tagged by a few people recently - @trombonechurchill, @rcmclachlan, @apollabarnes, thanks gang
this is a longer-than-usual snippet from cherry blossoms/summer project picking up from the snippet in this post and for non-discworld pals - confusing in an intriguing way, or just straight up annoying?
because it's longer than usual i'm tagging above the read-more for...two or more sentences tuesday (i am bad at this) for @setmeatopthepyre, @ambernotember and @liminalmemories21
"What is it?" Buck asks, bringing the cylinder closer to his face. The symbols almost seem like they're moving, trying to get around to the other side of the cylinder every time he almost manages to focus on one.
"That's…a little hard to explain," Jamie says. "I call it the Pro-2. Second generation procrastinator."
"Uh…"
"Procrastinators are - you know spools on a sewing machine?"
"I mean…broadly," Buck says.
"Well, imagine the thread is time. That's a procrastinator. They wind time back and forth, help the monks keep history on course."
"That's…" Buck can't really say crazy after he's just walked through the streets of Los Angeles frozen in time, but…it's pretty fucking crazy.
"That's our job," Jamie says. "It's what we do. Well, not me personally. The drivers run the hall of procrastinators at home. In the monastery. I work - worked with Qu, the Master of Devices. He said - he used to say I had a knack for things like this. Not - not time as such, but the Devices we use to manage it."
"You - you change history?" Buck asks, thinking of losses big and small throughout his own life, throughout all of history.
"We mend it," Jamie corrects him. "Humans do things all the time that shouldn't be done. Shouldn't be possible yet. They make time, they waste time, they break it in a hundred little ways every single day. It's our job to mend it."
Buck's not sure he's ever going to understand any of this, but there's something there he can cling onto.
"And he's not supposed to be dead."
"Well…" Jamie says, with a shrug.
"I'm not asking you," Buck says, tightening his hold on the Pro-2. "I'm telling you. There is no way that he is supposed to be dead. Now tell me how this helps."
Jamie looks at him for long enough that Buck starts to feel uncomfortable. To his eyes, Jamie's a kid, only a handful of years older than Christopher, but something about the intensity of his stare as he studies Buck's face is unsettling.
"What?" he asks.
"You reminded me of someone," Jamie says. "Not someone I met, but someone we helped. I heard Qu talking about him with - with someone. And they said, there was no universe, anywhere, where this man would give in on this, because if he did, he wouldn't be him anymore."
"Oh," Buck says, and he has to look away. "Yeah. Okay. Jamie, please. How does it work?"
Jamie points to the base of the Pro-2, where a tiny button is almost hidden, it sits so flush with the rest of the device. "Push that when I tell you to. A little needle will prick your finger. And then - well. So I said a procrastinator winds time back and forth around you? The Pro-2 winds you back and forth around time."
Holy fucking time travel, Buck thinks, and for the first time since they arrived on the scene and he saw the mangled mess of Tommy's truck, he feels like maybe the world isn't ending after all.
“I told you, son, it’s Wayne,” he manages a smile, harder to do these days, like chipping it out of cement and dusting it off. But he gets it done.
Steve doesn’t have the Henderson boy with him today, that’s a first.
“Where’s the curly one?” He steps aside, letting Steve into the trailer door, more rickety than before. No money left to fix it after repairing the bulk of the earthquake damage.
“Dustin? He doesn’t wanna watch the game, and trust me, you don’t wanna listen to that kid complaining the whole time,” Steve walks by, sorta chuckling to himself, “I always miss the replay ‘cause he makes me change the channel to those D&D cartoons during the commercials, just like—”
He stops in front of the couch, looking over his shoulder at Wayne like he’s afraid he messed up somehow. Wayne noticed that look often from him, less and less, but still often. All that confidence he carries can drop on a dime, sorta reminded him of—
“Like Ed?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“S’alright. I don’t mind talking about him if you want,” Wayne manages another concrete smile, but he means it. Steve always waits for him to bring up Eddie first, like he doesn’t want to remind him if it ain’t on his mind, but Wayne likes to be reminded. It’s nice to feel like he’s not the only one missing him. “But the game was yesterday and y’know the cable’s out.”
“Yep, got it covered. I uh, I taped it,” Steve fishes a VHS tape from his back pocket. Fancy. Wayne would worry about him using that for his sake, but he has a feeling Steve’s folks aren’t around enough to notice.
“The Colts win?”
Steve flips the tape around, “Haven’t watched it, so we can bet on it if you’re feeling lucky.”
It doesn’t feel so dry and heavy when Wayne laughs a bit then, waving Steve to go ahead and start up the TV. He already caught the game on the radio, but he bets on the Colts anyway. Loser’s supposed to do the dishes after they scrounge together some soup, but Steve does them anyway.
Wayne would make a stink about it but he can tell Steve just wants to help, to feel like he’s helping. Same thing when the Henderson boy comes around to see him, wanting to hear all the stories, even the scary ones. So Wayne doesn’t mind letting Eddie’s friends feel like they’re helping him.
His nephew didn’t have many friends. Real, cover-your-six kinda friends. The boys he played his music with, they’ve come by a couple times, Wayne always liked Jeff despite the racket. That older fella that’s doing time now, Wayne wasn’t too fond of. And some of Eddie’s dungeon buddies he talked about were the only few.
Now, casual acquaintances? Anybody who didn’t have anywhere else to sit when he had an empty spot at his table? Sure, Eddie had those in spades.
His boy was good at that, putting on a good old show for his crowd, on a stage to keep his distance. That damn Al did him in good, never could trust easily, having his old man pop up and drag him into his mess before he took off again. And Eddie’s poor momma would’ve done right by him, if she hadn’t gotten sick so young.
Took Wayne a long time to get Eddie to depend on him, to trust this was his place to stay and he didn’t have to earn it, Wayne wasn’t just filling his head to scheme something out of him.
Love ain’t a transaction that way. He wasn’t ever any good at saying it, but he tried to show Eddie the best he could.
His boy though, always carried a debt with him. Like he owed Wayne something for taking him in, had to graduate quick and make it outta here, do something with the better life he gave him. Al dug him in so deep, Eddie stayed roped into whatever his latest scheme was (the cars, the dealing, the gambling, thank God Eddie wasn’t there when the goddamn robbery went wrong, 25 to life) like maybe it’d be enough to keep him from running off again.
The odds have never been in favor of people like them, poor folk in a town that’s stuck in its ways, where everybody’s just like their old man, but Al made his choices and Wayne made his. Rest their mother’s soul, she did her best. Part of Wayne was relieved when Al got locked up, at least Wayne had a better chance of keeping Eddie from going down the same path, try to raise him right.
Being a Munson wasn’t a crime. He didn’t owe a darn thing to anybody. Eddie could graduate at his own pace, play whatever games and music he wanted, dress however, that didn’t mean he was up to no good. And a lot of boys get into dealing for a little easy extra money around here, he was gonna grow out of that just like Wayne did.
It worked until all this mess.
That’s why Eddie ran off after what happened to the poor Cunningham girl. He gets spooked when something goes wrong, like it’ll be the last straw he can’t make up for so he runs off. Like the first time he didn’t make senior year, went and hid out with that Rick fella that Wayne never did like, got Eddie deep into that business he tried to keep a secret.
‘Course Wayne knew. He knows exactly what and where his boy hides. If those damn cops weren’t tailing him, he would’ve gone straight to get him.
That was before he knew it would turn into all of this. Now he wishes he would’ve done it anyway. Gone right to Eddie, told him it wasn’t his fault that everything got all turned upside down. Told him he knew he was innocent right from the get-go, and got him away from this rotten old town.
But he didn’t.
He didn’t go get his boy.
So now he’s just trying to be there for Eddie’s boys, since he can’t.
“You have a night shift tonight right? Gonna put on a pot of coffee,” Steve says once he’s finished up the dishes.
Wayne hums. There’s usually more noise going on during these visits. Steve’s still alright at carrying on, even without the Henderson boy’s chatter to fill any gaps.
It was strange, the first time the two of them showed up. Wayne knew Eddie was close with Dustin, but he didn’t have a clue that he was chumming it up with the Harrington boy. Just don’t seem like the same type of company. He might not believe it if it weren’t so obvious that Steve cared about his boy. He suspected before, but now with Steve showing up here alone, he knows.
Steve misses Eddie in a different sorta way than Dustin.
“No cream or sugar, right?” Steve looks humored by that as he passes the mug of black coffee to him, “How are you related to Eddie again?”
Wayne’s mouth turns upward, remembering his nephew’s god awful sweet tooth. He picked up a box of Honeycombs the other day in the store out of habit. “Just happened to be standin’ there when they beamed him down.”
That gets a good chuckle out of Steve. Nothing wistful weighing it down and Wayne’s glad, watching Steve pour himself a cup of coffee too.
Then bitter-sweetness swirls in his chest, seeing the mug that Steve chose for himself. Must’ve dug it out from one of the boxes Wayne hadn’t hung back on the walls yet. The earthquake did a number on his collection. That Garfield one was the only one he’d gotten around to gluing back together.
“What is it?” Steve asks, cup paused at his mouth.
“Ah nothin’ just,” Wayne waves it off, “That’s the mug Ed always used.”
“Oh, I can use a diff—”
“Nah, nah go ‘head. It’s fine.”
Unconvinced, Steve takes a wary sip.
Mostly these days, Wayne just feels like a watch without a ticker, a chest with nothing beating inside it. He can’t name the feeling he has at seeing Eddie’s old mug being used by someone else, but at least it’s something.
“Y’know, he used to put everything in that sucker. Soda pop, soup, cereal, you name it,” Wayne shakes his head, mouth twitching into a smile, “I’d have to wrestle it away from him just to give it a good washing. It’s well loved, alright. Leaks now.”
As if on cue, Steve has to grab a napkin to sit underneath it.
Wayne lets out an amused hum, “He uh— Didn’t have much stability ‘fore he came to live with me, so he’d get real attached to things like that.”
Carried around a stuffed dragon they picked up at a garage sale ‘til Wayne couldn’t sew the wings back on anymore. Never wanted to throw anything away. Got real anxious about Wayne going to work sometimes, even when he was too old for a sitter. Held onto him saying “Stay home just today, Dad, please.” Which, he didn’t mind Eddie calling him that. It always softened him up, made him give in. Wishes now that he’d told Eddie upfront. Maybe he never would’ve stopped.
“Thought for sure he’d marry that damn guitar one day.”
Steve nearly sputters his coffee, laughing at that, “Yeah, those two are made for each other.”
It’s nice, seeing the way that story lit Steve up. Sorta like his boy can still make someone happy. Hurts like hell that he ain’t here to do it himself, but Wayne was always good at telling stories. That’s where Eddie learned it from.
“I’m uh,” Steve deflates after a minute, looking down at the mug, “God, I’m just really sorry, Wayne.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry too, Steve,” he says, because, well.
Wayne gets the feeling that his boy was Steve’s boy too.
Bakugou Katsuki is fine. He is fine. Sure, he has nightmares every time he close his eyes. Sure, he hasn't had more than 4 hours of sleep a night in 6 years. Sure, he spirals in his head a lot. Sure, he spends an hour every day just sitting with a gravestone and maybe sometimes hears that voice. But he's fine. Because he can fucking deal with it.
And when his stupid friends want to go to a haunted house for a Youtube video, he's going with them. Because he's not afraid of ghosts, he's not afraid of monsters, he's not afraid of the dark, and he's not afraid of that stupid house. Not anymore.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/?
Fandom: Gravity Falls
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Mind Manipulation, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Psychological Torture, Temporary Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Canon-Typical Horror, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Mental Health Issues, Vomiting (not described in great detail), Psychological Trauma, Not Beta Read,
Relationships: Dipper Pines & Ford Pines & Mabel Pines & Stan Pines
Summary:
Nothing turned out as intended.
The darkness ascends, the world has ended.
The conman's mind already invaded, his lie ended with obliteration.
A last deal for cooperation, assures the planets annihilation.
The star's energy has been depleted, hope in the face of fear defeated.
Brought about an endless night, undefeated in the eye of one conceited.
Pull from the strength within the soul,
Make a wish to regain control.
Green should've known this would happen. He should've recognized the forest, recognized the grotto where the Four Sword slept and sealed Vaati away. They'd been in so many places, why wouldn't they make it back here?
But he didn't think. He didn't think they'd find Vaati still sleeping under a seal unbroken in another time and another place, where Ganon hadn't baited them into releasing him to save Zelda...
The Four Sword might split them into pieces, but it couldn't be in two places at once itself. And that was all that held Vaati caged here.
Rated E for graphic violence and temporary character death. Another Doll Fic, continuing the implications of Blue and White and Gone, combined with a possessed member of the Chain fight. About par for the course for my works.
This will make most sense if you already know the premise of the Doll Fics series, although hardly required.
mortician au meet-cute. (is it a meet-cute?). read the series on ao3!
Geralt is giving Renfri some nice neck scratches when Aiden comes in through the door, the little bell above it giving a nice little chime.
“Morning,” he says cheerfully, dropping a crisp newspaper on Geralt’s kitchen table and making a beeline for the old moka pot, stainless steel glinting in the grey morning light coming through the window. Geralt still wonders when it was, exactly, that Aiden became a permanent fixture in the Morhen house.
Probably around the time Lambert started messing around with spells, rites, and harmless, bloodless sacrifices.
Probably.
“Morning,” he answers, his voice still a bit rough with disuse. “Please, help yourself to some coffee,” he says, eyebrows raised, as Aiden begins pouring himself a second cup.
“Got anyone in today?” He wonders, nodding to the dark green door that leads to the mortuary downstairs. “The paper says there’s been a car crash.”
Geralt shakes his head. “No one in yet. But I’m sure they’ll start coming soon.”
Aiden nods sympathetically. This is why Geralt likes him, he’s reminded — anyone else would shudder at the dark yet accurate prediction, but he simply shrugs and begins snooping around Geralt’s kitchen, as he often does, lifting pot lids and making spoons clatter against the marble tabletop.
“Lambert is in The Room,” he says gently, mentally nudging Aiden out of his kitchen and into his brother’s embalming room, affectionately and ominously nicknamed The Room. “If you were looking for him.”
“Oh.” Aiden deposits his mug into the sink, frowning slightly at it, and then looks at Geralt in belated recognition. “Yes! That’s why I came in, in the first place, of course. Thank you for the coffee.”
Geralt shakes his head at his retreating figure. “No problem.” The newspaper is still sitting on his table, and he turns back to Renfri, who’s looking up at him with curiosity painted on her green eyes. “Looks like we’ll have some work to do today, hmm?”
-
His apron, a sensible black, stares back at him from where it’s hanging on its little hook. The tiny and slightly crooked Morhen Mortuary embroidery at the front — Nenneke’s gift for who knows which birthday — makes Geralt smile, and he’s still smiling as he walks the stairs down to his own room.
The car crash Aiden had noted had unfortunately taken the life of a young man, according to the paper and the EMTs who had driven the body to the funeral home. The man, they had explained, had been riding on his bike downtown when a truck appeared out of nowhere and made it impossible for him to avoid crashing into the left headlight.
It had been a painless death, they said. Geralt could only hope so, for the victim’s sake.
The light switch creaks slightly as he flips it on, the fluorescent bulbs flickering to life above him. Immediately, the strong scent of embalming fluid envelops him, and he breathes it in like one would a nice spring morning on a field. Nothing like a work-laden morning to bring his spirits up.
(Or sideways, he doesn’t know). (He’s been learning some interesting things with Lambert’s new hobby). (Half of those are lies, he knows, but still).
(It’s nice to pretend).
The body on the table looks… rough. Whatever remains from the man’s clothing is rumpled and dirty, the fabric tattered and covering his body in uneven patterns. There are bruises all over his right side — his legs, his abdomen, up his neck and littering his face like a child’s painting. His handsome features are obscured by the blood trickling down his forehead.
He couldn’t have survived the crash, Geralt knows, but he has to check for vital signs anyway. He has no pulse, nothing but cold skin where Geralt presses his gloved fingers, and later, his stethoscope. His limbs are stiff and locked in place, and he’s unresponsive as Geralt touches his face, his eyes — incredibly blue — clouded.
The perfect picture of death.
Sometimes Geralt wishes he believed in God. Any God, really — anything that could allow him to say a small prayer, to wish this person well in their path to… wherever they’re going, to honor their life and make it all mean something.
But he doesn’t, so, naturally, he starts a conversation with the dead man lying on his table.
“Hello,” he says politely, as he starts removing the man’s scraps of clothing from his skin. “My name is Geralt. I’m your mortician— well, I mean, I’m not your mortician. I’m… anyone’s. No one’s. It’s not like when you go to the doctor, you know— oh, yeah, that guy is my doctor. You can’t tell anyone about this experience, so I’m never referred to as anyone’s anything.” He tosses the man’s shirt aside. “But, you know, in case you do recall this to anyone, in the ol’ queue to the afterlife, you can call me your mortician. Or Geralt. Geralt’s fine.”
The man, unsurprisingly, says nothing.
“I’m sorry I don’t know your name,” Geralt continues. “You came in without any personal effects— well, you were wearing that tiny Hello Kitty backpack, but there was nothing inside that could tell us anything about you.” The man’s jeans need to go next, but they’re so disfigured Geralt grabs a fabric scissor from the counter. “You kind of look like your name was… hmm. Nothing too generic, I don’t think. Balthazar, maybe? Or Timothy. Valdo, perhaps? That’s a name you have the face for. The eyes, especially.”
He starts cutting the man’s jeans, pausing to chuckle at the fact that he momentarily gave the man jorts, and then continues until he can peel it all off.
“Your clothes are nice. I’m sorry they got ripped apart, though. And, well, sorry I’m ripping them apart now, too.” He starts untying the man’s shoelaces. “I hope you get some nice clothing wherever you’re going. Do you think you’ll need money in the afterlife?”
The man’s hand falls to the table in response.
Before, Geralt would’ve jumped at the movement, but now, seasoned as he has become, he knows it’s just a spasm. His heart hasn’t gotten the memo yet, though, hammering in his chest.
“Ah, love a good postmortem spasm,” he chuckles, sliding the shoe off the man’s foot. “Keeps me vigilant. Did you know people used to think these kinds of movements indicated the deceased person’s will to live? They used to say it was a sign of perseverance— how the strongest people kept fighting death until the end.”
He likes to think there’s some truth to it; that someone could have loved their life so much that they would hang on to it with every fiber of their being. That death could be defied by stubbornness.
He pulls out the man’s other shoe, and smiles at his socks: ice cream patterned, glittery bright pink.
“You seem like an interesting person,” he says, peeling the socks off, leaving the man in his — also brightly patterned — underwear. “Would have been nice to meet you.”
Geralt turns around and moves to the counter, making sure the hose is connected to the water tap, and arranging all his instruments to his liking. He can hear the music Lambert’s playing in The Room, some sort of old-timey rock he knows but can’t quite place, and he starts humming along in his low, gravelly tone.
“Mm, you got me so I can’t sleep at night, mmm…”
“The Kinks? Really?”
Geralt turns around, clutching the hose to his chest.
“I mean,” the man says, facing Geralt and laying on his side like a really stiff art subject, waiting to be immortalized in a canvas, “I would’ve expected a man of your complexion to listen to something… darker. Tougher? I don’t know.”
Geralt blinks.
He really should have checked the carbon monoxide detectors last night.
“So,” the man says. “What kind of a place is this, anyway? Don’t get me wrong, I do, quite often, wake up half-naked in places I can’t recognize, but this is a new level of kinky shit. What is this table?” He props himself up on his hands, with effort. “Why are my movements so… bad?” He frowns. “Why’s my tongue… wrong? What is going on?”
“You’re… alive,” Geralt says, eloquently.
The man’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and he’s still so pale and mangled, it’s grotesque. Like a really bad makeup job for a school play. “Well, I mean, I know that? Because if this is heaven — and I’m definitely not complaining about the view — it’s quite… underwhelming?”
Almost automatically, Geralt surges forward and grabs the man’s head between his hands. “Don’t move like that,” he says, smoothing down the man’s skin. “The rigor mortis won’t go away for a few hours. You could get stuck like that.”
The man’s face falls. Well, tries to. “Rigor… mortis?”
Geralt drops the man’s head like it’s on fire. It should be on fire — the man’s skin should melt into bone and he should put on a funky leather jacket and ride his black motorcycle straight into hell and out of Geralt’s humble and sensible funeral home.
Upstairs, an old Dire Straits song starts playing. As if the world is supposed to just go on, while the very dead man that was laying on Geralt’s embalming table mere seconds ago is now making something akin to lively conversation with him.
He was dead. Geralt checked his pulse, looked into his very dead-looking pupils. He was about to inject fluid into his arteries, for goodness’ sake.
“So,” the man says, sitting up, and finally looking down at himself. He pokes at a purple bruise on his ribs. “Either this is all part of a very elaborate joke on one of my friends’ behalf, or you’re just a very good-looking psychopath who will now proceed to make me witness my own autopsy, or something.”
“I’m…” Suddenly, Geralt has no clue what to say. How does he break it to the man, that he was about to write down ‘John Doe’ on a nametag and tie it to his ankle, without sounding absolutely insane and/or possibly psychopathic? He feels a sudden urge to take off his apron, not feeling so fond of the embroidered information on it right now. “You were in an accident.”
The man gapes at him, his blue eyes bluer, somehow. “I… was? What happened?”
Geralt takes a tentative step forward. He was trained on how to deliver painful and sensitive information to the bereaved family; he was not, however, trained on how to deliver it to the deceased themselves.
“The EMTs said it was a truck. You were riding your bike.”
“Okay…” The man nods to himself, taking the information in. “Why am I not in a hospital, then? I mean— I don’t mean to assume, but this doesn’t really look like the conventional emergency room, or what have you.”
Geralt looks around the dark walls of the basement, cringing internally at the framed You look good — open-casket good sign Eskel got him for Christmas.
“You’re… This is…” Geralt leans back against the counter, steeling himself for whatever will happen next. “This is a mortuary. My name’s Geralt. I’m… I’m your mortician.”
The man’s eyes are so wide Geralt fears he’ll pop a vein. “A mortician…”
“You died,” Geralt says gently. “When you crashed into the truck. It was a painless death. Instant.”
The man splutters. “Allegedly?!” He hops down from the table, and Geralt manages to catch him before his legs give out. “You mean to tell me I was dead and now, supposedly, I’m alive?”
This close to the man, Geralt can see small green dots in all that sea of blue fury. He shakes his head. “Yes. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do. This doesn’t happen.”
“You don’t say!” The man sits back up on the table. His bruises are slowly fading away, and his cheeks are bright red, whether from the blood flow or the indignation, Geralt doesn’t know. “So it’s not routine for a legally dead man to come back to life on your table? I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, sheepish. “How are you feeling?”
“Oh, aside the whole hey Jask, remember everything you thought you knew about life and death? Well, scrape all that, because it’s bullshit thing? I’m just peachy,” he snaps, glowering at Geralt. “And cold.”
“Of course. Sorry,” Geralt apologizes. “I’ll go get you some clothes.”
“You do that,” the man says as Geralt walks to the door. “And do stop apologizing so much.”
His hand on the door, Geralt looks back at the man. “Sorry.”
-
“So, your name is Jaskier?”
They’re sitting at Geralt’s kitchen table now. After offering the man a pair of Lambert’s sweatpants and a t-shirt, and showing him the guest bathroom, he emerged a new person, his hair curling at the edges and his skin soft-looking.
“It is,” Jaskier says with a shy smile, pulling his knees up to his chest on his chair. Geralt feels an immense urge to wrap him in a hug. The closest thing is pushing a mug of coffee in his direction. “And you’re Geralt.”
“That’s me.”
“And I was dead,” Jaskier says, recounting the incidents. He’s calmed down now. “And now I’m alive.”
“Yeah.”
Geralt wishes he had something more eloquent to say.
“And this has never happened to you before? You’re certain?”
Geralt snorts. “I think I would have realized if any of the people I poked at with needles were alive.”
“Okay, okay,” Jaskier replies with a smile of his own. “Just checking.”
Now that Jaskier is officially alive, Geralt can allow himself to really look at him. He’s young — maybe in his late twenties — and there’s something about his eyes that just draws him in; something other than the way they’re blue the way the ocean is when it’s about to storm, no, it’s something about the way they move. About the way they look at things, about the way they look at Geralt. Piercing yet unobtrusive, harsh yet soft.
He should really stop watching so many romantic films.
His brown hair falls into tiny waves, shining in the mid-morning light pouring in through the windows. The hand that’s gripping the mug is dotted with freckles, his fingernails black and chipped. He’s swimming in Geralt’s shirt, an old one from his university days, and there’s something about his small smile that makes Geralt’s heart try to skip a beat.
They sip their coffee in comfortable silence. Geralt offers him an apple, and Jaskier takes it with grace.
“So, what now?” He asks between bites.
“What do you mean?” Geralt replies.
“Well,” Jaskier says, leaning forward on the table. “I can’t die. For now. I’ll sort out the specifics later. But— what comes next?”
Geralt doesn’t know. “Well, what do you want to do next?”
Jaskier considers it. “I think, after I finish eating this apple, and after I’ve washed my cup and thanked you for your hospitality — ha, hospitality,” he snorts, “I would very much like to ask you for your number.”
Geralt chokes on his coffee.
“Unless you’re already seeing someone, or you’re not into men,” Jaskier says immediately, “or just not into someone who came into your home as a dead man and came out walking of his own volition. Also because you kind of saw me in my rubber ducks underwear which I love but man I should really think about what I wear under my clothes because you know, my mother was right, you really never do know where your day will go— I would completely understand that. That would make you a very reasonable person, but it’s just that I’m very scared for my life— and my death, I guess, too, fuck— and I would like a friendly face around me. I can tell you I have not had any of those lately— but, just, you know, I understand if—”
“Jaskier,” Geralt says. “I would be honored to be a friendly face.”
Jaskier breathes out slowly. “Thank you.”
“It’s no problem,” Geralt says, reaching for his hand.
Jaskier twines their fingers together, looking at him with a sweet smile on his lips. It belongs to one of Geralt’s movies, this moment.
But Jaskier breaks it almost immediately.
“Actually, you know, I’m glad you said yes, because you kind of owe me, anyway, because some memories are coming back to me now and I have the distinct recollection of you telling me I looked like my name was Valdo, and boy do I hate—”
For the Spotify Wrapped ask: could you do Yenralt with song 26? :D (or Geraskefer if you feel more like it, as a treat haha)
Thank youuuu 💕
thank you so much for the prompt dear!! now it's a greek song and i went for mild horror (which i can't actually pull off), i only peppered some geraskefer and ciri in there, mainly it's yenralt and geralt having a really, really bad time. hope you enjoy 💜
wc 960, cw nightmares
26. o timvorihos (the graverobber) - miltos pashalidis
The stone is cold under his fingertips and he curses under his breath, shakes.
"No, no, please..."
There's fog. So much fog, reaching its tentacles around his ankles, up his legs, dancing between his fingertips and the stones standing in front of him, neatly in line with the same distance between them, like children's dolls, only that they got to play with him.
Geralt whimpers, deep in his throat so as not to hear it himself, and stares. Two stones, no, three. A cry rumbles in his chest. Four. He knows the names. Five, six. "NO!" he screams "PLEASE NO!" and the names carved on the stones gape like wounds of gushing blood, wide open and laugh at him and the blood runs down the grey marble.
He's not thinking. He knows, the day would come.
But gods, he isn't ready yet.
He takes some steps forward, falls on his knees. Fingers trembling, he touches the soil, wet still and he doesn't know if it's the rain, or the tears, or the blood. The letters are neat and elegant, a curve messing with them at the edges, just like she would want, just like she was. There's a lump choking his throat and his fingers dig into the ground. "Yen," he whispers and the fog twirls around him, invades his nostrils, blinds him. The stone laughs. "Yen," he says, "Yen this is no joke, Yen come back," and his fingers dig deep and before he knows it the dirt is subsiding under his hands and he digs, fingertips rough and skinned as he rips the ground in half and sweat drops from his forehead on his wrist, and it's red.
It's red. The blood, he thinks, and digs and digs and pants and growls and digs to get back what was stolen from him, and the stone laughs and he digs and his fingers brush over something soft and he stops.
Shaking. He knows this. He knows what he's touching. He's touched it so many times before, tender, a caress over silky shoulders. He knows. Shaking, he pushes the soil away, and there's more of it, more skin. Dirty and bloody and cold. More, and he raises his hand, and slowly wipes the dirt of her face and she's there, eyes staring at him, lips blue and curved in a dead smile and the stone laughs and he screams.
"What are you searching for, Geralt?"
He flinches, looks up and she's standing nehind the stone, and she laughs. But she's not there.
"Yennefer," he says, pleads, "Yen, please," and looks again at the face between his hands, the body he digged a grave to find and it's unmoving, and he looks at the name. It's blurry.
"Oh, Geralt," he hears her voice, thin like a siren's and oh, this is not Yennefer, it can't be. "You think you can save us now?"
It can't be Yennefer. Geralt stares, trembling, breathless, and the body in his arms is cold. It can't be. Yennefer has violet eyes.
"You are the one who put us here, Geralt," a pair of blue eyes strikes behind the fog and the voice is heavier now, and yet he feels blood flowing down his ears.
And he looks down at the body.
"Fuck."
He's there. Blue eyes, bitter and the stone laughs and the name is blurry and the laughter echoes like a coin falling inside a cave with no exit, like a shriek.
"Jaskier, no..."
"You promised to protect me, Geralt..."
Green eyes. A wail escapes his throat, and she's so small in his arms. "Forgive me, forgive me, Ciri, please—"
"No one left to forgive you, son."
"That's where your heroics got you, brother."
"A careless prick, you've always been, wolf."
"No," he's shaking and the body is cold and pale and it's Yennefer, Jaskier, Ciri, Vesemir, everyone, everyone and the figure behind the stone comes closer, spreads over him and stares at its own dead reflection and the eyes are violet, blue, green, amber, "Stop this, please forgive me, I didn't mean to, don't leave me alone, please, come back, don't leave me, no, no, come BACK—"
"GERALT!"
He jolts up and shuts his eyes and screams.
Something is flowing down his face, his back and then cold air hits him and he shivers and realizes it's sweat and gasps for breath, lungs burning as he sucks in all the air he can fit in them.
"Geralt, come back to me, I'm here, Geralt..."
Panting, he opens his eyes, stares at the sheets covering him, drenched. Grasps at them frantically to realize they're real. "Fuck," and his chest is so heavy, and his head hammering. Slowly, as though afraid of what he'll face, he raises his head.
Violet eyes. Wide, staring at him and drowning in worry, and a hand on his face, keeping him steady. Like the stone of the world raised from his shoulders, he lets out a breath, and Yennefer nods at him and he slumps. His head falls on her shoulder, her hands crawling behind his back.
There's warmth behind him and he feels a second pair of arms around his waist, a bit stronger. Then, hands, smaller, taking his between them and a weight curling on his lap. Tears down his face.
"Where is..."
"They're alright, Geralt." The voice is deep and melodic, it always is. A comfort.
Fingers tangle in his hair and Yennefer leans and kisses his head. Small hands squeeze his. He's spent so much time listening to their breaths. Can tell all three of them apart, and the rest of them scattered in the other rooms of the keep. It lulls him.
He's still trembling. He closes his eyes.
"It's not your fault, Geralt," they whisper and for once, he wants to believe them. "We'll be alright."
