as Geralt staunchly rebuffed him. Still, never one to back down in the face of a challenge, Jaskier opted to scoot even closer into Geralt’s side, and pulled as much of Geralt’s cloak as he could around himself. His victory was found in the arm that snaked around his waist under the cloak, shirt riding up as Geralt brushed his thumb over his skin in a gentle repetitive motion. Of course. Jaskier had no problem loudly shouting his affections from rooftops. Geralt was probably mortified at the idea of the single other person in the vicinity even knowing he had feelings. So where words wouldn’t work, Jaskier took the sneaky, under-the-cloak gestures as an agreeable substitute.

Precious daylight hours began to tick away as the rain refused to let up, and Jaskier began to worry that they might not be able to get back to town that day after all. It was a distressing thought, nervous glances cast in Aiden’s direction anything but stealthy. Granted, Jaskier had certainly seen worse injuries, but it didn’t make it any easier to see the way Aiden gritted his teeth as he shifted the way he sat.

Geralt and Aiden’s heads both snapped towards the cave entrance at the same time, and Jaskier scrambled back off of Geralt as he stood, hand rising to rest on the handle of one of his swords. He squinted and cocked his head, listening intently. Aiden said something that was too quiet for Jaskier’s ears to pick out, but Geralt nodded, having apparently been able to decipher it. All three stayed frozen for what, to Jaskier, felt like forever but realistically was likely merely a few minutes, before Geralt suddenly relaxed completely, Aiden following shortly after.

“What was it?”

The question had barely left Jaskier’s mouth before it was being answered, a yelp following immediately after as he was surprised by a man suddenly darting into the cave, bypassing both him and Geralt, heading straight for Aiden.

And… well, for a split moment Jaskier thought the man was attacking Aiden, but Geralt was calm, and Aiden seemed to be more pleased to see the man than terrified, and Jaskier realised that he was actually hugging Aiden, albeit awkwardly due to the injury along his torso.

“You fucking idiot, you know your blood is supposed to stay in your body, right? They teach you that in your fucking housecat school?” When the man spoke, that’s when it clicked for Jaskier- he was Lambert, the witcher he had met once years ago. His face was very much buried in Aiden's neck and hair, and Jaskier looked away, suddenly feeling like he was intruding on something. Aiden's words, 'Lambert is the same with me,' now made a bit more sense.

“I dunno, they teach you not to jump on people in puppy class?” Aiden countered, but despite the heated words they tossed, they were both still hugging, which notably dampened the blows.

Lambert pulled away and turned his attention then to Geralt, remaining in a crouch beside Aiden. “What brought you here?”

“He was looking for me,” Jaskier chirped, cutting in quickly and drawing Lambert’s amber gaze to him instead. “I simply happened upon poor Aiden and brought him here after he got into a rather dastardly altercation with a… what did you call it?” Jaskier asked Geralt.

“A fiend,” Aiden and Geralt spoke at the same time, but Aiden continued. “And a mean bitch of one, at that.”

“And you just couldn’t wait a day for me to get here and help?” Lambert said, accusatory tone dripping in annoyance and disapproval.

Aiden grinned sheepishly. “I mean, it was one fiend, I should’ve been fine,” his face scrunched up, “if it weren’t for my horse falling…” He sighed. “I liked Finnie too. The only horse I’ve had that wasn’t scared of me dropping out of trees by her.”

“A tragedy,” Lambert replied flatly. He settled from his crouch, sitting beside Aiden and taking off his swords. Seeing Lambert relax, the other two witchers seemed to follow suit, Aiden toeing off his wet boots and closing his eyes, and Geralt going to Roach and petting her and taking off a few of the bags weighing her down to give her a bit of a break. Lambert dug a shirt out of his pack and gave it to Aiden, who gave him a smirk before asking for help putting it on since he couldn’t quite lift one of his arms properly. Jaskier took the opportunity to settle back down to where he had been seated before, and pulled back out his lute, strumming mindless tunes to keep his hands busy. “We might be here overnight if the rain doesn’t let up,” Lambert observed, and no one could argue- the rain was still coming down just as hard as it had been since it began.

“Hm,” Geralt acknowledged Lambert, checked a pack, pulled something out, then walked over and dropped it in his lap. “Then might as well eat. You’ll owe me.”

“Yes, because this dried beef looks so terribly expensive,” Aiden snorted, but he took it and scarfed it down anyway, and was reaching for more before Lambert had even gotten something for himself.

“Adi, when’d you last eat?” Lambert demanded, but Jaskier didn’t hear the reply as Geralt approached him and held out a gorgeous golden pear, one of Jaskier’s favourite fruits of the moment (it changed frequently) and something that looked suspiciously similar to a type of cheesy roll that Geralt had chastised Jaskier for spending too much on the last time they had been in a town together.

Jaskier quickly put his lute to the side and reached up, opening and closing his hands like a child. “Oh, you great big softie, you’ll spoil me like this,” Jaskier cooed. Geralt didn’t deign that worthy of a reply, however, but did pass along the pear into a waiting hand. Before he could pass off the roll, however, Jaskier snatched up his wrist and pulled him down. Geralt acquiesced, and soon Jaskier was in his favourite spot- legs kicked up over Geralt’s and his head nestled against Geralt’s chest. Of course, a bed would be better than a cave, and a shirtless Geralt would be better than a fully dressed Geralt, but given present company, Jaskier was willing to make concessions. Geralt gave a somewhat amused huff as Jaskier settled in, grabbing for his lute that was thankfully within arms length, and once more tried to hand Jaskier the cheesy roll. Unfortunately for Geralt, Jaskier only had two hands, one occupied by a lute and the other by a pear. So, Jaskier leaned forward and took a bite of it from where Geralt held it out.

It was surprisingly not the slightest bit damp, the bread still airy and delicious, the cheese sharp. Jaskier gave a close-mouthed smile to Geralt, not one to talk with his mouth full (no matter what terrible rumours Geralt tried to spread) but still wanting to express how pleased he was.

Aiden snickered as Lambert spoke. “Literally hand feeding him, I think I’m gonna be sick…”

“Aw, Lambie-Wammie, won’t you feed me? I’m just so weak and injured,” Aiden theatrically batted his eyes, and opened his mouth in a little o.

Jaskier’s stomach dropped. Even at the best of times, Geralt didn’t like for anything even remotely related to mushy affection to be acknowledged in front of others directly like that, much less made fun of. Jaskier could see the future playing out in front of him. Geralt would scowl, out of embarrassment of course, and scoot Jaskier away from his favourite spot to sit on his own. He’d plop the roll onto Jaskier’s lap unless he dropped his lute quick enough to get it into his hand. And then for the rest of the night, Geralt would be overly self-conscious every time he interacted with Jaskier. He knew it would happen because Geralt had gotten embarrassed like this before, and had played out similar situations in the past.

Geralt scowled at Lambert and Aiden. Jaskier suppressed a terribly heartsick sigh and began to move off of Geralt himself before he could be moved, but Geralt threw off the expected chain of events by instead winding his arm around Jaskier and shuffling him closer to his chest.

“Shut up,” Geralt grumbled. Lambert cut off a slice of apple and held it out to Aiden, who theatrically leaned in to eat it off the edge of the knife. Still, shockingly, they did in fact ‘shut up,’ and Jaskier, not wanting to press his luck, bit into his pear to prevent himself from saying something that might reverse this progress.

The rest of the night passed without event, Jaskier interrogating Aiden about the battle with the fiend, Geralt lamenting the fact that he had paid for a room he wasn’t even using, yet not leaving despite the fact that he easily could, and Lambert not so sneakily checking over Aiden’s healing wound. Jaskier played a few songs, Aiden having fun with it while Lambert looked as if he sucked on a lemon. Geralt brushed down Roach and combed her mane until it shone, and Lambert and Aiden took stock of what they had left after most of Aiden’s things had gone with his horse, and tried to decide if it was worth it to go scavenge what was left off the mare’s body.

Jaskier fought sleep as long as he could, not wanting to miss anything with three witchers all in the same room (how could anyone sleep from the excitement!), but his traitorous body grew weary, and his blinks, he was sure, were growing longer in duration. Geralt rearranged Jaskier so he was laying down, a bedroll manifesting around him although Jaskier didn’t remember seeing Geralt grab it. His head was in Geralt’s lap, and he felt a hand running through his hair, and he couldn’t resist the lull of rest.

“I’ll take first watch,” he heard Geralt say.

Lambert replied, something about Geralt being paranoid, but Jaskier was asleep before he could make it out properly.

-

Three witchers and a bard walk into a tavern. Jaskier tried not to laugh to himself. It sounded like a set up to a particularly unimpressive joke.

Heads turned, conversations died mid sentence. The duo performing for the crowd slowly faded out before finishing their song. Jaskier was undeterred, per usual.

“Hello my good man! I believe my associate here rented a room from you yesterday. It looks like we’ll be needing two more, I expect the rate hasn’t gone up in less than a day?” The question was a thinly veiled attempt at begging the man to not short them just because they were big scary witchers.

“One more,” Aiden corrected. “Unless Lambert suddenly found his modesty.”

Lambert looked like he was about to unleash the world’s most vile string of stinging obscenities, but the innkeeper spoke first. “Since when do your kind travel in packs?”

“It’s a special occasion,” Jaskier replied airily, and slid a few coins across the counter. “This will cover it, won’t it?” He raised an eyebrow as though it were a test.

The innkeeper hesitated, but relented, taking the money and grumbling for them to not leave a mess.

“Wonderful!” Jaskier praised the innkeeper, and without another word whirled around and led the troop to their respective rooms to unload their belongings. “Aiden, you stay here and rest. Geralt, please retrieve the fiend’s jaw and accompany me to get Aiden’s payment.” Aiden began to argue, but Jaskier held up a hand. “No no, don’t argue with me. I’m going to fetch you a handsome payment for this thing so help me. Lambert, if you could go on and begin shopping for potion ingredients for Aiden that you’re able to retrieve within town? If you tell me the costs, then I can repay you, from Aiden’s contract of course.”

“Are you kidding?” Aiden practically spat. “Where do you get off telling us what to do, bard? I could kill you in under five seconds.”

Geralt was very suddenly blocking Aiden from Jaskier’s line of sight. “You would try,” Geralt corrected, already low gravelly voice impossibly lower.

As hot as it was, Jaskier had no patience for Geralt’s metaphorical dick swinging at the moment. He sighed very loudly, and pushed Geralt back to the side. “If you are done throwing your temper tantrums… We have a busy day ahead of us. Geralt? The jaw?” Geralt shot Aiden a look that had Lambert rolling his eyes so hard Jaskier thought he might lose them in the back of his head before stalking off to do as Jaskier asked. “Lambert, are you as bad as Geralt is at haggling prices?”

Lambert grinned. “Ha, no. Geralt might be one of the worst, actually.”

“But between the two of us, I’m better,” Aiden interjected.

“Well you’re on bed rest,” Jaskier snapped. “You can barely walk without leaning on Lambert, and look, you’ve bled through your shirt just getting here,” he tutted. “Go, take care of yourself before I have these other two pin you down and force you to.”

Aiden, flabbergast, turned to Lambert, clearly expecting him to argue too. Instead, amused, Lambert shrugged. “You heard him, get to resting, or whatever. I’m gonna go shopping, apparently.”

“And if anyone tries to stiff you, pass them by. I’ll circle back around.” Jaskier didn’t wait for Lambert to reply before leaving, meeting Geralt at the door of the tavern and accompanying him to the alderman to collect.

Jaskier spun his usual sort of tale to the alderman, now having Aiden’s injury and near death to present as a reason for a heftier payment being due, presenting the jawbone as an indicator that the fiend was even bigger and nastier than any normal fiend (despite having never seen another in his life), citing Geralt’s presence to collect instead of Aiden as further proof. The alderman, thoroughly convinced, forked over a rather large sum, if the way Geralt’s expression twitched had any indication. Well, after all, how often did a town house more than one witcher at a time?

They met up with Lambert again, finished their shopping, and arrived back at the noticeably less crowded inn laden with plants and powders and all sorts of bits that Jaskier knew, if combined correctly, would kill him but strengthen the witchers. Jaskier felt smug as, even after taking out coin to pay for the shopping, Aiden seemed surprised by the pouch landing in his hands, even going so far as to open it up and mentally tally up how much he had left.

“Shit, what did you do, tell them I died and they had to pay for a king’s burial?” Aiden questioned.

“Close enough,” Geralt scoffed.

“Maybe we should get a bard to tag along with us,” Lambert mused, hovering over Aiden’s shoulder to also peer into the coin purse. “Geralt, you’ve been holding out on me, talking about how he’s loud and has a fucking death wish. I thought you kept him around because you fucking liked him, but I should’ve known better. He’s a goddamn gold mine.”

Geralt frowned, and crossed his arms. “He spends it quick as he gets it,” he grumbled defensively.

“I do not,” Jaskier argued, but then contradicted himself by saying, “I mean, I have to keep my clothes in good condition, after all. And my perfumes… And it’s not my fault that I actually have taste buds that work and like good food.”

“Ah, I see,” Lambert nodded in understanding. “He can’t hold onto it.”

Jaskier sputtered out a defence, but it fell on deaf ears as Aiden spoke at the same time. “Hey, I might be able to get a horse with this.”

“I’d check the next town over,” Geralt suggested. “Most of the ones I’ve seen around here aren’t up for this life.”

Lambert laughed. “Yeah, you would’ve already checked. Looking for your next Roach already?”

“No,” Geralt said, too quickly, and he was promptly teased further for his bond with his mares.

Geralt and Jaskier stayed there that night, but parted ways with Aiden and Lambert come morning, Geralt eager to set out and earn some money of his own again.

“You never asked me how my competition went,” Jaskier pouted as the horizon swallowed the view of the town.

“How was your competition?”

“It was horse shit, no offence Roach. I got second because one of the judge’s nieces was competing and he threw the whole thing. Outrageous, a disgrace. One attendee almost got into a fist fight over the whole thing,” Jaskier sniffed, examining his nails.

“Oh? Was that you, then?” Geralt questioned.

“Me?” Jaskier placed a hand over his heart. “Why, I’m offended, of course not. I am a lover, not a fighter, how could you accuse me of such tomfoolery.”

“I’m convinced,” Geralt deadpanned, but allowed Jaskier to take his hand in his, and Jaskier gently swung their hands as they walked on, humming to himself a light tune between words.

-

+ One (or should I say Two?):

“I’m nervous, is it weird to be nervous? I mean, I know you said I’ve met pretty much everyone already, but it’s a bit different, isn’t it, coming here.” Jaskier couldn’t slow down, his words accompanied by plumes of air against the bitter cold air enveloping him. He pulled the cloak he had recently invested in closer around himself, more for comfort than for warmth. Kaer Morhen had come into view, and the sight of it made the situation more real to Jaskier. He was spending the winter with Geralt, here, with what was more or less his entire family. “I mean, you said Vesemir is basically like all you guys’ father figure, right? I don’t know if I’ve ever actually met any of my, er, entanglements’ parents before, much less of the witcher variety, I’m not-”

“Julek,” Geralt cut him off, Jaskier always freezing at the nickname. Geralt hardly ever used it, but when he did, the bastard, it was terribly effective. “You worry for nothing.” Geralt punctuated the sentiment with a kiss, and, well, it was hard to not believe him. “Come now, we’re running late because of your dawdling.”

Jaskier couldn’t quite feel the pressure of Geralt’s hand in his through his thick gloves, but he let himself be led through the safest path to the gates anyway, and they creaked open loudly when Geralt pushed.

“Well, if they didn’t know we were here before, they do now,” Jaskier huffed.

Geralt just hmed in response, more interested in getting them through the snow coated courtyard. He dropped Roach at an utterly luxurious looking stable alongside a half dozen other horses, grabbed their bags off her back and took off her saddle, and then led Jaskier back toward the huge front doors of the keep.

Jaskier reached for the handle, but before he could open the door himself it was being swung open from the inside. Eskel, eyes bright and smile wide, greeted them on the other side.

“Geralt, Jaskier! Great! Lamb was just about to start dinner.” As he spoke he grabbed Jaskier and pulled him inside by the hand that Geralt wasn’t holding and didn’t bother to brush off any of the snow coating Jaskier’s outer layers before tackling him in a hug. Which resulted in him complaining loudly as Geralt closed the door behind them, effectively cutting off the biting winter air from further attacking Jaskier’s dry, red cheeks. He did not regret buying the fancy expensive lotion tucked in his pack before beginning the journey up the mountain.

A beautiful woman with long red curls and a tanned, freckle-ridden complexion ran into the room, a forest green dress with golden embroidery sweeping around her. “Eskel, where did you- oh!” she came to a halt as she saw the three standing there. “Geralt, it’s been a long while,” she greeted him first, now walking in a more proper manner to stop in front of them before she looked at Jaskier. “Hello, I’m Triss.”

Jaskier might’ve been a claimed man, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have eyes, or honeyed words to spare. He straightened his cloak and cleared his throat, removing a glove to grasp her hand as he introduced himself. “The name is Jaskier, renowned bard and travelling companion to the White Wolf. How lovely it is to make the acquaintance of such an exquisite beauty, and here of all places. It’s nice to know that I won’t be the only one with some class and inclination towards finery here this season.”

Triss laughed, but it was the sort of laugh that teetered dangerously on the edge between being with Jaskier and at Jaskier, a laugh that he was well acquainted with from women who weren’t quite to being interested, but were intrigued. Jaskier knew exactly how to tip the laugh over the edge into strictly with, and transform intrigue into interest (of course, it was never fool-proof, but he wasn’t called a cad and a manwhore for nothing, was he?), but he didn’t, instead returning his attention to Geralt by sliding his now ungloved hand back into his, who for all the world looked like he was doing his best impression of someone who definitely, certainly didn’t care.

“I’m many things, but for now I suppose you can consider me Eskel’s tutor,” she said. “Or maybe you can consider him my experiment. Either way,” she shrugged.

“Friend, potential lover, pain in my ass,” Eskel supplied. “Witch bitch is a personal favourite.”

“You’re a witch?” Jaskier questioned immediately, at the same time as Triss heatedly denied the ‘potential lover’ title. He’d only met one witch before, Yennefer, and every time he left the interactions feeling like he’d narrowly escaped some terrible fate, whether at her hands or some circumstance surrounding her. Triss, however, did not activate his fight or flight upon entering the room, so he surmised that maybe instead of a witch thing, it was just a Yennefer thing.

“I certainly hope so, or else someone has played a very long, complicated trick on me,” she joked. “Come on Eskel, let’s leave them to get settled, hm?” She bid Eskel back to where she had come in from, and Eskel left with a grin and a wink.

“Come on,” Geralt huffed, and led Jaskier in the opposite direction, down a wide hallway with tapestry lined walls. Geralt stopped in front of a door that to Jaskier looked like all the others. “This is my room,” Geralt said, but didn’t move to open the door.

Jaskier knew why without any further information. “Oh good, and here I thought I’d have to ask you to let me share with you,” he said lightly, pretending he wasn’t reassuring Geralt and Geralt pretending he wasn’t reassured, and tugged open the door himself.

The room was simple, and could almost be considered average if not for the sheer size of the fireplace, the hearth stretching wide enough to section off a fair part of the room. It was already lit, and Jaskier immediately began removing layers that had protected him from subzero temperatures on their way in, suddenly far too warm. Geralt hung Jaskier’s cloak for him in a wardrobe alongside a small row of black clothes, pressed tidily in a way life on the go could never afford. A desk across the room was scattered with what appeared to be old potion bottles and dried ingredients, marking that as his work space. A large chest at the foot of the bed made itself useful as Geralt and Jaskier deposited their belongings atop it before beginning to unpack.

“I don’t suppose you have more hangers, do you?” Jaskier asked pitifully, holding one of his favoured doublets in his hands as he fixed Geralt with wide pleading eyes. Hanging clothes... what a luxury it was.

“They’re in the laundry room,” Geralt replied. “We can get them later.” For the moment, Geralt helped him fold his things neatly and place them on the foot of the bed, to not be forgotten. Jaskier utilised an empty drawer Geralt pointed him toward to put away his notebooks and papers and writing things and bits and bobbles.

“I won’t need money while here, will I?” Jaskier thought aloud.

“Not unless Coën and Eskel start gambling,” Geralt said. “But I’d hide it. Aiden is a big believer in ‘finders keepers,’ and though he knows better than to enter my room, I can’t guarantee anything.”

“Who’s Coën?” Jaskier asked as he began searching for an adequate hiding spot.

“One of the only witchers you’ve apparently had yet to meet,” Geralt replied. “He’s… quiet. Nice, I suppose.”

“Like Eskel?” Jaskier found a loose floorboard and pulled it up.

“No, Eskel is a hellion. Coën isn’t trouble like he is.”

Jaskier, having successfully hidden his little bit of treasure, stamped on the floorboard to ensure it was securely back in place. “Oh, so he’s more of the serious type?”

Geralt huffed. “You can meet him and find out the answers to your questions yourself.”

“Don’t you go huffing at me,” Jaskier chastised, and swatted a dagger Geralt was unpacking out of his hand. Before Geralt could express his annoyance, though, Jaskier wriggled into Geralt’s arms, flinging his own over Geralt’s shoulders. They kissed, and Jaskier couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face, interrupting. “Mm, no huffing or growling,” Jaskier reiterated. “Just kisses and nice words.”

“Nice words?” Geralt questioned, amused. His hands tightened on Jaskier’s hips and he ducked his head down to pepper chaste pecks to Jaskier’s neck.

“Mhm, like telling me you think I’m devilishly handsome, or maybe that you love my beautiful singing, or you’re so excited to be able to spend the winter with me, your one and only,” Jaskier supplied self-adulations in a sing song tone.

“Yes, that all sounds like the sorts of things I’d say,” Geralt teased, and kissed Jaskier again.

“Well if you won’t, then I imagine I could cajole Eskel into a bit of praise. He’s a hugger, I wonder what else he’d like to-” Jaskier was cut off by Geralt rumbling. “-Ah ah! What did I say, no growling at me. Tch, you’re terribly behaved, you know I’m just kidding. And here I thought you’d be sweet once we got you home safe and sound.”

“Hmm…” Geralt nosed near Jaskier’s hairline before tugging on his shirt and exposing his shoulder. “You already know you’re good-looking,” Geralt said before nipping at Jaskier’s neck, and he made a sharp sound of surprise, but didn’t pull away. “And your career is your musical prowess, so my thoughts on that are worth little salt,” Geralt kissed away the sting before nipping in another spot. “And you already know I want you here, since I asked you to come,” another sentiment, another nip along his collarbone, and Jaskier was beginning to wonder if he wanted to leave the room, for dinner sure, but more so for the whole of winter. Jaskier was certain they could fill the hours in a number of creative ways, imagination already running rampant as he knotted his hands into Geralt’s hair…

knock knock.

Jaskier startled, but Geralt made no indication to even acknowledge the sound at the door, continuing on his mission to apparently put his mouth on every inch of Jaskier’s clavicle. Another knock, firmer, and the muffled sound of a woman’s voice finally pulled Geralt’s attention. He sighed and straightened, rearranging Jaskier’s clothes to return him to a state of general modesty. Jaskier sympathised with the sigh, casting a longing look toward the bed. It looked so comfortable, too…

Geralt opened the door, and Jaskier’s expectation of seeing Triss or another new face was quickly flattened.

“Oh!” The high-pitched sound escaped his lips without his permission. He quickly scrambled to attempt a shaky recovery. “Yennefer, what a… surprise.”

“Jaskier, it’s wonderful to see you again,” Yennefer said, and although it sounded sincere, Jaskier knew better than to let his guard down. Last time he had fallen asleep around her, he woke to see her caught in the act, scissors in one hand and a fair bit of his hair in the other. Jaskier wasn’t one to hit a woman, but he was one to scream a slew of curses and dash away from a witch.

His scowl at the memory only deepened as Geralt greeted her with a kiss on the cheek, her returning the gesture. Jaskier would swear that she gave him a sly look as she did so, but when they parted her expression had returned to a more neutral gaze.

“Dinner’s ready, Vesemir is making Eskel and Aiden wait to eat until everyone else gets to the table,” Yennefer said.

“Well then, we ought to hurry,” Geralt replied, and slid his arm around Jaskier’s waist as they walked back down the hall the way they had come from previously, settling his nerves.

Vesemir was nowhere near as intimidating as Jaskier expected him to be. Jaskier had an image in his head of a hulking elderly man with a booming voice and a sort of ancient royal presence commanding the room. What he got instead was a man slightly shorter than him with a handlebar moustache and a twinkle in his yellow eyes. He greeted Jaskier with a firm handshake and Geralt with a quick soft hug.

“Eskel was right, you’re looking skinny,” Vesemir noted, gripping Geralt’s arm. Jaskier looked over at Geralt in disbelief. He looked utterly ripped, per usual, all jawline and muscle. But then, he supposed Geralt often did appear healthier in the spring when they reunited post-winter. Jaskier had assumed it was his own rose-tinted vision, always so excited to see Geralt again, but if the plate Vesemir plopped down in front of Geralt was any indication, it definitely wasn’t.

Jaskier settled into the seat next to Geralt, and Yen continued on to sit beside Triss, who beamed up at her as she did so. Eskel was on Triss’ other side, and across the table sat Aiden and Lambert, who seemed to be deep into an argument despite Aiden practically sitting in his lap, and a man Jaskier didn’t recognise with a full dark beard and hair pulled into a ponytail high on the back of his head.

“You must be Coën, then?” Jaskier asked, leaning to reach over to shake his hand. He noticed the glint of a medallion that wasn't a cat or wolf; it was a bird of some kind. Jaskier filed that away for future questioning.

“Yes, and you, Jaskier. I’ve heard your work. You have a diverse profile,” Coën said. He had a warm voice, like spoken campfire, and his eyes crinkled when he gave a small polite smile.

Jaskier almost exploded with excitement, food promptly forgotten at Coën’s words. “Why, thank you my dear, how lovely it is to hear that! Yes, I’m admittedly quite proud to be able to make compositions for a multitude of genres, however more popular my jaunts tend to be. Tell me, do you have a favourite?”

Coën seemed to actually consider this for a moment before replying. “I won’t pretend to know nearly all your works, but from what I’ve heard, I’m partial to ‘Soldier, Poet, King’ and ‘Sing for Your Supper’.

“Of course, King is very popular,” Jaskier nodded, “but who did you come across singing Supper? Not one of my more well-known works.” Jaskier pinched up his face. “I actually don’t remember the last time I even sang that one, it’s so old.”

“I believe I was near the coast in Temeria, a girl was singing and was insistent on crediting you,” Coën explained. “I think she was blonde…”

“Well that is a long list of potential people,” Jaskier said.

“You’ll play while you’re here, right?” Eskel called down the table.

Jaskier beamed. “You’ll be hard pressed to stop me, my friend, especially as I have a fan in my midst!”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Coën said, but his smile came easily, and Jaskier thought he’d have a rather lovely winter with this crowd.

That was, as long as Yennefer didn’t try to turn him into a blue bird again…