Of all the changes between this journey and all their others, this is the thing that stands out to Jaskier. Not the new Roach, not Milva striding beside them, not the fact that instead of wandering wherever the next contract calls them they have an urgent mission, not the fact that everything is different about their relationships to Yennefer. No, it is only this fact.
Geralt limps.
When they first started traveling together, Jaskier was the one who was prone to limping: his boots were truly not made for traversing long distances. Blistered abounded, accompanied by the occasional misstep leading to a tender ankle. But Geralt, would tred on, surefooted as anything.
This time, Geralt limps.
Geralt has been one of the constants in Jaskier's life, one of the unchangeable facets. Find Geralt, follow him, sing about him, never doubt him for a second. Jaskier used to be able to keep time by Geralt's sure and consistent footfalls.
But now, Geralt limps.
As a witcher, Geralt's healing is both accelerated and magnified, bolstered by his potions, which would kill a normal man. Jaskier once saw Geralt stuff his own entrails back into his body and sew the wound shut. His ability to heal from almost anything was as unquestionable in Jaskier's mind as the sun rising.
And yet, Geralt limps.
Jaskier was a young man when he first met Geralt, and in the ensuing decades has not been untouched by time. He wakes with aches now, stiffness that would have been unthinkable in those early days. The road of aging stretched before him, the inescapable path of slowing, weakening, and eventually having to stay behind, while Geralt, seemingly unaging, walked on.
But instead, Jaskier walks easily and Geralt limps.
Geralt has always had one unswerving objective: walk the Path. Kill monsters, collect coin. Nothing could move him from the Path, not adoring bards, not alluring sorceresses. And then a young princess compelled him to walk a different path. She became the sole objective. It is to her that Geralt is going, and nothing will keep him from her, not time, not injury, not as long as he has breath. And where Geralt goes, Jaskier is determined to be by his side.
So Geralt limps on and Jaskier keeps pace behind him.
“—fucking winter and its wintery fucking— cold as balls, ice frozen—”
“Jask?”
“—good for nothing— oh.” His tossing stops. The ground is so fucking cold. “Sorry, did I wake you?”
One golden eye peers at him. He would say Geralt looked annoyed, but he can’t see most of his face, tucked as it is under his cloak, so he chooses to interpret it as friendly concern. “Your muttering did.”
Jaskier smiles sheepishly at him, even though Geralt probably can’t see him either, with his scarf tied around his neck and covering most of his face. “Sorry. Just...”
“Can’t sleep?”
Jaskier shakes his head. It’s their fifth year on the Path together, the first one Geralt’s invited him along to spend the winter at Kaer Morhen with him — and Jaskier’s excited, really, but sleeping on the forest floor with a thin bedroll and definitely not enough blankets kind of dampens his spirits a little.
They’ve laid their bedrolls side by side, the fire keeping their feet warm, but still Jaskier can’t fend off the chill that’s seeped into his bones. He would blame it on his frilly, beautifully impractical clothing, with its soft but thin fabrics, with its stunning trim but no insulation, but if he did, he’d basically be agreeing with Geralt, and he can’t have that. Not even in the privacy of his own mind.
(He still hasn’t ruled out the possibility that Witchers are mind-readers). (Geralt is awfully quiet whenever Jaskier brings it up, and, well, one can never be too careful).
So he’s been tossing and turning and singing lullabies to himself in a feeble attempt of finally succumbing to a warm, deep sleep. Not that it’s worked, anyway.
The single golden eye looks considering, now.
“Wha—?” Jaskier manages before Geralt stands up, the bare skin under his sleep shirt immediately reacting to the cold air of the forest and erupting in gooseflesh.
Then, a blanket is being tossed to his face.
(It smells like horse).
“There,” says Geralt, not unkindly, his voice a bit rough. “That’ll help.”
“Well,” Jaskier replies, trying to adjust the blanket without taking his hands out of his bedroll, which proves impossible. “Thanks.”
Before he can sit up straight and, like a sane person, rearrange the blanket on top of himself, Geralt’s doing it for him. His hair is a mess from where he’s been laying on it and he’s squinting, but his hands are warm as they reach for the ends of the blanket and he tucks them into Jaskier’s bedroll, making sure his body is covered.
“You’re tucking me in,” Jaskier whispers, something that suspiciously feels like love standing on his heart a little.
Geralt smiles. He smiles his soft smile, the one where his lips stretch over his face and they’re pink and pretty and there’s a shine in his eyes.
“I guess I am,” he replies, checking no corners have been missed. “We’ll reach the mountain soon. No more cold nights after that.”
Jaskier smiles. He doesn’t know what it might look like on his face, lips chapped and slightly cracked. He hopes it shows his gratitude for him.
Geralt sits back on his haunches. The smile is still there. Fonder, somehow.
“What, no kiss goodnight?” Jaskier murmurs, because he’s an idiot, because he can’t help himself.
“Mm,” Geralt says, and for a second, Jaskier thinks he’s getting up to leave, but then Geralt leans forward and there’s a gentle, sweet kiss being pressed to his forehead. His smile is bigger when he turns away. “There. Goodnight.”
Jaskier can feel the warmth on his skin, the skin Geralt pressed a kiss to. He can feel it seeping into his bones.
When he turns around, blanket firmly secured, Geralt is watching him from his own bedroll.
“Goodnight,” he mouths at him, and Geralt closes his eyes.
His cloak is covering half his face again, but Jaskier can see the smile he’s hiding anyway.
The first time they share a room together at an inn, Jaskier is, unsurprisingly, completely at ease with—well. With everything.
The bard is so comfortable in these surroundings, obviously much more at home with soft bed linens and oil lamps than a patch of damp grass and only the light of a yellow-y moon. Jask is seemingly still so at ease with Geralt, too, even in such close quarters. He's apparently also completely unbothered by his own stark nakedness as he now shamelessly strips down entirely, readying himself for a warm and replenishing lavender milk bath and a cup or ten of blackberry wine.
The witcher watches the bard, whilst trying not to.
Geralt's cat-eyes very much struggle to stop following pale and slender limbs as they swirl around like dragonflies in the fragrant steam that now sits heavy and hot in the midst of their small room. Jaskier prances and preens and eventually melts like jam in porridge into the bath's soothing waters. The eternal bard then, of course, proceeds to prattle on and away about something and nothing and everything, occasionally breaking out into broken verses of half‐baked songs.
Geralt—sat sharpening his blades, sometimes grunting in occasional outward acknowledgement, sometimes not—keeps trying his damned best not to look.
He fails.
Jaskier sips long and often from his cup, the wine leaving his full mouth lacquered. Plum‐stained. Inviting.
Geralt watches still, swallowing whole cupfuls at a time of the sweetened fruit wine, thickly and far too fast.
The bard is then nonchalantly asking Geralt if Geralt, “Would you like to maybe join me in the tub?”
Geralt pulls a face with an air of faux-disdain, huffing and puffing his cowedly dismissal.
Very obviously trying not to smile, Jaskier purses those berry‐smacked lips of his and merely blinks at Geralt for a few moments, just. Looking. Or looking back, seeing as Geralt—even red-faced and fuming as he is—simply cannot look away.
Then Jask concedes a small, secretive smile, like he knows something Geralt wants to, before he shrugs it off and says, not unkindly, "Suit yourself."
Geralt immediately hurls himself out of the room with the force of an enraged Archgriffin, the plucked excuse of purchasing more wine a most welcome gods-send.
"Hurry back, dear witcher!" Jaskier's giggling torment floats after him.
On his way down the staircase to the main part of the inn, Geralt bites into his bottom lip so fucking hard he's tasting iron for the rest of the hellish evening.
Geralt and Ciri are traveling to Kaer Morhen when they hear about how the Nilfgaardian’s army attacked Oxenfurt.
Geralt doesn’t know what happened to his Bard after he left him on the Mountain so many - too many - months ago but he’s sure he went back to Oxenfurt, because he always did when they splitted up in winter.
He has nightmares about Jaskier for weeks - him being captured, tortured, dead - and calls out his name all the night until Ciri, after another sleepness night, asks who’s this man he’s dreaming of.
And he has to explain a lot of things, first of all his feelings.
(As always, I hope you like it 🌸)
(I live in the AU!World these days ❤️)
(Open the gifs for a better quality, since t*mblr hates gifset!)
Jaskier leans against Geralt’s shoulder, doodling hearts in the margin of Geralt’s notes. He feels his eyelids droop, but he fights it, concentrating on scrawling “iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou” down the length of the page, perpendicular to his boyfriend’s clear, blocky script. Roach is dozing in the sunspot in front of him, black tail curled around her face; she is a picture of pure content.
Geralt stretches out a leg in front of him (carefully avoiding the cat) and settles the absurdly large golden fleece blanket better around Jaskier’s shoulders. He shifts his laptop onto the carpet next to him and encourages Jaskier to put his head in his lap. Jaskier sighs, sleepy and fuzzy-warm and content, and falls asleep with a kiss to his temple and Geralt stroking his hair away from his ear.
-
When he wakes a few hours later, it is not quite dark, but Geralt has not moved. The television is on, at a volume so low he almost can’t hear it. He rubs a hand across his eyes, and finds Geralt immersed in a copy of “Maurice” that had fortunately been laying nearby. Geralt’s large hand is rubbing slow circles on his back under the blanket, and his hair is in a frizzy bun. His baby hairs curl by his forehead, shining silver-white and almost opalescent in the early evening, golden hour glow coming in through their sitting room window.
A smile spreads like honey across Jaskier’s face as he stretches and immediately nestles against Geralt’s arm again. “Alright, darling?” A feeling like finally standing in front of his favourite painting after waiting lifetimes to see it comes over him. Geralt is a Vermeer, caught unawares, his features soft in dappled, late afternoon sunlight. A Van Gogh swirl, just there, in his smile.
“Alright.” Geralt says, fixing him with a gaze that makes him melt. Jaskier’s hand, still clutching the corner of the blanket, knuckles at Geralt’s collarbone. The books lay forgotten as they kiss, sugar-sweet and sleep-soft.
-
As the kettle boils for a tea break, they stand huddled in the kitchen in their socks. Geralt has the blanket around both of them, has shifted his arms around his love and is keeping him close, as if Jaskier would ever leave. Jaskier himself is settled so his head is under Geralt’s chin, ear over his steady heartbeat, arms curled together in between the two of them. Everything has never been more perfect, so Geralt kisses him, just there, on the corner of his mouth. They are Klimt’s “The Kiss”; they are another love story one hundred years later (and yet, always, the same one).
Many thanks to the ever-lovely and always talented @spielzeugkaiser for collaborating with me once again on this goofy, exceedingly soft Star Trek AU! 4.3k
Boldly going where no fluff has gone before...
tw: simulated near-death experiences
---
Stardate 47634.44
Commander Geralt deRiv watched with a stoic sense of envy as Counselor Pankratz wrapped his arms around young Ensign Cirilla and gave her a bone-crushing hug. The pretty young Betazoid man picked her up and spun her in a quick circle, his superior height the only way to compensate for her excessively gangly teenage limbs.
The Commander watched from nearby - not too close to the group to be considered an intrusion - and tried to find a logical way to explain why he felt his own mild sense of happiness whenever he heard a note of joy in Counselor Pankratz’s steady tenor. Geralt looked on, still oddly and illogically jealous, as the Counselor pressed a quick kiss to either of Ciri’s cheeks and declared: “Congratulations, cub! I’m so excited that you’ll be staying with us for your last few years of Starfleet training!”
Once the Counselor was finished bestowing his blessings and congratulations, Captain Vesemir stepped forward and clapped his hand over the girl’s shoulder, his sharp hazel eyes sparkling with pride and perhaps even mischief. His bushy grey mustache turned up in the corners, the ultimate marker of his approval. “Congratulations, Ensign Cirilla. Let me be the first to welcome you aboard the USS Kaer Morhen as an official member of the Bridge crew. We’re happy to have you along with us, my dear.”
“Grandma would be so proud,” Ciri smiled. It wasn't her usual chipper smile, either, but something distant and sad and longing. Geralt found human culture far too touchy-feely for his tastes; except, apparently, when it came to Counselor Pankratz. “May I send a message to the Away team and let my Mom know about my appointment, Captain?”
“Of course,” Vesemir grinned. “I’m sure that she’ll be incredibly proud of you, cub.”
Counselor Pankratz hugged Ciri one last time and Geralt felt his jealousy return, crackling just beneath the surface of his too-pale skin. The Commander’s sudden bout of white-hot emotion jarred him back to reality and he took a step forward, ready to offer Ciri his own set of congratulations. When Jaskier shot him a curious sidelong glance, however, Geralt realized that he needed to keep his feelings more deeply in check than he already was - having feelings for a Betazoid was difficult enough.
He stepped forward and patted the newly officiated Ensign on the shoulder twice, as he had just seen Vesemir do, an obvious sign of trust and competency, “Excellent work, Cirilla. I look forward to having you on the Away team. You have a clever mind and sharp observational skills; they will be a great asset.”
The young woman’s eyes widened above her already enormous smile and she bounced twice on the balls of her feet, her hands clasped beneath her chin and her cheeks flushed pink with all the praise. “Thank you so much, Commander deRiv! It means the world to hear you say that!”
“You are a commendable officer and always do your job to the best of your abilities. I am pleased to hear that you will remain a part of our crew,” Geralt nodded, eyebrows furrowed with the seriousness of his statement. He folded his hands behind his back and shifted his eyes up to meet the Captain’s, unsure of how to proceed with the boisterous Ensign’s enthusiastic response to his comments. “May I be dismissed, sir?”
“Yes, thank you, Commander. I’ll read over your report from the last Away mission this evening and send you any questions or comments I may have before your bridge shift tomorrow.”
“Understood. Thank you, Captain.”
---
Stardate 47634.44
“So the two of them have actually met before?” Vesemir clarified. Lambert nodded, smirking a little too smugly for anyone’s comfort. The Captain continued, ever-wary of the officer’s tendency to play pranks, “And you think that they’re in love?”
“I wouldn’t necessarily call it love. I mean, not to interrupt Lambert’s gossiping, Captain, but your Senior Science Officer and your Ship’s Counselor definitely have feelings for each other. I’ve seen the tips of Geralt’s pointy ears go green just from passing Jaskier’s table in Ten Forward,” Eskel noted from the raised Security platform behind the Captain’s chair. “And despite being a serial hugger and hand-holder, Jask keeps himself politely disengaged and professional whenever he’s dealing with our shy Commander deRiv.”
“They’re idiots, Captain,” First Officer Vengerberg added from her seat at Vesemir’s side. Yennefer was radiating pride and happiness, resplendent from Ciri’s recent acceptance to Starfleet and continued assignment on the Kaer Morhen. Still, she found a moment to roll her eyes and contribute, “Commander deRiv refuses to let his human side show by constantly shielding and suppressing his emotions, meanwhile Counselor Pankratz is too polite to try and hit on a man from a species known for their lack of romantic tendencies. And, since Jaskier is still half-human himself, he can’t technically read thoughts. He can only detect feelings. In my personal opinion, Captain, Jaskier isn’t sure what the Commander thinks of him.”
“Aye, sir, I agree with the Witch,” Lambert nodded. He glanced over his shoulder from his place at the helm and winked at the dark-haired woman roguishly. “Unfortunately.”
Yennefer stuck her tongue out at him.
“Knock it off, you two.” The Captain tried to hide his amusement behind a stern tone but didn’t quite succeed. “I have more pressing matters to deal with than your endless bickering - like children, I swear. Anyhow, we only narrowly managed to make it away from Florelia-4 without breaking the Prime Directive and interrupting their sacrificial rites. We need to be more careful the next time we make contact with such a young, underdeveloped society.”
“I’m sure that Jaskier would be able to teach us a thing or two about diplomacy, especially now that he’s more comfortable around us and has adjusted to the ship. The Counselor probably should have been on that Away team in the first place, then perhaps our unfortunate little debacle could have been prevented entirely.”
“You’re certainly right about his place on the Away team, Yen. I think I’d like him to take the Bridge Officers’ test as well; it would be a great boon to our company to have an empath with Bridge clearance.”
“Do you think he’ll be able to pass on his first try, Captain?” the Security Chief asked.
“He’ll need help, Commander Eskel. I expect you’ll be able to tutor him?”
“I don’t have the time,” Eskel rebutted. “Nor does Lambert; we’re working on that new Ensign Training Program for the Holodeck. Starfleet asked us to have our rough draft turned in by next week.”
“Hmm,” Vesemir leaned back and closed his eyes. His eyebrows gathered at the center of his forehead as he concentrated and Lambert got a terrible idea; a truly awful, completely horrible idea that would definitely end with Commander Geralt’s infinite happiness (regardless of how long it actually took the dumbass Science Officer to get his shit together).
He piped up, chest puffed confidently: “Not to bring the conversation back around to the Commander and his nervous blushing, but why not have Pretty Boy tutor the Counselor, Captain?”
Vesemir let one eye slide carefully open, focusing on the sassy young Lieutenant at the helm. “You mean that I should ask Commander deRiv to keep an eye on Jaskier for the duration of his Bridge Officers’ training?”
“Precisely,” First Officer Vengerberg grinned, catching onto the meaning behind Lambert’s increasingly smug smile. “Oh, you’re absolutely evil, Lamb.”
“I don’t like to meddle in the lives of my officers,” Vesemir grumbled, truly conflicted. “But this promises to be both beneficial and entertaining to all involved.”
“C’mon Captain,” Lambert pleaded. “If he’s too busy to help the Counselor then he’ll tell you so; Geralt isn’t exactly known for his abilities to make excuses or beat around the bush.”
“Alright, alright. You’re all awful and so am I. So be it.” Vesemir huffed. He tapped his communicator pin twice and spoke clearly, “Commander deRiv, please report to the Bridge.”
“On my way, Captain,” the Commander’s monotone voice crackled back.
Lambert and Ciri high-fived at the helm and Yennefer shook her head, biting back a pleased grin. Even the usually calm and collected Eskel seemed excited for whatever was about to unfold.
---
Counselor Pankratz arrived a few minutes after Commander deRiv, determined to speak with the Captain about a completely unrelated matter, and found himself on the business end of Vesemir’s affectionately stern scowl. “After the incident that occurred on our recent Away mission to Florelia-4, I’d like to give you a promotion and increase your list of responsibilities to include supervising any potentially diplomatic situations the Kaer Morhen may encounter from here on out.”
Jaskier gawked openly for a moment before gathering his wits enough to reply: “I’m more than happy to accept your kind and generous offer, Captain Vesemir, and I’m incredibly honored that you would consider me for such a position!”
Geralt stepped forward to stand at Vesemir’s side and Jaskier found himself struggling to remain focused on his commanding officer’s continued speech: “I’d also like you to take the Bridge Officers’ test. Commander deRiv will be in charge of your training regimen, so I’d like you to meet him at the holodeck sometime tomorrow evening for your first round of tutoring. I’ll let you two figure out the finer details, since I’m not privy to your individual schedules.”
“Yes, sir.” Jaskier fought bravely against the growing urge to faint and hid his sudden anxiety behind a calm and grateful smile. “Thank you again for your trust in my capabilities, Captain. I’m truly excited for these new opportunities to learn and to become closer with the other members of the crew.”
Geralt gave a single, accepting nod. “I will do my best to instruct Counselor Pankratz, Captain.”
Lambert winked at the Captain from behind the two unwitting officers’ backs and Vesemir’s scowl relaxed into a near-smile. The Captain clapped Geralt on the shoulder much the same way Geralt had done with Ciri earlier and Geralt wondered if it was mischief glinting in Vesemir’s stormy hazel eyes when he replied, “I’m sure you will, Commander.”
Stardate 47634.44, Evening
Geralt dreamed of his father for the first time that night.
The two men were standing in Geralt’s quarters, familiar and comfortable, as if Korin deRiv had always been a member of the Kaer Morhen’s crew. The human man was grinning down at Geralt with a shining sense of pride.
“Look at you, my son,” Korin smiled, his green eyes crinkling at the corners to reveal his crow’s feet. “You’ve grown quite a bit since I last saw you.”
“Father,” Geralt bowed his head respectfully.
“Just like your Mother, I see,” Korin teased. “All mannerly and polite, with a resting expression more akin to a scowl than a smile. Are you logical to a fault as well, my son?”
Geralt frowned more deeply than he already had been and turned his face away, unable to let his own confusion and conflicting emotions show. Visenna had done little in the way of raising Geralt to begin with, and she’d grown even more distant after his father’s untimely death. Geralt supposed that, with only his Mother’s brilliant coldness as an example of affectionate behavior, he may have taken after her more than he’d realized.
His shoulders sagged and his head drooped.
“Yes.”
“Hmm. You even sound like her,” Korin said. He came around to Geralt’s other side and put one hand on his son’s broad shoulder. “I may not have the kind of mental prowess that you and your Mother share, but I know a yearning heart when I see one.”
“Vulcans do not yearn,” Geralt snapped. He glared up into those familiar eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, feeling (and looking) a little childish as he did so.
“Humans do,” his Father smiled. “And I think that you would feel better if you remembered more often that you’re only half-Vulcan. The other half of your very DNA demands romance, companionship, love, and creativity. Don’t be afraid to step outside of your logical enclosure once and awhile. You may be happily surprised with the results, my son.”
“Did you ever-” Geralt bit his tongue, considered his words, and then continued, “Did you ever regret your decision to stay with Mother?”
“Once,” Korin admitted. “Only once, and it was the day after you were born. She held you in her arms only long enough to feed you and then she handed you to the nursemaid without another word. Not even a parting kiss for her newborn child. Then I remembered her lineage, the way she’d been brought up - without even a scrap of affection - and I forgave her. I loved her all the more after that, to make up for the tenderness she hadn’t gotten to experience when she needed it most…”
Geralt felt an unfamiliar heat behind his eyes and reached up to wipe away a tear. He glared down at the glistening drop of moisture; it clung to the tip of his finger almost desperately, forcing him to confront the emotions he worked so hard to hide during his waking hours. His chest ached. His lungs burned. This felt more real than a dream, more solid and weighty than any subconscious urging.
“Let yourself love him, Geralt,” Korin said as he began to fade from sight, “Don’t argue yourself out of your own happiness. Don’t let yourself be held back by tradition. Not in the face of an emotion so wonderful it could change the way you see the lights outside your starship windows. Free your mind, my son, and your heart will follow.”
With Korin’s ghostly warning thus issued, Geralt sat straight up in bed. He gasped for breath, clutching at his chest - the tacky wetness of half-dried tears on his cheeks was a totally foreign sensation.
Jaskier was at the forefront of his mind, as if the Counselor had been caught on repeat in the Vulcan’s thoughts.
Geralt pictured the way the younger man’s blue eyes sparkled when he laughed. The way Jaskier’s hips swayed enchantingly as meandered his way through Ten Forward or down the starship’s plain beige halls. The way his hair fell just so over his forehead and around his ears. The way he made everyone feel comfortable and safe in their own skin when he was near, an accidental byproduct of both his empathic powers and cheerful personality.
With every little detail Geralt remembered about Jaskier, he felt his human emotions growing stronger and more easy to define. He sorted through them by name in an odd and stringently Vulcan attempt to calm himself down: Lust. Adoration. Excitement. Jealousy. Happiness. Confusion. Anticipation.
Perhaps, though he was still too nervous to fully accept or analyze it yet, Love.
Geralt remained awake all through the night as he attempted to understand and accept the feelings he’d spent his entire life desperately trying to evade.
Still, as a beam of artificial sunlight projected down from the ceiling to spread across his pillow at 06:00, Commander deRiv found himself smiling at the idea that he’d be joining the Counselor on the holodeck later that afternoon, joy blooming hot and comforting at the center of his chest.
It was a sensation he wouldn’t mind getting used to.
Stardate 47648.47
Commander deRiv spent two impossibly long weeks tutoring Counselor Pankratz for the Bridge Officers’ test. The stubborn Counselor insisted that his senior officer refer to him only as “Jaskier” and in turn only referred to the Commander by his first name, the word “Geralt” falling from Jaskier’s lips with such musical normalcy that it nearly felt affectionate.
The time he spent working as Jaskier’s devoted tutor were two of the most tortuous and wonderful weeks of Geralt’s extensive Vulcan lifetime. At the end of the final day of pre-test training courses, Jaskier asked Geralt to meet him for dinner at Ten Forward to celebrate. “I’ve never gone through the promotional system this way and it’s really quite thrilling. I owe you so many favors, dearest Geralt.”
“Hmm.”
“I can feel how proud you are of me,” Jaskier teased, his fingers brushing against Geralt’s shoulder in a casual gesture of affection. The Counselor had grown more comfortable around the Science Officer but still refused to let his touches linger for more than a few seconds at a time. The contact never included full embraces, either; a fact which seemed to grow more bothersome to Geralt with every passing day. The Counselor’s eyebrows crinkled together and his hand fell back to his side, “I suddenly sense an anger in you, a frustration that wasn’t present just before. Are you feeling alright, Commander?”
Commander.
The word struck Geralt in the center of the chest like a Romulan phaser blast, knocking the breath from his lungs. Jaskier hadn’t called him Geralt, musical and sweet and blissfully normal, but Commander. The senior officer reigned in his feelings, slipping back into the comfortable apathy of his Vulcan breeding.
“I’m alright,” Geralt replied smoothly. “I fear that I have not done your training justice; I apologize that I allowed my control to slip. I did not mean for you to experience the brunt of any such negative feelings, Cou- Jaskier.”
A slight smile returned to the Betazoid’s face and his cheeks flushed. Clearly Geralt had made the right decision by ignoring his instinct to use Jaskier’s full title. “I was just worried about you, that’s all.”
“Because I care about you.” Jaskier brushed his hand against the back of Geralt’s again, feather-light and far too quick to provide any satisfaction to Geralt’s endless yearning. “Anyway, I can’t sense them anymore, now.”
“I… handled them.”
“You can just turn your feelings on and off like a lightswitch?” Jaskier inquired, genuine curiosity strong in his tone. “They disappeared so quickly.”
“Hmm,” Geralt acknowledged, nodding solemnly. “Historically, emotional control is one of the greatest achievements of Vulcan society. We do not allow our feelings to affect our decisions. We are purely logical, even when parts of our culture appear... otherwise.”
“I am from a very different type of society myself,” Jaskier shrugged. “But I’m sure you know enough about Betazed to understand what I mean. Now, about that dinner?”
They ordered their respective meals from the tableside replicator and chatted as they ate, discussing a wide range of topics. Eventually they landed on: “Vulcan poetry! I’d love to hear some, if you’ve got anything memorized!”
Geralt gave a decent recitation of his favorite childhood poem - the nonsensical story of a young man who could speak to the stars - and watched as Jaskier’s eyes grew round. He knew this expression to be one of adoration or wonder, but he could not sense emotions, and could not parse out the Counselor’s exact reaction. Instead he asked: “Yourself?”
“Betazed has many great poets,” Jaskier mused. “But they’re always so truthful about everything. There’s no mystery in our art, no room for subjective interpretation. I like poems with nuance and insecurity and feeling. I can’t recite it because the written formatting is so integral to its message, but ‘How Do I Love You’ by the renowned human poet Mary Oliver always tangles my heart around itself like a web of yarn. To end the poem with ‘no more words now’ and no punctuation is… enlightening.”
Geralt nodded, adding that information to the bank of details he knew about Counselor Pankratz. “Her work sounds fascinating.”
“Perhaps I could show you my volume of her collected poetry? I’d love to hear your thoughts on the subject.”
“I would be honored,” Geralt nodded, standing from the table and gesturing for Jaskier to lead the way. Counselor Pankratz stood and took Geralt’s hand in his own, interlacing their fingers as casually as anything.
The Commander startled and yanked his arm back without thinking, his mind reeling from the intimacy of such an embrace. Hand touching was… it was… what Jaskier had just done on instinct was far more intimate than anything Geralt had experienced before. The half-Vulcan’s emotions were running wildly away from his firm control.
Jaskier’s face crumpled when he registered Geralt’s rejection and he took a step back. “Oh, my apologies, Commander. I’m sincerely sorry for whatever offense I have committed.”
“It’s not an offense it’s just that-” Geralt took a deep breath to steady himself “-touching hands is not something a Vulcan does casually. It is a very meaningful and personal gesture on my planet.”
“That particular detail of your heritage slipped my mind in my excitement,” the Counselor bowed shallowly, his pretty blue shawl nearly slipping off one slender shoulder. “My continued apologies, Commander. I hope you can forgive me.”
“It was an accident,” Geralt replied. “And there is nothing to forgive. It pleases me that you were comfortable enough to treat me as a friend, Jaskier.”
“You called me by my name! That means you must forgive me. Now, are you still interested in seeing those poems?”
Geralt smiled, that warm joyful feeling spreading out through his limbs once again at the sight of Jaskier’s giddy grin. “Lead the way.”
Stardate 47653.52
Jaskier squared his shoulders and leaned over one of the Engineering monitors, “Computer, load Bridge Officer's test, Engineering qualification section one.”
“Computer ready.”
“Run programme.”
Lambert spoke up from beside him, the colors on his monitor flashing and shifting: “The control system for the primary containment field is not functioning.”
Geralt’s head snapped up and he locked eyes with Jaskier. “Something's severed the ODN conduit between here and the antimatter storage deck.”
Jaskier realized what was happening and felt a rush of icy anxiety down the length of his spine. “Geralt, could you repair the ODN conduit if you used the crawlspace between decks?”
Lambert frowned. “Sir, that crawlway is in a warp-plasma shaft. He would never survive the radiation.”
“I know that,” Jaskier snapped, trying to keep a level head. Even if this was just a simulation, he hated the idea of sending Geralt to his death. It was the most horrifying thought in the universe, but Geralt was the only one whose expertise could save the ship. And the hundreds of others aboard that ship. “Still, I’m afraid that particular information doesn’t change anything. Geralt, can you repair the conduit?”
The Science Officer nodded once, his face as unmoving as ever. “Yes, Sir.”
“Then do it. That's an order.”
Geralt grabbed a toolbox off the table, turned, and ducked into one of the Jeffries tubes that led to the crawl ducts.
Lambert laughed with glee as he slapped his hand down over one of the glowing instructional panels. “End simulation! Well, Officer Pankratz, I’d like to be the first to offer my official congratulations on your new promotion. You passed!”
Jaskier breathed shakily and smiled over at Geralt, who had returned to his position at the secondary control panel. “That's what this was all about, wasn't it? To see if I could order someone to their death. Someone… Someone I care about.”
Geralt nodded. “That's right.”
“I know that sacrifice is part of being in command and I thought I was prepared for it, but when the moment came... I hesitated. Maybe I shouldn’t have applied in the first place. I don’t know that I could ever hurt y- uh, hurt a fellow crew member, even in an emergency situation.”
“You did exactly what you had to do,” Geralt intoned, taking Jaskier gently by the hand. Jaskier gasped at the gesture, knowing exactly what kind of cultural lines Geralt was crossing for a Vulcan. Lambert disappeared from the room, finally showing his gentlemanly side, and Geralt continued in his low gravelly voice: “You considered all your options, tried every alternative, and then made the hardest but most logical choice a good Captain can make. Now, let's get out of here, Commander. Let me take you to Ten Forward to celebrate.”
Geralt had turned to make for the door but Jaskier tugged him back again, keeping both of his own feet planted firmly on the carpet. “Wait a moment, please?”
Geralt slowly spun to face Jaskier, one of his slanted eyebrows raised in curiosity. “Yes, Commander?”
“Stop calling me that,” Jaskier landed a limp-wristed slap to the Science Officer’s chest with his free hand. Geralt felt the urge to smile and allowed himself the indulgence; it was well worth the sunny grin that Jaskier gave him in return. “Anyway, Officer deRiv… There’s something I need to tell you.”
“I like you, too.”
“This may sound odd but I’m a highly emotional being and I- Wait, what?”
“You are incredibly sweet, Counselor Pankratz, and very kind. You care deeply for those around you and always do your best to help them find peace for themselves. I find those to be admirable traits, logically appealing in a mate, and I also find you… rather pretty.”
Jaskier’s eyes were nebulas, two sparkling pools of endless blue that twinkled and shone as if filled with the very stars themselves. Geralt’s heart raced as he brought their linked hands up and brushed his warm lips against the back of Jaskier’s knuckles. The Betazoid bit his lip, flushed an even deeper pink, and whispered his request: “May I kiss you, Imzadi?”
“We’re already kissing,” Geralt glanced down at their joined hands.
“According to Vulcans, yes,” Jaskier’s smile widened. “But may I kiss you according to my traditions?”
“Yes,” Geralt agreed, leaning forward to meet Jaskier halfway. The newly minted Commander released Geralt’s hand in order to tangle his fingers in the taller man’s silvery hair. He kissed Geralt with everything he had, pushing his feelings across the difference in their telepathic wavelengths, desperate to make himself clear. Make himself known.
When they pulled apart for air, Geralt was grinning. “Kissing for such a long time is completely illogical…”
Jaskier felt his heart drop into his shoes.
And then Geralt’s hands were on his waist, pulling him in again, rumbling laughter carrying the Vulcan’s next words, “Do it again!”
Jaskier makes it fifteen minutes down the mountain when he realizes he has something to say. This wouldn't end on Geralt's terms.
read an excerpt below
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
The gravel crunched as Jaskier began his descent down the mountain. The sound was nowhere near loud enough to drown out every cursed word Geralt had screamed, and Jaskier could feel them rolling in his head on repeat.
Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shoveling it!
Jaskier felt a pull in his muscles, lactic acid gathered from days' trek across rough terrain. He looked around quickly, and seeing no one, promptly fell to the ground. He propped his lute in his lap.
If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off of my hands.
His hands shook as he reached into his pack for his water skin.
"Stupid fucking witchers," he mumbled then he took a swig. "Cowardly, emotionally useless fucking witchers.”
Jaskier shoved his water skin in his bag, and stood abruptly. He was in a small wooded area intersecting the path, surrounded by almost barren bushes and colorless trees. Whatever pale sunlight that made it past the clouds had to jump the next hurdle of filtering through the foliage, a weak imitation of a chiaroscuro patterned across the ground. The whole dim scene added a dramatic element that, for once, Jaskier did not want.
“How many times has he done this?” he said incredulously, hands running through his hair. “How many times has that perfidious bastard sent me away? And yet I came back! Every godsdamned time!”
A thought crossed through his mind. He’s come back too, I can’t forget that.
And it was true, Geralt had returned more than once. Not nearly as much as Jaskier, but it can be said that soft apologies were whispered as he wrapped his arms around Jaskier in his bedroll. There were forehead kisses in the shape of I’m sorry , and small gifts left quietly in his pack, like a crow. Their first kiss had even been after an awkward apology dinner Geralt had made in their camp, until an impromptu rain shower interrupted it.
“But it’s not enough,” he spoke quietly, remembering each harsh departure, each time Geralt had left in the middle of the night to not return for weeks, every angry word said between the two. Small gestures do not salve the end of a two-decade relationship, lovers or not.
He looked down. His hands still shook, and he could feel the heat in his face, but he knew why now. This was anger .
Jaskier walked slowly back to his pack and pulled out a sheet of paper, his quill, and a small pot of ink. Broken prose and lyrics dotted one side of the paper, but the back was blank.
Jaskier smiled slightly as he set the quill to paper. Geralt wouldn’t get to dictate their end.
do i know what im doing? no. am i slipping into a writers block right before i start gearing up for a big bang? yes. i am fucked. send help.
pairing: geraskier
warnings: typical geralt thinks hes a piece of shit nonsense. cuddling. kithes
_______________________
“What are you thinking about?” Jaskier whispered, for once respecting the rare bits of silence they found in the still night.
Geralt offered a small smile, reaching under the covers to link his hand with Jaskier’s. This was all still so new, so thrilling. To be able to hold Jaskier’s hand whenever he wanted to, gently and without reason, was something he might never get used to.
“You.” Geralt hummed, shifting a bit so he was close enough to tangle their legs together.
Jaskier rested his free hand on Geralt’s hip, flashing a sleepy smile, “What about me?”
With a sigh and a smitten furrow in his brow, Geralt answered, “You’re a fool and I’m better for it.”
“Why, pray tell-” Jaskier dropped his voice and raised an eyebrow, “-am I a fool?”
“You’ve decided to love a monster... And I fear I’m too selfish to send you away.” Geralt meant it, every word, but the giggle his lover gave him in response wasn’t what he expected.
“Yes, of course,” Jaskier rolled his eyes, pulling Geralt’s hand close enough to kiss his knuckles as he mocked Geralt thoroughly, “Horrible monster. Big scary mutant. Heartless beast. How could one be so foolish?”
A tired but still fond smile graced Geralt’s lips and only spurred Jaskier on.
“It’s almost as if-” he paused at each word to kiss the tips of Geralt’s fingers, “you’re the kindest, smartest, funniest, bravest, most honorable man I know?”
“A tall tale. More of your embellishments…” Geralt mumbled, blushing despite his argument.
Jaskier’s face fell just a little, dropping into something Geralt would hesitantly call worry as he trailed his hand up over Geralt’s ribs and shoulder to cradle his cheek, “I never have to embellish the important parts. Never. Geralt, I need you to know this. You are a good man.” He paused to search Geralt’s eyes, what he found Geralt had no idea, but Jaskier seemed even more determined, “You may be a bit of a dick sometimes, but you are. When it counts you always are.”
“Jaskier-”
“The words you’re looking for are ‘thank you, I’ll try to believe you’,” Jaskier interrupted, placing a quick kiss to Geralt’s forehead.
“Th-thank you…” When Jaskier only raised his eyebrows at him, Geralt continued, whispering as if he was scared of the words, “I’ll try to believe you…”
