Archive of Our Own

Even after all of this time (twenty-eight years, if you were so inclined to count), Geralt remains a man of few words. He’s about to leave Jaskier behind for the longest amount of time in years, and he’s spending their last moments together in Roach’s stall, brushing her silken-smooth maine. Spoiled, Jaskier thinks, from his spot on an overturned bucket. It’s not even like there’s any risk he’ll never see her again. It had taken Jaskier a little longer to put two and two together than it should have, but at some point shortly after joining Geralt and Ciri, he’d realized that this Roach was the same Roach that had been traveling with Geralt since long before the dragon hunt. Geralt doesn’t blush, but Jaskier would swear on his inheritance that the tips of his ears took on the faint tint of red when he admitted that Yennefer had tied the horse’s life to his own as well.

There was, of course, no question that Geralt and Roach loved one another unconditionally.

Jaskier doesn’t mind their goodbyes, imagining the misery he’d feel if forced to leave Dandelion for any length of time. The dog is flopped over his feet, her favorite place for an inconvenient nap, and he reaches down every so often to scratch gently between her ears. She’s half the reason he’s elected to stay home while Geralt, Yennefer, and Ciri traipse across the Continent for Melitele knows how long in search of Melitele knows what. The other half is that he’s tired, having seen a lifetime plus of Geralt’s adventures to tide him over for another few decades, thank you. There is, of course, also the matter of the ballad he’s been commissioned to finish in a few weeks time. The commission he’d accepted almost a year ago.

Time has a way of passing funny, when your body still thinks it’s twenty-five and you’ve nearly seen the end of the world twice over.

Finally, Geralt seems content that Roach will not forget him and moves towards Jaskier. He hesitates when he sees the dog, though, almost comically uncertain. She’s only moved in recently, after spending a few days begging around their porch. Then she’d adopted Jaskier immediately, barely tolerating anyone else. Usually, the pleasure of Geralt’s apprehension around a practically harmless, common mutt would have Jaskier smirking and waiting for the outcome. Today, though, he gently pats Dandelion’s side and scoots her off towards the doorway. She complies, looking at him reproachfully, and then glares at Geralt on her way out. I know this is your fault, she seems to say.

Geralt frowns and mumbles, “He was mine first,” glaring right back.

Jaskier has seen the both of them chasing rabbits together, and he’s not terribly worried about their competition for his affections. He quite likes it, in fact.

“Possessive, are we?” he asks as he accepts Geralt’s hand up, and Geralt responds by kissing him fiercely, as if they hadn’t spent the better part of the morning in filthier pursuits.

“Here,” Geralt murmurs against his lips, reluctantly pulling away. He takes Jaskier’s hand and presses something round and hard into it. It feels a bit like a jewelry box, with a strange indented circle over the top.

Jaskier holds it up to his mouth. “Geralt of Rivia is a big softie,” he says into it, hearing his own voice, small and strange from the vicinity of Geralt’s trouser leg. Geralt scowls half-heartedly, a hand unconsciously covering the matching xenovox in his pocket.

“It’s for emergencies,” he emphasizes. “Yennefer’s enchanted them to make it easier to contact one another. And here,” he reaches into his pocket again, pulling out a small, purple gem tied around a leather cord. “Smash it against-”

“Against the nearest surface if I’m in danger, I know Geralt,” Jaskier finishes, smiling gently. “I’ll be fine. I’m fine if you’re fine, remember?”

And Geralt knows, obviously, but he cares about as many people as he has fingers, fewer maybe. Jaskier doesn’t have to be reminded of that fact.

***

Ciri had asked, in that guileless way that still hung about her sometimes like baby fat in those days, how come Jaskier hadn’t aged at all since his last stay at her court. It would have been disrespectful to blame it on a good moisturizer regimen, although he had one, or the faulty memories of a child. Geralt had only responded with one of his more enigmatic hmms, as if he expected that might suffice. Jaskier had rolled his eyes then, and laid it out for her, just enough, and she was perceptive enough to know they’d been sleeping together since practically the moment they’d reunited. And pretty regularly before their separation, as well.

“So if he dies, you die,” Ciri had said, contemplating. “If he gets hurt, do you get hurt?”

Jaskier had to admit he’d never thought about it. Obviously Geralt’s wounds didn’t show up on his body in the same place, and he had maybe only a handful of scars where Geralt had countless. “What if he gets really hurt,” she’d pushed, and Jaskier remembered back to one of Geralt’s fresher scars, from the corpse-eater in the graveyard. Perhaps he’d felt a bit under the weather at the time, but he’d be hard pressed now to say for sure.

Ciri nodded, and said, “But you don’t know for sure.”

Geralt had actually left then, away from the fire and into the dark.

“No,” Jaskier responded, annoyed and knowing Geralt could still hear them. “We don’t know for sure.”

He could have left Ciri alone for a short time, trusting her more and more as she took to Geralt’s lessons like second nature. If nothing else, her screams would have alerted them of danger, and probably taken that danger right out of the picture. He found, however, that he didn’t want to chase after him, and Ciri changed the subject abruptly, maybe sensing the line she’d crossed. She didn’t seem guilty, though.

Geralt didn’t stay away long, he never did anymore. He skulked back just after Ciri fell asleep. He’s probably planned it this way, but he still tucks her into her bedroll, his hand lingering over the short hair at the back of her neck.

Finally, he sat on the overturned log by the fire, leaving a whole person’s worth of space between himself and Jaskier. He looked steadily at the flames. “You should ask Yennefer to undo it.” He didn’t have to explain what he meant.

They’ve never had this conversation before, not exactly. “It’s my choice.”

“It’s my life,” Geralt said harshly, but soft enough that Ciri doesn’t stir. They had become very good at having these kinds of conversations without waking her. They’d become very good at doing a lot of things without her noticing.

“I hadn’t thought about it that way,” Jaskier admitted. “But it’s still my choice. And what would you have me do, age twenty years in a day and retire tomorrow? We don’t know what that would do, either. And besides. If I’m dead, I won’t know it. No matter what happens, I’ll have lived long enough, and seen enough, more than enough. More than most get.” He realized the truth of his words as he said them, and that he really would rather die than try his hand at a normal life.

Unsurprisingly, Geralt had nothing to say. But they watched the fire together, and after a while, Geralt crept closer, and Jaskier let him bury his face in his neck.

***

Against all of the odds, Geralt survived yet, and so Jaskier did, too. And somehow, Yennefer is alive, and Ciri, and even when all four of them plus a dog and a horse are all crammed together in one house, it doesn’t feel like too much. Although Yennfer and Ciri have their own rooms, spaces carved out for them to come home to, they aren’t usually all in the same place like they are now. It was a lightning fast week, late nights leaning over maps at the table, candles burning down to their wick before Yennefer could conjure up new ones. Geralt, Yennefer, and Ciri nearly bumping heads multiple times, arguing over routes and directions with equal hot-temperedness. And then the next minute, Ciri would repeat what Geralt just said in a voice pitched down and gravelly, complete with tensed up shoulders. Yennefer could barely contain her laughter. Geralt looked to Jaskier for help; Jaskier feigned interest in his empty notebook. He really needed to get working on that ballad, he thought. Dandelion chose that moment to look up and growl at Geralt, and it sounded so much like the witcher himself that they were all soon howling with laughter. Except for Geralt, but the full-blow smile on his face was a belly laugh by his standards.

Jaskier had been tired, but it wasn’t in a physical way. He’d already received several impossible gifts in his lifetime; his lute, and the songs that wind their way across the continent and beside warm fireplaces. A daughter, a family he never anticipated or thought he wanted, and would die for losing. His life, and the decades and decades to come. Geralt. When his luck turns, as it eventually must, he wants it to be over something as trivial as a stain he can’t get out of his favorite doublet, or mold in the walls. The writer’s block he’d been contending with for nearly a year.

He couldn’t ask Geralt to stand still any more than Geralt could ask him not to sing. He knew where the three of them were going, and what they were doing. He could probably sketch them a halfway decent map, given how many times he’s traveled with them over the years. The invitation is, as always, there for him to take, should he choose to follow them. But this is not his battle, and he learned many years ago that he’s better served as the calm after the storm. His hands are made to rinse the dirt from Geralt’s hands, his shoulders, his hair. To coax words like reluctant sunshine from his lips, and to bear witness when all he has to give is a heavy, resigned sigh. This, Jaskier can and will do gladly. The rest of it, he’s had his fill.

And he really, really needed to get to writing.

***

Jaskier’s used to portals by now, but they never fail to leave him with a deep, unsettling feeling of wrong . He hates this one even more for being in his own backyard, but it will cut the impending journey in at least half if not more. The other side of the portal shows an unremarkable stretch of the woods. Jaskier’s not sure where it is, but they all decided it was better he didn’t know exactly. In the off chance someone decided it was worthwhile to torture him for information, well, it wouldn’t kill him, but it wouldn’t exactly be comfortable either.

The portal’s gone almost as fast as Yennefer opens it, and Jaskier is alone, left to contemplate Geralt’s strange last words before they parted. A cryptic warning to stay far from the woods on the edge of their property until his return. At least he hadn’t tried to coax a promise out of him, probably knowing by now that Jaskier’s curiosity would only be piqued by such a vow.

On the other hand, Jaskier had wanted this particular house, in part, because of the proximity to the forest. There used to be a horse farm here, not that long ago, until the owners had grown out of the size and decided to upgrade. There’s all sorts of trails, leading out from the main dirt road, winding through the forest, or so Jaskier had been told. For the first few months in their new home, Jaskier had sent Geralt to explore with Roach while he stayed in and worked on his song-writing. It was a time when Jaskier had learned exactly how much cleaning he was willing to do in the pursuit of procrastination (a lot). The rest of their time was preoccupied with equal parts home repair and athletic fucking without the threat of their teenage daughter catching them.

All in all, not a lot of song-writing had been done, and Jaskier hadn’t taken the time to visit the trails with Geralt yet. It seemed almost as if the second they’d finished freshening up the paint, Yennefer and Ciri both had cashed in their open invitation to claim a bedroom, and swept Geralt up in their plan. Jaskier had more or less covered his ears and hummed until they took their conversation elsewhere. Then he’d tried to write down the notes of his impromptu song, but it kept coming out disjointed and weird, and too fast.

Stay out of the woods, Geralt had warned. It was strange, that he seemed to be taking the word of a local fanatic. Jaskier had spoken to the villager himself, first, when he’d knocked on the door and asked for the witcher’s help. He’d introduced himself as Jakub, and swore that something in the woods was luring in children, girls and boys, something they all had seen just a glimpse of, tall and green-grey and terrible. Geralt was in the woods at the time, as Jaskier told Jakub, but he would pass along the story and would seek him out in the village once his husband dealt with the threat. Or proved it to be nothing more than an overactive imagination and foolish children, whatever the outcome.

“Husband?” Geralt had asked when Jaskier relayed the afternoon back to him. “You said I was your husband?”

Of course that’s what Geralt would fixate on, Jaskier thought, rolling his eyes. “Are you not my husband?” he had asked, daring him.

Geralt had looked at a spot of water damage on the ceiling as if it was fascinating. “I’ll check the woods,” he had said. Presumably, at some point, he had. Jaskier couldn’t say for sure.

So Jaskier, alone now, takes his notebook, quill, and ink, and heads towards the main dirt road that leads from their porch, and towards the woods.

He tries not to think about how strange Geralt had been, right after Jakub stopped by. At first Jaskier had dismissed it as a reaction to the word “husband”, as if a witch literally magically tying your fate together wasn’t its own kind of marriage. There were things witchers weren’t allowed, things that had taken Geralt literal years of internal struggle to accept. Most importantly, the concept that witchers were, in fact, allowed to have things. Allowed to want things

Jaskier had learned after ten summers that you could actually do whatever you wanted if you were clever enough to get away with it, and after that, nothing could stop him. The world was just lucky that the sorts of things he wanted were harmless. Music and beautiful weather. Hearing his own songs reaching a new village before him, well-made boots with a bit of a heel that don’t fall apart and don’t look like shit. Geralt coming home, safe. Reasonable, easy things.

Jaskier knows the things Geralt wants are reasonable, and easy too. Geralt has always been so woefully easy to read, and he still doesn’t realize it. Still thinks you can deflect a kind stranger with a gruff attitude. That nobody could tell he pretended not to feel a thing because it was easier than trying to explain the emotions inside of him.

Geralt has accompanied Jaskier to several bardic competitions now, and Jaskier has even managed to coax him to come along to a performance or two at Oxenfurt. At first, Jaskier had thought he attended out of some kind of obligation, as if Geralt would really do something he didn’t want to do. Eventually, he realized that Geralt’s usual scowl had minute differences, each one a subtle critique of one of the performers, each time one of them did something wrong. Which meant that Geralt really was paying attention when Jaskier talked, and more importantly, he knew what to like and dislike because Jaskier had taught him so.

Geralt spends less and less time now on hiding himself from Jaskier, so it’s discomfiting when he does. When it’s impossible to tell if he’s keeping some kind of terrible secret (usually not that terrible), or just on edge because of a particularly bad hunt. He’d directed Jaskier’s gaze towards the edge of the forest a couple of days before he left, asking if the landscape around their property looked different to him. It was an absurd question, almost offensive, that Jaskier could have no idea at this point what their front yard looked like. If by different did Geralt mean that someone (he) had finally cleared the debris of broken down farm equipment from the lawn? That is different, yes, and it only took six weeks of nagging to get done!

Jaskier was really only trying to tease, and he expects some kind of exasperated response back. Not for Geralt to so very seriously direct Jaskier’s attention to the woods, and ask the same question. His jaw was clenched in that way that meant he had something to say but didn't want to. And it was always easier to let Geralt come around in his own time. But this time he didn’t, as if that wouldn’t make Jaskier more desperate to explore on his own.

***

At the space where “dirt road with a lot of trees” meets “actually the forest”, Jaskier sees the flash, tall and green-gray and terrible. Dandelion barks madly, twisting herself into a frenzy, refusing to cross the threshold. Then Jaskier sees the flash again,and Dandelion freezes, and then calms.

He is not a child, Jaskier reasons, far from it. And Dandelion is relaxed now, leaning back on her haunches and scratching behind her ear with one golden paw. Still, he turns around back towards the house. He will have plenty of time to wander, he reasons, as soon as he finishes his commission. The desk in his make-shift study will do, far more than the unforgiving ground he had planned to sit on.

Dandelion casts her eyes back just once. Jaskier can’t quite bring himself to do the same.

***

The first week passes like this: Jaskier wakes up, far later than Geralt could ever stand, makes sure that Roach and Dandelion are fed and happy, and then does the same for himself. Then he stares at his notebook for a little while, sometimes scribbling lyrics or notes. Then when he’s decided it’s time for lunch, he rips the page out of his notebook, crumpling it up and throwing it into the empty fireplace. After lunch he takes a walk, plays with the dog, or maybe takes Roach out for a few circuits around the property. He’ll spend another few hours staring at his notebook, sometimes scribbling lyrics or notes. Then when he’s decided it’s time for dinner, he rips the page out of his notebook, crumpling it up and throwing it into the empty fireplace. He feeds himself, Roach, and Dandelion, and now that the sun has been down for a few hours, gets a fire started. After he’s sure the day’s failures have started crackling away, he makes himself comfortable in Geralt’s favorite chair and plucks out a few songs on the lute. This is, of course, the best time, his favorite way to pass an evening. In a few weeks time, he decides, when his work is completed, he’ll spend a few nights playing in the local tavern.

Sometimes he falls asleep in front of the fire, only waking when it’s burnt down to embers and the cold has begun sneaking in on him. Those nights remind him the most of being on the road with Geralt, waking up shivering and alone in the dead of night to a dying fire. Back then, Geralt would make a show of annoyance, dragging his bedroll closer to Jaskier’s. But he would raise the blankets in invitation, allowing Jaskier to scoot in close, pressing his nose into his neck. Geralt was always so, so warm, and he even sometimes wrapped an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders to hold him close. It was on one of those nights Jaskier had mumbled “Darling,” for the first time, burrowing into the soothing comfort of Geralt’s heated skin. Geralt surprised him then, kissing him desperately, and Jaskier kept murmuring, “Darling, darling,” so Geralt would keep trying to shut him up. They’d fallen asleep like that, when their kisses turned into shared breaths, and woken up impossibly twisted in one another.

But now, when Jaskier wakes alone, and cold, he stays that way. He curses half-heartedly at himself for feeling like such a sap about it, trying not to look too hard at the xenovox he drops on the side table before getting into bed.

***
On the seventh evening, the xenovox crackles to life and Jaskier all but leaps out of bed, pouncing on it. “Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice comes through, somewhat distant but still, undoubtedly Geralt.

“Yes, Geralt, I’m here,” Jaskier responds as calmly as he can, trying not to imagine what sort of problem would cause him to need Jaskier’s help.

“Are you okay?” Geralt asks.

“Yes, should I not be?” Jaskier starts to worry for completely different reasons now.

There’s a concerningly long pause and Geralt says, “No.”

Jaskier considers for a moment. “You said this was for emergencies.”

“I did,” Geralt says, haltingly. “But this week. Things have been, slower, than I expected.”

“Darling,” Jaskier says, almost purring, “Did you miss me?”

Another pause. “Yes,” Geralt admits.

Jaskier licks his lips. “Are you touching yourself, love?”

“Not, not yet,” Geralt says, but there’s a muffled sound like he’s just remembered to start taking off his armor.

“Well, you should be.” Jaskier takes the xenovox back towards the bed and climbs back inside. With one hand he holds the device up close to his mouth, and the other drags his smallclothes down past his hips. He takes his cock in hand, already half-hard, and begins to stroke casually a few times. “I am,” he confesses.

“Yeah,” Geralt says with the smallest hitch in his breath, “I am, too.”

“Tell me how much you miss me,” Jaskier prompts.

“I miss your mouth,” Geralt says from so far away. “I miss the way it feels when you try to choke down my cock.”

“Filthy!” Jaskier cries gleefully, “I’ll do that first, when you get back. I’ll take you all the way into my throat and I’ll even let you fuck my mouth if you want.”

“If I want,” Geralt’s voice breaks.

Jaskier can’t help but groan, warmth buzzing beneath his skin. He wants Geralt here, touching him and kissing him, but the tease of this is so good, too. He can’t help but think he’s going to come soon, spurred on by nothing more than Geralt’s voice and their dirty fantasies. “You’re so greedy,” he breathes, “I bet you’d want my fingers inside your hole while I sucked your cock, wouldn’t you?”

“Then I’d let you fuck me,” Geralt growls, “If you want.”

Jaskier spends into his hand, gasping into the xenovox. Geralt follows a few seconds later, which Jaskier takes as a testament to how miserable and pent-up he feels.

There’s a few moments of shuffling from Geralt’s side, which Jaskier interprets to mean he’s cleaning up. He simply breathes for a while, coming down and enjoying the quiet moment between them. He even finds himself drifting to sleep, until Geralt gently murmurs his name. “Jaskier,” he coaxes, “You don’t want to fall asleep like that.”

And he’s right, of course, the bastard knowing without having to see it for himself. “Okay, okay,” Jaskier yawns and stretches, climbing out of bed. “Don’t let me keep you, if you’re busy.”

“Wouldn’t have gotten in touch if I was.” Jaskier can picture him, leaning back against a pile of too many pillows, shirt off, hands behind his head. He’s probably balancing his xenovox on his chest. “It’s quiet.”

Jaskier hums, hearing the dual meaning. “I miss you too,” he says. He drops the xenovox on the pillow and curls his body towards it. “Goodnight my love.”

“Goodnight, Jaskier,” Geralt replies. Jaskier stays awake as long as he can, listening to him breathe.

***

The next time Jaskier goes to the forest, he brings his lute, and leaves Dandelion with a fresh cut of meat to distract her from following. If Geralt were here, he’d have something to say about the self preservation instincts of children and small animals, but he isn’t, and he’s probably throwing himself into danger right now, like a hypocrite. If there’s anyone best suited to figuring out what’s going on here, it’s the person who can’t get killed by it, surely.

Jaskier still can’t help but play a lullaby as he gets closer and closer to the forest’s edge.

He wanders for a little while, rotating through a library of old songs he knows so well he could play them in his sleep. Songs he’d learned as a child, or during university, and some of the first few pieces he’d written years ago. He skips over “Toss A Coin,” just in case any less than savory parties might infer that a witcher is about.

The forest looks reasonably like a forest. Jaskier has seen plenty of them by now, slept in them, waded through the denser ones with gnarled trees that snapped at his face with their branches. Birdsong trills above him, leaves rustle, a few hares peak out and disappear again. Eventually he finds himself exactly where he began, which he will insist if asked is by design and not luck. There’s no sign of anything out of the ordinary. As he departs, he pauses just a moment when the chirps above him sound suspiciously like the opening bars of the song he was just playing.
Confirmation bias, most likely. Living with Geralt has taught him that monsters aren’t going to tease or toy with you until they’ve got you trapped. Nevermind that he hasn’t mistaken a line of music in his life, and this one has just repeated a second time. But he leaves, and walks home, and nothing stranger happens.

He’s about to go back the next day when there’s a knock at his door. Jaskier expects Jakub or another villager asking whether Geralt had explored the woods yet. He doesn’t recognize the man, which doesn’t unsettle him. He hasn’t lived here very long, and he can’t just assume that every man and woman of age has frequented the tavern when Jaskier graces them with a performance.

“I live just down the road,” the man says, pointing in the direction of the forest. The same direction Jaskier had walked yesterday, although he was certain he did not notice the wood hut sitting there, unassuming, and clearly not built overnight. The view seems to tilt, suddenly, and Jaskier feels light-headed with the urge to look away.

“I guess that makes us neighbors,” he says brightly, smiling his best despite his slight irritation that he’d missed the proximity of the hut when they had first moved in to the farm. Part of the point of moving here in the first place was the town an hour’s walk away. Close enough if they needed it, far enough they could ignore it.

The man seems friendly, but guarded in a way that reminds Jaskier of Geralt’s closed-off nature when they’d first met. He seems, Jaskier realizes, like a man with a secret or two. Well, Jaskier can certainly appreciate that, all things considered. It’s not like he wants everyone to know he’s the same Jaskier who penned Toss a Coin all those years ago, and not a clever copycat. The slight shame in no longer claiming his best work is far outweighed by the relief that no one is wondering why he’s not gone completely grey at the temples and retired to a comfortable lectureship at Oxenfurt.

“You play the lute?” the man asks out of nowhere, breaking through Jaskier’s thoughts. “I would enjoy hearing you play again. Bring your lute to my home, for dinner.” It seems like a request, mostly, and Jaskier finds himself nodding in agreement. “I will see you this evening.” The man turns to leave.

“Wait, I didn’t catch your name?” As soon as he asks, a cool breeze rustles the trees and grass, and the man says, “Borowy,” in a voice that sounds like a whisper, carried in the air. He doesn’t turn around, continuing his path towards his home.

Jaskier realizes the man’s shoes don’t match, and then he struggles to remember why the stranger had stopped by at all. A dinner invitation, he thinks. The man’s eyes were such a peculiar shade of green, almost grey.

***
There’s quite a few of Corvo Bianco’s best vintages in the cellar, so Jaskier grabs one and his lute before he makes his way to visit Borowy. The dog stays behind without complaint, and Jaskier doesn’t realize the strangeness of that until much later. When he reaches the hut, he’s really isn’t sure how he could have missed it the last few times he’d taken this exact path. Up close, the house truly is old, too, roof patched over and over again, brick walls discolored by time and weather, a determined patch of ivy that seems to melt back into the forest. There’s a pen nearby, holding a placid flock of sheep. Jaskier makes a mental note to tell Geralt about those sheep, later. The witcher will never admit it, but his mood is always improved when he spends time with animals of any sort. And since they’re so close, he can conceivably visit them any time he likes.

It takes a few minutes before Borowy answers the door. The moment he appears, another breeze picks up and Jaskier can’t help but shudder just a little as it passes through him. Jaskier had trouble remembering what Borowy looked like all afternoon, even the color of his hair, but as soon as he sees him tonight, the memory slots into place. His hair is auburn, curly, down to his shoulders. His arms are thick from hard work, his chest broad. He’s not quite as toned as Geralt, but, he’s no slouch. The kind of man Jaskier, once upon a time, would happily have approached in a tavern.

The man is obviously a bachelor too, the only occupant of this residence save for the sheep outside. He serves a thick stew, completely meatless to Jaskier’s surprise, and warm, homemade bread. Jaskier can cook well enough (Geralt is hopeless), but this is better than he could produce on his own, perfectly spiced, and it’s complemented nicely by the wine. Once they’ve eaten, Jaskier tunes his lute, and goes on to play some of his classics.

“You wrote these,” Borowy says, not a question.

“Well, ah,” Jaskier stumbles for an explanation, and then just shrugs. “Yes. These are some of the first songs I ever composed.” He neglects to mention that nowadays they’re taught to most music students, and certainly the ones who attend Oxenfurt. There’s a Pankratz School for Bardic Studies in Oxenfurt now, which is absurd, because Jaskier has never had any input whatsoever on the curriculum, although he has been very generous with his donations over the years. There isn’t much need for gold when you make a habit of traveling with Yennefer of Vengerburg, and Jaskier was never one for hoarding money.

Borowy nods along with the music, saying nothing else. Jaskier has long since learned how to observe his crowd while playing, and he can’t help but notice now that Borowy does remind him of Geralt, something about his eyes that glow faintly in the setting sun. It’s something else that Jaskier will only think to wonder over much, much later.

It’s far later than Jaskier realizes when stumbles into bed that night, just this side of tipsy. He falls asleep humming his own songs, thinking of a familiar pair of golden eyes.

***

Jaskier continues to visit Borowy, Dandelion continues to stay behind. Jaskier doesn’t exactly know the social rules of bringing your dog to your neighbor’s house. When he was a boy, his dearly departed mother had a series of little yappy terriers that she kept in her lap at all times, but he doesn’t think those rules apply here. So he keeps getting Dandelion extra nice cuts of meat and meets Borowy for dinner and music.

He keeps meaning to go back in the forest, he just...doesn’t.

On the third night he finds himself in Borowy’s dining room, about a week after meeting, he’s presented with a small box wrapped in butcher’s paper.

“Please, open it,” Borowy prompts.

Underneath the paper, there’s a small wooden box, and in the box sits a ring. The band is silver, intricately carved into a pattern of vines, and in the center is a large jewel, the same shade as Borowy’s eyes. It’s gorgeous.

“Oh dear,” Jaskier says, looking down at the ring, and then at Borowy. “I think perhaps you’ve gotten the wrong idea, my friend.”

“No,” he says calmly. “I know you are a married man.”

Jaskier nods slowly. “I mean, not exactly, but more or less, yes. So what is this?”

Borowy smiles, his eyes flashing. “Let’s say, I’m a hopeful man.”

“I do respect that,” Jaskier shuts the box and hands it back to his neighbor. “However, I must decline.”

Borowy takes it back without a hint of displeasure. “I understand.”

In the morning, Jaskier can’t quite remember how he got home. He makes a mental note to ask Yennefer about the gaudy but expensive looking ring he finds on the kitchen table. Green’s not exactly her color, but it’s not something Geralt would wear, and he certainly doesn’t recall buying it.

He decides to travel to the woods again that day, lute in hand. Just as he reaches the end of the path, he pauses, observing the empty land. He has the strangest feeling of deja vu, and he hates that, especially when he can’t readily explain it. Faintly, he hears the sound of sheep, shrugs the strange feeling off, and continues down the path.

***

When Geralt, Ciri, and Yenn have been gone for a month, it comes to Jaskier’s attention that he could try his hand at gardening. He has a skeleton of a ballad now, mapped out over many an afternoon writing in the woods. He leaves the house midafternoon daily and no matter the temperature when he steps out the door, his little clearing is always perfect by the time he reaches it. Even if it’s pouring while he hurries down the road, one of Geralt’s cloaks thrown over his head.

The other funny thing is that practically from the moment his quill hits the page, Jaskier has been struck with inspiration. And he’s no stranger to criticizing his own work on occasion, but he can’t stand to re-read it once he gets home. Editing is sure to be hell at this rate. So if he’s not editing, and he’s certainly not composing, he should be doing something with his time besides taking naps in sunny spots and re-reading his favorite series of novels about a dashing pirate and his grumpy, monosyllabic first mate.

The weather’s been warming up lately, and according to the woman selling at the flower stall in town, now is the perfect time to get planting. He’s barely gotten started turning the soil when he realizes that the whole aesthetic will be greatly improved if he cordons off his little patch of seedlings with a fence. Perhaps some of those little wooden markers with an image of the plant he’s hoping will grow up behind it. The next day, he’s back in town to purchase lumber, until he has enough to work with.

Back when he graduated Oxenfurt, and even further back, as a little boy who hated getting his clothes dirty, Jaskier couldn’t have imagined he’d ever be doing this. Wearing an old shirt of Geralt’s and a worn out pair of trousers, sweat-soaked, working the wood into a simple but sturdy, mostly even fence. His mother had only encouraged his particular squeamishness around mess and stains, to the point where it became almost pathological. Then he’d spent one hour with Geralt exactly before his best outfit was ruined utterly, and he couldn’t get the dirt out from underneath his fingernails for days. It was exhilarating, and he couldn’t help but start throwing himself head-first into as many of Geralt’s adventures as possible. After a few winters at Kaer Mohren and an unexpected affinity towards woodwork, he’d picked up more than enough to get by.

Another week passes and then Jaskier has a beautifully fenced in garden with the hint of stems peeking out aboveground. The wood is dark and smooth, and Jaskier uses the next week to carve out simple designs on the leftover scraps; a carrot, an onion, a cabbage; and sticks them in between the seedlings. He thinks that Yennefer and Geralt will ignore this completely, but Ciri will enjoy it, and it will be nice to have ready access to cook fresh food. He also makes a mental note to ask Yennefer to do whatever it is she does to make sure his plants actually grow with minimal effort on his part. He plans to travel, with Geralt, and show the witcher what it’s like to enjoy the continent without the threat of war hanging over their heads. If Geralt ever comes home, of course.
***

It’s been long enough with no contact that Jaskier sometimes gets caught up in wondering if the next few moments might be his last. If he’ll have some kind of warning that his time is ticking down, or if it will be like passing out - and then - nothing? Will he be doing something dignified, like playing his lute the adoring crowd at the tavern, or drunk and taking a piss in an alley on his way home? Ideally, he’d like to be with Geralt, if such a thing happens, but he does suppose it won’t really matter, because once they’re both dead, it’s not like they’ll be able to miss one another.

Once his pet project is finished, Jaskier has truly run out of excuses to stop working on the ballad. So he sits down at his desk with several pages of parchment that contain his sorry excuse for work, and promptly falls asleep on them.

He dreams of Geralt, of sharing a bath with him decades ago. There’s no Ciri yet, nothing more pressing than rationing out their coin between contracts. With Jaskier’s steady earnings every night, that’s not even much of a concern. Geralt’s hair is, despite their location, completely dry, vibrant, like it is on the nights Geralt allows Jaskier to brush it out and rub oils into it. Those nights are rare so far, because they don’t know each other that well, yet. Geralt doesn’t trust him, not completely. Jaskier, of course, trusts Geralt with his life and his lute, and loves him, so simply and easily. So much so that he continues to ignore Geralt’s attempts to push him away.

He’s not pushing Jaskier tonight, though. He’s stretched out, loose-limbed, watching Jaskier. His golden gaze is piercing, as inhuman as Jaskier’s ever seen it, drinking him in. Jaskier realizes, abruptly, he’s hard. Geralt is hard. They should do something about that.

He beckons Geralt with one finger, gambling, and to his surprise, Geralt follows, straddling his lap. He’s solid, but not heavy in the way Jaskier anticipated. He fits. He fits in a way that Jaskier has only hoped when he imagined this before.. Geralt leans in, ghosting his lips across Jaskier’s, kissing his jawline until he reaches his earlobe, worrying the skin between his teeth. When Jaskier moans, louder than he should at an inn, Geralt doesn’t scold him or try and cover his mouth.

“Stay with me,” Geralt whispers into his ear, petting Jaskier’s arms, skimming his fingers over the sensitive skin of his ribs. His voice sounds like a breeze, like the rustle of leaves, and something compels Jaskier to lean back, to look at him again, and this time his eyes are all wrong, too dark, his hair in wild, auburn waves where it was once sleek and smooth and white. Water splashes over the edge of the tub as Jaskier tries to escape-

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, worry etched all over his face. In the dim candlelight, he looks like himself again, and Jaskier looks around in confusion. He’s on the floor, he realizes, he’d fallen off his chair, he was supposed to be editing, fuck.

“Fuck,” Jaskier mutters, and accepts Geralt’s hand up. It’s pitch dark outside, and he hasn’t even fed the animals let alone himself. “Wait,” he lets the papers he’s been gathering drop back to the table and looks at Geralt. He can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. “You’re back!” He throws his arms around Geralt’s neck and kisses him thoroughly.

Geralt agrees by humming into his mouth and responding in kind. He’s absolutely filthy, Jaskier notes, can tell immediately because he smells like sweat and dirt, definitely blood. Probably not his own, or if it is, it’s old, because he seems just fine now, his tongue enthusiastically exploring Jaskier’s mouth. Normally, Jaskier would prod him into taking a bath, because he’s on a lifetime quest to teach the man some manners even if it takes the rest of their decades together, but it’s been nearly two months and he’s missed his witcher.

“I missed you,” Jaskier whispers, because he’s still apprehensive of how Geralt might react to the confession, sometimes, but Geralt drops to his knees as if he’s compelled. Startled, pleased, Jaskier watches Geralt press his cheek against his thigh, eyes fluttered closed.

“Nothing smells like you,” Geralt breathes deeply, a habit that Jaskier never imagined he’d miss, and exhales a little satisfied sound.

Jaskier strokes his hair and lets him breathe. He knows how Geralt worries when he doesn’t have eyes on the people he cares about the most. “Is it done?” he asks simply.

“He’s dead,” Geralt affirms, the answer Jaskier was hoping for, and Jaskier intentionally ignores the moisture that leaks from his closed eyes. “Renfri can rest now.”

“You’re so good,” Jaskier murmurs, because he can get away with it right now, gently rubbing Geralt’s shoulders and back, running his fingers through his hair. “Give me a few minutes to feed the kids, and I’ll run you a bath.”

Geralt hums into his thigh again, and they stay, unmoving, for another few minutes.

***

Washing and bathing had been strange between them, at first. Geralt had no problem being touched in the pursuit of the both of them getting off, and any other time he startled away from Jaskier’s touch as if there were little lightning bolts between them. The only notable exception was at the very crack of dawn, if Jaskier woke up first (and he learned to wake up first), when Geralt would cling to him as if he were a child’s toy, nose buried into his nape, holding just tight enough that Jaskier could still breath easily but couldn’t move. Geralt never spoke of it when he woke up, just rolled away and began his morning routine. And every night, he would concern himself with other tasks until Jaskier had picked a spot to lay out his bedroll, and then lay his out beside him. And Jaskier could have tested him, moved a few feet away, but he didn’t want to. He was happy enough, then, happy and young and foolish and halfway in love without really understanding what it meant.

Baths were an in-between time, Jaskier learned. Not every bath lead to sex, and yet Geralt allowed him to touch his fill. He supposes he didn’t give him much of a choice at first, when he fussed over him until he was clean by Jaskier’s standards, high as they were. Even if the only tools at their disposal were a river and one of Jaskier’s preciously hoarded bars of soap.

Some nights, when Geralt still had fading black veins at his temples he would tug on Jaskier’s sleeves, too tired, or too feral still, for wards. Those were the nights Jaskier allowed him his silence and kept his own as well so Geralt wouldn’t be overwhelmed, and allowed himself to be manipulated until he was sitting propped up against one side of the bath and Geralt was in his lap, stretched out, contented. It always amazed Jaskier how Geralt could sink into sleep so easily when he was always so on-edge. His heart beat slow and steady under Jasker’s stretched-out palm, and despite his even breathing, Jaskier knew that the smallest unexpected sound would have him alert and on the offensive. It was a gift to have him like this at all. Jaskier couldn’t have understood yet, but he cherished it all the same.

Since then, Jaskier has seen every side of Geralt possible; true joy, unbridled fury, fear. Never fear for himself of course, but fear of himself sometimes, of how he might accidentally bring harm, or of how someone he cares for might get hurt. When he returns to Jaskier after his secret, unnamed mission (although Jaskier can guess: the name Renfri, confirmation of a man’s death. The world can breathe more easily from the lack of one depraved mage), his shoulders are heavy with it. Still, after years of Ciri’s acceptance and love, years of Jaskier trying to cram into his thick skull that he is good and useful, Geralt carries such a strong aversion to himself. There are still so many things he hasn’t forgiven himself for yet.

When Jaskier finds Geralt in the bathroom, the witcher has already started filling the in-ground tub. Yennefer had a hand in this little feature, which looked like it would have been more at home as part of a bathhouse. She can say all she likes that she did it for herself, but she’s hardly ever there, and it’s impossible to miss the way Geralt cheers when he has access to this sort of luxury on a regular basis. Jaskier knows he’s grown irritated with the lack of it for over a month, as surely as he is currently filthy. His hair is in knots in the way Jaskier never allows to happen anymore, and when he strips, there’s a new, barely healed wound on his shoulder. Jaskier doesn’t have to examine it to know it hadn’t been treated properly.

The room slowly fills with steam as Geralt eases himself into the bath. He hasn’t acknowledged Jaskier yet, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know he’s there. Still, Jaskier wants to watch him for a little bit, enjoy the view before him that he’s been deprived of for so long. Centuries, surely. There’s the barest undercurrent of arousal in his belly, always there when he’s with Geralt. He thinks of the solid weight of Geralt’s cock on his tongue, how lazily Geralt would fuck his mouth…

Geralt cracks an eye open and focuses on Jaskier. “You’re thinking too loudly,” he grumbles. His nose twitches just a little, so fast he could have imagined it, but Jaskier knows it means he can smell that his cock has started to take an interest.

“I don’t get to see you like this that often,” Jaskier defends, although not with much heat. He’s not embarrassed or shy, not after all this time. He’s not worried his half-hard cock will betray him when he climbs into the water and spreads himself over Geralt’s lap.

Geralt’s arm comes to rest against his lower back and hums in a way that indicates Jaskier has permission to do as he pleases. Both of his eyes are closed again. When Jaskier, gently, starts to feel the edges of the scar on his shoulder, Geralt only sighs. He waits patiently as Jaskier presses his fingertips to it, memorizing the feel, and then kisses it. Jaskier also kisses a set of faded claw marks that sit above his heart, the top and the bottom of the jagged line across his eye, gets distracted and kisses his eyelids, and then his lips.

“I missed you,” he murmurs against Geralt’s lips, and Geralt hums back, and kisses him lazily. Both of his hands are loosely holding Jaskier’s hips, and they move to cup his ass as Jaskier kisses his jawbone, his neck, scrapes his teeth across the skin there. “I won’t stay behind next time,” he swears.

Geralt cups his cheek and draws his head back, studying him. “You still haven’t finished the ballad, have you.”

This is what embarrasses Jaskier absolutely, his cheeks hot while he looks away. “I’m very close,” he says somewhat weakly. Geralt is laughing at him, not trying to hide it at all, his face uncharacteristically open. Another way that Jaskier has learned to mean he loves him.

“Rude,” Jaskier tsks, and decides how he will exact his revenge. The bench Geralt’s sitting on means he’s in the perfect position when Jaskier drops to his knees. (Jaskier is certain this is no accident on the part of the designer). Geralt’s cock is soft and mostly submerged, but that won’t take long to remedy. In fact he grows hard quickly in Jaskier’s mouth, and it becomes more difficult to fit him all the way in. Geralt’s not laughing anymore, his eyebrows drawn tight, his mouth open as his breathing picks up. Jaskier focuses on licking the head, getting it as sloppy wet as Geralt likes, holding the rest of his cock in his hand and squeezing rhythmically. It’s not exactly the best location to finger him, but he can work a finger into him slowly, the water easing his way. Geralt spreads his legs without prompting, maybe involuntary.

It takes a little longer to finish Geralt with his mouth, but Jaskier knows how much he likes it, and they have all the time in the world right now. The water makes it so that Jaskier can stay on his knees with ease, and he can take his time missing Geralt’s prostate even though he knows exactly where it is. Geralt doesn’t rush or whine. Jaskier knows he likes this, too, likes to give in and take pleasure, unhurried. He spills in Jaskier’s mouth, his spend spilling sluggishly down and over Jaskier’s hand when he can’t keep up with swallowing it. Jaskier fucks him in time with each pulse.

The temperature of the water is still perfect, steaming around them as Jaskier moves back into Geralt’s lap. He rests his head on Geralt’s shoulder, and his cock, though hard, doesn’t really bother him. He’s content to feel Geralt enjoy the afterglow.

Geralt isn’t content, though, to leave Jaskier wanting. He starts to kiss him, stroking his cock. The kiss is unhurried, leisurely, so Jaskier is surprised when Geralt stops. “Get out of the bath,” he says, low, in that way that means he has a plan. Jaskier has noticed, of course, that if he’s remained hard.

“I’m comfortable,’ Jaskier whines, even as he starts to climb out. Geralt grabs his ankle loosely before he can get too far.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Geralt asks, not much of a request, “Get on your knees and face the wall.”

Jaskier shivers and does as instructed. The room is still warm and inviting, but he knows where this is going all of a sudden. The first touch of Geralt’s tongue to his hole is still a surprise, one that leaves him gasping and overwhelmed. While he eats Jaskier out with absolute precision he arranges Jaskier’s legs over his shoulders and bears all of his weight, so that Jaskier only has to prop himself on his arms for balance. After a while he can’t even do that, resting his cheek against the cool floor and nearly sobbing with pleasure until he can’t hold back any more and comes messily into Geralt’s hand.

Geralt eases him back down and back into the bath, arranging them so that Jaskier is in his lap and on top of his cock. Jaskier goes along with it, easy in the post-orgasm haze, and Geralt seems content to just thrust lazily every so often. Jaskier considers taking a nap.

“You’ve been busy,” Geralt says quietly, and Jaskier’s not really sure what he’s talking about at first. “The fence,” Geralt continues.

Now it’s Jaskier’s turn to hum while he considers, taking a moment to really feel Geralt’s cock between his ass cheeks. He’s not hard again, but he could be, he’s thinking about it. “Not much to do around here,” he says finally. “And it wasn’t difficult.”

“Is there anything you aren’t smug about?” Geralt asks, sounding proud even though he’s trying to sound annoyed.

“I’ll get back to you.” Jaskier deserves it when Geralt bites at the space between his neck and shoulder, and he likes it, too.

***

Over the next few days, Jaskier can’t shake the feeling that there’s something he forgot to tell Geralt. He tells him about what he did with his alone time, sure, but none of that matters, not really. This is something that matters, he’s sure of it. And every once in a while Geralt will get a strange look in his eyes and press down on the medal around his neck. Jaskier thinks he knows why, but the reason dances frustratingly on the edge of his memory.

Eventually Jaskier decides they’re going on a picnic, whether Geralt likes it or not. (Geralt puts up the usual amount of empty protest and then goes along with it, as always.) Jaskier wracks his brain for some anecdote he hasn’t shared yet, maybe something that happened at the tavern in town? A villager asking for help?

“I’m glad you stayed away from the forest,” Geralt confesses in that voice that means he knows he’s risking inflaming Jaskier’s temper, and the sensation in Jaskier’s mind is not unlike what he imagines it feels like when a dam breaks. His mind floods with memories, conflicting ones; bird song that sounds like one of his own compositions, a house that’s sometimes there and sometimes isn’t, Dandelion’s worried whine.

He vaguely registers Geralt’s arm on his shoulder, shaking him gently. “Jaskier?” Geralt asks, and at the same moment, the wind whispers his name, too.

Jaskier looks up to see Borowy standing in front of their spread out blanket, as if they had been waiting for him to join them. Geralt looks at him, anger barely brimming under the surface of his words. “What did you do to him?”

“I gave him a choice,” Borowy says calmly. “He made it.” There’s suddenly a strange weight in the secret inner pocket of Jaskier’s doublet, one he’s certain was not there before. He ignores the silent pissing contest in front of him and reaches inside, surprised to find the somewhat garish looking ring. He pulls his hand away almost unconsciously when Geralt tries to snatch it away.

“Why didn’t you put it on?” Borowy asks curiously, and Jaskier is surprised to find himself handing it to him. He vaguely remembers the strange proposal, although he’s certain he left the ring behind.

“I didn’t want to,” Jaskier says simply, because he doesn’t have any other, better reason.

Borowy nods and walks away.

“You stubborn fool,” Geralt growls fiercely, pressing their foreheads together, and kissing him hard.

***

It’s strange to have his memories back when he didn’t even know they were gone, but there they are, confusing and strange. Along with them there’s another burst of inspiration, which allows him to finish and edit his composition in one, furious night. It decides it’s finished whether Jaskier likes it or not, and he lets it be. It’s not as if his livelihood really depends on it.

Of course, he’s not surprised to hear it’s become quite popular, even if he can never quite bring himself to play it.

Jaskier’s not entirely sure he wants Geralt to explain to him what Borowy is and what’s going on with that forest, but nothing strange happens for several weeks. The locals try and thank Geralt for saving them, but he refuses to accept their thanks. Jaskier says nothing about it at all.

Yennefer doesn’t believe any of it happened, at all, doubled over laughing until she sees the look on Geralt’s face. “If it weren’t for your spell tying him to me,” Geralt starts.

Yennefer shakes her head, eyes almost childishly wide. “Even my magic’s not that strong.”

Geralt frowns. “Then why didn’t he take the ring?”

“He’s right here,” Jaskier says peevishly. “And like he said, he didn’t want to.”

Yennefer shrugs helplessly as Geralt looks at her. “He’s telling the truth.”

Geralt is scowling, closed-off and stewing. Jaskier forgives him for it, like he always does. “It’s over darling,” he says soothingly, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s waist. “Water under the bridge.”

Geralt thaws slowly. “Listen to me next time,” he grumbles, and allows himself to be kissed.

“We’ll see,” Jaskier lies, because they both know he won’t. But maybe next time he’ll try harder.