Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The world around them is so silent after his confession that you could hear a pin drop. Even the howling of the wind seems quieter, now, as he stares intently at Geralt, heart in his throat, wondering how the witcher will take the news. Seconds pass, then minutes, while Jaskier waits and Geralt processes. And processes. And processes.

It’s once he estimates at least three minutes have passed and Geralt hasn’t moved an inch, his face a blank mask, no emotions betrayed whatsoever, that Jaskier starts to get truly nervous. After another minute passes, he starts to get afraid. And when one more minute passes after that…

“G… Geralt…? Did you… d-did you hear me…?” Jaskier questions hesitantly, heart pounding in his chest, hands shaking as he stares at the motionless witcher. Literally motionless. Not even his chest moves, his face blank as he just… stares. Several more seconds pass in this aching silence, Jaskier growing more and more distressed, and still Geralt does nothing, says nothing, says… s-says nothing.

Fuck. Fuck. He knew this was going to go poorly. He fucking knew Geralt wasn’t going to take this news well. H-he… h-he knew…

It’s just as Jaskier is about to start blurting out frantic apologies, begging for forgiveness he doesn’t deserve, begging for Geralt to not hate him, begging for anything, anything, anything at all, that… that Geralt…

Geralt speaks.

“Princess Cirilla of Cintra is dead.”

The words are said dully. Blankly. No emotion or intonation within them at all. It matches the blank stare upon the witcher’s expressionless face, the wind blowing the hair that’s gotten loose from his tie wildly, but the witcher doesn’t seem to even notice. He just stares at Jaskier blankly, no emotions within those golden eyes, the sight more terrifying than any Jaskier has ever seen.

Shuddering with the panic that’s rising inside of him, Jaskier slowly shakes his head, feeling off kilter and unbalanced, uncertain how to handle a Geralt who is so… blank. He’s- he’s never seen the witcher so blank before. So… nothing.

It’s, quite honestly, terrifying.

“Y… yes. Yes, that- that is the story Mousesack and Queen Calanthe came up with all those months ago. T-to… t-to prevent people from finding out the truth. B-but I assure, that… that’s all it ever was. A- a story. A rumor. Not… n-not true. D-did you… d-did you think it was… was true…?”

Dread begins to fill Jaskier’s stomach as realization floods him, horror rising up beside it when he sees Geralt… Geralt nod, oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

“Oh. Fuck.”

See that… that, he didn’t know. H-he swears, he didn’t know! H-he had no idea that Geralt had heard the rumor, that he- he thought Ciri dead!

But… o-oh. Oh, oh, so much makes sense now, doesn’t it…? The exhaustion on his face when they first met up again. The devastation he’d seen after he’d brought up his Child Surprise during their fight that second week. The aching grief he’d sometimes catch glimpses of when Geralt would look at- at Ciri, fuck, he was mourning the very girl he’s been traveling with for over a month and a half now, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!

“I- I didn’t know. I swear, Geralt, I didn’t know! T-that you… t-that you didn’t— that you thought-! I- I didn’t know! Geralt—”

“Jaskier. Shut up,” Geralt growls out, hands clenching, head bowing, shoulders shaking. Jaskier keens to see it, but dutifully shuts up, body trembling with everything rising up inside of him. See, this… t-this is what he feared. This is what he feared. Geralt… Geralt reacting so intensely to the news. H-he didn’t realize the witcher thought Ciri dead, but he… h-he… “Explain. Now. Please.”

The words wash over Jaskier at first, the dread in his stomach masking their meaning entirely. It’s not until Geralt looks back up at him, a look of intense something in his eyes, something he can’t even begin to describe despite all his endless words, that he finds the words to speak.

“Y-yes, I- I… fuck. S-shall I start at the beginning…?”

At Geralt’s terse nod of the head, Jaskier… Jaskier begins.

“The betrothal banquet was not the last time I performed in Queen Calanthe’s court,” Jaskier begins slowly, figuring that if he’s going to start at the beginning, he might as well start at the very, very beginning. It’s the least he owes the witcher, for all he’s knowingly and unknowingly put him through. Geralt doesn’t respond to his words even a little, just turns his face to look out at the encroaching darkness beyond, and so Jaskier… without any better plan in mind, Jaskier continues. Mind filling with years old memories, flooding his senses until they’re all he can think of… Jaskier continues.

“The second time I received a summons, it was roughly eight months after the first. We had already parted for the season long before that, s-so I didn’t really have to explain it away. Of course, I had been very hesitant about the summons. I had no idea why I’d be requested back in the court after what happened the last time. Figured Calanthe would rather kill me than invite me back to her kingdom. But… one never turns down a summons from royalty. So. I went.”

Jaskier lets out a heavy breath as he recalls that time, his mind going back and forth, back and forth on whether or not he should actually attend or not. On one hand, yes, it would have been social suicide to turn down such a prestigious summons, only an idiot would reject one of the most powerful royals on the Continent, but… a-ah. On the other hand, seeing as how angry said royal had been the last time he’d seen her, he wondered if social suicide wouldn’t have been the better option.

But… he couldn’t deny that he’d been curious as fuck as to why he’d get such an unexpected summons. And he’d always wondered what would become of the young Child Surprise that Geralt had abandoned. So. Even if he had been marching to his doom, at least his curiosity would hopefully be sated.

And in the end…

“Despite my fears, it turned out there was nothing untoward about my summons. It just seemed that the lovely and wonderful Princess Pavetta… was simply a fan of my music. Or, at least. That’s what she always insisted.”

He smiles gently as he remembers the lively Princess as she greeted him at the head of the table, face still pale from the arduous ordeal that was giving birth, but bright all the same when she caught sight of him. Much brighter than she had looked the first time he’d met her, when she’d been anguishing over being forced to marry someone she didn’t love. He’d been privately grateful. Brightness suited her much better.

That brightness had faded a little when she had looked over his shoulder and didn’t see the shadow she had clearly been hoping to spot, but she quickly moved passed it and told him that she was so glad to see him. And, to his surprise, she’d sounded so genuine.

At his hesitant statement that he hadn’t thought he’d ever get such a summons again, she had laughed and claimed brightly that his songs had been stuck in her head for months after his last performance, no other able to do them justice like he could. And so, when her mother (the fucking Queen) had begun preparations for her child’s first name day celebration, she had insisted on getting Jaskier himself to come preform, refusing to take no for an answer. She hadn’t gone into detail as to what she had done to convince the stubborn Queen, but based on the sour look he’d seen from the corner of his eye on Calanthe’s face, he imagines it wasn’t easy. He’d never felt more honored or more touched in his life, bowing lowly as he thanked the Princess sincerely for her humbling words.

“Still, I performed as well as I always do, Princess Pavetta smiling brightly whenever she looked my way. And then… towards the end of the celebration, after most of the guests had gone home… they brought her out. Cirilla.”

Oh, how Jaskier remembers that moment, mind utterly lost in the memory. The royals hadn’t wanted to overwhelm the babe with countless nobles clamoring for a sight of the new Princess. And so, they had waited until the end of the night before bringing her out, when only the most important and prestigious of the guests were allowed to stay, all of them gathering in a small welcoming room to the side of the ballroom. And, for some reason… Jaskier was counted among them, even as the rest of the musicians were dismissed.

He hadn’t questioned it, knowing it was not his place. Nor had he truly wanted to leave, of course. And so, he had stayed, absently playing a soft lullaby like he’d been bid, mind firmly on the cradle that had been carried in. 

And the second he caught sight of that delicate and sweet little babe…

“Oh, Geralt. I lost my heart the absolute second I saw her. Pale blonde hair. Bright green eyes. Teeny tiny little fingers and toes. Oh, she was perfect, so utterly perfect. Watching the Princess lift her up and cradle her to her chest, eyes full of more love than I’d ever seen before… oh. Oh, I knew then. I knew then that there was nothing I wouldn’t do for that little girl, absolutely nothing. And I… I- I knew you’d be the same. I-if you ever met her. T-that you’d fall instantly in love, the same way I did.”

And he did. Think that. As he stared at the tiny babe, swaddled sweetly in her mother’s embrace… he knew that Geralt would be as lost on her as he was. That the second he caught sight of her, his fears and doubts wouldn’t matter anymore, because he’d be so hopelessly gone on her. Hopelessly. Helplessly. Endlessly.

And then… later that night…

“To my surprise, after the celebration was over and the rest of the guests had been dismissed, I had been summoned to Princess Pavetta and Prince Consort Duny’s chambers. For a private performance, I had been told. But when I got there, to my surprise it was only the Princess who greeted me. And in her arms… oh.”

Jaskier has to pause for a second there, throat thick as he remembers that moment. As he remembers the sight of that beautiful little babe sleeping peacefully in her mother’s arms, exhausted from the excitement of the day. She’d been a bit grumpy when she’d been presented to the various royals, tiny pink face scrunched up in disgruntlement at being displayed like a prized pig. But in that moment… in that moment, sleeping peacefully in her mother’s arms, face relaxed in sleep… oh. Oh.

“I had never seen a more beautiful sight. Princess Cirilla. Asleep, peaceful. Tiny chest expanding up and down, proof of her beautiful life. Oh, how deeply I ached, seeing her that way. So tiny. So beautiful. So perfect. I knew then how important she was, how very important she was. To you, yes. But to me… o-oh, Geralt. Geralt.”

He can feel tears swell in his eyes as he remembers how much he had felt in that moment. Gazing upon the child that, unbeknownst to him, would one day be his. His daughter. His little girl. He wonders, now, looking back, if he somehow didn’t realize that. Gazing at her tiny body. He wonders if a part of him hadn’t realized even then what she’d mean to him, one day.

And then—

“A-and then Pavetta came over to me. Slowly. Carefully. She was still so tired, body exhausted from giving birth not even a handful of weeks past. But still she came up to me, smiled so beautifully, and asked… a-asked if I’d like to hold her. C-Cirilla. Ciri. Her daughter. Your… y-your daughter.”

The tears fall from his eyes as he thinks back to that moment. To the awe he’d felt, the honor of being offered such a special and wondrous thing. And he knew it wasn’t because of him. No simple bard would ever have been allowed such an honor, an honor that not even all the Kings and Queens in attendance were offered. No, no.

It was because of Geralt. Because of his connection to Geralt. Pavetta… she believed so intensely in Destiny that she was determined not to deny it, not like her mother had. Perhaps Geralt wasn’t there, and perhaps Queen Calanthe would never allow the connection the way she’d like. But she could ensure that at least someone close to the witcher knew her daughter. And Jaskier…

Jaskier had never felt more honored.

And once he had had that perfect little babe in his arms… after the awkward fumbling and terrified panicking that he’d drop her…

Oh.

“Words cannot describe what that felt like. The emotions that flowed through my chest when I held that little girl in my arms for the very first time. I wonder, now, if perhaps part of me didn’t know then. What she would one day mean to me. How dear she would become. Regardless, I was so utterly lost, Geralt. So completely lost. And I never wanted to be found. Not if it meant being away from that perfect little girl. Oh…” 

Jaskier has to close his eyes at the onslaught of remembered emotions that hit him. The adoration. The love. The fear that he’d never be good enough for this wondrous little girl. Even back then he’d felt it. The inadequacy. The doubt. He’d looked down at the tiny pink babe sleeping peacefully in his arms, so beautiful and lovely and bright, and he’d known even then that he’d never be good enough for her. Never. Never.

Never.

A cold wind blows across the field, sweeping under the twin cloaks that he is wearing, and the bitter chill drags him from his memories. Gasping, he opens his eyes and stares into the darkness beyond, trembling, mind trapped in the past, heart yearning for something he can’t explain. What for does he yearn…? He has everything he could ever want. Everything he could ever desire. He… he…

He shakes himself out of it, out of the past, and forces himself to turn back to Geralt. To the witcher who is still standing motionless across from him, face blank, staring into nothing. Fuck. He’s supposed to be explaining why he’s the guardian of the future Queen of Cintra. Not reminiscing about the past. He… h-he needs to remember that.

Swallowing thickly, he quickly continues, knowing the next part of his tale is one that will not be easy to tell. And he doesn’t want to dally too long. Geralt has always hated it when he takes too long telling stories. He… he would hate if Geralt were to get angry with him now.

And so…

“A-anyway. After that, I was invited back to the castle numerous times. For multiple different occasions throughout the year, but always for Ciri’s name day, and her even more precious, private birthday. And, as the years passed, I grew… close. With the Princess. Ciri, yes, but also Pavetta. She… she meant so much to me. N-not in an untoward way, Melitele no. But… l-like a sister. We… we grew close, over the years. N-not that I ever- ever realized it. Not until it was… w-was too late.”

Jaskier closes his eyes again at that, unable to help it. More tears fall out as he remembers receiving that horrid missive. The words incomprehensible as he read them, mind blank and dull. He’d been in some backwater village with Geralt at the time, the witcher off on a hunt while Jaskier was supposed to be staying behind to perform, to supplement their coin.

He never ended up performing that day. He just sat in their small inn room, missive held loosely in his hands, and stared sightlessly at the wall. Mind flooded with moments he had spent with the lovely Princess. She was only twenty. Twenty summers. Barely more than a child. She’d been so lively, too. Never afraid to laugh, or smile, or sing. G-gods, she was always singing with him.

During the weeks he’d stay longer in the castle, she would always seek him out, mischievous grin on her face as she’d demand (a Cintran Princess never begs, she’d laugh when he’d playfully call her out on her rudeness, eyes twinkling) a song from him. She’d taunt him, tease him, laugh at him when he’d fumble or falter for any reason. Her green eyes would twinkle, and she’d entwine their arms together as they’d stroll through the gardens, demanding stories of his travels that were supposedly banned in the kingdom, but not when he was alone with his Princess.

Gods. She was so much like her daughter that it kills him, now, to remember. She’d been so alive. So beautiful. So loving, gods, how she loved. Ciri most of all. She loved Ciri so very, very much. It kills him to think of how much she adored her daughter. More, even, than he does, he’s sure of it, and such a thing feels impossible.

Jaskier hadn’t loved Pavetta like that, gods, the very thought makes him sick to his stomach. But he adored her all the same. Loved her with everything he had in him. He hadn’t thought on it much while she lived. It hadn’t seemed proper, then. He was just a simple bard, a disgraced viscount if he wanted to try and inflate his status, not nearly important enough for someone so monumental. But in that moment in that inn… the most horrid missive he’s ever received (including the one he received not even three years later) held loosely in his hands…

Oh, how he loved.

And oh, how he mourned.

That was how Geralt had found him, later that night. The witcher had come out of his battle generally unscathed and had been in decent spirits when he’d entered the room. That had quickly faded when he saw Jaskier upon the bed, looking like a ghost. He barely remembers that night, mind as fractured as it was, but he vaguely recalls Geralt kneeling carefully before him, gold eyes intent as he asked, slowly but meaningfully, what was wrong.

“My sister is dead,” he had replied, voice duller and more emotionless than it had ever sounded before or since. Geralt had just stared at him intently, eyes steady, before he bowed his head in deference and sincerely said how very sorry he was.

Geralt had offered to come with him to the funeral, in a roundabout way, but Jaskier had declined. Even if it hadn’t secretly been the funeral for the now late Cintran Princess, he thinks he still would have declined. How he’d been feeling in that moment…

He didn’t want comfort. He didn’t want a friend. He just… he…

“A part of me died the day I learned of her death,” Jaskier whispers, eyes dull and dead as he stares into nothing, trapped in the past. “She was so lovely, Pavetta. So much like Ciri that it kills me now to think of her. Bright and happy and alive, gods, she was so very alive. She was my sister, my little sister, damn what propriety says. And she was gone. Duny, too, though I’d never grown close to him. And Ciri… dear Ciri, precious Ciri… she was now alone.”

She’d been so distraught the day he’d finally entered Cintra, roughly a month past when he’d gotten the missive. He’d missed the funeral proper, as muddled as he’d been, but he’d stopped by the grave on his way into the capital to pay his respects. And to sob uncontrollably in peace, not caring what the various other mourners thought when they saw a simple Redanian bard sobbing over the loss of a royal from a different kingdom.

He’d immediately headed to the castle after that, though. And it hadn’t taken him long to be brought to Ciri, Mousesack himself greeting him at the castle’s entrance to bring him to her, face ancient with grief.

And when he’d finally seen her…

“When I was finally brought to her, she’d been sobbing so hard I couldn’t believe such a tiny being could produce such tears. She hadn’t stopped crying for weeks, Mousesack had told me, and I knew how worried he was. How worried they all were, for that precious little girl. But then she turned to me, eyes red and aching. And once she saw me, she… she ran.”

She ran to him. Crying, sobbing, little heart cut open and flayed for the whole world to see… she’d ran to him and crashed into his open arms, and he knew then. He knew then. He knew then that he never, ever, ever wanted to let her go. Not ever.

Sadly, the world doesn’t work that way. And while Calanthe allowed him to stay for a month… she wouldn’t let him stay forever. And so, despite never wanting to let his little girl go… he had to.

“I stayed in Cintra for a month following the death of the Princess. Calanthe wouldn’t allow me any more time. I spent all of it with Ciri. She was practically glued to my side, only leaving it when forced to. I slept on the floor of her room, woke up to her in my arms more often than not. Calanthe hated it, hated me, but I refused to be parted from that little girl. Fucking refused. But I couldn’t stay forever. I knew that much. So, after a month… I left. I left Cintra, left Ciri, and headed back to you. I… I didn’t know what else to do. Where else to go. Nothing seemed to matter anymore, and I… I- I…”

“You didn’t smile. Not once. After you returned,” a rumbling voice calls out, startling him. Gasping, he feels more tears fall from his eyes as he turns back to Geralt. Geralt, who is no longer motionless. His face is still expressionless, betraying nothing, but he… h-he’s looking at him now. Eyes still dull, yes, but they’re looking. That… t-that has to mean something… y-yes? Yes?

Fuck…

“I know. I didn’t know if I’d ever smile again. But time heals all wounds. And soon it was… easier. To breathe. To live. You… y-you helped. You were so sweet, back then. I didn’t know what to make of it.”

It’s true. Geralt… he’d been so fucking sweet to him. Like a mother hen. He still refused to call them friends, was still distant and supposedly uncaring, but he… h-he would do such sweet things for him. Like buy him his favorite sweets and leave them in his travel bag to find. Or he’d tell him about old hunts he’d been on without being prompted, with detail and everything. Or… o-or hold him close at night, murmuring that it was for warmth, but he knew better. Knows better. Knows it was because of how hard he’d been trembling, tears falling, grief seemingly unending.

“Hm. I was… worried. It wasn’t like you,” Geralt rumbles softly, voice quiet in the haunted space. Jaskier looks at him, sees the softness entering his dulled eyes, and he… h-he…

He trembles.

“No. I suppose not. I’d never felt such grief before. Didn’t expect it. My family… I- I was never close to them. They… they hated me. My parents… m-my sisters… I wasn’t even invited to their weddings or the birth of their children, despite how much of a social faux pas that was. That’s how little I meant to them. S-so, I never thought I’d feel such aching grief for anyone. W-well… for almost anyone…”

It hurts to say that. To reveal just how splintered he was from those who were supposed to love him. He hides it well. Has to hide it well, everyone knows a sad and pathetic bard does not make money. But… he could never privately deny how much it hurt. To be so hated by those who should, by all rights, have loved him most. He had been close to his sisters. Once. Back when they were all little and they loved the silly stories he told them while he brushed and braided their hair. Loved the silly songs he made up and crooned to them when they cried from fright. Loved him, despite his inability to be what their parents wanted him to be. But all too soon, they grew up and became proper little nobles. And he… he didn’t. And they hated him for it.

And so, he didn’t think he’d ever feel so much grief. Not for anyone. Certainly not for them. He thinks he’d have shed some tears if he’d heard of his sisters’ passing, maybe even a couple for his parents. But this deep, aching, unending grief…? No. No, that was not something he’d ever expected.

Well.

Other than for Geralt. Should the witcher… should he…

“A-anyway,” Jaskier forces out, taking in a shuddering breath as he shakes himself from the grief that had settled over his bones, thick and tacky. He forces away the grief, forces down the pain, like he always does, and he… he continues on. “A-anyway. After I returned to you, we spent a couple months together. And then I got the summons to perform for Ciri’s birthday. We’d still been together at the time, now unusual for that time of year, and so I made up some excuse that I needed to perform at some random court somewhere. You didn’t ask, like you never did. And then… we parted ways.”

And that was one of the last times he’d see Geralt for years. Oh, they met up, here and there. Jaskier seeking him out from time to time, when the ache inside of him grew too deep. But Geralt… he slowly grew more and more distant. More so than usual. And Jaskier… Jaskier had met The Countess during Ciri’s name day celebration that year. And with how much he was still grieving, still aching, still hurting… well. It was easy to fall in with a simple love. To let himself be swept up in a whirlwind romance, grand and monumental, even as obviously doomed as it was.

It was easier than dealing with his absolutely hopeless love for Geralt. Than dealing with the ache he’d felt when he finally saw Geralt again after the winter had ended, his smile back in place despite the now permanent ache in his bones, and saw how utterly… disinterested the witcher was in him. Not like he’d been those few months following Pavetta’s death. Not sweet. Or gentle. Or caring. Just…

Fuck.

Point is, he didn’t hang around Geralt as much after that. Couldn’t, with how much he ached now. Love burned inside of him, desperate to break free, and the lack of it in return… oh. He couldn’t handle it. Not then. Never then.

And… then the djinn happened.

And the less said about that, the better.

“Shit was fucked up after that. Needless to say. Y-you know what happened then. I’ll just… skip all of that, if it’s the same to you,” Jaskier says, but doesn’t bother waiting for a response. He doesn’t need one. “So, that brings me to earlier this year. I’d been… wandering. A bit aimless, like I usually am when I travel by myself. I’d just so happened to be near the Cintran region when I… w-when I happened to come across a belabored messenger who said he was looking for me. Curious, I’d accepted the missive. And the words upon it…”

Jaskier shudders to think of that missive. The words that started this whole mess. Black on white, stark against the plain paper… words that spelled the death of another person he hadn’t previously thought of as important to him.

With the impending death of another. 

“I ran back to Cintra as fast as I could once the words processed. A plague. A fucking plague. Eist had already died. And Calanthe… she was soon to follow. I didn’t know why I was being summoned. What my presence would possibly do. But I thought of Ciri. Of that sweet, brave, lovely little girl. And oh, how I flew.”

Jaskier shudders again as he remembers that journey. But he’s already taken so very long with this explanation, and so he does his best to finish it quickly. It’s the least he can do.

“I made it to Cintra in under two weeks, where I was met by Mousesack. He put some spells upon me to protect me from the plague, then took me to the castle. And then… I met with the Queen.

“She was… dying. Very clearly. And what she asked of me… oh. She… she wanted me to take in Ciri. To raise her in her stead. At least until the plague was over and it was safe for her to return. She even said I could take her to you, if I wanted, just as long as Ciri was safe. And I… I…”

Jaskier still remembers that request. Request, not demand. Begging him to take Ciri. To take her beloved granddaughter. To save her from the plague around them.

What else could he have said?

“I said yes. Of course I said yes. I loved that little girl from the moment I saw her, so I knew there was never any other option for me. And I was terrified, of course I was. I had never wanted to be a father, was fucking terrified of being a father, d-didn’t think I- I could… a-and I knew I wasn’t. Her father. Knew I would never fucking be her father. S-she already had a father, Duny, and I… and I knew she had another lined up. O-once I found you. O-once you met her, saw her, saw how incredible she is… I- I knew you’d love her s-so fiercely, a-and I knew I’d have no place in her life, but I- I…”

Jaskier sobs again, looks up to the darkened sky as everything he’s been feeling for months settles upon him all at once. All the fear. The anguish. The inadequacy. All of it. All of it. And he… he…

“I didn’t want to lose her. F-fuck, fuck, I didn’t want to fucking lose her! A-and I knew, I fucking knew you hated me, wanted nothing to do with me, but I loved that little girl like she was my own, loved her more than I thought fucking possible, and I didn’t want to fucking lose her! S-so when I saw you that day, in that fucking inn, when I saw you in all your glory, so fucking beautiful it fucking hurt… I fucking lied. I kept the truth hidden. I couldn’t fucking bear the thought of you taking her from me, so I fucking lied. A-and gods, gods. I- I’m sorry. I’m so… s-so fucking sorry. G-Geralt…”

He heaves in trembling breaths as he finishes his story, tears flowing down his face, everything hurting so fucking much. Because no matter what he told himself… no matter what pretty lies he told himself at night, no matter what his fears whispered… he had no right to keep this truth from Geralt. Especially now that he knows how badly the witcher had been grieving the very girl he’s come to love so dearly. And all because of his fucking fear. Pathetic. He… he’s always been so fucking pathetic.

And Geralt…

Geralt says nothing as silence returns to the world around them. Geralt says nothing as the seconds pass, minutes. Hours, for all Jaskier knows. He just stands there, face cast in harsh shadow, no expression to hint at his inner thoughts. Like a statue carved of ice; beautiful, lovely, but colder than stone. Empty. Nothing.

The silence sits for an agonizing period of time, Jaskier growing more and more distressed as the minutes stretch. Finally, after the moment starts to stretch just long enough for Jaskier to grow unbearably uncomfortable, he finds himself breaking and babbling again.

“Geralt. Geralt, please… please, please fucking say something, I- I know I fucked up, I know you probably hate me now, and I don’t blame you; I could never blame you, but please—”

“You saved her,” a voice suddenly speaks, the sound unlike anything he’s ever heard before. It was simple, plain, but brimming with more emotion than he’s ever heard from anyone before. Let alone Geralt, who… who must have been the one to say it, he’s the only one here, but he… he doesn’t understand, he- he doesn’t… f-fuck, what does he mean by that, what…

“W-what?” Jaskier questions, heart pounding, uncertain as to where this is going. What Geralt means by this. He… he saved her…? What does that mean, what…

He watches, breath held, as Geralt shudders, eyes closing, body trembling before him. And he listens when that low, rumbling voice he knows better than any other begins to speak.

“I heard of the plague two months after it had started,” Geralt rasps, voice shot to hell, but still he speaks, still he continues. Still, he… “I was in Lyria when I heard of it. I immediately turned Roach around and rode as fast as I could to Cintra. I didn’t think about why. I couldn’t. I just rode on towards Cintra.”

Geralt stops here, breath shaking as he opens his eyes and looks into the darkness around them, hair blocking his expression from sight. Jaskier says nothing, does nothing, despite how deeply he aches to rush forward and take the witcher in his arms, words of comfort and regret choking him. Listening to Geralt now, waiting for him to formulate his thoughts, no matter how long it takes… that’s the absolute least he can do. And so…

“I arrived in Cintra roughly three weeks later. Broke through the barricades, didn’t have time to deal with their bullshit. It wasn’t long before I heard about the death of the royal family,” Geralt continues after several minutes, breathing out heavily. And then… then, he turns to Jaskier, eyes dull and dead, lips twisted in a bitter grimace. F… fuck…

“Went to check myself. I’ve learned not to let hearsay sway me. So, I went to the capital and saw the graves myself. It was harder to deny, after that.”

Jaskier briefly closes his eyes at the rasped words, heart aching for the poor witcher before him, at what he must have thought in that moment. Oh, Geralt could protest his emotions all he wants, but Jaskier knows how deeply he feels. How deeply he’s always felt. And while he never wanted to be responsible for a child… Jaskier always knew just how much he would care for her, if he ever allowed himself the ability to. This… this just proves it. The grief he can plainly see on that usually reticent face, the exhaustion and the sorrow that has been crushing him for nearly half a year now, if he does his math correctly… it proves just how deeply Geralt has always, always felt.

“I didn’t bother heading to the castle to check with anyone there. What would the point be? I just left. And did my best to forget how deeply I had failed.”

Geralt takes another deep breath in, before turning his eyes to Jaskier directly, the intensity within them taking his breath away. Fuck…

“But you saved her. Didn’t you? Where I failed… you saved her.”

Geralt’s eyes are still so intense on him, and he’s still as lost this time as he was the last. He can do nothing but stare as he tries to mentally comprehend everything Geralt just said to him, realizing that he… he means… he thinks…

“W-what? What do you mean? How… h-how did I…?” he whispers hoarsely, eyes wide, heart beating wildly, not comprehending anything anymore. Mind frozen, he watches as Geralt begins stalking slowly towards him, like the predator he is, Jaskier not moving an inch as the witcher approaches. He continues to simply watch as Geralt halts before him, eyes so fucking intense, gods above.

“You. Saved her,” Geralt repeats, slowly, meaningfully, annunciating carefully, like that’s the problem here. And… and then… Jaskier’s heart stops entirely when he feels Geralt lift his hand to gently cradle his cheek, so much raw affection in the motion he feels like he’s drowning.

“While I fled, you went to her. Not just now, but before. Her entire fucking life. To the point where when Cintra fell, you were who Calanthe called to care for her. And then you did. You took care of her. You saved her.”

Nope. It’s not making anymore sense now than before. As such, he can’t help but slowly shake his head, body trembling, eyes wide and wondering.

“B-but… but of course I did, Geralt, I… w-what else could I do? Y-you’ve met her. You know how special she is. How could I- I not take her in? Care for her? Fucking love her…? B-but I didn’t fucking save her! I just… just…”

“Took her away from a plague filled city and kept her safe while on the road,” Geralt interjects, voice both gentle yet firm. His hand squeezes slightly, causing a gasp to escape Jaskier’s lips. “Do you know how rare that is? To take a child, of no relation to you, and care for them? Not for any desire of riches or fame, but simply because it’s the right thing to do. You… I have never met a man like you, Jaskier. Not in all my many years.”

Tears begin to fall at the firm words, Geralt clearly meaning them wholeheartedly. But he’s wrong. He’s fucking wrong, of course he took her in, he had no other option! S-she would have been fucking alone if he hadn’t, a child of only six, for Melitele’s sake! What other option did he have…?

“N-no, Geralt, that’s not… I- I had no other option! Please, please don’t make me into some fucking… hero, or some shit, when I’m fucking not. I just did what anyone with any fucking decency would do! What other choice did I have?!”

“You could have chosen to walk away,” Geralt replies immediately, calmly, like he didn’t need to think about it at all. “You could have decided it was not your responsibility and left then and there. Like I did, all those years ago. Or you could have taken her in, but not cared for her. I’ve seen countless men do that. Accept a child for the money, the prestige, then pawn them off on caretakers and nannies to raise. Not once have I met a man take in an unrelated child and care for them so deeply, so thoroughly, that I did not doubt for one second she was your daughter. Not fucking once, Jaskier. In a near century of life, not once.”

He can’t breathe. He can’t fucking breathe, what the absolute fuck. Of all the reactions he imagined from Geralt, this never even came close! Saying that he… he saved Ciri, that he… he did something monumental by taking care of her, when she’s the most precious and important little girl he’s ever met, he just… he doesn’t…

“B-but I… I- I couldn’t leave her. G-Geralt, I couldn’t…” he says, voice weak, tears flowing down his cheeks as everything he’s been feeling for fucking months rears its ugly head. The inadequacy. The terror. The fear. He isn’t a hero because he took her in, he’s no fucking savior. He’s just a man who did the only thing he possibly could do. Nothing more.

And yet…

“And that’s what makes you special. That taking her in and loving her with all you have was the only option you could see. Anyone else in your place would have at least entertained other options. Been tempted. But nothing else even crossed your mind,” Geralt states as he leans forward and presses their forehead together, voice confident, like he knows this for a fact. It hurts worse than anything else ever has, and he shakes his head again, trying to pull away, but too weak to when he feels Geralt’s hand tighten imperceptibly. How could he ever pull away?

“But I lied. Geralt, I- I fucking lied to you. For over a month. I let you go on thinking Ciri was fucking dead, all because I was too much of a fucking coward to tell you the truth. T-there’s nothing noble or heroic about that. Geralt…” he whispers, grasping for straws at this point. To which Geralt just tuts, before brushing their noses together, the hand not cradling his cheek snaking around his waist to pull him closer than he’d ever thought was possible.

“Why would you have?” Geralt returns, voice steady, unyielding. “After everything I’ve said to you, done to you? After all I said about her and Destiny? Why would you have trusted me at all? I do not blame you, Julek, for not telling me. You had no reason to.”

“But she’s yours! Geralt, she’s fucking yours, and I took her from you! I… I- I—”

“No,” Geralt replies, voice firmer and more commanding that he’s ever heard it. And he… he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with that. “No, Julek. You didn’t take her from me. You protected her. From everything. Even from me. You gave her a family, a home, a life she otherwise would not have had, had she stayed in that dying kingdom. And, more than anything else… you gave her back to me.”

Jaskier is full on sobbing at this point, all the anguish and grief and fucking fear he’s felt all these months coming up and out. He feels his legs give out, but it’s alright, since Geralt is right there to catch him and hold him up. Geralt maneuvers them so that he is cradled oh so gently against that chiseled chest, battle roughened fingers running through his hair, as gentle as a summer’s breeze. All while Jaskier sobs his heart out, not knowing how to accept this. How to accept Geralt not just acknowledging everything he’s done, but appreciating it as well. Being thankful for it. He never fucking expected this, in all of his endless musings, and now that he has it, he has no idea what to do with it.

They stay like that for what feels like years, Geralt holding him gently while he sobs like a fucking infant. Eventually, his tears start to dry up, his body still trembling and breath hitching, but his eyes no longer leaking quite as much. Geralt just continues to hold him as he settles further, fingers soothing in his hair, a soft hum coming from his lips that floors him completely once he’s present enough to notice it. A hum that sounds suspiciously familiar…

“Is that fucking Toss a Coin…?”

His heart clenches when he hears Geralt laugh softly, the most divine sound he’s ever heard, followed closely by the amused hum the witcher lets out immediately after.

“Hmm. Thought you’d appreciate that.”

No more words are exchanged after that as Jaskier allows himself to calm down from his heightened emotions, breathing evening out as he just… exists in the witcher’s embrace. His. His witcher’s embrace.

“So. What now…?” Jaskier finds himself mumbling eons later, not wanting to break this fragile moment, but knowing he must. Knowing they can’t keep Ciri waiting forever. Especially not when the poor girl must be anxious as all hell. His heart clenches for the millionth time when he hears (and fucking feels) Geralt hum against him, the hand in his hair pausing, before carefully detangling itself and grasping his cheek once more, pulling back the slightest amount.

“Hm. I think I’d like to kiss you right now.”

And then… he does.

Now, Jaskier has had plenty of kisses in his days. More than he can count. Many that still make his toes curl when thinking upon them, the passion and the desire within them greater than he’d thought he’d ever feel again. Kisses he once went on about in great detail, lauding and lamenting them in equal measure, thinking he’d never again feel such heights.

This kiss blows all of them away. By far. By fucking far.

It starts gentle. Tender. A mere brush of lips, like they’re testing the waters more than anything else. A tease, a whisper. A hint.

It doesn’t take long for it to grow into something far, far more, though. With all of the suppressed longing he’s felt for a fucking decade and a half, Jaskier surges forward after barely a second, a needy whine escaping his lips as he raises his arms and begins clinging desperately to his witcher, fingers tangling in snow white hair, filled with a sudden burning need that he knows will never be extinguished.

And he knows that Geralt feels the exact same way, if the desperate way his witcher clutches him and the soft growl that escapes his lips is anything to go by. It’s intoxicating, and Jaskier can’t help but to try and get closer, closer, needing to be inside his witcher already. And he doesn’t even mean in a sexual way, fuck.

“Fuck. Jask. Fuck,” Geralt growls between kisses, eyes feral when Jaskier happens to get a look at them. Something about it fuels him on, a high pitched whine escaping his lips as he kisses even deeper, his legs lifting to wrap around an impossibly muscular waist. In response, Geralt’s arms just wrap around his lower back and ass to support his weight, effortless and easy. He can feel his lips likely bruising with the force of their kiss, but gods, gods, he just doesn’t fucking care. He’s been fantasizing about this since he was barely an adult, and he won’t let anything take this away from him. Never again. Fucking never again.

He doesn’t think he can quite believe Geralt when he says he saved Ciri. Nor can he fully believe that this is fucking real, and that he hasn’t actually died and this is just a nice dream that’ll get cruelly torn away from him before eternal damnation. But in this moment… in this one beautiful, shining moment… none of that matters. His fears. His uncertainty. His insecurity. None of that matters when he’s kissing those lips that have haunted him for nearly half his life. Those impossibly rough and rugged lips that have ruined him for any other man. Person, really. He’ll never be able to kiss another and not compare them to this one, perfect kiss. Never.

After a few minutes he feels Geralt pull back, the witcher looking absolutely wrecked when he catches sight of him. It causes something wild inside of him to flare, and he immediately dives back into kissing his witcher, gut flaring with heat when he feels Geralt immediately kiss back with equal fervor.

And yet, to his immense displeasure, Geralt pulls away again after only a minute, causing a disappointed whine to escape Jaskier’s lips.

“Hmm, as much as I’d love to continue this, songbird, we should probably stop,” Geralt rumbles, the sound radiating throughout his entire body, which is still being held up by Geralt’s strong arms.

Unimpressed by this assessment, Jaskier quickly does away with it and responds by kissing his witcher again, not bothering with words, infinitely pleased when Geralt immediately kisses back.

Only to be disappointed once again when the witcher pulls back barely a handful of seconds later, voice full of fond exasperation, but no true annoyance.

“Jask, Jask, stop,” Geralt tries to say, only to be interrupted again by Jaskier’s lips. His stomach flutters when he both hears and feels Geralt laugh against his lips, a soft puff of air that tastes better than any ambrosia he could ever imagine. Even if the witcher immediately ruins it by pulling back.  Again. “Hmm. You’re an incorrigible little minx, aren’t you?”

“Damn right I am,” Jaskier mumbles, before diving right back in. It inspires another soft laugh from Geralt, but sadly it doesn’t stop him from his damnable retreat. Curses.

“Like I said. While I’d love to continue this, we have to stop,” Geralt says again, though the soft hunger in his eyes spells how little he wants that.

It causes a pout to form on Jaskier’s lips, and he can’t help but raise an eyebrow in a silent question.

A silent question that Geralt responds simply with, “Ciri.”

With that single word, all the heat that had been filling Jaskier floods out, leaving only cold reality behind. Well. Not all the heat. He doubts the heat that this little makeout session has inspired within him will ever truly extinguish, not ever. But it certainly does dampen things quite a bit.

“Fuck,” he replies eloquently, reminded cruelly of the little girl that they’ve left behind in suspense as they have this conversation. His little girl. Their little girl.

“Hm. Yes, I would like that,” Geralt rumbles, bringing him back to the present. Giving the now grinning witcher a sharp look, he can’t help the heat that burns through his gut, making him want nothing more than to forget everything and have his way with his witcher.

Sadly, with Geralt’s reminder of their daughter, he knows that he won’t be able to do that. He’s a fucking father now, they both are, and they can’t put their desires above her needs. Even if he is sorely tempted to…

But alas, it cannot be. With a wistful sigh, Jaskier pulls back from his witcher, unwrapping his legs from around that delicious waist. More heat flares when he feels Geralt squeeze his ass firmly, before letting go and stepping back. But he doesn’t look away. And the charged look promises exactly what they’ll be doing together once they reach Oxenfurt and have a moment alone. Fuck, indeed.

With their brief yet heated interlude over with, Jaskier turns back to face the direction of their camp, unease roiling through his belly for reasons he’s not entirely sure of. This just… it’s all so much, really. He’s gone through so many different emotions the last half hour or so and the thought of everything that still needs to be done… hm. It’s daunting, just a little.

But as he feels a warm, calloused, and heavily scarred hand slip cautiously within his own, well.

He knows he won’t be doing this all alone.

Not anymore.

Thank fuck.