Chapter Text
Geralt started the White Honey Clinic out of what Yennefer once called an ‘insufferably irrational desire to help people.’ He likes to think of it as using his particular skills to make his community a better place with fewer germs.
What he ended up doing was patching gunshot wounds for a candy assortment’s worth of gangsters and treating mysterious itches for the high profile elite. In short, everything but what a clinic might usually hope to do in a day’s work.
Now and then they do get a few really desperate people, unable to pay at some of the nicer, better-funded clinics in town, and for them, Geralt genuinely tries to do all that he can.
He’s developed a reputation for being incredibly forgiving, cemented after accepting a chicken in payment. His brothers thought this was hysterically funny, but joke’s on them—he has a steady supply of fresh eggs and a pet. Roach is better company than they are, anyway.
He’s reasonably content to spend a rainy Thursday afternoon chatting with Triss, who’s taken some time away from her own practice to make sure that he’s still alive and not chewing off his own tongue from boredom. She’s too damn nice to be seeing Yennefer.
He’s keen to tell her so again, right after he finishes off the lemon muffins she’s brought.
But then there’s a thud at the front door, and she motions for him to stay.
“I doubt you’ve eaten anything today.”
She’s right, but he’s not about to let her mother him straight to hell.
He passes a few moments peacefully, thinking over whether he’s got enough bandages to last the rest of the month with tensions so high in the neighborhood.
He hears—
“Oh! You’ve got your hands full. Little one’s feeling poorly?”
Geralt straightens up. People rarely bring their children here. The space is affordable largely because it’s tucked into an alley between an adult store and a pawn shop. The neighbors are friendly, but the dumpsters and shadows don’t exactly scream ‘Family Physician.’
A man answers, though his voice is soft. A bit raspy. “She has a fever, I think? She’s so warm.”
“Right, I’ll tell the doctor. She’s so young! You must be— Geralt! ”
He’s up and moving before Triss can finish calling his name. She’s standing over a brunet with a baby in his arms, shivering in the cool air of the waiting room. His skin is flushed, and breathing seems to be an audible struggle.
“His skin’s on fire. He thinks it’s the baby.”
“It is a baby.” The man frowns. “Does it look like a goat to you?”
“Shit.” Geralt grunts.
Of all the occasions to become a family clinic.
-
Lambert joked, once, that the only thing that would get an Omega to set foot in White Honey would be an absolute, unmitigated disaster.
Geralt thinks ‘back alley c-section’ probably ranks right up there.
-
Jaskier is fairly certain that he’s dead.
There were brief moments of clarity, in the hazy dark gap between riotous curls and the steady beep of a heart monitor. The cool damp of a wet towel on his forehead, calloused fingers on his shoulders.
The low rumble of an Alpha, providing comfort.
No one has done that for him in months. Not since he told Valdo.
But now, it feels like someone is holding his hand.
The steady beeping continues, and he rather hopes he’s dead. There’s no way he can afford the bill. It’s hard enough to afford—
Wait.
The IV pinches at the delicate skin of his wrist as he bolts upright, but does not—thank the gods—dislodge. He looks around the room, heart nearly clear of his throat and flirting with his tonsils when he spots his daughter nestled in a bassinet by the bed.
By the Alpha.
Still holding his hand.
“I don’t suppose we’re still at the clinic.”
“No.”
“You see, that’s really unfortunate, because there’s no way I can pay for…” He looks over at the IV drip. “Hell, I couldn’t even afford saline. ”
“Good thing I’m paying, then.”
It’s a very kind statement that Jaskier still has enough remaining ego to argue over. He’s very good at arguing. Valdo used to find that “charming.” It hasn’t done him a hell of a lot of good since.
But the Alpha’s eyes sheen over, and he shrinks back.
“You’re lucky you’ve got your baby still, let alone all your organs. Whoever cut you open was a hack .”
That’s harsh.
“There’s scarring. A lot of it. Your body’s fighting off the infection from the knife they used to cut you open. Doubtless unsterilized.”
His face feels hot again.
“He was all I could afford. I asked…” He tries to say for help but his throat closes up on the words.
Because for all his popularity, his family, his tilting at fame, no one had bothered to help. And Valdo had—
The Alpha’s fingers tighten around his own. “I’m not angry with you. No one goes to a sawbones because they want to.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m going to guess you didn’t want them to contact your parents.”
“ Fuck. Did they?”
“Cut up Omega shows up in the ER with an unregistered newborn and no bond mark? They notified your next of kin right before they called the cops.”
“How long…?”
“An hour or so. They waited until you were stabilized.”
Jaskier tugs at their joined hands, already looking around for his clothes. “I need to leave.”
“You need to stay exactly where you are. If you rip those stitches, you’ll have gone through all of this for nothing.”
“ No, if my parents get here before I’m gone this will all be for nothing. They’ll take her and have me declared unfit.” He twists wrong, and feels a wave of pain hit him right in the gut. “ Ha! I am unfit. Look at me. I can’t even hire the right help. My mother will never shut up .”
The Alpha growls, sudden and booming, and Jaskier can breathe through the sudden rising panic. “You did everything you could do. When that didn’t work, you came to the clinic for help.” He stands and finally releases Jaskier’s hand to press him back onto the bed. “Do you want me to help you?”
“I can’t—”
“We’ll work out a payment plan like sane people. Do you want me to help you? ”
“Yes, please.” He whispers.
“I have to make a phone call. Triss will be back in a few minutes.”
“Who are you calling?” He looks up from his attempt to reach into the bassinet without searing pain in his abdomen.
“Lilith herself.”
-
Geralt intended to be back sooner, but it had taken a bit to find a cellphone-friendly area, and a few minutes after that to have a very much needed conversation with the charge nurse.
By the time he returns to his patient’s room—Julian, according to his license—there’s a well-dressed, middle-aged couple shrieking and scowling at him, respectively.
If Julian himself had not warned him, he’d have known something was wrong by the scent of distressed Omega souring the air. He bites down a quelling rumble when Mrs. Pankratz hisses, “What were you thinking, Julian? Disappearing like that and then turning up like this. With a baby , Julian. Unbonded with a baby. ”
“Have you tried to contact Valdo?” Mr. Pankratz asks. “He’s been worried sick.”
“ He’s been worried sick? We’ve been trying to get hold of you for months. Did you think this was a game? You announce you’ve no need of us or the family money, and then you show up ten months later in hospital ?”
It’s like a magic trick.
As Geralt watches, Jaskier grows smaller and smaller, curling in on himself in the bed, fingers grasping again for his daughter, like he can tuck her into his body and shrink and shrink until they’re both invisible and safe.
“Those are the wrong questions.” Geralt says.
The Pankratzes straighten up a bit, under observation. Their posture rights itself into a portrait of near-perfection.
Mr. Pankratz, evidently an Alpha of traditional breeding, squares himself with Geralt.
“Is this the father? Gods, Julian.”
The scent in the room intensifies, distress overlaid with anger .
“‘We’re glad you’re all right, Julian.’ ‘How are you feeling, Julian.’ ‘Thank goodness you’re alive, Julian.” Geralt intones the options as if he were reading off a grocery list, rather than acceptable things to say to one’s hospitalized child. “Your son nearly died. He has a serious infection that could still kill him if he’s not careful, and if you continue to cause him distress I will have you removed. I might anyway, because you’re pissing me off. ”
“You can’t speak to me that way.” Mr. Pankratz barks. “We’re his parents. I’m his Alpha. ”
“No, I am. It’s on the intake forms. I win. Get out. ”
Mrs. Pankratz grows very pale, very quickly. “He is. He is the father. Oh, Julian. ”
Geralt does something that he has done perhaps once before in his lifetime. Vesemir isn’t here to tell him off, and if he were, Geralt is reasonably certain he wouldn’t .
He puts the full force of his Command into his voice and forces them, “ Out. ”
And so they are.
-
“If this weren’t such a horrifically questionable situation, I would kiss you right now.”
“Talk shit when you can walk around without vomiting, Julian.”
“Jaskier. Please. Call me Jaskier.”
“Jaskier.” He nods. “I’m Geralt.”
“It’s lovely to meet you when you’re,” Jaskier waves a hand at him, “not a blurry mass of Alpha noises.”
“It’s nice to see you conscious.”
Jaskier nods, stops short, and bites his lip. He tries to fall back into the pillows and aborts that motion, too, hampered by the discomfort of it. “They’ll call Valdo. They think you’re the father, but Valdo’s still my bloody keeper.”
“I don’t like your parents.”
“No one likes my parents, like no one likes being under siege. Eventually, they capitulate.”
“Valdo’s the father?”
“I’ve not slept with anyone else since he started courting me, despite what virtually everyone of note would have you think, including my dearest ex. He’s a sentient garbage bag filled with ego. I hate him. And he’ll sign the damned certificate just so he can spend the rest of our lives reminding everyone of what a generous Alpha he is.”
“A rich generous Alpha.”
“You’ve got the chorus. Well done.”
“Not if I get there first.”
“...What?”
“I said, ‘Not if—’”
“I heard you, I’m just not entirely certain I’m not hallucinating. Why would you do that?”
“Someone has to be kind to you eventually. I think eventually should start now.”
“You want to be on my child’s birth certificate.”
“If it helps.”
“You want to be the legal father of a stranger’s baby. ”
“If the alternative is you mating a selfish bastard who would have let you die , I’ll take it.”
“I know basic human decency shouldn’t be so attractive, but I think you might be my type.”
“He’s everyone’s type at first. Then you get to the gooey issue-riddled center.” Yennefer’s heels crack against the floor, whip sharp and driven. “You are... Julian Alfred Pankratz?”
“Jaskier.” Both men correct her.
“‘Buttercup.’ Cute. Let’s do us all a favor and press that Call button, shall we?”
“I’m sorry. I’m new here. Who are you?”
“Yennefer du Vengerberg, dearest. Your lawyer.”
“Says who?”
Triss alights in the doorway, cheerful as always, with a newborn-safe bear tucked into her arms. “What did I miss?”
“I have a lawyer and a baby daddy, and it’s not even Friday yet.”
“It is Friday.” Yennefer says.
“Good news all around! What was your name again?”
-
Yennefer’s nails, immaculately manicured, look eerily like claws when she hisses, “You’ve been calling it Baby? ”
Renfri winces from behind her clipboard, but Jaskier can see her smile peeking around the edge.
“I don’t know if he’s caught you up, but I’ve had a life-threatening infection and maybe five hours of sleep .”
“You like flower names.” Renfri says, trying very hard to be soothing. “What about Lily? Aster? Rose?”
“Aster. I like Aster.”
She definitely smiles at him then, coming to hand off the certificate and a pen. “Write it there.”
He takes the pen and writes Aster under ‘Name of Child - First,’ then pauses, tapping the butt of the pen against the next box. “Middle name…”
“Emily?” Geralt offers the most common middle name he can think of.
Jaskier scrunches his nose. “That’s too ordinary.”
“‘The Ripper’?” Yennefer suggests, only to be stopped short at Triss’ disapproving stare. “He named her Baby. ”
“What about Aurelia?” Triss offers, coming over to admire the child nestled safely against Jaskier’s chest. The baby makes a very wet gurgling noise into her Oma’s skin. “It was my mother’s name.”
Yennefer assembles the name. “Aster Aurelia Pankratz.”
“Gods, no.” Jaskier shakes his head, only to stop to shush his irritated newborn. “I hate my name. What’s yours?” He tosses the question at Geralt, who looks suddenly nervous.
“Geralt zi Rivii.”
“Aster Aurela zi Rivii.”
“I feel I should remind you that actually giving Geralt your baby is a bad idea.”
Geralt grunts.
“You’re just miffed she’s not named after you.” Triss giggles.
“She’ll have my unquenchable thirst for vengeance.” Yennefer grins , and Jaskier is genuinely looking forward to watching her eat Valdo Marx.
“Really,” Geralt says. “You can name her anything.”
“And I’m choosing to name her after the first person to give enough of a damn to make sure that I was all right while I was melting inside. I’m naming her after you because everyone else I know is cursed.”
“Right.” Renfri says, guiding his hand back to the page. “Aster Aurelia zi Rivii.”
“Gesundheit.” Yenn chirps.
Jaskier signs the certificate with a malicious sort of glee, and waits for Triss to take Aster before snuggling back down in the pillows. “If I’m unconscious when Valdo gets here, tell him to eat a dick. For once.”
-
Jaskier wakes up, of all things, to Yennefer perched at his bedside, bouncing Aster in her lap and brushing mussed hair from his face.
He stays very still, until she notices and laughs.
“Geralt’s gone to find something to eat, and Triss insists on finding those ridiculous gendered candy cigars from the gift shop. I thought I’d take this time to ask you—can you do clerical work?”
Jaskier blinks. “I graduated Oxenfurt summa cum laude, if that helps. Master of the Arts.”
“Fantastic. We need a front desk worker that doesn’t scare people shitless, and you need health insurance.”
“Why are you doing this?”
For a moment or two, Yennefer is quiet, watching him intently. Then, she begins to smile again. “A few years ago, I was you. Or you-adjacent. No little whoopsies for me, though it wouldn’t be bad with—”
“Who the hell are you?”
Bloody Valdo.
He feels his heart attempt to evacuate down through his stomach when Yennefer’s hand rests on his arm. He watches her demeanor transform from what must be a rare moment of emotional intimacy to Soul Devouring Conquerer. She straightens beside him, poised and elegant. “Yennefer du Vengerberg.”
“The lawyer?”
“The same. And you, darling?”
“I’m the father. ” Valdo grits his teeth, Command seeping into his tone. Ugh. His Command always did feel oily on Jaskier’s skin.
“ That’s your father?” Yennefer gasps. “Either he moisturizes, or you’re vampires.”
“I am the baby’s father.”
“What baby? This baby? This is my goddaughter.”
“Your what ?”
“My goddaughter. In the event of some ill tidings befalling both Geralt and Jaskier, Triss and I will take—”
“Who the hell is Geralt ?”
“He interrupted me. That’s horribly rude.”
“You should kick him. He has weak ankles.”
“ Julian. ” Valdo growls.
But before an ounce of Command can curdle against his skin, it’s replaced by the sudden heavy velvet of Yennefer’s Calm echoes: “ You are unwelcome. ”
Jaskier watches in stunned, delighted horror as Valdo actually vomits.
-
Pride is something that Jaskier no longer has time to trifle with, so he’s quick to accept when Triss asks if he’d like to stay with them ‘just until he gets back on his feet.’
He expects Yennefer to object, but she scoffs at him. “You can’t expect us to let you live with Geralt. He keeps his pantry stocked with instant oatmeal. Plain. ”
“Geralt is a lovely host,” Triss glares at her partner. “But what you need right now is an Omega presence. We’ve got two.”
“We sound like a coupon .” Yennefer sighs, but does not stop clapping Aster’s hands together. She coos, now and then, stimulating the baby and giving off comfort.
Triss forges on, tucking a bit of Jaskier’s unruly hair back behind his ear. “You’ll need someone to stay with you while you recover. Yen and I have flexible schedules.”
“You’re doing too much for me.” Jaskier frowns. “I’m pretty sure.”
Yennefer sniffs. “We’re nice people.”
“When it suits her.” Geralt sighs. “And then sometimes with implied payback.”
“You made Valdo Marx vomit for me. That’s already more than I could ask for.”
“I’m using you for your baby.”
“You are her godmother.”
Yennefer’s eyes actually light up. “Oh, darling. You have impeccable taste.”
It occurs to him that Aster hasn’t cried in hours.
How could he possibly say no?