Heeeeello There🦖🦕

I will sometimes write a part two, or even three or four, but I will never write a long story about the short fics I add here If you like a fic, and want to add to it—just send me a link so I can read what you write lol Also, since it has been a repeat question, here is link to all Witcher stuff I have on AO3 lol: https://archiveofourown.org/series/6421376

[fanficideasupforgrabs]

Link to part one, Geralt's POV of the Jaskier nine lives fic before Jaskier wakes up...so yeah, all angst lol

Geralt walked into the dining hall while idly rubbing his aching shoulder. Repairs to the keep were always an exercise in using strange postures and holds to fix the holes and cracks in the old stronghold, and it was the one reason Geralt wished, a very small amount, that there was still a mage or two around to help with the upkeep.

Although, now that he thought about it, he could consider asking Yennefer for help with the more hard to reach areas that had fallen into disrepair in the last decade or two. Falling heavily into his seat at the bench, he looked up, frowning when he realized both Yennefer and Ciri were missing from lunch.

"Where are..."

Geralt trailed off, just now noticing how the three other witchers were looking at him. The visible discomfort on Lambert's face, the grim set of Vesemir's brow, the pity and concern practically oozing from—

"What happened?" He asked, glancing quickly from one man to the next, trying to discern what they knew. "Ciri, is she—"

"Your Child Surprise is fine," Eskel quickly assured him, and Geralt simultaneously felt a surge of relief and horror—

"Yen? But she—how—"

"The witch is fine, too," Lambert said, rolling his eyes, though he—Geralt could tell they were both speaking the truth.

He relaxed into his seat, feeling the painful way his heart started beating again as he struggled to pull himself together. Yennefer and Ciri were fine, they were at Kaer Morhen. There would be no monsters, or Nilfgaardians, or anything else to worry about. But then—

Geralt inhaled sharply, realizing—

"If they're fine, what...?"

Geralt fought back a growl at the look Eskel and Vesemir exchanged, as if they weren't sure what to say, as if Geralt wasn't over a hundred years old but still the boy who had just been left behind by his—

He grit his teeth, glaring at all three of them.

"Tell me."

For a moment, there was silence.

And then—

"It's the bard," Lambert said casually, amber eyes unreadable as he stared deeply into Geralt's own. "The witch needed him for something, tracked him to an abandoned part of the keep. He—" Lambert swallowed, looking painfully uncomfortable for a moment before continuing, "there was an icicle, that fell on him. He didn't make it."

Geralt stared at Lambert, searching for any of his usual tells. Because there was no way that Lambert was speaking the truth, that the other witcher wasn't—wasn't playing some prank on him that the bard devised. He had to be—

"Lying," Geralt hissed, voice raspier than it was a moment ago. "You're—there's no way—"

"Geralt—"

Geralt pushed against the table, staggering to his feet—

"Geralt, you need to—"

"Where is he?"

Eskel froze, arm still outreached to grab at him, but Geralt didn't need that, he needed—

"Where is he?"

"The infirmary," Lambert said, softer this time, like Geralt was—like Geralt needed—

Geralt marched from the hall, practically running as he he made his way down familiar halls. Lambert was having him on. There was no way the bard, that Jaskier, could be dead. He was—there wasn't—

He slammed the door open when he finally reached the infirmary, eyes immediately drawn to the wooden table where—where—

There was a body on the table, with a sheet over it. Yennefer and Ciri stood by it, looking up at Geralt's entrance, eyes red and puffy and—and there was no reason to cry, Jaskier was fine, he had to be fine, he couldn't—

"Geralt—"

"Leave."

Yennefer and Ciri looked at each other, like Vesemir and Eskel had done only minutes earlier, and the witcher couldn't—he couldn't—

"Leave," he pleaded, voice choked as his eyes never left the table. Never left the form hidden by the sheet, even as Yennefer and Ciri brushed past him, the young princess giving him a hug he couldn't bring himself to return, the mage patting his shoulder once.

He didn't feel his feet walk forward, didn't consciously choose to lift his arms, to pull back the sheet, to—to—

He was pale. His lips were tinged blue, a horrid shade, not at all like the blue of Jaskier's eyes. It wasn't—they were supposed to be bright pink, matching the color that rose high on the man's cheeks, when he was ranting or after a long performance or when Yennefer was teasing him or—

Except there was no color now. The only color was that horrid blue, and the brown of his hair, and he knew, could smell, if he looked further down—

He grabbed Jaskier's hand, ignoring how stiff it was, holding it tightly to his own, and then he—

He choked back a sob as he held it to his face, ignoring the sharp spike of iron on the calloused digits as he cradled it, sandwiching it between his mouth and own, larger, scarred hands.

He was so cold. Jaskier always hated being cold, complained of it constantly come late fall, right before they parted for the year. He'd steal Geralt's cloak, inch himself impossibly closer to the fire, to the point that Geralt would stay up late watching to make sure the bard didn't accidentally burn himself until the flames turned to embers and the witcher could finally rest.

And now Jaskier was cold, and even as Geralt pulled the bard into his arms completely, rubbing his hands up and down the man's back, he wouldn't warm. He wouldn't—couldn't—

Still, he repeated the motion over and over again, eyes clenched tightly shut as the strands beneath his head became saturated with his tears.

He didn't know how long he sat there, Jaskier becoming warmer as he leached heat from the witcher's own body, before he heard the door creak open.

He didn't move, recognizing the scent that was as familiar to him as the blood now soaked through his own shirt.

A moment passed, then two, before he spoke.

"It should have been blocked off."

"..."

"That area was dangerous. He never should have—we should have years ago, why didn't we—"

"..."

"..."

"...you couldn't have known, Geralt."

"..."

"..."

"I could have warned him."

"Geralt—"

"No, I could have—I showed Ciri and Yennefer around," Geralt realized suddenly, inhaling sharply and almost tasting the blood. "If I'd shown him where it was safe, if I'd—"

"Geralt—"

"—this is my fault, I never should have—"

"Wolf—"

"No!" Geralt snarled, finally looking up. He whipped his head around, glaring into emotionless, golden eyes. "That is—he—do not call me that." He finally choked out, the words like shards of glass in his throat.

"Geralt," Vesemir said in easy acceptance, voice a tinge softer. The old witcher stepped closer, and Geralt resisted the urge to growl as he settled his hand on Geralt's shoulder.

"He seemed like a good man," he said after a long moment, and that wasn't—Vesemir didn't understand, didn't know—

Because Geralt hadn't told him. Because Geralt never once mentioned Jaskier to the others, never talked about him despite Eskel's and Lambert's ribbing about the songs they'd heard about the great "White Wolf". Never spoke of the brunet with the other witchers, partly out of embarrassment that he wasn't able to chase one human bard away, and later, because—because then he would have to admit that he liked having the bard around. That Jaskier had become as much a staple of his life as Roach, a constant in the way so few things in a witcher's life ever were.

The sun set in the east, the tide would ebb and flow, and Jaskier would always follow him, steadfast and loyal, no matter how badly Geralt screwed up, no matter how hard Geralt tried to push him away, to hurt him, and now—

Now he was gone. And Geralt felt foolish, for having never mentioned Jaskier to any of the others, out of some misguided fear that speaking of the bard would somehow make it real, and therefore something he could lose. It did nothing to change the way Geralt felt like there was a wild beast clawing its way out of his chest, except that no one else seemed to understand what a horrible loss this was, would never understand how much good Jaskier brought into the world, because Geralt had denied them that. Geralt had told Jaskier, every winter, that the keep was no place for humans, that he would never be welcome here.

And now...

Geralt gently laid Jaskier back down. He grabbed the shirt someone had left behind for the witcher at some point, and carefully dressed the bard in it, doing his best to ignore the still gaping wound.

Jaskier would—he'd never liked wearing dirty clothes, and Geralt couldn't—Jaskier would want to be clean. It didn't matter if the shirt was meant for Geralt, if his own stuck to his chest from the dried—

Slowly, so slowly only a witcher could be sure he was moving at all, Geralt replaced the sheet again. Pretended like he didn't feel something crack irreparably as Jaskier's hands, his mouth, his nose, his eyes, and finally his hair, were covered once more.

He sat down heavily on the chair by the table, head bowed as he listened to the quiet drip of his tears on the stone floor. He cried for the voice he'd never hear sing again, the eyes that would never again light up giving a performance, the hands that would never play even a single note more.

And perhaps, worst of all, he cried for the friend who had died in an unfamiliar place, in agonizing pain, cold and alone and knowing that—

that no one would come.

[fanficideasupforgrabs]

Link to part one

When they do move again, the first thing that happens is Yennefer demanding Ciri show her what spell they used, and switching them back almost immediately. It is unpleasantly jarring to be thrown back into his aching, tired body, but Jaskier merely plasters a grin on his face and quickly goes to grab his lute from where it had hung off of Roach's haunch for the past five days.

(He resolutely is not thinking about the fact that no one had noticed that he—that Ciri—hadn't sung or played a single note in that time. As if music wasn't such an integral part of his very being, that he could just turn it off for apparently no reason and have neither Yennefer nor Geralt sense something was wrong.

Pushing back the hurt as he went through familiar chord progressions, Jaskier debates mentally if it was worth lecturing the other two adults on their lack of awareness. If they didn't pay attention to him even a bit, it would be all too easy for him to be replaced by a Doppler or a disguised spy, and they would be none the wiser. They would—he would be replaced, and it would take days, weeks, maybe months for them to notice, and by then there would—there would likely be nothing left of him to even find.

Jaskier swallows hard, suddenly, not all that hungry anymore.)

As Geralt and Yennefer dispose of the bodies, and they travel farther away from the scene of the fight, Jaskier thinks that that was it. That despite the very strange five days and Ciri's rant, everything is finally going back to normal.

Except that doesn't, exactly, happen.

What does happen is Yennefer magicking Jaskier onto her own horse a couple hours later, claiming she wanted to stretch her legs, and giving the bard little choice except to cling to her black mare. What also happens is Jaskier getting double his usual portion of rabbit when dinner comes around, Geralt muttering something about having caught more today. But perhaps most surprising of all, is when Jaskier wakes not to being shaken for his turn at night watch, but to bright sunlight streaming through the branches above him, signaling it was far later in the day than they usually break camp.

When he sits up, he notices Geralt quietly sharpening Jaskier's own dagger, Ciri and Yennefer bent over the book the princess had found the incantation in, quietly discussing where Ciri went wrong. All three look at him when he moves, and he has to force himself not to flinch under their eyes, unused to such attention these days.

"It seems I missed my shift," Jaskier says, feeling wrong-footed. "I suppose I'll just take over the shift for whoever covered for me tonight, if that's okay? I can—"

"Jaskier," Ciri says, voice her usual strong lilt once more. Jaskier fell silent as she went to their packs, taking out some jerky and dried bread and forcing it into his hands.

She stares hard at him with narrowed eyes until he reluctantly starts eating, mildly surprised at how hungry he was despite the fact he usually didn't eat until at least midday. Which, he supposes as he takes a final bite of bread, it nearly was, what with how late he'd apparently slept.

Seriously, why hadn't they—

"I meant what I said yesterday," Ciri continues, nodding once when she sees he'd eaten everything. It was, simultaneously, both the sweetest and most demeaning act of care he's been shown in a long time.

Still, Jaskier really ought to nip this in the bud. "Ciri, sweet princess, mischievous, fierce lion cub—I'm fine. Truly. There's nothing for you to—to worry, or fret about with me. Really, I—"

"Jaskier, you should know I could feel both of you when I switched you back," Yennefer interrupts this time, an expression on her face Jaskier can't quite read. He would have thought it held something like concern, if it had been directed at Ciri, but it—that wasn't an emotion the mage ever felt towards the bard.

"It wasn't...pleasant," the mage says, a small grimace on her face.

Jaskier tries not to bristle. It's not as if it was his fault that she'd been forced to feel such a thing, when all along he'd just been trying to help Ciri, to—

"Tired humans get sick easier," Geralt says, interrupting Jaskier's trail of thought. "Hurt, too."

The bard's brows scrunch up for a moment as he tries to parse the witcher's words. That almost sounded like—if Jaskier wasn't mistaken—

Jaskier fights hard not to smile at what his two emotionally constipated traveling partners are trying to say without outright putting it into words. He relaxes a bit, letting go of tension he didn't even realize he'd been holding as he basks a bit in the knowledge that—that Geralt and Yennefer did care, they just—just hadn't known. Hadn't been aware that Jaskier has been struggling so much, horribly terrific actor that he was.

He bites back a yawn as he makes eye contact with Ciri again, letting himself match her small grin. It seemed she, too, understood what the others weren't able to say, and found it equally amusing.

But then, horribly mischievous child that she is, she turns to Geralt.

"He's still tired."

Jaskier splutters at her words. "I am not. Really, I slept so much last night, best rest I've gotten in ages!" He insists fervently, well aware of the way that amber eyes were examining him far too closely right now.

He stands up, moving to fold up his bedroll, when one hand grabs his shoulder gently and he notices another—

"Somne."

Jaskier sags instantly, and would have fallen painfully to the floor if he didn't suddenly find the arm on his shoulder wrapped around his back entirely. He blinks slowly up into familiar golden orbs as he is lowered back to his bedroll, thoughts like a fly stuck in honey.

He tries saying something, maybe about how witcher signs were cheating, but Geralt merely huffs a small laugh as Jaskier finds himself fully reclined again. He thinks the witcher is saying something else, but it is too distant for Jaskier to make out, and all at once the bard feels himself drifting off into the velvety ink of sleep.

[fanficideasupforgrabs]

Imagine if Geralt and Yennefer left Ciri and Jaskier alone to go get supplies. And Ciri had the brilliant idea to try out this spell in the book Yennefer gave her, that would allow her to switch hair colors with Jaskier, so that neither would look so noticeable and they could maybe all go into the next town together.

Except, well…

The spell doesn’t end up switching their hair colors.

No, instead, Jaskier blinks, surprised to find the world a fair bit bigger than it was before, his hands smaller, and wow, he feels pretty great, actually—

Which he immediately feels poorly about when he sees that the person standing across from him—in his body—has to be none other than—

“How do you—Jaskier, why does everything hurt?!” Jaskier—Ciri—whines, using his voice, which is—

Ciri plops to the ground, instantly breathing a sigh of relief at giving her aching feet a rest. And yeah, fair, because Jaskier did in fact want to do that most nights, had done that most nights, back before the mountain. Before he'd realized being a bard didn't mean he had to be so dramatic all the time, and that everyone would appreciate if he would just...tone everything down.

"Sorry about that," Jaskier says, wincing when his voice comes out higher than he was used to. "It shouldn't be for long, though. Hopefully Yennefer—"

"No!" Ciri shouts emphatically, sitting up with wide eyes. "I wasn't even supposed to be practicing without her here, and if she finds out what happened, she'll never let me go anywhere again!" She exclaims, arms pinwheeling.

"Please, Jaskier, just—we can pretend, right? Just for a week, while my—your—powers recharge." She suggests, giving Jaskier his own puppy dog eyes, which, honestly doesn't do much for him for the obvious reasons. Seemingly sensing this, she wilts a bit, adding, " And then you can try it, say the words and everything, and if it doesn't work, then...then, we can get Yennefer involved."

Jaskier stares at the girl—man—and winces. It was one thing for him to take the princess's place, to pretend for the next seven days that he was the pseudo-daughter of Geralt and Yennefer. But to have her take his role, too...

"Ciri, this isn't a good idea. You don't—I don't—"

Jaskier's mouth slams shut as Ciri hisses at him, and the bard realizes that Yennefer and Geralt have just stepped through the sound and visual wards the mage had put up before the pair left. He takes in Ciri's wide, pleading eyes, and sighs a bit under his breath. Then he nods, finding little comfort in the look of pure relief the girl gives him, which is quickly masked as Geralt and Yennefer come into the small clearing.

Taking one final second to collect himself, he turns around with a small smile on his face.

This was going to be disastrous.

~•~

In Ciri's defense, she did a lot better than the bard had thought she would, truthfully. She didn't complain about not being able to ride Roach like usual, or the thinner, scratchy bedroll, or even the fact that she now had a two or three hour shift at night where she was meant to watch for danger. It was, truthfully, rather impressive, even if Jaskier was helping her out by insisting they take more breaks throughout the week and sharing more of his food with her when Geralt and Yennefer weren't looking. Every time he helped her, though, she gave him and the others a look he couldn't quite decipher, beyond it not being a very happy one.

Still, Jaskier should have known his luck wouldn't hold. The bard used up all his luck in large, miraculous events every few years or so, and payed for it, it seemed, with the worst luck known to man the rest of the time. Which is why, on the fifth day of being in Ciri's body, he was horrified to find that they were surrounded by bandits, and Geralt and Yennefer had placed themselves between him and the threat. It was their usual formation when facing trouble, but the problem was now—

Jaskier curses as he ducks under Geralt's arm, grabbing a large stick as he races to Ciri's side, where she was trying to hold off two larger, burly men with the singular dagger Jaskier owned. He raises the branch as high as he can, using the element of surprise to bludgeon one of the men, sending him unconscious to the forest floor at the same moment Ciri manages to fatally stab the other attacker.

For a moment, their eyes dart wildly around the small battlefield, only breathing a sigh of relief when they realize Geralt was swiftly dealing with the last man. And then, Jaskier finds himself with his arms full of—well, himself, which would honestly never not be weird—rubbing Ciri's back in a smooth, repetitive manner as she breaths harshly. He was tempted to pull back, to check if she had any injuries he hadn't seen, but she seemed okay.

Still, this whole mess had gone on long enough. He opens his mouth, about to insist she tell the other two what had happened—

"Ciri, what was that?!"

Jaskier blinks as Ciri finally lets him go with one last deep inhalation. He stares at Yennefer for a moment, trying to figure out—

"You don't—you leave the fighting to the adults." Geralt says, voice low in his reprimand, which—oh. Right.

Jaskier swallows, nodding, which seemed to ease the tension in both Yennefer and Geralt as they both quickly inspected him for injuries. This was normal, and—and Jaskier could pretend for a couple more days, he decides reluctantly as Yennefer fussed over the small scrapes in his hands from holding too tightly to the wood. The odds of there being two groups of bandits in the same area were low, and this particular forest didn't have many monsters in it as far as he could remember, so—

Jaskier stares as Ciri swears, loudly, a long sentence or two that was, honestly, just pure filth. There were words in there he was pretty sure he'd never actually used before, which he found rather impressive, truthfully. He'd have to ask her where—

"Jaskier and I accidentally switched bodies five days ago," Ciri says, once she was apparently done with swearing.

And—yeah, okay, Jaskier supposes almost dying would put certain things like youthful pride and being grounded into perspective. Jaskier carefully disentangles himself from a now-frozen Yennefer and Geralt as Ciri speaks about what happened, and why they hadn't told either of them the truth. He links his arm with Ciri in silent support as she explains, proud of her for not only admitting to her mistake but also being willing to accept whatever punishment they saw fit to give her.

"Ciri, while you should have respected my instruction—" Yennefer turns her eyes to Jaskier, then, expression going noticeably colder. "It was Jaskier's job to ensure you obeyed it. He is the adult in this situation, not you."

Jaskier does his best not to wince under her ire, to shrink in on himself—

"No." Ciri hisses, voice suddenly much firmer and angrier than it was only a second ago. "You don't get to talk to him like that, to—to—"

And then, of all things, the former princess of Cintra growls.

"I have spent the last five days living as Jaskier, and I can honestly say that if I were him, I'd have sold you both out to Nilfgaard ages ago."

Geralt and Yennefer flinch, hard. Even Jaskier baulks at her words, wondering what on earth she was—

"You don't let him a ride on either of the horses, even though Yennefer and I could easily give him a turn—"Ciri says, holding up a finger. "Not to mention you make him keep watch at night, and then don't let him have a rest on one of the horses like Yennefer does. And you don't—"

"Ciri—"

"—you don't give him enough food, either." Ciri continues, electing to ignore Jaskier tugging at his own doublet to get her to stop as she holds up a third finger. "You give him the smallest portion of all of us, even though he spends the whole day walking!" She practically shrieks, and then—as if her words weren't bad enough—

"Look!" She cries, holding up Jaskier's chemise to show off his visible ribs. "It's like a wolf in his stomach, constantly gnawing away! It would make it impossible to sleep, if every day wasn't so incredibly exhausting." Ciri says, voice suddenly infused with the kind of bone-deep weariness that spoke of days, weeks, perhaps even months or years in the making.

Yet somehow, she finds the energy to stand tall, hands fisted as she says, "then you don't even defend him. When he's exhausted, and hungry, and thirsty more often than not, too, in case I didn't mention that. No, instead you both crowd around—well, around me, and expect the human bard to somehow defend himself with—with this!" Ciri shrieks, holding up the small, still-bloodied dagger.

There was complete silence for a moment, as Ciri breaths heavily, no one willing to interrupt her if she wasn't finished.

Finally, Ciri says, voice suddenly defeated, "and I never knew. I never noticed, the way you—the way we—treat him. It's not—I can't—"

Jaskier steps forward and pulls Ciri into a tight hug before he even realizes he is moving, the instinct to protect-comfort-soothe a strong pull he doesn't even try to resist. He lets her head rest on top of his own, ignoring how strange it felt to be hugging himself.

"Ciri, it's not...I'm okay. Really," he insists quietly, running his hands through the long brown strands. "I'm an adult. I don't—"

"If we hadn't switched bodies, you would have died today, Jaskier." Ciri says, voice choked as she bites back a sob.

Jaskier swallows hard, not sure what he could say to that. "I'm a better fighter than I seem," he comments lightly, trying to ease her guilt and pain. "Really. Why, there was this one time—"

"Please, don't—"

Jaskier bites his lip as something close to a whine comes from Ciri's—from his mouth, a sound he vaguely recognizes as one from those long nights spent alone after the dragon hunt. It was a wounded sort of noise, and not one Jaskier would ever make willingly in front of anyone else, if it was still him in his own body.

It doesn't surprise him to find two extra pairs of arms loop around Ciri, then, to try to offer whatever silent comfort they could. They stand there long enough for the birds to begin chirping again, for the smell of iron in the air to fade some despite the bodies still on the ground.

[fanficideasupforgrabs]

Imagine if Ciri had a genuine fear and sadness over not having a home anymore. If she constantly woke up from nightmares of being alone again, like she was after the fall of Cintra, sobbing at the knowledge that every room, every nook and cranny she once played in was just...gone. If she had a little voice that spoke in the back of her head, whispering that she would never have a home again, because she was a wanted princess who would never be wanted anywhere.

It takes five weeks on the Path with Geralt, Yennefer and Jaskier for Ciri to finally admit what has been haunting her in her sleep. She stutters and cries as she explains, worried about what they'll say about such foolish thoughts, and—

"You will always have a home at Kaer Morhen," Geralt finally rumbles, physically unable to keep the words to himself any longer as he places his hand on Ciri's shoulder.

The girl's tears slow as she leans into the touch, but don't stop, and so Yennefer wraps around her other side—"and I have a manor. In Vengerberg. There will always be a room there, just for you."

And Ciri gives a small smile to the mage, and looks to Jaskier—

Except the bard isn't looking at her. He is staring resolutely at the fire, which is—it's fine, Ciri has Yennefer and Geralt, and that's enough, truly! It's just she'd thought—with how he'd sung for her and taught her how to play his lute and all—

"You will...you'll always have a place, by my side. If—" Jaskier swallows visibly in the faint glow of the campfire's embers. "If you want it, that is."

Oh.

Ciri blinks as the witcher and witch tense.

"And...Lettenhove?" She asks hesitantly, vaguely surprised she remembers the name, as it wasn't mentioned by the bard nearly as much as—"Oxenfurt?"

The bard shrugs, a purposely relaxed motion that is not at all convincing. "I—didn't leave, on the best of terms. And, I suppose—I get temporary housing, when I teach there in the winter sometimes, so there's that," the bard shrugs again, even more stiff this time, the smile on his face twitchy as if he can't quite make it want to stay.

No one says anything for a long moment, and then Jaskier claps his hands once, the noise startlingly loud in the unsettling silence.

"Well, I for one am still quite knackered, and seeing as the sun is still far from making an appearance, I think I'll get some more shut-eye," he announces with his usual flare, walking back over to the bedroll he'd abandoned in his aid to comfort Ciri. And it was that most of all which was telling, really, because Ciri woke him with her screams more often than not and never once did he make a complaint about missed sleep.

Suddenly, Ciri finds she's untangling herself from the other two adults, grabbing her own bedroll before making her way to the bard. Jaskier looks at her with mild bemusement as she lays hers down so close to his they touch, before lying down. She ignores their stares as she gets settled, reaching out and grabbing the bard's hand firmly in one of her own.

"Thank you," she finally says, when the bard has relaxed some. "For...for making yourself my home."

The bard's breath stutters, and his hand squeezes hers tightly for a long moment, loosening as he looks at her with the first genuine smile she's seen on his face since she woke up. She notices how his eyes gleam brightly, the fire reflecting the tears in his eyes that don't fall, before she lets her own fall shut.

In the morning, she'll pretend to be asleep as Yennefer and Geralt have a similar conversation with Jaskier, about a home always being there if the bard wants it. She can tell in his voice that he doesn't believe it, that he can't accept that there is a place he can go that doesn't have to be earned, where he will never be turned away. It is sad, if perhaps a bit expected, and Ciri resolves to drag the bard along with her to Yennefer's manor and Kaer Morhen until he understands that a home is not just a place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

But that a home was also something you somehow haven't to deserve.

[fanficideasupforgrabs]

Imagine if Jaskier was the god of singing.

Jaskier knew what the older, more powerful gods thought of his choice to live amongst mortals. He knew the danger it posed, the risk it brought to allow oneself to be shaped, to be influenced by the whims and minds of temporary beings. He remembered the anger, the worry his sister had shown him all those years ago, that Jaskier would somehow lose his will to sing, to maintain his godhood.

Jaskier had laughed at the very idea that one day, he would lose the will, the desire, to sing.

Jaskier wasn’t laughing now though.

He wasn’t really doing much of anything.

After all, what good is a bard without a lute? What’s even the point of a bard when they’re trying to do the opposite of drawing attention to their motley group of mage, witcher, and wanted princess?

Nothing, that’s what.

And for the first time Jaskier feared less what happened to a god that walked away from their domain and more what Geralt would do if he—if he managed to piss him off enough to—

(Jaskier couldn’t, he wouldn’t, go back to that life, of singing songs to other gods and goddesses who had no interest in music and dying slowly from the inside.)

Jaskier wasn’t sure how gods and goddesses died though. Not really. So when one early morning, he woke up to Geralt frantically patting him, to the witcher speaking of a heartbeat that had stopped and a form that seemed to flicker, Jaskier was just as surprised as him. But then there was a second—just a split second, truly, Jaskier would swear on it—where the bard’s recognition must have been written on his face, because Geralt froze. He stared at Jaskier as the bard tried to stammer out an excuse for what must have happened, of catches of light and strange breathing patterns and—

“You’re lying.” The witcher said, voice flatter than Jaskier had ever heard it and impossibly distant.

Jaskier looked away, because he knew. He was intimately aware of how no one could truly lie to a witcher, not even a god, not with how—how weak, he’d recently become. The birds didn’t chirp as brightly as before, the streams gurgled harshly, and even Geralt had looked at his sword in confusion for a moment, the other day, when he went through forms with Ciri and the steel didn’t seem to—

Jaskier should care, he thought, that he was dooming the world to live without song by his actions.

In reality, as Geralt turned the bard’s face until he was forced to look into smoldering golden eyes, he found he couldn’t care less if it meant the witcher put up with him for one more day.

“What is wrong, Jaskier?” Geralt asked, voice low and faintly demanding.

Jaskier glanced to the side, surprised, distantly, to find that Yennefer and Ciri were awake now and talking quietly a distance away. They looked his way for a moment, and Jaskier could see in the grey of dawn the…the concern, on their faces. And that was—he hadn’t meant to—

“Jaskier,” the witcher—he’d been gripping the bard’s shoulders before, but now was leaning over him, and oh—when had—Jaskier hadn’t mean to lie down—

“It happened again,” the witcher hissed, voice noticeably more ragged than before. “Jaskier, I don’t care what you did, but you need to tell me what’s happening. I can’t—I can’t fix it, not if I don’t—”

Jaskier shook his head, ignoring the witcher's growl as he blinked—

Jaskier stared at the small group surrounding him now, wondering when that had happened. Three pairs of eyes looked down on him with a mixture of concern and relief, which was—it was—

"Sing, Jaskier," the mage said, and Jaskier stared at her, trying to figure out how she knew— "you need to sing, now!"

Jaskier frowned, honestly not really wanting to sing. He felt so...so floaty, so detached from his own body, in a way that felt nice. Like all of the world's problems were just floating away from him, or really that it was him, flying away from them all—

"Please, Jaskier. Sing for me?"

And—and oh, the sweet child seemed so sad, so distraught, and he could—he could fix that, right? He knew just the right—

Against his will, his eyes found Geralt, and he let his mouth fall shut. That was right, he wasn't supposed to—

"Sing, Lark. You don't—let me hear you sing," the witcher said, voice strangely choked, and no, that wasn't right, Geralt shouldn't—

"Pick me flowers from the paths, we walk together, hand-in-hand," Jaskier sang, his voice little more than a whisper. "A different bouquet every time, and not one that's bought from a stand."

Jaskier inhaled, finding the action easier than it had been in weeks. "So all the times I walk alone, I feel your presence always there," he smiled a bit, at the lyrics to the old lullaby. "In every fragrance that I smell, by forests, lakes, nigh everywhere."

Jaskier closed his eyes a moment in the silence that followed, only to feel a small hand wrap around his wrist, squeezing insistently until he opened them again.

"The one about the dove, Jaskier," Ciri said, voice shaky but insistent. "The—you know—"

Jaskier nodded as best he could, and felt as the witcher moved behind him, helping him to sit up some. "There is a dove that's hard to catch, it's sweet and lovely as can be. It comes to those who have good hearts, it does not judge by what eyes see."

Jaskier took a deep breath, "And it avoids those who are cruel, all those who'd like to do it harm. Although they grin and play pretend, the bird avoids them with alarm."

The bard frowned a bit, wishing Ciri had requested something a bit nicer. Something that wasn't so painfully real, that made him feel grounded in a way he no longer wanted to be. "The worst people in life are those, who know they won't receive your love. And so they settle for your tears—these are the ones who shoot the dove."

"Good, that's—that's good, Jaskier," the witcher spoke, his words a rumble through Jaskier's chest. The bard realized, suddenly, that he was practically sitting in the witcher's lap. "How do you..."

"Better," Jaskier confessed quietly, noticing suddenly that his voice was now barely audible over the sound of the birds in the trees and the wind pulling leaves to and fro.

The witcher's arms tightened around him, just a bit. "I've...I like the dancing one," Geralt confessed, sounding painfully awkward at his admission. " With the stars."

Jaskier swallowed, biting back a laugh at the realization that of all the songs Jaskier had written over the years, the hundred or so alone he'd written about the witcher himself, Geralt had requested the one song Jaskier had ever sung about himself. About a glimpse of what he was, before he was the White Wolf's bard.

It took him a second to even remember the tune, as it had been many years since he'd even thought about it, but when he did...

"I danced amongst the twinkling stars, I laughed and twirled and spun and sang. Time had no start and thus no end, of pain I felt no single pang." Jaskier smiled, brighter this time, taking in the genuine looks of interest on Yennefer’s and Ciri's faces to the song that was new to them. "The asteroids played their music so, they strung the strings within my soul. Colliding with such awe-some bangs—artistically, with great control."

Jaskier's fingers tapped out a quiet beat on his thigh, "And suns beamed down upon my face, the spotlight I had often yearned. Of brighter things I had seen none, but my eyes twinkled, unconcerned."

Jaskier rocked his head a bit, instead of the full-bodied thing he usually did at this part. "The black holes pulled me here and there, they wanted me within their grips. And so I swayed between them all, with leaps and sometimes even dips."

Jaskier laughed in surprise as Geralt leaned them both back at his words, like the bard was wont to do at that part. And then, voice almost too quiet for him to hear, let alone the others, he sung, "the planets moved their moons along, still never did I try to stop. For if I ever tried to breath, I fear it's then that I would drop."

Jaskier settled his head against the witcher's shoulder, feeling strangely drained. But it was, for once, a good feeling. Like the ache in one's muscles after a long day of walking, or the sting of Jaskier's fingers after a long performance.

"Rest," Geralt said, voice softer and warmer than it had been since he'd—since—

Jaskier closed his eyes once more, allowing himself to put aside that thought for later. For now, he would let the sound of his traveling companions whispering lull him back to sleep.

It was, he remarked mentally with a small smile hidden by a black tunic, music to his ears.

[fanficideasupforgrabs]

Imagine a modern-day witcher AU that was set in, of all places, the state of Florida.

Geralt is, of course, a gator trapper, and is rather married to his work, until the day he gets a call from CPS. Apparently his one night stand nine years ago had resulted in the birth of a little girl, Ciri, which the woman he’d slept with had neglected to tell him. He likely never would have known that he had a daughter, the sweetest, kindest person he's ever had the pleasure of meeting, if the girl’s mother hadn't gotten into a terrible car accident.

He feels bad, truly. But as soon as he sees Ciri for the first time, clutching a small lion stuffed animal and gazing up at him between strands of long platinum blonde hair that matches his exactly, he feels a small pit of emptiness in his heart he didn't even know he had filling. It feels…it feels like everything wonderful he didn’t know he needed.

But the problem is, Geralt works. A lot. And he needs to work even more to support this new child, buying her all the necessities and furnishings and looking into a bigger place with a yard and in a good school distict and—

So, he hires a nanny. Or, well, a manny, to be more precise.

Ciri loves him.

Geralt comes home the first day to find them singing along to karaoke on the TV, Ciri's smile bigger than all the one's she's given him so far in the week he's known her, and he decides he doesn't like Jaskier at all.

(Seriously, what kind of name is Jaskier? And who does he think he is, messing up all the blankets and rearranging the furniture to make what is, unfortunately, a rather impressive pillow fort. It’s infuriating, because now Geralt has to pick it all up, and listen to Ciri talk for the next half hour as he puts her to sleep about how great the aspiring musician is, and honestly, his singing was subpar at best—

Geralt definitely doesn't pause outside of the front door the next day for five minutes, just listening to them sing some song about having a friend, and sticking together and loving each other. To his dying breath, he'll deny the uncomfortable twist that forms in his stomach at the words.)

He meets Ciri in February, and in April he's able to get a week off to take her to Legoland and Universal, which the little girl absolutely loves. He finds himself buying her overpriced food that she doesn't finish, and at least a dozen souvenirs that he knows she probably won't end up playing with for more than an hour or two when they get home, but she's—she's so happy, and he can make her happy. He suddenly understands why so many of the kids he ends up meeting through his work are spoiled brats, and finds that the thought of Ciri growing up spoiled in the same way fills him with no small amount of his own happiness.

Even the musician, over time, begins to grow on him. It helps that the man takes to cooking dinner for the group of three, even going shopping for ingredients when Geralt begins sending him with his card. He's wary of course, at first, but finds that not only does the man spend a reasonable amount at the grocery store, but that he simultaneously teaches Ciri about the value of a dollar and the benefit of saving a bit here and there in order to splurge on something worthwhile. It's a lesson that Geralt can admit, begrudgingly, he would have struggled to teach her.

So Geralt no longer subsides on frozen dinners, Ciri comes running to greet the gator trapper every day after work, and Geralt finds himself willingly trading his nature documentaries for children's movies the girl has half memorized and sings loudly along with, only a little pitchy these days due to the musician's occasional vocal lessons. Life is...honestly, a lot better than it has ever been for Geralt. He would, tentatively, call it good.

And then, well...

School lets out for the year.

And one awkward conversation later, Geralt realizes that Jaskier actually has a part-time job outside of being a manny for him and making music, which somehow...the quiet man had never realized.

Which forces Geralt to, reluctantly, fire Jaskier.

It's...it makes sense. It does! It was one thing to have Jaskier there for the few hours between when school ended and Geralt was finished with work, but now Ciri needs someone to watch her ten hours every weekday, to be a stable presence in her life for the next two and a half months, and he should get someone with more experience. Someone who has a background in teaching kids maybe, or can show her how to do more things than sing.

Jaskier seems to understand, and gives him a sad smile as he walks out the door, looking one last time at where his former-charge is sleeping on the couch after falling asleep. The movie they'd been watching, something with a clownfish and a girl with braces, plays quietly in the background as Geralt picks up his daughter and carries her to bed. He can't help but smile a bit as he tucks her in, happy at how peaceful and content she looks, a far cry from what she was like four months ago.

And then Geralt tells her he's looking for someone else to watch her for the summer, and, well...

It's the last time he sees her with anything close to a positive emotion for the next two weeks. He tries four different nanny agencies, as well as two freelancers who have glowing reviews online. All of them quit after the first day or two, unable to handle the emotional taxation of a child who just...doesn't stop crying. Won't stop howling, practically, to the point that the cops are called at one point, and then Geralt misses half a day of work sorting all of that out.

And Geralt is so tired. He knows he shouldn't give in, that it's wrong to punish bad behavior with a reward, but Ciri's eyes are permanently puffy and red with eye bags that match his own, and he can't help but ask her where she wants to go. If there's any place he could take her, that would make her happy.

So they end up at Disney World that Friday after he calls in sick. Magic Kingdom, to be more precise. Which, honestly, he probably should have taken her to sooner with how often the movies she watches are made by the company.

It's good, to see her screaming in delight on a roller coaster and stuffing cotton candy her mouth. She doesn't smile quite as widely as she usually does, but it's something, and more than enough for the gator trapper to put up with the noisy crowds and frequent shoves that make his skin crawl.

Geralt would honestly call the day a win. Ciri is practically bouncing on the balls of her feet as they stand in line to see Prince Charming and Cinderella. It's as adorable as it is confusing, because of all the princess movies he's been subjected to, Cinderella had never made the list, as far as he is aware. Truthfully, he's tempted to ask Ciri if she wouldn't rather go see Moana, who he knows Ciri practically idolizes, but, well...quite frankly, she seems so happy. He doesn't want to risk making her upset, not when she's smiling for the first time in a fortnight.

But then they're at the front of the line and Geralt, for lack of a better word, freezes. Because he suddenly understands why Ciri wanted to go to Magic Kingdom instead of one of the other parks, why Ciri wanted to see Prince Charming and Cinderella.

He stares into bright, surprised, familiar cornflower blue eyes, and realizes that while Geralt might not have known what Jaskier's other job was, or even where he worked, Ciri was well aware of both of those facts and had not hesitated to use the information to her advantage.

His smile was more of a grimace as she dragged him over to Jaskier, not even giving the actress playing Cinderella a second glance as she told Geralt in a no-nonsense, quiet voice that she would scream, loudly, if Geralt did not re-hire Jaskier. The manny-musician-prince did not lose his grin, trained as he was, but his eyes did widen for a moment in clear alarm as he glanced between Ciri and Geralt.

Geralt sighed as he was directed to pose, his daughter’s beady eyes never once leaving his person despite the photographer’s gentle coaching.

“Jask—”

Ciri elbowed him, and the gator wrangler winced at the sharp stab of pain.

“…Prince Charming. I don’t suppose…”

“Say cheese!”

Geralt reluctantly smiled wider, his arm around Ciri’s shoulder and steadfastly ignoring the warm pressure of Jaskier’s own arm wrapped behind his to Ciri’s other side.

“Next Monday, at three?”

Geralt let his smile drop into something a little more natural.

“That—that works.”

And then the next family was being ushered forward, and Jaskier was greeting the children with a wide smile and treating the little girl like she was a princess, bowing to her, and it was—it definitely wasn’t sweet. The man was utterly infuriating, and had completely bewitched his daughter with his—his food, and his singing, and his games, and his—

Well. At least Ciri was excitedly babbling about all the fun activities she planned to do with Jaskier when he came over. Sighing quietly, Geralt let himself be dragged to a mountain that was apparently in space.

At least Jaskier was also making a fighter out of his daughter. That was certainly a positive in his books.

Now if only he could convince the man to trade one blonde princess for another on a more permanent level…

[fanficideasupforgrabs]

BEHOLD! I have added a link to the Witcher stuff I have on Ao3 to my profile, and put it all into a series for your convenience. WARNING YOU NOW THOUGH, if you don't find it on Ao3, or find something on Ao3 by me that isn't here, it's because I'm lazy and haven't gotten around to putting it on the other one yet lol

ALSO if you get the Dino reference pls let me know, I'm still in mourning🥲

[fanficideasupforgrabs]

Imagine if Jaskier always pretends like he needs a break when Geralt is wounded, so that the witcher has to stop and get himself treated, because the bard was already sitting, and it's not like his arms needed rest, right? And Geralt grumbles and scowls and definitely does not pout at all (at least, not when he has a wound that requires him to face Jaskier), even if he maybe sort of finds it a little bit nice. That the bard cares enough to fake his own tiredness, set aside a portion of his own pride, all for the sake of helping the witcher. Geralt will never say it, but it...the small acts of care make Geralt smile a bit late at night, when the bard is peacefully snoring in his own bedroll across from him.

So truthfully, Geralt doesn't usually put a lot of thought into telling the bard off for his lying, wrong though it may be to lie to one's—traveling companion.

Most of the time, that is.

But right now...

"Geralt, can't we just—"

"No," the witcher growled for what felt like the hundredth time. He said one word, but if the witcher was a talkative man, what he would have added was that he was cold and covered in Drowner's guts and his arm stung a bit from where a Drowner had gotten a shallow scratch in because Geralt was forced to defend Jaskier from a straggler. Because no, the bard couldn't just follow directions, couldn't stay back at the makeshift camp with Roach like he'd been told. He just had to see the witcher fight, because Jaskier could never listen—

"Please, Geralt. I need a break—"

"If you want to stop so badly, fine." Geralt finally turned to Jaskier, feeling a bit bad for the look of pure hope and relief on the bard's face, before a bit of Drowner flesh dropped from his hair into his lap. "But I will be riding on, with or without you." He finished the old threat, one he hadn't made in months, years, that he would never consider actually following through on now. Once upon a time, certainly, but these days he would never truly abandon Jaskier, no matter how pissed off or annoyed the bard made him.

It was an empty threat, nothing more. Just enough to get the bard moving, so that they—

"Fine."

Geralt blinked at the anger in the bard's voice.

He watched silently as Jaskier stumbled forward, grabbing his things from off of Roach and stuffing what belonged to him haphazardly into his personal bags.

Geralt blinked again. That...what was happening? This wasn't supposed to—Jaskier was supposed to stop complaining, to glare at the witcher so hard the hairs rose on the back of his neck, not—

And then, apparently having decided he'd gotten everything, Jaskier turned—

And then—

And then—

Geralt cursed loudly as he slid off of Roach, reaching into his own bag of medical supplies before Jaskier could grab the salves and bandages he kept stored away for the few times they parted during the year. He swore louder as he cut away the rest of Jaskier's doublet and chemise, much to the bard's weak protests, audibly growling at the three long scratches over the man's right shoulder blade.

Still, he worked carefully to clean the blood and debris away, examined the wounds and breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that though they were long, they were not deep enough to need stitches.

"How?" Geralt muttered darkly, opening the salve with yarrow and sage, pausing for a moment to clean his own hands. He wouldn't risk infection, not because of something so foolish.

"A Drowner, obviously," Jaskier said, wincing a bit when the cold salve hit the wounds. Geralt grabbed his opposite shoulder, holding him still. "Went to relieve myself, and there it was! Guess I'd wandered a bit too close to the river," the bard said, and Geralt had to grab him quickly to stop him from shrugging, knowing the thoughtless action would not be without pain.

"Ah. Whoops," Jaskier chuckled a bit, his breath catching in his throat as it tugged at his wounds, and Geralt sighed, realizing there was no helping the bard.

Still, he didn't—he hadn't known—

"Thought you snuck after me," Geralt confessed, grabbing for the bandages now. "I didn't know..." the witcher trailed off, not sure how he should end the sentence. Didn't know Jaskier had actually been attacked where Geralt had left him, assuming incorrectly he'd be safe? Didn't know the bard was injured, as Geralt hadn't heard him be wounded, because it had happened when Jaskier was out of the witcher's range of hearing? Didn't know when Jaskier was asking for a break—

"We'll stop here. Tonight," the witcher said, tying off the knot and standing. He reached for one of his spare shirts, handing it off to Jaskier as the bard gave him a quiet thanks. While it didn't happen often, rare as it was for the bard to be truly injured, it wasn't uncommon for Jaskier to borrow Geralt's pants or shirts while the other man recovered. The bard's outfits were beautiful, fitted things, but they didn't lend well to being worn over thick wraps, to being removed easily and quickly for further treatment, or quite frankly to the comfort one desired when sick or injured.

And if Geralt grabbed Jaskier's things himself as he put the supplies away, putting everything the bard had displaced back where it belonged in their shared packs, well.

He wasn't about to leave the bard behind any time soon, and he certainly wasn't going to let the bard leave him behind either.

[fanficideasupforgrabs]

Someone asked for this on A03, so I present part 2.5 lol

Head here for the first parts

Jaskier stared at what little he could see of the decrepit...castle? through the thick flakes of snow that had begun to fall an hour or so ago. If he had any energy left at all, he'd have jumped off of Roach's saddle and gone running through the knee-high powder straight to the large stone doors he could barely make out.

Unfortunately, all of his energy had long left him due to hours of shivering even in the warmer clothes he'd...stolen? been gifted? Either way, that combined with the four days of climbing had left him so exhausted, Geralt had finally had pity on him and lifted him up onto Roach, the bard no longer able to feel his fingers well enough to hoist himself up. It was disarming in a distant sort of way, like how the bard always felt when he spent his last coin on an ale, knowing he would make it back performing and yet feeling distantly anxious over the lack of money.

"—Jaskier."

The bard blinked, surprised to find the keep much bigger than it was a moment ago. That was strange. Keeps shouldn't be able to move. Was it magic? How could it—

Jaskier jerked backwards, losing whatever grip he might have had on Roach as the witcher urged her on faster. He pinwheeled his arms, trying to find his balance, only to fall backwards—

He blinked again, startled to find the witcher's face floating above him. The man was frowning, and Jaskier asked him what was wrong, trying to get the words out despite not really being able to feel his mouth.

Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, the bard's question just made Geralt frown harder, and the witcher muttered curses under his breath as he whistled. Jaskier watched as the witcher's hair swayed back and forth for a moment, before burying himself in the patch of warmth underneath the witcher's head. Usually the bard wouldn't risk such a thing, knowing how the witcher felt about any sort of physical touch, but the witcher was already holding him and he was freezing, so cold he didn't even really feel cold anymore, which was—it was—

Jaskier let his eyes fall shut, the motion of the witcher and the thud of the slow heartbeat beneath him lulling him to sleep.

~•~

As the bard slept, Geralt got Roach settled into the stable, grabbing Jaskier's lute and sliding it onto his back before making his way into the keep. Melitele help him if the bard found out he left it out in the elements.

He made a beeline for the main hall, only somewhat reassured that Jaskier had begun shivering again a few minutes ago. The bard needed a fire, needed to get warm soon, otherwise he would surely fall sick, and Geralt did not want to deal with a sick bard for the next week. Jaskier's voice was annoying enough when it wasn't nasally, not to mention the coughs that rattled his lean frame and the wheezing that left him breathless after that one infection of his lungs—

Geralt put the thought out of his mind as he made his way to the roaring flames, ignoring for a moment the other witchers who had greeted him when he arrived and were now, judging by the silence, wondering what in Melitele's name he was doing.

"Geralt?"

"Hmmm," Geralt nudged two large chairs closer together with one leg, making a pseudo-bed.

"What have you got there?"

Geralt looked up from laying Jaskier down.

"A lute."

~•~

When Jaskier awoke, the first thing he noticed was the sound of laughter, loud and deep, accompanied by low voices. Opening his eyes, he was mildly surprised to find himself not looking up at a vast grey sky, but up at a stone ceiling, visible due to the fire he could feel and see close beside him.

Realizing abruptly that he was now pleasantly warm, Jaskier hesitantly sat up—

"Jaskier, over here."

Turning, the bard smiled at seeing the witcher—

Jaskier blinked, almost stumbling as he made his way out of the chair—chairs?

Make that witchers.

Mentally shrugging off the mild surprise (mild, because even though Geralt hadn't told him where they were going, Jaskier knew he spent the winter with other witchers), he made his way over to the table, sliding onto the bench next to Geralt.

"Hello! I'm—"

"A bard. A human, bard."

Jaskier's smile became a bit more forced as he lowered his hand, clearing his throat. "Well, yes. That is true. But I—"

"This was reckless, Pup. You're very lucky he survived the climb."

Jaskier felt as Geralt froze beside him, and the bard opened his mouth, ready to defend the witcher against the old man—

"Still safer than where he was going," Geralt grumbled, grabbing the empty bowl in front of Jaskier and filling it with stew.

Jaskier rolled his eyes, but accepted the still-warm food. "Honestly, Geralt, I told you Oxenfurt has locks. Besides, if Marx had the guts to kill me himself, he would have tried to already."

Geralt scowled, opening his mouth to retort—

"Has he been traveling with you on the Path as well, then?"

Jaskier turned to the witcher who had spoken, a man with scars running down one side of his face that contrasted sharply with the soft wariness the bard could see in his eyes.

"That I have! Someone's got to sing about the White Wolf's battles, to memorialize them for all of time and posterity, and I—"

The witcher across from Jaskier laughed, his bright red hair almost glowing as he shook his head. "Leave it to Pretty Boy to end up with a human trailing after him. How on earth did you get him? What, did you save his life or something?"

Jaskier fought back a flush at being described like a—a dog, or some other animal, trotting along behind the witcher like an obedient, mindless slave. Still, this was a battle of wits—of words.

Jaskier smirked.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch your name...?"

The witcher smiled, the action anything but nice.

"Lambert."

"Right, Lambert. Lambert, Lambert, Lambert...hmmm, I'm sorry, doesn't ring a bell." Jaskier shrugged, putting on a face of mild embarrassment, not cowed at all by how the other was now scowling. "I guess not all witchers are cut out for heroics, though. If you'd like, I think I could convince Geralt to give you some tips. Maybe even—"

Jaskier was pushed back sharply as the other witcher growled, the arm now in front of him attached to a face that was looking down at him with mild disapproval. Jaskier plastered on the most innocent look he could muster, and Geralt rolled his eyes, before giving Lambert a warning grumble of his own.

"No fighting at the table, pups."

"Yes, Vesemir."

"Yes, Vesemir."

Jaskier blinked, mildly surprised at the immediate response of both witchers to the older man's words. Huh. Well, that answered who was in charge, at least.

"He's not completely wrong though, Geralt. You know why it is we walk the Path alone. It's too dangerous for a human to travel with a witcher."

Geralt shook his head, and Jaskier went back to his stew, pleasantly surprised at how good it tasted. It seemed that whoever cooked had actually heard of a thing called 'spices', and not all witchers were—

"—Jaskier."

The bard blinked, having been thoroughly lost in thought.

"What was that, Geralt?"

"Take off your shirt, Bard."

Jaskier froze, before turning sharply to the white-haired witcher. "What in Melitele's name—"

Geralt moved to grab the bard's shirt, as if the issue was Jaskier being unable to remove his own clothes. The bard slapped the witcher's hand away, rolling his eyes as he took off the tunic with a slight shiver. The fire was burning brightly, but it was a large room, and Jaskier felt goosebumps erupt up and down his arms as the skin was laid bare.

"Happy, witcher? Honestly, this winter I'm going to teach you the concept of public indecency, because you seem rather foggy—"

"Is that not all the proof you need that he shouldn't be following you, Geralt? Look at him, he's got almost as many scars as a witcher!"

Jaskier rolled his eyes at Lambert's clear exaggeration, about to retort—

"This one he got with me," Geralt said, pointing at the Drowner scar. "The bard followed me, even when I told him to stay at the inn—"

"—which I would have, if you had just—"

"—and I couldn't smell him, not until—"

"—I dunked myself in a cedar essential oil, and it worked brilliantly—"

"—but otherwise," Geralt growled through gritted teeth, and Jaskier rolled his eyes, still feeling rather proud of his past-self's ingenuity, even if it hadn't ended up the way he'd been planning. "All of the other scars the bard picked up on his own. When I wasn't with him."

The witchers glanced between Geralt and the bard for a moment.

"You expect us to believe a bard ended up with all those on his own? That one there is obviously from some sort of monster!" Lambert exclaimed, pointing to the—

"In my defense, I thought there was only the one Foglet, and there were children! I wasn't about to let them be eaten!" Jaskier crossed his arms with a huff, finding it incredibly unfair that when Geralt saved the day he was praised, but when it was the bard taking a, quite literal, stab at it, all he seemed to find was scorn.

"He has more on his back, too," Vesemir idly noted, brows slightly furrowed. He cleared his throat, "but still, Geralt—"

"Thirteen—" the White Wolf pointed at Jaskier, then put his hand on the bard's shoulder. "One."

Jaskier glanced to the side, still a bit unsettled at being shirtless and more than a bit miffed that this introduction of sorts had gotten wildly out of hand, only to almost baulk at what he saw. Geralt had his chest puffed out, a hard jaw underneath what passed as a smile for the witcher, as if Geralt was—

Jaskier's eyes darted to the table at the small, conceding hums the witchers had let out, as if agreeing with Geralt, and Jaskier had to struggle very hard not to call the man out on his preening. If before Jaskier had felt like Geralt's pet, now he felt like he was a sheep being carefully guided by a sheepdog, the other witchers shepherds who were proud of Geralt for not letting Jaskier jump off a cliff or something.

The bard pulled his shirt back on with a sigh, mentally debating which comparison was worse.

"Now, what was that about a 'Marx' and 'killing'?"

~•~

"Bard?"

"Yes, Eskel?" Jaskier eased himself into the hot spring a few pools away from the truly boiling one the witchers were occupying.

"Where did you get that scar? The one wrapped around your thigh. It looks almost like—"

"It was a cat."

Jaskier found three sets of golden eyes now piercing his own, sharp as a witcher's blade.

Jaskier tried not to fidget.

"It was! It was just...a very big cat. With...a beak. And, well, it might, perchance, have had wings—"

"Jaskier—"

"It was dark! And it was nice at first—"

Jaskier ducked his head under the water at the chorus of swearing. See if he ever told them about that one scar his long hair now hid!

[fanficideasupforgrabs]

Link to part one

Jaskier was more than mildly surprised to wake up in a room he, quite frankly, never thought he'd have the pleasure of sleeping in again. When he woke, he thought he'd probably still be tied up in that dark, blood-stained room, the mage still trying desperately to find his way into Jaskier's mind, which had given him a splitting headache that still somewhat lingered. Or, worse, he might be in a completely new location, somewhere with more....tools, at the man's disposal, to encourage the bard into talking.

The last thing he remembered was being hit by a ray of bright, green light—

His head twitched to the side at the creak of leather.

"Geralt?"

The witcher—which was, truthfully, even more surprising than waking up in his rooms at Oxenfurt—turned from where he was writing in his journal, looking at Jaskier in—well, Jaskier would say fear, but that didn't quite seem right. Still, it was the closest emotion Jaskier could label it as, he thought, regardless of how little he'd ever seen said emotion on the witcher's face.

The man dropped the journal with a small thud, hands flying up to no doubt form a witcher sign—

"Geralt, wait! Just—just hold on, okay?" Jaskier spluttered, eyes wide. "Okay, I haven't the faintest idea how we ended up here, but I can assure you that I have all of my wits about me once more, and—oomph!"

Jaskier blinked, thinking this, this right here, had to be the most surprising thing of of the day. Surely.

Because never once in their twenty years of knowing each other, had Geralt ever initiated a hug with the bard. Ever reacted so...strongly, to Jaskier's presence in general, quite frankly.

"Geralt? Are...are you okay?" Jaskier eventually asked after a moment or two had passed, awkwardly patting the witcher's back. Loathe as he was to break the moment, he was growing increasingly concerned over what had happened in the time between him being hit with that spell and ending up, well, here.

Geralt took in a final shuddering breath, cold nose pressed against Jaskier's neck, before he pulled away. He didn't go far, keeping his hands on Jaskier's shoulders, searching for something in the bard's expression before finally letting go with a single squeeze.

For a moment, Jaskier felt cold at the sudden loss, and he found himself wrapping the blanket he'd been under around him tightly as he cleared his throat.

"Right, uh...what. Geralt, what...what happened?"

Jaskier dared to glance up, and found himself wincing at the look of horror that flashed over the witcher's face. The bard's stomach twisted sharply, his breathing growing fast as he read between the lines.

"Gerat, I didn't—please, tell me I didn't hurt anyone," he begged, suddenly terrified at what he'd been made to do and still couldn't remember. "Please, you need to tell me, I need to know—"

"No, Jaskier, you didn't—no." The witcher hissed vehemently, shaking his head.

"I don't...then why...?" Jaskier's brow scrunched up as he gripped the blanket tightly, the anticipation practically eating him alive.

"You...it was...he was trying to get Ciri's location."

Jaskier bauked. "No, he couldn't have—Geralt, I don't even know—"

"I know, but he—he made you...confess, all of your—your deepest secrets," the witcher finally admitted, like it physically pained him to say the words.

And that was...that was...

Jaskier turned away from the witcher, a small, bitter smile on his face. "Ah. I...I see."

"Jaskier—"

"No, Geralt, it's—it's fine, I—" Jaskier shook his head. "Thank you, for staying and—and making sure the spell was lifted. You can—can go now. If you want. I don't—I don't blame you if you want to—"

Again, Jaskier found himself dragged into a hug, though this one was noticeably softer. It was like wading into a still pond after swimming in rushing rapids, providing a calmness the bard had come to associate with nights under the stars, his bedroll close enough to the witcher's that the bard had no fear of anything hurting him as he slumbered.

It was a sensation he never thought he'd experience again, not after...well.

"I'm sorry, Jaskier," the witcher whispered, continuing over Jaskier's sharp inhalation. "I...I'm sorry, for not being the friend you deserved. For not treating you with the kindness you showed me, always, for—for treating you like townspeople used to treat me."

"Geralt, you don't—"

"I do, Jaskier, I do." Geralt hissed, cupping the back of Jaskier's head. "I never knew, never cared, about how I—it should have mattered to me. It did—does—matter." The witcher struggled to talk, but Jaskier waited, like he always did when he knew Geralt actually wanted to speak and was just taking a while to find the right words. Because Jaskier always knew when the witcher was struggling with speaking, and not just staying mute on purpose, because Jaskier—

"For twenty years, I was content to let you shove yourself into my life, to force me to lay myself bare for my own good, and I didn't—I have been remiss, in even attempting the same." Geralt finally said, the bard mildly shocked at what was, for the witcher, a small speech.

And then Geralt was pulling him impossibly closer, inhaling sharply as he gripped the bard's long strands. "I didn't...I had no clue, about your...your family. Or the—Melitele's sake, Jaskier, how did I never notice the—"

The witcher cut himself off, burying his face into Jaskier's neck. The bard held the witcher as tightly as he could, knowing Geralt needed the pressure to ground himself.

"I...they're hidden." He admitted, in a quiet, defeated voice.

"Where..."

Jaskier swallowed. "My...the hair, on my thighs, covers them for the most part."

Geralt inhaled sharply, as if hearing the location of the old wounds was enough to make it suddenly, horribly real. "You...when—"

"It was a long time ago, Geralt, don't—"

"Jaskier—"

"It's fine, I'm fine, I don't—I haven't done anything like that. Not in—not for a long while." The bard said, suddenly exhausted. It had been such a long day, what with the mage having taken a mental battering ram to his mind, on top of having stayed up late the night before—

"And you haven't..."

The bard paused in rubbing the witcher's back.

"You've never considered..."

And Jaskier knew he should have responded right away, he did, but he paused—

Abruptly, Geralt was pulling away, quick enough to have the bard blinking in confusion as he was suddenly face to face with the witcher again.

"Jask, when—"

"No, Geralt, I'm not—"

The witcher growled, and Jaskier didn't hesitate to hit him upside the back of the head, enough force behind the action to startle the witcher into silence.

"I can't help the intrusive thoughts, anymore than a man can help his nightmares," Jaskier said, feeling the tension seeping out of his own shoulders at the admission. "But that's all they are, and all they will become, and it's—it's been that way for a very, very long time."

The witcher stared at him, and Jaskier let him do so, trying to make his sincerity as blatant as possible. It was easy to do, mostly because Jaskier was telling the truth. He hadn't seriously considered giving up in such a way for years, decades even, and while he appreciated the concern, it was only necessary for a version of the bard that no longer existed.

Seeming to read something like that on his face, the witcher nodded once, slumping a bit on the edge of the bed as he said, "you'll tell me. If it ever does..."

Jaskier nodded, and the witcher glanced to him one last time, before bending forward to pick up the book he'd dropped what felt like hours ago now. He handed it to Jaskier, and the bard glanced between the leather cover and Geralt, who was now refusing to make eye contact and awkwardly fiddling with his vambrace.

"What's this?" Jaskier finally asked, seeing the witcher wouldn't make the first move.

The witcher shrugged, all the tension he'd just rid himself of suddenly returning, and Jaskier fought back a sigh as he flipped through the—

The bard blinked. Then blinked again. And then he was blinking quite a bit as he took in sentence after sentence, needing to somehow clear the tears from his eyes, and it was—

This time, it was Jaskier who lunged for the witcher, and Geralt who was disjointedly patting the bard's back in such a way that Jaskier couldn't help but let out a wet laugh.

After a moment, he sniffled, pulling away to smile shyly at the witcher.

"Geralt, you didn't have to—"

"I did." The witcher said, voice brooking no argument. "And I am—I'll finish it. When I have the chance."

Jaskier swallowed his objections, nodding as he turned back to the journal, fingers ghosting over numerous compliments for the bard the witcher apparently had mentally stored away all these years.

It was a lot to take in, especially with everything else the day had brought, and Jaskier found himself struggling to keep his eyes open as the grey of dawn found its way through the window.

"Rest," the witcher said, gently pushing the bard back down. Jaskier went easily, sliding over to the edge next to the wall in a clear invitation that the witcher took without comment.

Tomorrow, Geralt and Jaskier would leave Oxenfurt together, to begin the search for Geralt's Child Surprise. But for now, they would rest, comforted by the knowledge that no secret need be feared, as long as it was faced together.

[fanficideasupforgrabs]

Curious to see if anyone wants a part two or maybe a different perspective of any of the drabbles I've written so far. If any of ya'll have one in mind, feel free to comment and I'll pick one or two in a few days:)

Sorry in advance if yours isn't chosen, it's bc my brain is a raft in the middle of the ocean and I have no control of where the wind will take me ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[fanficideasupforgrabs]

Link to part one, will not make sense otherwise lol

He felt bad about it, truly, especially with the way Geralt scowled, face hard, and that—

Jaskier forced himself to think of embarrassing, awful things, like showing up to class that one time half an hour late with ink smears all over his face.

“Geralt, I’m not—my dear, dear witcher,” Jaskier said, shrugging off his doublet, and then his chemise, the occasional chuckle still breaking through. “Do me a favor, would you? Tell me when and where I got these lovely scars.”

The witcher didn’t move, still scowling at the wall.

“Please, Geralt? Just humor me?”

A long moment passed, and Jaskier thought he’d have to figure out another way to explain, but finally Geralt turned his head, bright eyes pinned to the bard’s chest. Jaskier did his best not to fidget as Geralt studied the marks, the man’s brow furrowing as his scowl twisted into something softer.

“Drowner, four years ago.” He finally said, gesturing to a mark on Jaskier’s shoulder.

The bard nodded, both in encouragement and agreement. “Yeah, nasty thing, ruined one of my favorite doublets.” Jaskier mourned, remembering how deeply he’d loved the intricate gold embroidery on the light blue silk.

“But the others, I…hmmm,” Geralt almost looked pained now, and goodness, Jaskier was going to have to spell it out for him, wasn’t he?

“Geralt, the reason you only remember the one scar, is because I got all the others when I wasn’t with you.” Jaskier said, unable to keep the smile off his face any longer.

Geralt stared at Jaskier for a moment, clearly struggling to wrap his head around the bard’s words. “You mean…?”

Jaskier nodded, and suddenly, Geralt slumped, the tension leaving his shoulders as he gave the bard a mildly reproachful look.

“A lot of them weren’t my fault, truly! I mean, these four alone—” Jaskier gestured to three scars on his front, and one across his shoulder blade—“bandits and thieves! Seriously, they see the nice clothes and just assume I’m made of money or something! Honestly, Geralt, it’s ridiculous!”

Geralt frowned, clearly more upset at Jaskier’s words than the bard felt he had any right to be. It was all the in the past, truly, and travel was dangerous for a lone traveler. Surely Geralt knew that!

The witcher stepped forward, close enough to gesture to another mark with a questioning hum. Jaskier thought for a moment, then grinned as he recalled an incident with an axe, a ram, and an unfortunately placed beehive.

By the end of the story, Geralt was making no effort to hide his incredulous judgement, and Jaskier spent the next five minutes trying to convince Geralt that really, as crazy as it seemed, it did in fact happen.

And then Geralt gestured to another scar, and another, and Jaskier found himself sharing what exactly he got up to while on his brief trips separated from the witcher. It was…well, unexpected, mostly, but nice, to see Geralt taking an interest in what the bard did when he wasn’t trailing along after the other.

Well, mostly nice. He could do without the growling and scolding he received for some of the tales, especially that one with a Foglet. Honestly, what did the witcher want him to do! He wasn’t going to just ignore children screaming, what sort of monster would—

“You’re traveling with me,” Geralt finally said, eyeing the Foglet scar one last time before turning away.

Jaskier blinked at the unexpected words, grabbing his chemise and pulling it over his head. “I mean, yes, I am? Geralt, what do you think we’ve been doing for the past decade—”

“No, bard,” Geralt said, grabbing his whetstone and silver sword. “You’re only traveling with me.”

Jaskier paused, doublet half on.

“I—what?”

Schlick. Schlick. Schlick.

“Geralt, you know I have to leave for bardic competitions, and that we need the money I get from them.” Jaskier said when he realized the witcher had apparently just—moved on from the conversation.

“Where there’s people, there’s monsters.”

Jaskier opened his mouth, then closed it. That was…true, technically, but they both knew the witcher hated festivals and large gatherings, what with his heightened senses. So for Geralt to just—well—

Jaskier bit his lip, trying not to visibly show how much the other's words meant. But still—

“I wouldn’t mind, having someone cheer me on. Would be nice with that little backstabber Marx around,” Jaskier scowled, rubbing absentmindedly at the scar on his upper back that was now out of sight. “If I have to listen to him crow about—”

Jaskier, who had been eying the fire critically, wondering if they’d need to ask for some more wood, squawked at the witcher. The witcher who was suddenly behind him, lifting up his chemise, ignoring how Jaskier was trying to bat him away—

“Geralt! You can’t just—”

“This was him?”

“—seriously, I know you know what I mean—”

“Jaskier.”

The bard froze, debating his options for a moment longer before letting his arms fall to his sides. “I don’t…it’s likely. It wasn’t him personally, from what I saw, but it was the night before the finals and we both knew we were each other’s only competition, so—” Jaskier shrugged, gently tugging his chemise out of the witcher’s hands.

“It’s fine, though. Really! I keep the door blocked when we’re competing together, window too if there is one, and the rooms at Oxenfurt have locks, so it’s—”

“Oxenfurt?”

Jaskier frowned, turning to properly face the witcher. “You know, the academy I teach at every winter? Honestly, Geralt, I know you tune me out a lot, but—”

The witcher shook his head, and Jaskier stopped, waiting for the other to find the right words.

“I know, about Oxenfurt. But Marx, he…?”

Jaskier nodded, now understanding the other’s confusion. “He’s got tenure, unfortunately.” Jaskier scowled, tensing at the unfortunate reminder of how his former sanctuary had been tainted for the past eight years. “Honestly, I don’t know who he had to blackmail to get it—”

Jaskier continued to ramble, complaining about how the other bard was a hack, how he'd heard pigs that could sing better than him, and it wasn’t long before Geralt had gone back to sharpening his sword. When Jaskier realized the witcher was no longer listening, he pouted for a moment, before remembering he had that song to finish and eagerly grabbing his lute and notebook.

Things returned to normal after that, for the most part. Geralt actually did end up attending the competitions the bard performed in, trailing after him through the thick crowds. The smells alone were overwhelming, but the sound was remarkably better than Geralt thought it would be, thanks mostly to the small bits of fabric the bard had fashioned into plugs for the witcher’s ears.

(And if Geralt swallowed hard, when presented with the gift, and made sure to remove them to hear the bard properly when it was his turn to play? Well, it’s not like there was anyone present who would ever now, including the insufferable, egotistical bard himself.)

So yes, everything was back to normal, exactly as it should be. Summer faded to fall, just as it always did, and Jaskier waited with only a hint of sadness (okay, maybe a bit more than a hint) for the inevitable day Geralt would tell him they were splitting for the winter, like always.

Jaskier waited.

And waited.

And, well—

The bard blinked, wondering just when it had gotten cold enough for him to see his breath in the air. He was mildly surprised to wake up to the small puffs in front of him, unable to recall a time he’d slept outside in such temperatures. In fact, he was quite certain he couldn't recall a time he ever had.

But he had also been fairly certain he’d remember if there was a hat and gloves in his pack before, and yet, there they were, on his person, when he certainly hadn’t gone to sleep with them on.

“Geralt?”

“Hmmm.”

Jaskier held up his covered hands, gesturing with them to the soft blue material covering his head. He wasn’t complaining about the additions, but it was a little strange—

“You were shivering.”

“Oh. Right.” Jaskier cleared his throat, eying the thick trousers and cloak he’d been sporting the last few days that he’d stolen from Geralt’s packs, only now realizing they fit him remarkably well. “And when did we get those again?”

“A while ago.”

“‘A while ago,’” Jaskier parroted. “Right.”

“Hmmm.”

“Geralt?”

“Hmmm.”

“Don’t you have something to say to me?”

The witcher tilted his head, then shook it once, moving to pack his bedroll onto Roach.

Jaskier stared at him, trying to make sense of the situation. Winter was rapidly approaching, Geralt just happened to have clothes in the bard’s size in his packs, they were quite a bit farther north than Geralt usually went with the bard before splitting off from him for the winter—

“Geralt?”

“Hmmm.”

“It’s getting colder.”

The witcher froze, just for a second, before grabbing Roach’s bridle.

“Are you cold?”

Jaskier opened his mouth, then paused, taking stock of himself.

“Well, no.”

Geralt pulled himself onto Roach.

“Then come on. We’re wasting daylight.”

Jaskier scrambled to pack his own bedroll, jogging a bit to catch up with the witcher.

Four days later, he found himself in front of a, quite frankly, daunting mountain.

Jaskier turned to Geralt.

“You know, I think I could still make it to Oxenfurt if I—”

Geralt gently pushed Jaskier forward onto the narrow path.

Well. At least wherever Geralt was taking him was certainly not going to have Valdo Marx.

Jaskier took a step forward, and then another, putting aside for now how treacherous the terrain higher up looked.

Geralt was with him, after all.

He’d be just fine.

(Jaskier spends the winter getting to know Geralt’s pseudo-family. It’s…good, actually. Refreshing in a way he wouldn’t have expected, and he enjoys being able to see Geralt relax, safe for once away from the cruelty he faces on the Path.

So yes, it’s nice, as long as Jaskier doesn’t think of his first night at the keep, when the other witchers started scolding Geralt for taking a helpless bard on the Path. When Geralt demanded Jaskier take off his tunic, just to point out the Foglet scar Jaskier had gotten all on his own, and to compare the couple of scars Jaskier had gotten with Geralt to the many he'd gotten when alone.

It was, to put it simply, mortifying.

He’d turned to scowl at Geralt, to scold him once again about that thing called decency, only to find him—for lack of a better word—preening. Jaskier fought not to roll his eyes, especially when the other witchers seemed to easily accept Geralt’s choice of traveling companion after seeing Jaskier’s scars.

Jaskier had sighed, pulling his tunic back on, feeling foolishly grateful that Geralt hadn’t demanded he loose his trousers too.

The witcher did not need to know about the Griffon incident.)

[fanficideasupforgrabs]

Imagine if ten years into traveling together on and off, Jaskier and Geralt end up cooling off in a river or lake, and Geralt feels guilty at all the scars Jaskier has. He stares at the white and red marks while the bard blathers on, turned in such a way he doesn’t even notice the internal crisis the witcher is having.

Which leaves Jaskier very confused, when Geralt suddenly starts trying to drop him off at every town they stay at, like it’s their first month traveling together all over again.

And it’s—Jaskier didn’t do anything! He swears! He thinks…? He has been practicing a new song lately, one about the witcher’s fight with a Siren, but it can’t be that. The songs isn’t nearly annoying or inaccurate enough to truly bother Geralt, and besides, it’s no worse than any of the few dozen other ones he’s written. In fact, it was actually a bit more accurate than usual, what with the—

Ahem. Anyways, this certainly isn’t something he did, is what he’s decided. So something is bothering the witcher, enough to make him want to drop Jaskier like old news. The bard gets the feeling this is only going to be solved by getting the witcher to talk, which, well…

Maybe if he twisted his ankle? Or forced a sickness? Surely Geralt wouldn’t try to leave him to fend for himself then. Yes, that would be a lot easier—

Oh, who was he kidding.

Jaskier sighed, grabbing the two ales from the barmaid and placing one across from him. The witcher eyed the alcohol, and the bard pushed it straight back when Geralt tried to shove it closer to Jaskier.

“I’m not falling for that.”

Geralt blinked.

“What?”

“You tried the same thing, ten years ago, back when we first started traveling together,” Jaskier explained, taking a small sip of his own drink. “You thought if I got drunk enough, I wouldn’t even notice you leaving.”

The witcher didn’t say anything, but Jaskier stared at him pointedly until the man grumbled under his breath, lifting the tankard to his lips. Jaskier nodded in approval, glad the witcher at least seemed somewhat open to talking about…this. Whatever this was.

“Now, usually I’m all for offering you the option of three words or less. However, this being the sixth town now you’ve tried to abandon me at, I think I deserve a proper explanation, don’t you?”

Okay, so maybe Jaskier was a little bit more pissed off than he’d realized. The words felt good leaving his mouth, but the guilty look that flitted across the witcher’s face made him feel guilty, too. Not to mention he was tired, exhausted really, not able to sleep properly at night due to the fear of waking up and finding the witcher just—gone.

The witcher took another sip of his ale, and Jaskier sighed, realizing he’d have to push a bit harder.

“Geralt, I…please. If it’s something I did—” Jaskier paused, mouth open, realizing Geralt was studiously looking anywhere but at him. Frowning, he leaned across the table, trying to get the witcher’s attention—

Geralt pulled back sharply, and Jaskier froze, hand awkwardly out above the middle of the table for a moment before he let it fall down. He stared at Geralt, and the witcher had the decency to look pained for a moment, even more guilty than just a moment ago. The expression didn’t last long though, being quickly replaced by the witcher’s cool mask of indifference, the one he gave to aldermen and rude guards and—

Jaskier ground his teeth so tightly it hurt, tossing a few coins on the table for their drinks before grabbing one of the front straps of Geralt’s armor and yanking. Ignoring the witcher’s hissed complaints, well aware the man wouldn’t risk pulling away for fear of hurting the bard’s precious fingers, Jaskier made quick work of dragging the monster hunter upstairs to their room.

They were going to have a conversation, and Geralt was going to explain himself, and—

“Why, Geralt? Why now, all of a sudden, have you decided you can no longer put up with me?” Jaskier shook his head, trying desperately to hold back his frustrated, exhausted tears. “I’ve been trying to wrack my brain for weeks, and I have no clue why you’re suddenly so—so standoffish, and pissed off!

“I didn’t—was it something I did?” Jaskier asked, voice painfully quiet. He couldn’t bear to even look at the witcher, fearing the anger and rejection he’d find in the man’s face, the assurance that Jaskier had run off yet another friend by being too loud, too annoying, too much.

Geralt grunted, and Jaskier knew if he looked at him, the witcher would be shaking his head.

“I don’t—the Path, it’s…it’s dangerous.”

Jaskier blinked, looking back up at that, because seriously—

“Really, Geralt? This again?” Jaskier hissed, beyond annoyed that this was what had been bothering the witcher all along. “We talked about this, at length, back when I first started traveling with you. And I explained that you don’t get to choose what is and isn’t worth the risk, and—”

“I said that I didn’t want you to follow me, because—”

“Oh come on, Geralt!” Jaskier interrupted, only just resisting the urge to tug at his hair in frustration. “We both know you keep me plenty safe, and—”

“Not safe enough—”

“—truly, I’m so clumsy as it is, it’s a miracle I’ve made it this long! I—”

“Jaskier.”

“—two left feet sometimes, truly, all my grace going straight into my performances. I—”

“Jaskier.”

“—its fortunate, otherwise I’d never earn enough for all those fancy baths you love to take—”

“Jaskier.”

“Yes, Geralt, that is my name, but please, for once could you just—”

“You will die!”

Jaskier froze, staring at the witcher who was now breathing heavily, the words ripped from him with such force that his shoulders were visibly rising and falling.

“You will die, and there will be nothing I can do to help it, and—and it is—”

Geralt visibly swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, before he continued in a quiet, hoarse voice. “I would sooner have you five hundred miles away from me, healthy and safe, than to be six feet apart from you forever, and never even have the hope of seeing you again.”

"..."

"..."

Jaskier took a shaky breath in, holding it for just a moment, before letting it audibly go. He didn’t—what did you say to that? What response could Jaskier possibly give to that—that—

“Honestly, Geralt, if you talked like that all the time, I think you’d finally find the silence you so often crave. I mean, look at me, I’m—I’m speechless! I can’t remember the last time I was left in such a state!”

Geralt rolled his eyes, the scowl on his face more for show than anything else.

“But seriously, Geralt, that was…”Jaskier shifted, realizing suddenly how he had the witcher’s entire focus. “I don’t expect—we joke a lot, and that’s fine, more than fine, but I—it’s nice, is all.” Jaskier finally finished with a small shrug, well aware that nothing he’d just said had made sense and yet hoping the other man still understood.

Chancing a glance, the soft look the witcher now bore showed that yes, he did, and Jaskier took another deep breath.

“And I appreciate it, truly, but what—I know you weren’t having these thoughts last year, so why now?” Jaskier asked, gazing intently at his traveling partner.

“The lake…your—scars.” Geralt said, apparently having used up his word quota for the day on his outburst earlier.

Jaskier frowned, trying to make sense of what the other man was mentioning. Yes, they had taken a dip a month or two ago, and yes, Jaskier had taken his clothes off, putting his various upper body scars in full view, but—

“I didn’t—I never realized—” Geralt cut himself off, turning his head away sharply, and—

Oh.

OH.

Jaskier, quite abruptly, burst into laughter.

[fanficideasupforgrabs]

Imagine if Jaskier had been blessed with a truly magnificent sense of direction.

The bard isn’t quite sure how it works. He’s not even entirely sure when it started, this weird gift he has. The only thing he does know, is that if he follows his gut, he gets to where he wants to go sooner and safer than any manmade path could ever let him.

Which sounds like a whole lot of nothing to know about an ability that he’s likely had for years. But in his defense, how was he to know it wasn’t shear dumb luck that had him finding the inn he was looking for when lost in the woods, locating his lute after it had been left hidden in an alley in a drunken haze, or managing to catch up to Geralt when he’d had a few hours head start and was riding on Roach—

Okay. So. Maybe he should have realized sooner.

But oh, what a glorious time he was going to have now that he did know about it. Of course, he couldn’t use it much with the witcher around, not blatantly at least. Knowing Geralt, he’d do his best to get rid of the thing, assuming it was some sort of curse.

Plus, he’d likely drag him to Yennefer, and Jaskier was not about to submit himself to her whims again any time soon if he had anything to say about it.

So no, he couldn’t use it much with the witcher. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t experiment with finding the witcher, as he'd likely been subconsciously using the gift for for ages. After all, it couldn’t hurt to use it to find the man in the spring, when it was so difficult to plan where to meet up (aka to guess where Geralt would be when and lovingly ambush him).

However, what he discovered was…a lot stranger than he’d thought it would be.

He learned that if he just thought about wanting to find the witcher, the magic would take him to the nearest witcher. And honestly, Jaskier would have complained about being led in likely the completely wrong direction, except the witcher he’d found was severely injured, and looked to be knocking on Death’s doorstep, so who was he to complain, truly—

By the time Jaskier had finished caring for the man and helping him back on his feet, it was far past the beginning of spring. Fortunately, though, when he thought about finding the White Wolf in particular, he still managed to happen upon Geralt much earlier in the season than he usually did. Even Geralt seemed surprised, eyes widening briefly before his brows pulled down in a fierce scowl that Jaskier promptly ignored. Honestly, if he wanted the bard gone, he’d have to try a lot harder than that.

Still, the next spring, he left Oxenfurt a bit earlier than he usually did, eager to meet Geralt as soon as possible and stretch his legs out finally. Except, well…

He ended up in a strange, hidden cave? With these…weird sigils on the ground, that he had the bizarre urge to…

Wondering if he was going mad, Jaskier pricked himself a bit, letting the drops of blood fall over the carvings. He wasn’t sure what exactly he expected to happen, but it certainly wasn’t for a flash of bright light to leave him dazed, legs weak, and—

In the middle of a completely different room.

Lovely.

Taking cautious steps to the window, he looked out, only to find himself on a mountain. A very tall mountain. A mountain he did not recognize in the least, in a very large, decrepit castle with gravestones around that one corner he could just make out, and this was not a good time for his gift to be on the fritz—

Deciding he couldn’t just stay here, he creeped out of the room, trying to find his way towards the exit. Or at the very least—

“Don’t move an inch. Not if you value your—Jaskier?!”

Jaskier, who had wisely frozen at the threat and blade to his neck, blinked. Then, he grinned brightly as the sword fell away, realizing he recognized that voice—

“Aiden! It’s so good to see you, you crazy, clever cat! And you’re looking much better, I have to say, whatever you’ve been doing for your hair—”

“How did you get here?” Aiden interrupted, wrapping his arm around the bard’s shoulders and guiding him down some stairs.

“I thought I’d get an early start on finding Geralt this year. I was getting so antsy, cooped up all winter, you know how it is.” Jaskier explained, letting himself be guided into a large hall, where—

“Geralt!” Jaskier exclaimed, quickly making his way to the table where he and the other witchers were sat. “There you are! I was looking all over this drafty abode, until Aiden found me of course, which was really a stroke of luck, because this place is like a labyrinth—”

“Hold on. Is this the bard you said is constantly finding you, following you around everywhere?”

Jaskier turned to the witcher with wild, flame-red hair, grin widening as he looked back to Geralt.

“Awwww, I didn’t know you talked about me with the other witchers! What else did he say? Come on, you can—”

“How did you—I don’t—”

Jaskier’s smile drooped at the incredulous expression on Geralt’s face. He paused, taking a moment to actually look at the other witchers, who seemed—surprised? Definitely guarded, and wary, and—

Hm. Maybe he hadn’t thought this through. He knew Geralt went away for the winter to be with the other witchers, that he never invited Jaskier along, and maybe that was for a reason...? Jaskier was kind of intruding on their home, now that he thought about it, and he could understand them not wanting a human here in their sanctuary. Especially when he considered how other humans often treated Geralt on the road, and oh, now he definitely understood those looks—

“It seems I have quite overstayed my welcome,” Jaskier said, chuckling nervously as he clapped his hands once, backing away slowly. “I’ll just make my way back, hmm? I’ll find you later on in the season, once you’ve said your goodbyes and such.”

“Bard, I’m not sure how you got here, but there will be no leaving now.”

Jaskier froze, the smile on his face faltering for a moment as he took in the severe expression of the older witcher who had spoken. Ohhhh, this was bad. This was very much not ideal. He didn’t mean to invade the witcher keep, honest!

He turned to Geralt for help, and fortunately the witcher seemed to recognize the panicked look in his eyes, because he added, “it’s not safe yet. Path is still frozen over. You’ll leave with me in a week or so, once it’s thawed.”

And that—

Jaskier blinked.

“Well, as lovely as that sounds, I truly don’t want to intrude. I’ll just take the shortcut, I think, and—”

“Shortcut?”

Jaskier tilted his head, quickly taking in the mix of confused and alarmed expressions he was now facing.

“…yes? With the cave.”

The witchers stared back at him, not one of them showing a lick of understanding.

“Do you want me to…?” Jaskier motioned to the way he’d come, and as one, the witchers all clambered out of their seats. The bard blinked, thrown for a moment, before forcing back a laugh at the irony that he was showing a bunch of witchers to a room in their own home.

Still, he did his best to navigate back to where he’d come from, grateful for his strange sense of direction. Although he definitely didn’t miss the hissed conversations happening behind him as he led the witchers through a secret passage, one that, by the sounds of it, they also hadn’t know about until now.

Well. If the cat wasn't out of the bag before, it certainly was now. But that was something for future Jaskier to deal with, when he wasn't being followed by a bunch of strangers with swords.

Shaking the thoughts away, he finally emerged into the room he’d been transported to, which he now realized had been hidden rather well. No wonder they hadn’t found—

“What are you?”

Jaskier baulked at the question, crossing his arms. “I am a bard, thank you very much! Not some—some creature, to be gawked at or what have you. It’s not my fault you lot didn’t know your own castle, and had to take the hard way up.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, muttering “witchers” under his breath as he brought his small dagger out, ignoring how the other were instantly on edge at the sight of the weapon. He pricked himself again, about to place his blood on the runework, when someone grabbed his hand.

“Stay the night," Geralt rumbled, eyes flickering away when Jaskier looked up.

The bard paused, glancing at the faces of the other witchers. Besides Aiden, they didn’t seem all that welcoming, and Jaskier didn’t want to—

“Could you find other passages?”

Jaskier turned to the man with scars running down one half of his face, giving him a soft smile when he seemed to shrink under Jaskier’s eyes.

“Yes, if you’d like. I’m rather good at getting into tricky places.” He admitted, smile turning a bit bashful.

“More like finding trouble,” Geralt muttered, earning himself a sharp elbow to his side, which the witcher likely didn’t even feel.

“You’ll stay,” the old witcher said again, a certain finality to the words as he turned on his heel and made his way back towards the hall. The other witchers followed after him, leaving Jaskier and the man he'd been trying to find alone.

Jaskier stared at the now empty doorway for a moment.

“I still don’t quite understand what all the fuss was about.” Jaskier confessed, glancing back at Geralt.

Geralt shook his head, a fond, searching look on his face. “I’ve wintered in this castle for the last hundred years. Vesemir has lived here even longer. And then you come along, bard, and manage to find a room none of us knew existed, leading to portal that could be used to—hmmm.”

And that was—

Jaskier winced.

“Well, I wouldn’t have to resort to all this magic nonsense if you’d just agree on a place to meet up in the spring. Honestly, it would make it easier on the both of us—”

Geralt huffed, walking after the other witchers out of the room as Jaskier trotted behind him, never once pausing in his rant.

Honestly, if the witcher didn’t want him around, he could easily have gone somewhere more difficult to follow.

In fact, the bard had heard tales of a place very far south, where it was equally freezing, and you could find the strangest, flightless birds…

Hmmm.

No, best not give the witcher any ideas.

After all, he would certainly be lost without his muse.

[fanficideasupforgrabs]

Got this reblog for this post, and had to share because bruv—

“I’ll do anything to get you to stop saying these things because if they’re real and true I will have to look at the ruins of you and do something about it”

Like wow…such a raw, heart-tugging line. So great. Can’t believe anyone added that to something I wrote, quite frankly 😂

@idonutdonuts incredible!💙

[fanficideasupforgrabs]

Link to part one

Geralt frowned down at Yennefer a final time, before making his way to his pack. He pulled out the bandages and salve he would need, scenting the air and wincing at the familiar smell. The bard had been injured enough in the past that the witcher could easily identify the man’s blood, which made it convenient to follow.

He didn’t like leaving Jaskier in the woods while injured, anymore than he’d liked leaving the bard with Yennefer, smelling of fear as he had been. He knew how the bard felt about the woman, had known since the first time he’d gone running out of that cottage after she’d saved his life, practically begging to just leave. But they’d needed him to hunt for food, having run out of rations, and he’d never considered—he should have realized—

Geralt frowned as he came across a bush that reeked of vomit, walking a bit faster at the clear indication the bard was worse off than he’d thought. He’d have liked to treat Jaskier first, to have him rest in the man’s bedroll as Geralt sorted things out with the mage. But he knew intimately the cornered look in Yennefer’s eyes, understood that having the bard there for the discussion would only have made it worse.

Not that it helped much, Geralt considered as he finally spotted the bard, sitting on a rock next to the river, much too close for the witcher’s liking. Hadn’t the man learned anything over the years he’d traveled with Geralt? He shouldn’t be so close to the water, not when he didn’t know—

Geralt froze as Jaskier’s head whipped up, the scent of fear spiking even as the man winced at the pain the sudden movement had brought. Geralt waited for a moment for the clean, fresh scent of contentment the bard always had upon seeing Geralt, his frown only growing when the fear lingered.

“Just me.” He rumbled, making it clear that he hadn’t brought Yennefer with him. He stared at the red bandages around the bard’s head, wondering if he should offer to look at it for him, to see if it needed stitches. It would be better to use clean cloth, but Jaskier was still looking at him like—he didn’t know what, but the smell of fear was still there, and he didn’t understand—

“Guess we should head back,” Jaskier said, lacking all of his usual grace as he rose to his feet.

And Geralt wasn’t—he was torn. He wanted to get the bard back to the campfire, to the bedroll waiting for him where Geralt could offer to treat the wound someplace more comfortable and safe. But he couldn’t deny the sharp spike of terror he’d smelled from the bard at the very notion of going back to camp, back to the mage. He didn’t know what to do, besides—

“It’s safe,” Geralt said, words that never failed to relax the bard, to take away the tightness in the man’s shoulders.

“Right,” Jaskier muttered, glancing up once, quickly, before looking back at the ground as he retraced his steps. If anything, the bard had tensed up more at Geralt’s assurance, and the witcher bit back a growl as Jaskier stumbled over a root.

The bard was being so difficult. Why couldn’t he just—

Jaskier stumbled again, and the witcher could see as he struggled to keep his balance, quickly reached out a hand to steady him and—and—

Jaskier flinched.

The bard paled even more than he already had due to blood loss, and Geralt couldn’t help the way he froze. Couldn’t help the way he breathed in sharply, taking in the acrid scent of fear that still hadn’t—

Geralt swallowed hard, heart thudding violently in his chest as he realized just why the scent was still there. As he realized that, for the first time in fifteen years, in all the time he’d known the bard, Jaskier was—he was—

“We—we better get back. Before dark.” Jaskier stuttered, and that was—Jaskier never stuttered, never tripped over his words, never—

“Jask—”

“I’m sure Roach is very eagerly awaiting our return.” Jaskier continued, voice a little stronger as he plastered on the smile he used for courts.

It was—it was wrong. Jaskier never smiled like that in the woods, not when there were no other people around to impress, not when it was just he and Geralt. He wasn’t—he didn’t need to pretend, not in front of Geralt, never in front of Geralt. He’d not felt the need to for at least a decade, and Geralt felt keenly, like a dagger to the chest, the sudden loss of the connection, the trust—

“Jask, please. I didn’t…”

He reached out, slowly, projecting his movements and giving the bard the time to move away if he wanted. Jaskier eyed the witcher’s hands skeptically as they fell on hunched shoulders, and Geralt forced himself to step forward, ignoring the urge to back away from the fear, the anxiousness, the pain—

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice suddenly hoarse.

Jaskier frowned, stubbornly looking at some point in the distance to the left of the witcher’s head. “You didn’t do anything, Geralt. It’s not your fault the wi—that Yennefer lost her temper.”

Geralt shifted until Jaskier was forced to look at him, or have to obviously turn his head away. “I should have listened to you, though. I never thought Yennefer would hurt you, and I never would have left her alone with you if I thought that was even a possibility. But I should have trusted you, and your instincts. If I had, none of this would have—you wouldn’t be—”

Geralt clenched his jaw tightly, trying not to wince at the way the bard’s pupils were two different sizes.

“She…she should be gone. By the time we get back.”

Jaskier blinked, the movement unusually slow, and Geralt fought the urge to growl at the obvious sign of the bard’s head wound. He really needed to check on it, to make sure—

“What?”

Geralt’s frown deepened.

“She needed a bit of time to gather her things and make a portal. We can—we can find somewhere else, to stay for the night. If that would…” Geralt trailed off, both not sure how to finish the sentence and concerned at the confused expression the bard now sported. He wondered if he could get away with carrying the bard back, the symptoms the bard was displaying only alarming him more and more—

“I don’t…what?” Jaskier’s eyebrows scrunched up even more, “but the…the thing. The plant.”

Geralt shook his head. “I can find a replacement for it. It’ll be a bit harder, but there’s nothing for it.”

If anything, Jaskier seemed even more confused at Geralt’s words.

“I don’t…why?” The bard asked, clearly struggling to find the words, in part due to the pain practically pouring off of him.

“It would take far too long to find without Yennefer,” Geralt explained, trying to stay calm for the bard’s sake. It was easier, now that the stench of fear had lessened some, ever since he’d explained that—

Geralt’s eyes widened, mouth opening and closing, though no words came out.

Jaskier didn’t think—he didn’t—

“But…you need it. Need witch.” Jaskier said, tilting his head just a bit.

“Jaskier, you know I wouldn’t—she hurt you, Jask. She could have—” Geralt shook his head fiercely, refusing to even entertain the notion. “You know I would never—I’d never risk—”

Geralt stared into the bard’s hazy blue eyes, stared at the man who still seemed so utterly, hopelessly lost, and realized suddenly that Jaskier didn’t know. That the bard had thought Geralt would—would drag him back to camp, would leave him alone with the mage, still bearing injuries she herself had given him. That he would leave him at her mercy—

“Jask…”

For a moment, Geralt just looked at the man across from him. Jaskier’s face was pale, which the witcher could put down to his head wound, but there was a lifelessness to his hair, dark patches under his eyes, that spoke of a weariness days in the making.

And suddenly, Geralt realized that if he had been in the bard’s shoes, it never would have gotten this far. How many times had Jaskier started a fight, because a barmaid or stall owner refused to sell to the witcher? How many times had Jaskier walked out of a tavern, because they didn’t have a room for someone like him? And how many times had Jaskier stood up for him when others called him a monster, inhuman, butcher?

And yet…Yennefer had spent the last four days degrading the bard every chance she got. Had spat at him insults that Geralt knew hurt the bard in ways he didn’t show, except for when he was very deep into his drinks. Not to mention the sparks the mage had threatened when she thought he wasn’t looking, which should have been sign enough that she would escalate if given the chance.

Geralt carefully pulled Jaskier into his arms, lifting him gently and shushing him as he let the bards head fall into his neck, shielding his eyes from the light. He walked steadily, doing his best not to jostle the younger man, the small whimpers he let out like long needles being stabbed through his chest.

Because he could no longer fool himself into thinking this wasn’t his fault. It was him who agreed to this journey with the witch, who didn’t even bother to ask the bard’s opinion. It was him who neglected to stop the fighting earlier, to defend the bard when the mage was the one starting the fights a good 90% of the time. And it was him who—who ignored Jaskier’s terror time and time again when it came to Yennefer, until finally the bard had been proven right.

And that was…

Geralt almost jerked to a stop at the realization of how little the bard truly feared. Of how, even when face to face with the creatures of most men’s nightmares, the bard very rarely reeked of the acrid scent, as if he knew he had nothing to worry about. Not when he wasn’t facing the monster alone, not when he had Geralt there to protect him.

And yet, every time since that first encounter with Yennefer, when they’d run across the mage, he’d put on a brave mask while his heart thudded violently in his chest. He’d used the only weapon in his arsenal, never once looking to Geralt for help, as if he knew this was a monster he would find no aid with, a battle he would be left to fight on his own.

Which was—it wasn’t—

Finally stepping into the small clearing where he’d left Roach, he breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of mage present. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if she hadn’t left of her own volition, but it wouldn’t have been a pretty fight.

He glanced down at the light weight in his arms, the tension between his brows easing a bit at the realization the bard was sleeping. While not something he could risk a lot of with his wound, Jaskier’s breathing was steady, and the witcher could give him a few more minutes before waking him to tend to it properly.

He eased himself to the ground slowly, thinking once again about how strange his life was compared to when he started out on the Path. How different his journeys were, now that he had a rambling, colourful bard following after him, who could barely handle a dagger, let alone a sword.

And maybe Jaskier could never defend Geralt physically, like the witcher could for the bard. Jaskier would likely never go to battle with a Leshen, or a Bruxae, never stand in front of Geralt as he ran away like Jaskier often had to when the beast came a little too close to the human.

But as Geralt watched the steady rise and fall of the other man’s chest, he had no doubt that if Geralt truly was in danger, the bard would be the first to come running to his rescue, likely armed with little more than his lute and a shipload of courage.

No, Jaskier would never be a fierce warrior, someone to fear standing across from on the battlefield. But there were very few the witcher would trust to watch his back as much as he would the bard.

And he was beginning to realize that that trust, that loyalty, was a bigger gift than he’d ever understood.

And that it was not one to be taken lightly.

[fanficideasupforgrabs]

Imagine if Geralt and Jaskier were forced to travel with Yennefer, back in the days where the bard was still, quite frankly, terrified of the witch.

Oh, he did his best to hide it. He never backed down from one of their verbal spars, even when he wanted nothing else than to hide behind the witcher, have him demand that Yennefer stop—stop insulting him, stop mocking him, stop threatening him.

But Jaskier knew he couldn’t do that. For one, Geralt trusted him to look after himself, to defend himself, at least to a certain degree. Monsters were one thing, but a witch that Geralt was—well, intimate with, and had a decently good relationship with was something else.

Plus, he knew that Geralt and Yennefer had struck up some sort of deal, that they both had need for some herb found deep in the woods they were now traversing. Why the witch couldn’t just buy it or, better yet, open up a portal to where it must be, the bard wasn’t entirely sure. The pair hadn’t bothered to share the details with him besides a comment about some sort of monsters in the area they couldn’t risk alerting with a portal.

And lastly, well…Jaskier didn’t need Geralt’s help with the mage. So far, the violet-eyed woman had done little more than spew hateful words, and maybe show off with a spark or two in her palms. Jaskier wasn’t a fool, could see the intimidation tactic for what it was, and saw no reason why he should be the one to back down every time the witch was in a bad mood.

Which was, quite frankly, always.

The bard had grown so used to her little sparks though, to the cold anger in her sharp eyes, that he never saw the blast of magic coming. One second they were bantering back and forth, no more or less heated than their arguments usually were, and the next there was a sharp pain in the back of his head, followed by a loud crack.

It took the bard a second to realize he’d been flung clear across the small glade they’d been making camp at, that he’d been blasted backwards into a tree, head and back taking the brunt of the contact. He blinked, trying to push the black spots from his vision, barely noticing the sound of Geralt coming back as he glared at the witch. She had the decency to look a bit guilty, but made no move to help him up, or to apologize, merely staying where she was a good few meters away.

That was quite alright with him, though, he thought as he staggered to his feet. Maybe this would be the push the witcher needed to make him see that as much as Geralt seemed to like the witch, it would be best if the bard wasn’t left alone with her. Melitele’s sake, the man had only been gone hunting for ten minutes or so, and look what had—

His trail of thought tapered off as the man himself appeared, eyes darting around the small clearing before glancing quickly between the witch and bard. It was easy to see what had happened. The sound alone was proof that it had been magic, and with nothing else in the clearing, plus the small dent he was pretty sure he’d made in the tree behind him, surely Geralt could—

“Take a walk, Jaskier.”

Jaskier blinked, stunned.

Geralt didn’t…he wouldn’t have just—

“Now, bard.”

Jaskier fought back a flinch, having grown used to the witcher using the term in a softer, joking tone in the years they’d been traveling together. But now, it was like all those moments together had never happened, like he was eighteen again and following after Geralt for the first time, the witcher telling the bard to get lost as he punched him in the gut.

The thought made his stomach roll uncomfortably, though that could have also been due to the dizziness he was fighting. He did his best not to stumble as he walked to where he could faintly hear a river, not that it mattered much with the way the witcher had already turned away from the bard, talking in hushed tones to the witch.

Jaskier walked until he was sure the sound of the running water would cover any noise he made, before his stomach got the best of him and he found himself bending over and vomiting into a bush. Breathing raggedly, he struggled to stand straight, the ground seeming to spin underneath him as his head pounded with every thud of his heart.

Wincing at the light that filtered in through the tree canopy, he gently touched the back of his head, hissing when his fingers brushed the spot that hurt the most. He wasn’t exactly surprised to find the digits red, he’d had enough head wounds to know this was a nasty one, but it didn’t—Geralt could usually smell his blood. And the witcher had never let him walk away while injured, no matter how pissed off the man was at the bard for how he got the wound in the first place.

But maybe he trusted Jaskier to take care of it, Jaskier considered as he staggered down to the river. Taking the doublet off and folding it beside him, he felt at the back of his chemise, trying to see if it was already bloodied. Feeling it was a lost cause, he quickly tugged it off too, using the small dagger he kept in his boot to make thin bandages from the material.

Jaskier could do this. It wasn’t the first time he’d cared for his injuries by himself, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. That had to be why Geralt had sent him away while he—while he dealt with the witch. That made sense. Better to—to calm her down, than to risk her setting the forest on fire next, or something.

Still, as he carefully brushed the blood away with hands that shook slightly, he couldn’t help the dark thoughts that crept into his mind. The realization that Geralt had gone to Yennefer, instead of Jaskier, even though Yennefer wasn’t the one hurt. Even though Yennefer was the one who had hurt Jaskier, who could have broken his bones if she’d thrown him a bit harder, who could have—have—

Jaskier swallowed hard against the creeping bile in his throat, shoving it down the way he couldn’t do his morbid imagination. He trusted Geralt, would always trust Geralt. But Geralt clearly didn’t see the witch as a threat, didn’t understand that the woman couldn’t care less about what happened to the bard, and that was—quite frankly, terrifying.

Because he could trust Geralt all he wanted, but if he didn’t—if the witcher refused to see the danger, then that meant Jaskier was on his own with this. Worse, actually, because Geralt would likely be around soon to drag Jaskier back to the woman, to the witch who’d sooner leave him dead on the side of the road if she thought Geralt would allow it.

Which the witcher never would, of course. He might not like Jaskier’s singing, or his rambling, or the way the bard spoiled Roach, or, well…

Jaskier bit back the urge to shake his head. Geralt and he were friends, no matter if the witcher refused to admit it. No witch could come between that, no matter what their relationship was. Geralt would never—he’d never—

The bard blinked sluggishly, trying to get his mind to work through the pain. It was fine. They’d only be with the witch for a short while. He could trust Geralt to keep him safe.

…right?