There’s still no cure for the debilitating condition but some front-line clinicians are finding ways to help patients feel better.
They're finding treatments for long covid symptoms!!!
To tamp down the toxic low-level inflammation, Systrom often prescribes a low dosage of naltrexone, an anti-addiction drug. He and others recently launched a randomized clinical trial to demonstrate the success they have seen in the clinic. He uses Midodrine, a drug that can cause blood vessels to tighten, to increase blood pressure, which can fall dangerously low due to the problems with autonomic nerve signaling. And he offers Mestinon, approved to treat a chronic autoimmune neuromuscular disease called myasthenia gravis, to improve communication between the small nerve fibers and the brain.
Other promising off-label therapies listed by Al-Aly, Putrino, and others include emergency opioid medications that seem to attenuate brain fog, transdermal patches that deliver mitochondrial supplements, and antihistamines, which can be used to tamp down the overactivation of the immune system’s mast cells in tissues.
the losing side by grace petrie! "this is their world, and these have been their rules, but we have come to break it down with bloody fingernails for tools. this threat of violence, this tightrope wire, we can no longer bear it, we are all too fucking tired"
Partners, but not in the cowboy sense
my contribution to the burst of fic from this post by @vonnegutguy
thanks to @kenobians and @jewishdeanwinchester for being my second and third set of eyes <3
(read on ao3) 4.3k
“Have you lost someone, Dean?” Mia’s tone is measured, obviously trying to keep any edge of fear out of her voice. Dean knows the trick – if he’s done it once, he’s done it a thousand times. “Is that why you’re here?”
It is. After Jack – after everything was over, Dean had rushed back to the bunker, intent and eager to find Cas – sure he would be there. When he wasn’t, well, Dean’s memories of after are all tinged with whiskey. It was Sam who brought up Mia, a few weeks later - said that if Dean wasn’t gonna talk to him, he needed to talk to someone, and at least she knew the life. At least Dean wouldn’t have to lie.
When she lets him in, he has to leave his coat, shoes, and overshirt in the hall. Mia even goes so far as to put on gloves and give him a perfunctory pat down. He feels naked. The only thing she had allowed him to keep was the small pocket knife (steel) clipped in his pocket. It digs into his thigh as he sits in the crisp white chair with the best view of the door.
“Was it your brother?” Mia hesitates, “Or Jack?”
“Sam’s fine. Jack – well, you remember getting a weird feeling, couple weeks ago? Like, uh, like you blinked and a year passed but you didn’t even know it?” Dean asks, “That was Jack, taking over for God. The kid’s around, but seems like he’s got bigger issues than my problems to deal with.”
Mia, to her credit, doesn’t miss a beat, “Do you miss him?”
“Yeah. I do. But at least he’s alive.” Dean swallows harshly – he might as well leave all his cards on the table. “I’m not here to talk about Jack, though.”
“Who are you here to talk about, Dean? Your mother?” Mia hedges when he doesn’t continue, her face softening into something like real sympathy. “The loss of a par-”
“Not about my mom. I’m here because– because–” Dean can’t bring himself to say the words – he hasn’t been able to at all, yet. The silence stretches between them. He’s not sure why he’s here – to appease Sam, sure, but he could have driven anywhere, dicked around for a couple days, gone fishing, but he hadn’t. He drove to Wisconsin, eight hours straight through, to knock on Mia’s door.
“You don’t have to say it, Dean.” Mia’s voice is soft. The kind of tone that would have him lashing out at Sam, but with Mia it seems right – like this is how she should be speaking to him. “Why don’t you tell me about this person? Whatever comes to mind.”
Dean can do that. He can.
“He, uh, he was the best person I ever knew. Weird, dorky little guy, but the best.” Now that he’s started talking, it flows out easily. Mia doesn’t interrupt him – she lets him stammer and repeat himself and recount dumb little moments and memories for nearly an hour. He hasn’t talked this much in months. His throat feels raw, he knows he’s starting to sound hoarse – but there’s just this last bit. The reason he’s here. The reason he didn’t go to Lake Mac, the reason he didn’t call Jesse and Cesar and go see the horses, the reason he isn’t staring at the world’s biggest ball of twine right now, or going to every restaurant in Kansas that has ever been featured on Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives.
“And he - he believed in me, you know? Like no one ever has before. I don’t know why. Never got that, that faith. He, uh, you know, he loved me. And I love–” He’s said the words so many times in his head, so many times to himself, in prayer, in anguish, but never out loud, never to someone else. Never to the person who deserved to hear them. “I loved him. More than he knew. And now he’s– now he’s gone, and I’m here and I don’t know what to do with myself anymore.”
“Losing a partner is always difficult.” Partner. The word rattles around his head for a minute, feeling too much and also not enough. There’s no judgement or derision in Mia’s face, none of the disgust he’s always feared would come of him admitting that he loves a man. The word feels unearned, but he doesn’t correct her. After all, they loved each other, they went out just the two of them, they had inside jokes and meaningful conversations and a– how had Cas put it? A profound bond. Maybe that is what they were. Partners, and not in the cowboy sense. Maybe they had been in a relationship – maybe Dean can acknowledge it now, to make up for all the time he didn’t.
“This isn’t the first time, you know? He usually manages to find his way back, but this time-” Dean stops, tears spilling over onto his cheeks, to pull a tissue from the box beside him. “This time, I think he’s really gone. I think our luck ran out. So I guess what I’m here to ask is, what now, Doc?”
“For most of my patients, this is where I would shift for them, let them say goodbye – but I don’t think that’s what you need, or want.” Mia’s still wearing that soft expression, still looking at him like he’s going to break, and he feels like he already has. He just wishes she knew how to pick up the pieces. “I’m the first person you’ve told all of this to, aren’t I?”
Dean nods, swallowing against the sobs he can feel trying to burst out of his chest.
“I think, Dean, what you need is to talk about him. To stop living your life in fear, and to celebrate the life of the man you loved.” He must look alarmed, because she backtracks. “I don’t mean you have to wear a sign for the general public, but maybe talking to your brother would help? Tell him what you’ve told me, the little ways that you remember your partner during the day – communicate with the people in your life, use your support system.”
Mia refuses his payment, says he can pay her back by ‘doing the work’ (whatever that means), and calling ahead next time. If there is a next time. Judging by the lack of fear in her eyes as he collects his things, there might be. He feels better, lighter, now, with all of that off his back – the grief is still heavy in his bones, but the tight band of it around his chest has loosened, and it feels like he can breathe again.
For the last few months, Dean’s evenings have all involved getting kicked out of bars or falling down the neck of a bottle of Jim Beam alone in his room – this evening he does neither. He treats himself to Texas Roadhouse and calls it an early night at the motel in town. He sleeps sober for the first time in a long time.
The drive home is a quiet affair as Dean rolls Mia’s words around in his mind – sets his resolve to talk to Sam. He knows, on the surface, that his brother isn’t going to sneer, isn’t going to lash out with the words their father would have, words he’s had slung at him in back-water bars in every state – but the fear is still there. He’s still got a hot ball of nerves in his stomach, there’s still that voice in the back of his head telling him what it takes to be a man, a real man. But Mia’s voice is louder, for now, and she’s right – Cas deserves to be remembered, to be spoken about, and the least Dean can do is tell the truth. The least Dean can do is love him.
Sam is in the library reading when he gets home, laptop open in front of him. When Dean takes the seat opposite him, Sam closes the book on his finger. It’s fiction, not research, a sight that’s become increasingly more common – it reminds Dean of the years when Sam’s head was always in a book. When he was a high-school kid with his nose permanently stuck in some story or another. All at once, he reconciles the man in front of him with the kid he raised, and a little of the fear melts away.
Despite what Dean’s sure are his best efforts, Sam looks surprised when Dean says he’s been to see Mia. He covers it, dog-earing his page and typing something before closing the laptop, giving Dean all of his attention, asking follow up questions. Dean tells Sam what Mia said about losing partners being difficult for everyone, about how he should have been using his “support system” instead of closing everyone off, and Sam’s expression doesn’t waver. For all that Dean had worried about Sam’s reaction to the word, him calling Cas his partner doesn’t garner any. Not an eyebrow raised, not a question, nothing. He just rolls with it. Dean lets out the breath he had been holding.
The next few weeks are better than the last few. Eileen comes to stay, and the three of them take a cut and dry ghost case in Michigan. Sam, for all his athleticism, is the only one that pulls a muscle digging.
After it’s all said and done, they hit the Applebee’s across the street from the motel. They get spectacularly, rip-roaringly drunk ordering the fruity little shots the bartenders keep mixing for a bachelorette party on the other end of the bar. They talk about Cas. He and Eileen take turns looking horrified whenever Sam recounts one of his and Cas’ hang outs. It helps. Talking about this stuff, remembering the weird little quirks, learning about the things Cas did when Dean wasn’t around.
When they’re kicked out at closing, he and Eileen practically have to carry Sam across the street and up the motel stairs to drop him on the bed. Eileen steps out onto the balcony with him while he smokes. They’re both still drunk – the light, easy, fun kind of drunk that Dean remembers from years gone by, the kind of drunk that has you giggling and giddy. Before the cigarette has burnt out, she has him in stitches with her impression of drunk Sam. They stay out there, looking over the parking lot, laughing and talking until someone yells at them from another room to “shut the fuck up, already!” Dean hollers back something ill-advised and quite profane before waving Eileen back through the glass doors.
Sam is snoring loudly, face down in the center of the bed, feet hanging off the edge, boots still on. Before Dean uses the adjoining door to go to his own room, Eileen wraps her arms around him, and tells him she loves him. It takes everything in him not to cry, and when they pull apart he signs it back to her. And he means it – she’s become a part of their family in so many ways, and if there’s one thing he’s resolved to do, it’s telling the people in his life what they mean to him – before it’s too late.
Standing in a gas station parking lot just outside of who-gives-a-fuck, Wisconsin, Dean calls Mia and thanks her. She asks if he’d like to come for another session. He almost says no. But then he thinks about the way his brother doesn’t look at him with concern every second of the day, or the way Garth has stopped opening conversations with “You doing okay, bud?” and reconsiders. He tells her that if she can fit him in tonight, he’ll be there.
Life goes on. Dean goes on. The cases are fewer and farther between – the world seems to settle around him, and he figures it’s about time he tried to settle, too. Kansas feels too familiar and achingly, heartbreakingly foreign. As long as he’s here, there won’t be peace. And he knows that.
He takes to the road – to the only real constant in his life, the back roads of America – and it’s a comfort now in a way they’ve never been before. If he tries, he can almost imagine that he’s meeting someone, that he is travelling towards a person, not a place. He goes to the west coast, sits with his toes in the sand and smokes a joint as the sun sets over the Pacific. It’s less fun without Lee to giggle with, without Cassie dramatically reading from her latest article, without, without, without– He hands most of it off to a tall, skinny guy whose frisbee lands at his feet.
The blue, blue waters lap at the shore in front of him – the vast expanse of it, stretching forward to the blazing horizon, almost crushing in its completeness. The next day he drives through Death Valley and the sensation is the same – dwarfed by the world, more so now than ever, his decisions no longer on the verge of tipping the cosmic scales.
He calls Mia from Phoenix, from Albuquerque, from Houston. He makes it to New Orleans in time for Mardi Gras, loses himself in the showmanship, the crowd, the community. He prays every night, even with no one on the other line. It brings him comfort. Mia says this is healthy, that most people do it, only most people have a grave to visit. She says it’s helping him emotionally process, helping him to heal.
He sends Sam a picture of the Impala parked next to the Broward County sign in Florida. Sam replies with a gif of someone flipping the bird. And a picture of himself and Eileen by one of those ‘YOU’RE GOING TO HELL’ billboards in Ohio. They’re on the trail of a vampire nest with some green hunter, and Dean tells them to be safe. Sam reminds him to stay the hell away from any damn mystery spots.
Claire calls as he’s crossing into Georgia, asks if he’d be willing to play FBI for a case where the sheriff is, to quote, “a misogynistic douchebag.” She’s in Charleston and he’s there by morning. It takes them a week to figure it out. They grab a beer and a burger at some shitty joint before heading their separate ways. He tells Claire he loves her. She doesn’t say it back, but instead pulls a face that’s clearly a thin mask for what she’s feeling and tells him he’s getting sentimental in his old age.
Dean calls Mia from Myrtle Beach, from Nag’s Head, from Norfolk. He stays a week in Virginia Beach, watches the ships set off full of young Naval officers. He walks barefoot on the beach at dawn and watches for a second set of footprints. Before leaving town, he gets the words you deserve to be saved tattooed on the inside of his left bicep. He tells the artist that it’s a tribute to his late partner. He stops on Chincoteague Island to see the ponies. In Rehoboth, Delaware, he drinks coffee surrounded by rainbow flags while young men walk hand in hand along the boardwalk. He tells Mia he doesn’t have words for how that makes him feel. It’s a lie, there are too many words – he just can’t say them.
He stays in Delaware as the weather warms – it’s as good a place as any. He rents a room above a bar on the south end of the beach from a woman old enough to be his mother, paying a reduced rate in exchange for carrying kegs and washing dishes.
In the mornings, he walks ten blocks up the near-empty boardwalk to get breakfast at a french cafe. In the afternoons he naps in the warmth of his room, sea breeze filtering in through an open window. On Sunday evenings, he and Ruth shut the place down early and she kicks his ass at darts. Sometimes, if the numbers for the week have been good, she pulls bottles off the shelf and teaches him how to mix drinks and shots he’d get kicked out of his usual establishments for ordering.
Time passes. The last weekend of May brings vacationers, and life speeds up. The cafe is full of moms in yoga pants and sandals and sunglasses that dwarf their faces, the beach fills up with college-age boys and girls. Young families dominate the town and the boardwalk proper. The sleepy town he’d settled into becomes a snarled mass of traffic and sun-burn.
“You’re not sticking around for the busy season, are you?”
“Ruth, I–”
“Don’t try to feed me bullshit and tell me it’s caviar. I know this town isn’t for you. You’re not a beach person, Dean. You like it here when it’s just the locals, sure, but deep down, you know it isn’t where you want to be.”
“It’s– it’s not that I don’t want to be here, it’s just–” He flips the filter tip of his cigarette around his index finger as a pair of young people stumble past, giggling and hanging off each other. They’re just boys, but they look freer than Dean has ever felt. He watches them go, pressing kisses to each other’s shoulders and cheeks and necks.
“I get it.” Ruth’s face illuminates orange as she takes a drag. The cloying scent of menthol surrounds him when she exhales. “You loved him, and now he’s gone. It’s been almost ten years since I lost Allie, and I still think about her every morning, still reach for her in my sleep at night. Don’t matter where you go, kid. The hurt’s still the same.”
Dean leaves Rehoboth by the end of the month. He goes north, skirting beach towns and cities, cutting into the mountains. He spends one miserable night in western Maryland trying to convince himself he likes camping. It isn’t until he’s in a motel in Pennsylvania, waking from nightmares of Purgatory, that he realizes just why he had hated it so much.
He calls Mia from Altoona, from Erie, from Buffalo. He takes the Maid of the Mist in Niagara and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, there is beauty still left in the world. He sends Eileen a picture of himself in the stupid yellow souvenier poncho. He sends Sam a picture of himself with the sign for Lebanon, New Hampshire. Mia says he should talk to them more often, he tells her he’s trying.
He crosses into Maine and cuts East. He eats lobster by the coast and watches the boats in the mouth of the Penobscot. He marvels at how different the ocean looks here. It’s hard to believe this is the same Atlantic he’d spent months beside, the same waters he’d watched horseshoe crabs crawling through the surf of, the same salt sticking to his skin.
Dean settles into an old logging town off of US1. He lives out of the motel for the first week, finds someone to take him on in a small engine repair shop. He never feels better than when he’s working with his hands, when he’s figuring out how to make something old new again, when he can put the pieces of something broken together and have it work again. Sometimes he wishes he understood himself half as well as he understands a machine.
Roy pays him in cash for the four days a week Dean spends taking apart lawn mowers and boat engines. It’s not much, but it’s enough to rent a small, furnished room in town. He settles in.
Every Sunday night Roy's wife, Margie, insists he come for dinner - she tries to set him up with their niece the third week in. Dean tells her he's sure Vera's lovely, but that he's still mourning his deceased partner. There's a moment after the words leave his mouth where he wants to reach out and grab them, pull them back and away, but of course it's too late.
Dean braces, worried he's about to be out of a job and a meal - instead he's met with an armful of Margie, all five foot four inches of her. It should be jarring - he's gone so long without any form of affection. It's only when she pulls away that he realizes just how much he'd missed it. Roy, for his part, claps Dean on the shoulder with a somber nod and a promise to see him tomorrow.
The next Sunday, Margie's sister is in the living room when he arrives. Where Margie is short and sturdy, made beautiful by her warm, open nature, Angela is tall and slim, her face too gaunt to be called pretty. Dean sits across from her, on the floral loveseat, runs his hands along the threadbare fabric as she avoids his gaze.
A few awkward minutes pass before Margie comes bustling into the room, handing out tall glasses of iced tea and encouraging conversation. It comes out that Angela has been recently widowed, and Dean realizes why the look on her face has felt so familiar - it’s one he’s seen in the mirror.
Angela’s wife died of cancer six weeks ago. Dean can’t imagine the pain that comes with watching someone waste away in front of your eyes, but he understands the feeling of helplessness as the person you love is taken away from you by a force you can’t even attempt to control. Long after Margie and Roy go up to bed, Dean and Angela sit on the porch talking. Frogs and insects sing in the night around them as the humidity presses in, closing them off in a small world of shared grief.
Dean’s putting snow chains on the Impala on a chill October morning when he gets the call. The line crackles with the static sound of the incoming snow, but Dean makes out just enough of what Sam is saying to know it’s time to go home. The sun sets and rises and sets again. He stops for nothing except gas and coffee. It takes him thirty-four hours to get to Lebanon, driven straight through.
By the time he’s unlocking the door to the bunker, he’s halfway to delirious, afraid that he’d dreamed the conversation – or that he’d misunderstood. The bunker is quiet, and the dread of emptiness that he’s been running from rushes in all at once. He wishes he had called Mia. The small, scared voice in the back of his head says he should leave. That it was stupid to get his hopes up, that of course he’s wrong, that he should get back in the car and hightail it back to Maine, back to Ohio, back to Delaware, back to nowhere, to anywhere, as long there isn’t here.
Then, suddenly, he’s got an armful of Eileen. Followed immediately by Sam wrapping his arms around both of them and Dean realizes that, no matter how this turns out, he’s glad to be home. The hug lingers a little longer than it ordinarily might, the three of them huddled together in the entryway, but when they pull apart the weight of empty space feels lighter.
Dean stops short of asking after the third member of his welcome crew, as he follows them down the stairs. When Sam presses a finger over his lips, Dean half-expects him to go full librarian, loud shush and all – but he doesn’t make a sound. Just claps a hand softly on Dean’s shoulder and leads him down the dormitory hallway to the room that used to be his. The door is ajar. The light falls in a single line down the foot of the bed that used to be his. It’s not empty.
It’s not empty.
Dean thinks his knees might give out. He can’t move. He thinks he might throw up. His eyes burn, and he knows he’s probably crying. There’s a warm, buzzing feeling under his skin. Sam might be saying something as he pushes the door the rest of the way open, but he doesn't hear it.
Dean lets out the breath that he’s been holding since Maine. He drops to his knees at the side of the bed. Distantly, Dean’s aware of Sam pulling the door closed, of the light dimming, of the rough, broken sound of his own breathing.
Cas is snoring lightly, soft, high-pitched little inhales, so unlike his voice, and yet so very Cas in some intangible way. The cover is pulled up over his shoulders, bunched under his chin like he’s clutching them there in his sleep. He’s here. He’s back.
Dean stays, kneeling at his bedside, long after his eyes have adjusted to the dark, long after his feet begin to fall asleep and his left knee starts to protest. He studies the way Cas breathes, the exact position and fall of the slight shadow cast by his eyelashes, the way he purses his lips and furrows his brow in his sleep. He’s not sure how long it is before he climbs onto the bed himself.
This time, he promises himself, this time I will be the person he deserves. This time I’ll say it.
Laying atop the covers opposite Cas is exhilarating. If not for the last twenty-five hours catching up with him, he could wait and watch Cas wake up. Dean’s breathing in tandem with him now, as though he can draw in the very air that Castiel breathes out.
Dean wakes covered and alone. He fists his hand in the sheet, closes his eyes against the grief. The hollow feeling that he's been living with, that gaping maw in his chest feels as though it has been flayed back wide and raw for one heartbreaking minute before the door opens.
Cas enters in sweatpants and a plain tee, carrying two cups of coffee. He's moving with care, whether because he thinks Dean is still asleep or to avoid a spill. Maybe both. He stops short when Dean sits up, meeting his eyes over the foot of the bed. Dark brown rivulets of coffee run down the side of the mugs, drip onto the floor.
I really think we need like... therapies and exit programs specific to abusive jobs. I think a lot of people get manipulated into staying at awful jobs because they believe that it's the only way, that all jobs are like this, there are no options, and it can't be so bad if ____. And you can get out of those situations on your own for sure, but I definitely think we need to approach employment like a relationship instead of an obligation.
My mum actually did this! Saw a careers counsellor (emphasis on counsellor) at 55. Her job was so toxic and she was struggling to job hunt. Went in for CV help came out with Therapy Tools and a new better job.
Absurd concept: The spouses of royalty are chosen by game show/reality show.
After the week’s guest judges announce their scores, after the call-in votes have been tallied, after the week’s loser is announced and the camera crew dutifully collects their reactions, Dean sleepwalks through the lavishly decorated mansion to his temporary bedroom.
He closes the door securely behind him.
He sits down on the bed.
As quietly as possible, he loses his entire goddamn mind.
It’s not yet noon.
He continues to lose his entire goddamn mind until nine o’clock that night, right after the Friday episode finishes airing, which is the moment everyone remaining in the mansion scrambles for their phones.
Sam picks up immediately. “You’re in the final four.”
“I’m in the final four,” Dean confirms. Repeats. Then, in the privacy of his assigned bedroom, he says, “Help.”
With an incredulous laugh, Sam answers, “Dude, I don’t think you need it!“
“I might actually have to marry the guy!” Dean hisses. “I didn’t think I’d have to marry the guy! They haven’t even let us meet him yet, I can’t marry a complete stranger.”
Still seconds away from laughter, Sam says, “Too bad you signed that contract then! Man. Man.”
“I wasn’t supposed to get this far!”
“Dean. Breathe. All you have to do is fuck up the date portion and you’re out. This is... I mean, it’s amazing, but the prince is still the one with the veto power okay?”
“You want me to make an ass out of myself on national TV.”
“What? No. You tell him you came to represent your background and you don’t think you can hack it as prince consort. You did what you came to do.”
Dean tries more of that breathing stuff.
“Right?“ Sam prompts.
“Yeah,“ Dean has to admit, even according to his own high standards. “Somehow lasted longer than the prison reform guy, and I’m the one with a record.”
“People even seem to like you for it. More relatable. Plus, it being a juvenile record doesn’t hurt. I think you’re starting to become this ‘scared straight’ poster boy.”
“I wasn’t scared-”
“I know, I know,” Sam says over him. “I’m telling you what I’ve been hearing, that’s all. Kid gets arrested for stealing, gets put into a boys’ home, grows up to co-run the boys’ home and cut down on rescindivism.”
“You left out the part about ‘kid gets his own father arrested.’“
“‘Other son grows up to be lawyer to prosecute own father for neglect,’“ Sam adds, tacitly leaving off the “and child abuse” they’ve spent too long arguing over. “Point is, Dean, you came in to yell at anyone who would listen that we need more help for homeless kids, justice reform, the whole list.”
“The home’s been getting a lot of donations,” Dean mutters, head bowed, not too embarrassed to say it, but close.
“Sonny’s kept the press from interviewing the kids,“ Sam says. “I’ve seen him on the news a couple times over reporters trying to get the scoop on you from them.“
Dean groans. “They’re gonna get hassled over me so much when I come back. Fuck. This is not the kind of attention they need.”
“They’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. Just blow the date portion and you’ll go down to local celebrity in a year and using it to pull in donations. You get to plan the date, right? They gave you a budget and all?”
“I’m gonna...” Dean stares at the beautifully draped curtains framing the crystal clear windowpanes, overlooking the backyard pool and sprawling garden. No one out there tonight, not when everyone has just the weekend to plan. “Where do you even invite a prince to go?”
“See, you’re already failing. It’ll go great.“
“Bitch.“
“Jerk.”
Dean breathes a bit more. “Fuck it. I’m gonna do a normal person date. Probably can’t take him to a bar without it being weird and fancy. I’ll make burgers, we’ll do a movie on the couch, and he’ll be so disappointed with my pleb ways, he’ll never look back.”
“If he has to watch you eat, he’ll leave before the movie.”
“Sam.“
“I’m helping!”
.
.
The show airs every weeknight, and while some of the contestants have gotten solo portions before, this is the first week everyone gets a solo night. Of the many, many entrants, only twelve even made it to the mansion. Dean’s pretty face and sob story somehow got him in. Those, and how getting arrested as a teenager had apparently filled him with that big requirement for the nation-wide contest: a deep and abiding passion for the good works of their country.
Anytime someone phrases it like that, Dean desperately controls his expression.
It had started with a dozen people from across the country. It had gathered singles from across the nobility and the upper class, dipped its toes into middle class, and then slummed it with Dean. Here a lawyer, there a doctor. There went the architect, there goes the civil servant.
Getting through the quiz rounds had been a Slumdog Millionaire-esque stroke of luck. Roadtripping across the country with their dad had taught Dean everything about maps, and, apparently, an absurd amount of geography. Dragging multiple kids through multiple school years drilled in the staples of national history. And no one else present for those quizzes had any personal experience in the nitty gritty details of life.
When they were all tested on how “in touch” with the common people voting for them they were, Dean had somehow been the only person to ask crucial follow-up questions. What are the average prices of different groceries? “Store brand, name brand, or organic?” should be the obvious response, not just the reaction that gets a consistent laugh from the studio audience of those nights. When the topic turned to education or crime, Dean ponied up the same kind of statistics he’s been waving in front of kid’s faces for the better part of a decade now.
Then there’d been the more socially focused rounds. Dean had coasted through the event planning competition as part of a team before sweet talking all their guests. When they’d all been partnered up with a foreign dignitary to cut their teeth on that kind of schmoozing, Dean had been given the absolute easiest partner: a nerd with scifi figurines on her desk.
The last couple of rounds had been a two-part challenge that failed to live up to its name. Come up with a community project with low costs and high impact? Dean had ticked over from an At Risk Youth and into adulthood on a farm. All he had to put together is what he knows works: community gardening. Give a thirteen year old boy a hoe, let him snicker it out, and then have him beat the ground until his anger runs out. Involve neighbors, get the kids interacting with real people, get more people invested in the kids. So, yeah: a couple of tweaks to that, and Dean’s proposal had been a piece of cake. Implementing it this past week went pretty smoothly too.
And now he’s here.
Final four.
All set and ready to date a prince.
Jesus fuck, who let this happen.
.
.
On Saturday, they draw straws. Given that each show airs on a weeknight and needs a day of frantic editing, someone has to have their date Sunday night, in time for Monday.
Through an overly elaborate ceremony (recorded as a promo for this week’s shows), Dean draws Friday night (which actually means Thursday). The host wishes them all luck, the two remaining nobles split away from each other, and the investment banker starts asking the host a bunch of questions Dean doesn’t need the answers to.
With the most time to prepare, Dean... doesn’t. He swims in the pool. He enjoys the seriously awesome food. He browses through the movie catalogue available to them. He takes advantage of a completely absurd bathroom and continues to plot out how he’s going to steal his bathrobe.
Each morning, the final four have to socialize with each other over breakfast in front of the cameras. It’s the same kind of debrief they’ve been doing for, shit, two entire months at this point. The only difference this time is that this time, one of them has first hand experience with Prince Castiel.
A lot of strategizing clearly goes into how much everyone reveals on their morning. Praise the prince’s good looks in front of the camera? Check. List all of the wonderful activities they did together so no one can copy them? Check. Mention a single one of the prince’s likes or hobbies? No check. Anti-check. Cross that question off the entire list. No one spills any beans there, absolutely nothing that could be helpful to anyone going next.
Thursday drags its way from morning and into afternoon with multiple consultants asking Dean if he’s sure about what he has planned. For his part, Dean confirms and confirms until he’s a hairs breadth from losing his temper.
Yes, he’s sure. No, he doesn’t need anything else beyond that grocery list. Yes, he’s wearing this. No, he doesn’t need a last minute shopping trip. Yes, he is absolutely wearing this, because these are his own clothes. Now go away: he needs time to cook.
Given the seemingly limitless options and budget they have at their disposal, Dean’s the only one who opted to invite the prince to the mansion. Maybe the others were too leery of a rival butting in, or even just spying the prince early. Maybe they’d had some show they’d desperately wanted to see and chose to cash in with this. Hell, Dean had had half a mind to do that, until facing facts and admitting that this could lead to an actually interesting date.
Instead, he sucks it up. He’s had more fine dining and gourmet food in two months than he’s had the entire rest of his life. He’s met celebrities and even given a shit about a couple of them. But now it’s getting too real, and that means it’s time to go.
.
.
Having a camera crew in tow somehow fails to be the most surreal part of answering the door. The bell sets off an impressive melody through the foyer. Already stationed in place, Dean lets the noise die before taking the final few steps and hauling open the door for the prince he has technically agreed to marry (results of the competition pending).
With his own cameraman behind him, Prince Castiel nods politely at him across the threshold, and Dean is immediately in over his head.
They’d said he was handsome. Gossip rags call him anything from pretty to breathtaking. Countless photos depict how, beneath those suits, there hides a body well-toned from the luxury of the best personal trainers.
All that’s true.
But mostly, this guy just looks tired.
It’s in those deep baby blues, already partially glazed over. It’s in how the man reflexively straightens his posture that extra inch. This far into a televised life, Dean can easily spot makeup, even expertly applied, and there are bags under those eyes.
“Hey,” Dean says, instead of whatever the hell he’d planned to say. Unless that’s what he’d planned to say. He has no idea. He tightens his grip on the side of the door, the better to hold it open wide. The better to hold onto something. “Thanks for coming over, Your Highness.” Holy shit, that’s weird to say. Is he supposed to call Prince Castiel that? Somebody briefed him on this and now he has no idea.
Narrowing those striking eyes and tilting his head, the future king looks Dean over from flannel to worn jeans to work boots. With a faint quirk to his lips, he extends his hand. “Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Winchester.”
Dean takes it. Shakes it. Gives as good of a hold as he teaches the boys to, looks him square in the eyes, and shows him that Dean’s not remotely as piss-pants scared as he feels. “Dean.”
“Castiel.” With one last squeeze, Castiel lets go.
Dean clears his throat. “Right. Come on in.” He takes a step back, and Castiel enters.
In his overcoat and tailored suit, Castiel doesn’t move like anyone Dean knows. It’s too polished to be a prowl, too intent to be casual. His motions carry purpose and weight, though the meaning remains illusive. He holds himself apart.
“Take your coat?”
“Thank you.”
Dean hangs the overcoat in the foyer closet, and his hands are absolutely not shaking. “I hope you came hungry. This place has an awesome kitchen.”
The smooth, nigh-emotionless facade wavers with a blink. “You cooked?”
“Yup.” He ducks his head. “Well, still cooking. Just finishing up, though, didn’t want anything to get cold.” Dean gestures the way, although the camera backing through the appropriate doorway is a bit of a hint already.
Dean leads him through the empty dining room, the long table devoid of place settings, and into the kitchen. “What’s your style? Rare, medium, dry brick?”
“I-” Another waver of persona, another moment of confusion. No sense of humor, or too tired to use it? “Medium rare, typically.”
“Awesome, coming right up.”
The kitchen island sports a pair of place settings, one corner framed by a pair of stools. Already set out are the condiments, the jar of pickle slices, washed lettuce, tomato slices, the works. Plus, a bowl of fresh fries.
“I used the air fryer on those,” Dean says, pointing them out while moving to the sleek stove. “Sounds ridiculous, but I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to try one of those bad boys out.”
Visibly quizzical, Castiel claims one of the stools while the cameras do their thing, circling around them on the shoulders of operators they’re meant to ignore. “You’re making burgers,” Castiel says, somehow making this a question.
“Yeah, nothing fancy.” Except for the quality of ingredients. Taking the beef out of the packaging, Dean had died inside, but mostly in a good way. He flashes a smile over his shoulder. “Hope that’s okay. I’m normally cooking for a pack of kids. Refined palates are very much not a thing.”
He’s pulled out the big guns for seasoning tonight: there’s no way he’ll be able to afford to ever again. As he gets the meat sizzling in the pan, he pops a pair of absurdly artisan buns into the oven with a lick of butter across each. On muscle memory, he opens the fridge and catches himself mid-reach. “Beer while you wait? They brought in a bunch of different kinds.”
“Whatever you’re having.”
Pale ales, it is.
Six minutes of small talk pass in a haze, but that haze gets a lot slower when the prince gets up and comes over to take a look. “That smells very good,” he says, as stiff and composed as a cardboard cutout not quite propped up all the way.
“Heck yeah,” Dean agrees on autopilot. “Do you want to do up yours, or are you okay with me taking the wheel?”
Castiel looks at him with absolute incomprehension.
“Yeah, I’ll do it,” Dean decides. Somewhere between Dean getting the buns out and laying the lettuce on, Castiel realizes what he’d meant, but by then, Dean’s almost done. He moves both plates back to the kitchen island, laughing awkwardly as they shuffle around each other, laughing in relief when he doesn’t toss both burgers into Castiel’s suit.
Proving that he’s not a complete alien, Castiel does know what to do when it comes to condiments and loading his own tomato and pickle slices. “I haven’t had a burger in... I’m not sure how long,” Castiel confesses, not without hunger, his deep voice rumbling in lieu of his stomach.
Dean swallows hard. “Not a fan?“ he half-jokes.
Castiel levels a Look at him.
Dean laughs. From nerves.
“Synthetic meat substitutes are an important advancement,” Castiel says, as if by rote.
Dean shakes his head disparagingly. “Man, you swap out my ground beef for ground turkey, and I notice. My brother’s crazy about, what is it, tofu-point-oh, but I can’t hack it.”
“Sustainability doesn’t always account for personal preference,” Castiel answers, which Dean translates to “Yeah, it sucks.”
“You said it. Well. Bon appétit?”
“Mm.”
With that, they heft their burgers, angle their approaches, and bite in.
Castiel makes a porn noise.
Juices come out.
Bits of bun crumb and lettuce fall onto his plate as he leans forward over it, chasing the bulging burger into his own hands.
Castiel sets the burger down, chews vigorously, and uses his napkin while Dean stares like a rube.
“That,” Castiel says, “is very good.”
Dean grins. “Yeah?”
“Mm,” Castiel confirms, going back in.
They don’t talk so much after that. A couple times, Castiel has to turn a hand for a quick lick at his own wrist, rescuing his sleeve from the juices. Dean stares a little too hard until one of the cameras passes into his line of sight to do the same. Then he pulls his shit together.
“So,“ Dean says faux-conversationally, “what do you actually do?”
Castiel takes his time chewing and swallowing. “I flag issues in Parliament for my father’s review.“
“Like a big flag, or one of those little toothpick ones?”
Again, there’s that moment of lag behind those eyes. No less compelling for it, but a little worrying. “That does depend on the size of the issue. My team and I read as many of the proposed laws as possible once the Houses have argued them into shape. We try to close loopholes.”
“Huh.”
“There’s also public relations,” Castiel adds, somehow sounding more interested in thwarting legalese.
“Like this,“ Dean says, breaking one of the rules to gesture at the cameras.
“Like this,“ Castiel agrees.
“Are you cool with it?” Dean asks, because why the fuck not. If he’s gonna pack his bags, he might as well load them with answers on his way out.
Still, he doesn’t go so far as bringing up how Castiel’s disowned older brother and former crown prince didn’t manage to hack being paired up via TV show and popular vote. The former prince having an affair with his secretary and popping out an heir is, after all, a strange silver lining that opens up Castiel’s union to less procreative options. And the royal family does seem to love tiny Jack as much as they now loathe the prince-formerly-known-as-a-prince.
“I spend much of my life in front of cameras,” Castiel says.
Dean shakes his head, then holds up a finger as he chews. After a swallow, he says, “Having everybody vote on who you’ll marry. You’re okay with it?”
“Arranged marriages are a longstanding part of our history. The populace having control instead of my parents serves as a check on the monarchy.”
“That’s the party line, yeah, but that’s not what I asked.” It occurs to Dean that Castiel probably isn’t allowed to say, but screw it. “You. You the person. You’re okay with it?”
Slowly, Castiel nods. “I do have some amount of input, Dean.”
The chills spiraling out from his spine to curl up in his toes have nothing to do with the heat from the long-cold stove, but Dean can pretend. “I know the veto rules. You can save someone from being voted out... twice? Yeah.”
Castiel reaches for his beer only to hold it, not drink. “When the entrants are narrowed down to five hundred, an allotment of those go to my family members or friends. Then there are a hundred. As a group, we half that number. Then I pick twelve from that fifty.”
Dean’s eyes widen as his stomach drops. He leans his arm on the kitchen island to keep his balance on the stool. “You...”
“Picked you. Yes.” Castiel glances down and clears his throat. “And the rest of the house.”
“You already swiped right on all of us.”
“You could call it that.“
“Oh,” Dean says, and it comes out way too small. “I, um. Didn’t know that.”
Castiel nods. “They’ll edit this out for the show. It might be in a Behind the Scenes feature, though.“
“That is crazy surreal, you know that, right?”
This time when Castiel looks at him with those deep blue eyes and that tiny quirk to his lips, it’s the expression of a man who knows life is insane and has chosen to go ahead anyway.
“Yes,” Castiel says simply.
They finish eating in relative silence. Castiel seems content enough to help himself to homemade fries and ponder why ketchup is legally a vegetable if tomatoes are technically fruit.
“I was thinking,” Dean says by way of transition, “you’ve kind of had a packed week, right? Art show, concert, play, right?”
Still intent on chasing down the ketchup with the last of the fries, Castiel nods. “It’s been very nice having a night in.”
“Well. Uh. Good.” Dean clears his throat. “’Cause we’ve got some comfy couches and a couple of those seriously awesome recliners. And movies.”
Castiel smiles at him, and all of those little chills that have taken root in Dean abruptly blossom and melt. It’s bad. Real bad. But a kind of train wreck bad, because Dean can’t look away from his own oncoming Demise Via Handsome. “What did you have in mind?” Castiel asks.
What Dean had in mind is not being mocked on national TV for any of his completely awesome, completely normal movie preferences. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess you don’t get out to the movies a lot, right?”
“I do occasionally attend a premier,” Castiel admits, “but not as often as I’d like.”
“Cool,” Dean says, because what else can he say to that. “Yeah, whatever you missed in theaters, let’s do it. Another beer?” Because Dean’s gonna need another beer.
Another round of beers, and another awkward transition through the mansion. Castiel’s stiffness has lessened slightly, but only slightly. The veneer of polish holding his exhaustion at bay cracks a bit further.
Confusing the camera crew, they set up shop in two adjacent recliners instead of braving the couch or even the loveseat. There’s a long pause for everyone to adjust the lighting for both movie-viewing and show-filming.
“What about you?” Castiel asks.
Dean looks down at the controls on his chair. He looks at his beer in the cup holder. He looks back to Castiel, who wields the remote but doesn’t scroll through the options on the screen. “What about me, what?”
“How are you adjusting to all of this?”
“Is it weird that the cameras are starting to feel normal?”
“I’m the wrong person to ask.”
“Touche.” Dean leans back, reclining the chair with him and putting on that nice heated seat function. “Honestly?”
Similarly reclined, Castiel nods, the side of his face against the headrest.
“This is way more fun than I thought it would be,” Dean admits. “Figured I’d be stressed out of my mind, but...“ He shrugs. It’s that old, amazing freedom of giving up. The abrupt lifting of expectations. “This is the first vacation I’ve had in... Shit, I don’t even know.”
“Vacation,“ Castiel echoes. “In the past fortnight, you designed and implemented a community garden.”
“And I was responsible for none of the kids there,” Dean says with maybe a bit too much glee. “Man, that felt good.” Then, remembering the cameras, he quickly adds, “Not that I don’t miss the boys. It’s just nice to not have to take care of everyone in earshot sometimes.“
Castiel keeps looking at him. Long and steady, the kind of slow gaze that makes words stumble out to meet it.
Dean resists as best he can, but he still keeps going, just a little. “I got this brother, Sam. Not a foster brother, the brother I came with. When he went off to college, he kept joking about how it was a good thing I had five kids to look after instead of just him.”
“Was it?”
“Was it what?“
“Good,“ Castiel says. “For you.”
Dean takes a moment to think about it, which is long enough to know he’d need way longer than a moment. He looks to the immense TV instead. “Looks like they got the lighting figured out. See anything good?”
Castiel doesn’t press the issue, and yet Dean can feel those eyes on him even as Castiel resumes scrolling. “I remember this receiving multiple awards last year, but I never watched it.”
Dean recognizes the title enough to know that it’s artsy and boring as shit. “Awesome, go for it.”
Ten minutes pass in aching silence. The TV doesn’t count. Neither does the camera crew.
Neither should Dean turning on the vibrate function of his chair, but Castiel immediately looks at him.
Dean turns the back massage off.
Still looking at Dean, Castiel shifts his hand on the armrest, and the same whirring, vibrating noise comes from his recliner.
Dean turns his own back on.
Castiel smiles at him.
Dean starts rambling. About other movies. About the local theater, before it closed. About herding the kids down to the library for a public screening on an overhead projector, and crossing his fingers it was a superhero movie instead of something they’d whine about being too babyish.
Finally, he rambles his way quiet, but by that point, he’s entirely lost track of the movie. He does his best to focus anyway.
The boredom sets back in, but Castiel doesn’t break the silence.
Dean glances over, then glances over again.
Shit.
The headrest now playing the part of a pillow, Castiel inhales and exhales with the steady rhythm of the deeply asleep. Despite already having been yammering on to an unconscious prince, Dean holds his breath.
He looks at the camera crews.
The camera crews, and the cameras, stare back.
This isn’t how Dean had meant to blow the date, but boring the guy to sleep definitely counts.
Holding back a sigh, Dean returns his recliner to its neutral position and gives up on the movie. He’d made dessert--mostly for himself--and now is definitely time to heat that up. Still, standing there, surrounded by watchers he’s not supposed to notice, he decides to maybe not completely tank his public image by abandoning his royal date.
He takes off his flannel instead, baring his forearms and band t-shirt. With the practice of many years of shepherding little brothers to bed, Dean lays the flannel over Castiel. The prince still has his suit jacket on, though unbuttoned. At some point, he must have relaxed enough to loosen his tie, but Dean can’t be sure of when.
Regardless, he tucks Castiel in before signaling the crew to leave him be. Dean turns off the TV, keeps the lighting dim, and slips back to the kitchen. With only one of the cameras following him in professional silence, Dean puts the pie he’d baked this afternoon back into the oven to heat up. He puts his music on low, gives the camera a good shot of him sighing in dismay, and proceeds to do the dishes.
.
.
Officially, they’re not meant to talk to the camera crew outside of those stupid confessionals everyone has to do, but 1. there’s only so much footage they can get out of Dean and B. he is armed with pie, boredom, and bribery.
Plus this way, they have to use the limited shots Dean already gave them, rather than Dean risking mistake after mistake, take after take. He may be pretty, but he ain’t dumb.
It’s over two hours later before there’s any sounds of movement off in the direction of the home theater. Still, the camera crew springs back into action, turning the equipment back on and scurrying to hide the extra plates out of sight.
Dean’s flannel draped over one arm, Prince Castiel comes shuffling into the kitchen with a glower plain on his face.
“You should have woken me up,“ Castiel grumbles in a tone Dean knows all too well, royalty or not.
“Cas, buddy? You needed that.“ Dean taps the kitchen island twice. “I already put on some coffee, you want some?”
Castiel sits heavily, his sigh weighty enough to bend him forward. Despite the makeup, he rubs at his eyes. “I’m meant to have kept you company, not...“ He trails off and sighs once more.
Dean looks him over.
Looks at the cameras trained on them.
In a clear and steady voice, Dean says, “Fuck.”
Everyone stares at him.
“Fuck, shit, balls, tits, pussy,“ Dean continues, getting between Cas and the cameras. “None of this is usable, shit, goddamn, fuck, and none of it motherfucking will be, titty fucking balls, so go ahead and clear out.“
Through time, persistence, and cussing, all things are possible, even calmly harassing a pair of camera crews into retreating. There’s not much Dean can do from keeping one crew from looping around to the other kitchen entrance, so Dean settles on a compromise: they’ll stay in the doorway and he’ll stop swearing.
When he comes back to Cas, it’s to find him cradling a mug of coffee and looking at the caffeine source with immense fondness.
“Saved you a slice, if you want it,“ Dean says, pulling out the remaining pie from the fridge. He realizes the picture he makes. “I didn’t eat the whole thing. The crew... Yeah.”
“I can see the plates,“ Cas says, nodding. Looking up at Dean, there’s a clear pall of guilt over him. “I apologize. That was very rude of me. You went through a great deal of effort.”
Dean waves it off, pouring himself more coffee as well in the face of Cas’ poorly concealed yawns. “Big meal, dark room, comfy seat. It happens. No big deal.”
“I’ll make it up to you next week,” Cas promises.
Very carefully, Dean swallows his coffee rather than spit it out. “Next week. You mean, the Day Trip week.” Followed by the Overnight week, two days for each of the remaining two contestants. Followed by marriage.
“I’ll make sure you’re scheduled first,” Cas continues. “You’ll have my full attention.”
Something a lot like terror without the pain rushes through Dean’s veins. Hot? Freezing? He can’t tell. It makes him take a step back, smack his ass against the counter, and let out a noise that immediately necessitates destroying all documentation of said noise. Dean does not giggle like a drunken bubble falling down the stairs. That is not something he does.
Cas seems to be under the unfortunate misconception that Dean does, however, and he smiles softly over the lip of his mug in such a way to prove it.
“Shut up,“ Dean mutters to his coffee. While Cas drinks, Dean rallies. “Besides, I haven’t been voted through to next week yet.”
“You’ll make it through,“ Cas tells him firmly. “I haven’t used any of my veto power yet.“
“Shut up and eat your pie.” Dean thrusts the warmed slice over. “You- shit, fork.“
After two incorrect drawers, Dean finds the forks right where they’ve always been. “Uh, here.”
Standing up, reaching out, Cas wraps his fingers around Dean’s hand rather than the utensil.
Clark snorted, and started to make a joke about buying a pack of gum with a hundred dollar bill. Then he remembered who he was with. “Wait, are you—”
“It’s fine,” Bruce said before Clark could finish asking. “Excuse me,” he said to the woman behind the register. Her hair was the approximate color and consistency of straw. She had somehow conspired to form her bangs into a sort of tumbleweed above her forehead. Her pants were a distinctly visible shade of a pink camouflage print. Bruce held up a pack of gum. “I don’t suppose I could get this on store credit?”
She scoffed. She was chewing nicotine gum actively and open-mouthed. It was impossible to say if she didn’t know how to chew it properly, or just didn’t care. “Store credit’s for locals that I know are good for it,” she said. “No offense, but I don’t know you from Adam.”
Bruce could hear, over the chewing, the shaky breath of Clark trying to laugh silently.
“That’s understandable,” Bruce said mildly.
“I’m getting stuff anyway,” Clark said. “Throw it in with mine.”
“I can write a—”
“You’re not writing a check for a dollar.” Clark took the gum from Bruce’s hand before he could stop him. As usual, he did not care that powers were cheating. He did that thing where he used his shoulder to hide the unnatural speed of his hand from any possible audience.
Bruce didn’t even want gum. He was only buying it because of the other sign, the one that declared the bathroom was for paying customers only. “Where’s your bathroom?” he asked, the ramshackle wooden building seeming too small to hide such a thing.
“Outside, take a right,” she said, reaching beneath the counter as she entered prices into the register. She tossed him the key, attached to a piece of driftwood whittled in the shape of a gun.
Clark said nothing. It was a very meaningful nothing.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Bruce said as they stepped back outside, past the bushels of deer corn.
“But I did,” Clark said cheerfully, offering Bruce his gum.
“Hey!” the cashier called from the doorway, and both men stopped and turned. She held up a tabloid, and pointed at it. “This you?”
Bruce Wayne was on the cover, a classic paparazzi shot of a hotel balcony. He was on his phone, and had an expression of utmost exhausted disdain.
“No,” Bruce said.
“This says you’re supposed to be a billionaire,” the cashier said, ignoring him to bring the tabloid down and squint at it. “But you couldn’t even afford a pack of gum.”
Clark and Bruce exchanged the look of two men both trying not to look at each other while wanting to check and see what their expressions were. It was fleeting and confirmed all their suspicions.
“I’m always telling Jodie these things are fake,” she said, self-satisfied. “Just wait until she hears about this.” With a grin, she disappeared back into the gas station.
Clark opened his mouth to say something.
Bruce snatched the pack of gum from his hand, and stalked wordlessly around the building.
i spent like a year trying to figure out how to write chapter four as just straight horror before realizing that i am literally just incapable of doing that so have whatever the fuck this is instead
A/N: Challenge fic with @comme-un-livre-ouvert where we both individually write a fic based on the same concept. In this case it is a Modern!AU, Soulmate!AU, Soul Mark!AU, Angst, OT3.
I’m trying not to reveal too much. I’ll re-edit this when they have theirs up.
This is quite honestly one of the longest things I’ve ever done in one sitting. I am exhausted. My prose and tenses are probably everywhere and I am so sorry for it. Enjoy x
–
Booker smiles placidly when he catches Joe’s eye from across the room and let’s the pretenses drop the moment he ducks out into hallway, finding a spot of quiet from all the music and chatter of celebration in the living room. He really should be happy but as it is with heartbreaks, happiness is something you can only fake until it feels real.
He opens the door when the doorbell rings and kisses the cheeks of the latecomers in greeting. They awkwardly avoid his eye with shifty smiles as they shuffle past him. Booker doesn’t blame them. It’s an awkward fucking situation all around.
Joe’s warm and happy laughter carries through the air, and Booker just feels his heart twist in his chest. The sight of his head of curls bobbing along in the joy of whatever joke one of their friends was making while his arm was slung intimately low around Nicky’s waist was unbearable. Booker has enough self-respect in him to recognise it as jealousy.
He has been in love with his best friend for almost as long as he has known him. It had been ridiculously easy for them; Joe had no soul marks and neither had Booker, so it was the most natural thing to move in together after they’d both hit 33 and when Booker decided to offer his fine art restorer skills up to go freelance, they make plans to spend the rest of their lives together. It made sense and they were happy. Booker had had no intentions of ever letting Joe know how he had truly felt and that was the mistake.
It isn’t that he dislikes Nicky.
The man was beyond perfect and Booker could have never hoped to compare. From the briefest of familiarities, he knows that Nicky was a former theology student who left the seminary and is now deep in his work with a local NGO, well on his way to maybe working for the UN some day. He volunteers at a local shelter, helps at his church’s soup kitchen, is handsome and funny, is a fucking Saint personified and looks great next to Joe when Booker looks like a twice drowned rat on his best day. It isn’t that he hates the man. It’s just that, well, Nicky isn’t him.
I love this. I always love your over sacrificing sad sack Booker. And Nicky trying to get to know the other person Joe loves... Ahhhhhhh. My skin is clear, my crops are watered.
Jaskier sat up abruptly in his chair, parchment and books scattering around him. “When? Now? Where?”
“They have just entered the palace gates, your Highness,” the messenger remained in a deep bow as Jaskier rushed past him, grinning widely.
Maids and servant boys hastily plastered themselves to the wall as the Prince swerved around them, bursting through the swinging windows and planting himself at the front balcony.
“Take hold of yourself, Julian,” the Queen said, but she was hiding a smile. “Your eagerness is unbecoming.”
Jaskier ignored her as he watched the men in dark armor ride into the keep. Cheering townspeople with armfuls of garlands greeted them, the triumphant returning heroes. Weary and dirty from travel as they were, the knights seemed heartened by the reception, bending down to receive crowns and wreaths from giggling maidens.
But Jaskier had eyes for only one such knight, who rode in front of the pack, his white hair shining in the sun. When he tipped up his visor and glanced up towards the balcony, Jaskier felt as if an arrow had pierced his heart.
–
“Sir Geralt of Rivia!”
The banquet hall was glowing, cheer on every face. While just moments before, it was full of laughter and song, a respectful silence had descended when the knights were called for their audience.
The Queen had to pinch Jaskier for him to start moving, the ceremonial sword slipping in his sweaty palms as he watched Geralt walk down the aisle and sink to kneel at his feet. To Jaskier’s flustered heart, it almost seemed as if Geralt had offered him a secret smile before he bowed his head.
“Please stay very still,” Jaskier muttered, “I shall endeavor to be careful, but this sword is heavy.”
“Think of all their faces when you surprise them with a public execution,” Geralt said dryly. Louder, he continued. “To thee, Prince Pankranz, I pledge my body, my life, and my undying loyalty. I take this oath in defense of Lettenhove and place myself forever in thine hands,” Geralt’s eyes flicked up to Jaskier’s, “Your Highness.”
Jaskier could hardly hide the trembling in his hands as he lifted the sword and brought it down carefully against each of Geralt’s broad shoulders. “Arise, Sir Knight,” he said clearly, and the hall burst into applause.
Jaskier returned to sit next to his mother and father at the head table, but his eye was drawn again and again to the knights’ table, where Geralt was enfolded, rowdy and warm, among his comrades. Formerly an order of unlanded, wandering Knights, the School of the Wolves had been gifted a position at court after one Sir Geralt had saved the life of the young Prince and earned the kingdom’s eternal gratitude.
And Jaskier’s eternal infatuation.
“Your regard is so apparent, it’s embarrassing,” Yennefer, the court mage, said, elbowing Jaskier as he craned his head for a better look. On his other side, his parents were discussing tedious things, like the possibility of war between Kerack and Brocklion.
Geralt glanced towards the front of the room and Jaskier immediately snapped his gaze to Yennefer, feigning nonchalance.
“It may do to proceed with a degree of subtly, Your Highness.” Yennefer slipped a dainty morsel of food into her mouth and reached for her wine goblet. Jaskier’s own plate was largely untouched.
“You think that’ll get his attention?”
“Not at all, the man’s thick as a brick,” Yennefer sighed. “The subtlety’s entirely for my benefit.”
hi, i don't know if you or one of your lovely followers can help me with this... but theoretically, if i were looking for nsfw geraskier fanart, where would i find something like that? ever since tumblr made it illegal to be horny i haven't been able to figure out where all the nsfw artists moved to. any help would be greatly appreciated :) btw i love your blog!!!
rip horny art on tumblr :(((( unfortunately there isn’t a single popular platform where artists are able to post nsfw art.
i know many fanartists now post on twitter, and i have seen a few pieces of quality horny art posted there recently:
the other option is to join a discord server, where people will often share their own fanart or links to nsfw fanart. i’m not really active on discord these days though so i can’t recommend specific places to join unfortunately.
it really is illegal to be horny here, which is a frankly dreadful state of affairs. so if you are an artist who draws nsfw, please leave links to your works in the replies so we can appreciate your lovely efforts!
If You Like My Books, Try These Black Authors (Gail Carriger Recommends)
It’s weird, Gentle Reader, to try to figure out what people like about one’s own books. But after ten years I have some idea, so I hope you’ll humor my list attempts.
I believe that people read my stuff for comfort, because I’m gentle to my characters, and light and fluffy and funny. People come back to my books because I have queer representation, and because they know there will be romance, found family, and an HEA – basically lots of Heroine’s Journeys.
I tend to think of my stuff in terms of what it is not: gritty, dark, tragic.
So with that in mind, I have some book recs for you that I tried to organize loosely by what you might be looking for next. I chose two per category to focus on, but there’s also longer lists at the bottom.
Something steampunk?
For lovers of the Parasolverse…
P. Djèlí Clark‘s The Black God’s Drums
In an alternate New Orleans caught in the tangle of the American Civil War, the wall-scaling girl named Creeper yearns to escape the streets for the air–in particular, by earning a spot on-board the airship Midnight Robber. Scott Westerfeld called this book:
“A sinewy mosaic of Haitian sky pirates, wily street urchins, and orisha magic. Beguiling and bombastic!”
Nikki Woolfolk‘s series of steampunk novellas
Based in an amazing alternate historical USA world. Worth checking out for the world building alone, her characters are also immensely tough, charming, and queer AF. She also has a cozy mystery series (start with Mise en Death) featuring, you guessed it, FOOD! I mean come on, what is not to love? She knows what she’s talking about too, she is ALSO the genius behind Belle Monde Chocolates. Which are, without question, my favorite chocolates in the world.
Something with strong tricky female main characters?
For lovers of the Delightfully Deadly series…
LL McKinney‘s A Blade So Black (The Nightmare-Verse series)
Is a thrilling YA urban fantasy retelling of Alice in Wonderland, if you or your teen reads Marissa Meyer, then this series is for you.
The first time the Nightmares came, it nearly cost Alice her life. Now she’s trained to battle monstrous creatures in the dark dream realm known as Wonderland with magic weapons and hardcore fighting skills. Yet even warriors have a curfew.
Alyssa Cole‘s historical spies series, The Loyal League
Cole writes romantic historical, scifi, and contemporary with lots of queer rep. Honestly she has something for everyone. Her historical series is period-drama-delightful full of machinations and spies, so if the Finishing School was your jam, try this series.
Something whimsically alt history?
For lovers of the floof…
C. L. Polk‘s acclaimed Witchmark
Witchmark (followed by Stormsong) with more to come, was described as “a stunning, addictive fantasy that combines intrigue, magic, betrayal, and romance.” Polk’s novella The Midnight Bargain is described as a “fantasy of manners.” Yes please!
Rebel Carter’s Gold Sky series
This is the first in a Western shared town series all of which feature different interracial couples and groupings, fluffly alt-history of the best kind. This first one is two men who love each other and their mail order bride, the second features is a mail order groom, and the third a best friends to lovers romance.
Fun & Sexy?
If what you really love of my books is when I get all over with the sexy, then here are some authors who bring on the heat with a side of humor and romance.
A. E. Via‘s Promises series
Via’s gay romances featuring tough military-types with soft squishy centers are some of my favorites, I chronically reread. The sex scenes are numerous and extremely hot, and written with such skill. I would take a master class from her on how to do sexy and emotional at the same time. If you’re a chronic romance reader Via will have hit up at least one of your favorite tropes. I happen to be a big May December fan, so the first Promises book is one of my favorites. Tough bounty hunter with self-worth issues is pursued by a much younger lawyer who came back into town expressly to reconnect with the man of his dreams. Gah, so good.
Jasmine Guillory’s Wedding Date series
Guillory’s rom coms are (so far) het central, but her supporting cast of characters is always super representative and queer friendly. Lots of found family themes and a ton of humor. Start with The Wedding Date:
“A swoony rom-com brimming with humor and charm.” ~ Entertainment Weekly
“What a charming, warm, sexy gem of a novel….One of the best books I’ve read in a while.” ~ Roxane Gay
YA with serious girl power?
For lovers of the Finishing School series…
Dhonielle Clayton‘s The Belles series
Okay if you like Hunger Games or The Selection then you need to read these books RIGHT NOW. No, seriously, start with the first one and just keep going. If you have a teen who liked either of these, hell I’ll chuck Maas into “also like” mix, they should be reading these books. They are THAT GOOD.
Brittney Morris‘s debut SLAY
“Ready Player One meets The Hate U Give in this dynamite debut novel that follows a fierce teen game developer as she battles a real-life troll intent on ruining the Black Panther – inspired video game she created and the safe community it represents for Black gamers.”
Queer rep?
For lovers of the San Andreas and Supernatural Society series…
Alyssa Cole‘s Reluctant Royals series
Already on this list once, here Cole is again, this time for her reluctant royals series. More light-hearted than her historical stuff and mostly with het central characters, I would start with the adorable lesbian novella, Once Ghosted, Twice Shy.
Holley Trent/H.E. Trent pick your joy, she’s got it all
Seriously, what does this woman not write? She’s amazing. Whatever your preference, she’s probably written you the romantic joy you crave: scifi, paranormal, contemp with poly, menage, gay, het). I like scifi romance a lot, so I would start with Wager.
More Black Authors Writing Queer Joy here:
Authors from above will also appear on this list, for ease of copy/past and printing.
More Black Authors Writing Genre Fiction
Mostly SciFi & Speculative Fiction
Maurice Broadus – everything he does is gold
Octavia Butler – many times recipient of the Hugo and Nebula awards, and in 1995 the first science-fiction writer ever to receive a MacArthur Fellowship
P. Djèlí Clark – steampunk (try The Black God’s Drums)
Gerald L. Coleman – philosopher, theologian, poet, and scifi-fantasy author
Samuel Delaney – his work includes science fiction, memoir, criticism and essays on science fiction, literature, sexuality, and society
Nalo Hopkinson – speculative fiction (try Brown Girl in the Ring in which a young woman must solve the tragic mystery surrounding her family and bargain with the gods to save her city and herself)
Nnedi Okorafor – scifi, (try her Hugo- and Nebula-winning novella series about Binti, a young Himba girl with a talent for mathematics that earns her the chance to attend a prestigious university)
Nisi Shawl – best known for her short stories, Shawl has a wonderful alt-history steampunk too: Everfair
Rivers Solomon – sci-fi with queer rep (try An Unkindness of Ghosts about Aster who lives in the lowdeck slums of the HSS Matilda, a space vessel organized much like the antebellum South)
Nikki Woolfolk‘s – steampunk & cozy mystery with lots of queer rep and optimistic feels
Mostly Fantasy & Horror
Tomi Adeyemi – epic fantasy (West African-inspired fantasy, #1 New York Times Bestseller, perfect if you like Leigh Bardugo)
Charlotte Nicole Davis – magical western (try The Good Luck Girls)
Tananarive Due – horror
Justina Ireland – alt history with ZOMBIES (try Dread Nation)
Valjeanne Jeffers – horror
N. K. Jemisin – epic fantasy, dark, gritty and multi award winning
Marlon James – epic fantasy (try Black Leopard Red Wolf described as an African Game of Thrones)
Nicole Givens Kurtz – weird west & pulp
Romance
There tends to be more romance on my lists than other books because I gravitate so strongly towards the heroine’s journey, and romance is a guaranteed HEA. These days I read more romance than ever before, so I have a better understanding on what’s happening in this field.
Melissa Blue – contemporary high heat
S. Renée Bess – mostly f/f romantic fiction, some romance
Rebel Carter – contemporary (try Heart and Hand)
Lauren Cherelle – f/f romance and essays
Alyssa Cole – historical, scifi, contemporary rom com with queer rep
Robin Covington – contemporary & PNR
Jasmine Guillory – contemporary het romance with lots of queer characters (try The Wedding Date)
Mason Dixon – lesbian romance
Ava Freeman – lesbian romance (found family)
Alix B Golden – lesbian romance (strong friendships)
Sheree L. Greer – lesbian romance (right NOW read A Return to Arms about meeting the love of your life at an activist collective, police shooting, sexual, and political freedoms)
Jack Harbon – gay contemporary and rom com (try Meet Cute Club)
Nikki Harmon – lesbian romance & sf/f essays
Talia Hibbert – contemporary (try The Brown Sisters rom com series or That Kind of Guy which features a woman who is in her 40s and a younger demisexual hero)
Chencia C. Higgins – het & queer romance
Piper Huguley – historical
Katrina Jackson – romantic suspense, high heat, diverse, and mostly queer (try Pink Slip)
Meka James – contemporary, erotic, LGBTQ+
Beverly Jenkins – mostly historical but has a HUGE back catalog including YA (try Night Hawk)
Christina C. Jones – contemporary modern and complex (bisexual main character in Something Like Love)
Alexa Martin – contemporary sports with comedic bent
A.M. McKnight – lesbian romantic suspense
Selena Montgomery – romantic suspense (try Hidden Sins about a scam artist and a forensic anthropologist) * you might know her better as Stacey Abrams
J. Nichole – contemporary romance, het & f/f, queer rep
Sheryl Lister – sweet, sensual, contemporary (try A Touch of Love which tackles hearing loss)
Skyy – only one book so far but it’s an AMAZING lesbian romance so I’m hoping for many more
Frederick Smith and Chaz Lamar – have one co-authored book and there is some question as to whether it qualifies as romance (it’s on my TBR) but it’s getting rave reviews particularly from within the LA and BlaQ community: In Case You Forgot
Holley Trent/H.E. Trent – scifi, paranormal, poly, menage, gay, het
Yolanda Wallace – lesbian contemporary & suspense
Rebekah Weatherspoon – contemporary BDSM, erotic, f/f, het, PNR (try Xeni for some delicious comedy)
K.D. Williamson – lesbian contemporary (self described nerd)
Nikki Winter – contemporary romance, some f/f
Elle Wright – contemporary high drama
Fiona Zedde – wide range of novels, some f/f romance
YA
Rena Barron – dark epic fantasy & middle grade (try Kingdom of Souls)
Dhonielle Clayton – dystopian near future (try The Belles)
LL McKinney – urban fantasy (try A Blade So Black)
Brittney Morris – geeky girl fighting back (try SLAY)
Tochi Onyebuchi – dystopian try War Girls
Claire Kann – LBGTQ+ rom com (try Let’s Talk About Love featuring and ace main character)
Ibi Zoboi (try Pride a Pride & Prejudice retelling that is smart, beautiful, and funny, starring all characters of color, from a National Book Award finalist
More Lists!
20 Must Read African Fantasy Novels
Black Romance Authors
Black Bi & Lesbian Books
Reading Black Joy: F/F Romances by Black Authors
19 Black Children’s Books by Black Authors
25 Fantastic Middle Grade Books by Black Authors
YA Pride posted a Queer YA Books by Black Authors Spreadsheet
More we can do?
Order Books from Black-Owned Bookstores
This Black Woman-Owned Bookstore Has an ‘Ally Box’ Subscription
Buy books with POC on the cover! Read amazing romance author Naima Simone‘s article about this. I’ve noticed it in my own sales and it is a horrible, rarely discussed prejudice in buying behavior (and publisher reactive behavior).
Write to and urge major book bloggers and taste makers (I’m looking at you BookBub) to consider more books by Black authors.
Are you an author? Nisi Shawl is also the co-author of Writing the Other: A Practical Approach
Not all the authors in this collection are Black, but I find that a good way to get started and find new authors is to read anthologies, so here’s New Suns: Original Speculative Fiction by People of Color
Not feeling like books right now? How about tea? Or chocolate? Or more tea?
If you are a member of the Parasol Protectorate Facebook Group there is a long ongoing list available:
(Hot link not permitted, you’ll need to copy and paste into your browser, and you need to be a member of the group. Sorry, it was the best way to organize the fans, I do pull from there to update my lists here.)
Yours (destined to be killed by a tumbling TBR pile),
Miss Gail
Want more book recs? Get ’em monthly in the Chirrup, because I love them bestest. Sign up here.
Not into newsletters? Get only new releases by following Gail on Amazon or BookBub!
Jaskier dies an old man, and the Witchers are saddened at his leave, but they bury him in Oxenfurt with his lute, and move on with their lives.
Unexpectedly, Jaskier finds himself back in the world of the living, with a burning desire to right the wrongs upon Witchers across the continent. For a while all he can be is aggressive, inconveniencing anyone who he had heard say something bad about the Witchers he devoted his life to. He figured out pretty quickly that he’s a ghost.
What’s strange to him is that he doesn’t seem to be attached to his lute. Realistically that should be it, right? A love of music that’s brought him back to watch how his legacy drags on. But no, he finds himself in shitty taverns and inns mixing lye into horrible people’s ale.
It takes him a while, but he finally gets the pattern: he wakes up in a dark room, usually alone, and finds people in the main room raging about Witchers. When he finally takes a moment to look around instead of immediately going for a target, he recognizes a familiar presence.
There are Witchers wherever he goes.
Jaskier has, somehow, become attached to Witchers. When he realizes this his vengeful spirit begins to settle, and he starts being useful. Whenever he wakes up, he finds the Witcher he’s attached to and helps them. At first it’s with vengeance, then it’s with a tidier room, checking the beds for lice, and if it isn’t safe he breaks the doorknobs. His help goes unrecognized, but at this point, hems used to being ignored.
The first time a Witcher thanks him it’s a man from Griffin school, and he hears the man’s name echo through his shapeless form. Coën. He says it quietly, “someone must be watching out for me,” he chuckled to the air. “Well they have my gratitude.”
Jaskier finds himself on the road next, sitting in a camp beside a Witcher with a very familiar medallion. It’s not Geralt, this one has scars over the side of his face. He looks sad, and Jaskier wants to comfort him. He thinks the Witcher must feel it, when Jaskier wraps his arms around his shoulders, tells him his work is important, that humans may be ungrateful but he knows of his sacrifice, and is so proud he’s alive. The Witcher sighs, tension disappearing. Then he gets his name— Eskel. “Someone has to do the job, eh Scorpion?” The Witcher says, looking at his horse. Much better than Roach, thinks Jaskier. Jaskier stays with Eskel as long as he can, with nowhere else to go, sings to him while he falls asleep. He doesn’t need a thank you, that the Witcher eases is thanks enough.
- -
Jaskier finds himself in similar places for a while, a tavern where Witchers are being cursed, on the road when a Witcher is feeling down. The names start blurring. Aiden, Letho, Ivo. Jaskier helps all of them find a moment of peace.
He runs into another wolf some time later, and he seems to be a little off. Jaskier heard his name, Lambert. Lambert is standing before a cliff, looking down at the ravine, holding a bottle of wine. Jaskier has a terrifying thought that the Witcher wants to die, and jumps in front of him. He shoves uselessly at his chest, runs his hands through his hair and begs “please, stay alive,” and pulls at his armor until Lambert sighs and retreats back to his camp. Jaskier, ghostly tears on his face, follows him, clinging the entire time. Jaskier sits on a log and it clears, just a little, under his weight. Lambert stares at the log and Jaskier sees his pupils narrow into slits.
“What are you, seeing ghosts?” Lambert speaks to himself, and shakes his head. “Could’ve been me. Maybe it was you who got me away from that cliff.” He huffs a breath. “Must not be great for a Witcher in the afterlife.” Jaskier can’t bear the one sided conversation.
“It’s not so bad,” he says. “But the world is better with you here to protect it.” Jaskier kicks a rock, and Lambert watches it scurry away.
“My very own ghost,” Lambert says. “Nah, It’s the wind.” He eyes the bottle in his hand. “Well, Maybe...” Jaskier Can see the indescision. Lambert looks up. “Eskel and Geralt are going to think I’m crazy,” he huffs, and sets the bottle right where the rock had been. “If there is someone there, well...” Lambert sniffs. “Thanks for watching out for me.” Jaskier cries again, and when Lambert goes to bed, is pleased to find he can still drink the wine.
- -
Jaskier doesn’t expect to get to Kaer Morhen, but he finds himself there in the winter, peering over familiar white hair. Geralt. Jaskier hadn’t really gotten to say goodbye, though he knew Geralt had visited his grave. He could sense the sadness in his mind, but then he listened to the conversation. He recognizes Lambert and Eskel. Eskel is listening to Lambert, whose talking about a suspiciously empty wine bottle, and Eskel talks about being sung to sleep. Oh. Geralt must have been thinking about him. Jaskier has gained some strength in the world, likely as the Witchers he assists have acknowledged a presence that helped them. He starts humming Toss a Coin in Geralt’s ear, running his hand through his hair, rubbing his shoulder. “I’m still around,” he says, knowing Geralt still can’t hear him. But the sadness exits his eyes as he sings, and instead he smiles lightly.
“What are you grinning about?” Eskel Asks. Geralt shakes his head.
“Jaskier,” he says. “He would’ve sung for you.” Eskel looks pained.
“I’m sorry, I know you miss him—“ Geralt rises abruptly.
“Bet it was his ghost or something,” he says. “Seems like him, right?” And Geralt sounds so fond. “Reminding Witchers of their worth when they feel like shit.” He looks around and Jaskier finds himself in tears again, clinging to Geralt, saying his name,
“You are worthy, every one of you.”
“It’s like I can almost smell him.” Jaskier kicks him. He May have been stinky in his life, but he is a perfectly clean ghost! Geralt shifts his foot and looks down at it.
“Do you think...” it’s Lambert who speaks. Everyone looks at him, surprised by the meekness in his voice. “Maybe it was him?” Jaskier feels a surge of something in his chest. He hugs Lambert from behind, and his shoulders ease. “Maybe he’s come back as a ghost to help out Witchers. Aiden told me he saw someone who was shouting about mutants pass out at a counter last summer, and Coen said that thing about having a nice room...” Geralt and Eskel both look surprised. “It’s stupid but...” Jaskier remembers the sadness in Lambert’s eyes when he stood on that cliff.
“It could be,” Eskel said. “Some kind of spectre. They exist.” Geralt looks down at the ankle Jaskier had kicked.
“Guess he’s still mad at me then,” he sighs. Eskel puts a hand on his shoulder.
“He’ll come round.”
- -
Jaskier calls out to Geralt as a warning, hoping he can be heard, when he sees a monster leap at him. His senses must have alerted him, as Geralt whips around and slices with his silver sword— Jaskier feels a surge of energy in his body as he watches Geralt heave for air and stumble back, whipping his head around.
“Jaskier?” He calls. Geralt looks down at the sword and pulls it from the monster. “Thank you,” he says. Jaskier smiled, but is tugged away by another Witcher in need.
- -
Jaskier gains more abilities, he discovers. With every encounter he seems capable of doing more to help, finding that he can scream warnings, or move very small things, and make sound when he walks— his feet crunch over gravel sometimes when he’s concentrating on it, and he sees Witchers look down from their horses in shock. He can also sing, though he doesn’t have his lute, and he doesn’t know what he sounds like, but it seems to ease Witchers into sleep. Jaskier also learns—
It’s their swords. Since he watched Geralt sink his sword into a warg he’s paid more attention, always found himself directly behind a walking Witcher, or standing by their gear when they left it in a room in an inn. Jaskier is connected to the silver in a Witcher’s sword. He knows they can’t kill him— has been run through more than once with it, and when they’re used with his added existence he feels the power surge through him. It’s incredible.
Jaskier continues helping, and he finds more Witchers regularly, until he’s met all the ones he think exist, and run back between them a few times. He’s been called names: the wolves call him Jaskier, but he gets “buttercup” a lot, sometimes “friendly ghost,” sometimes “friend,” and it’s always in gratitude. Jaskier also gets gifts sometimes. Lambert always leaves him something, a drink, a coin, a carved instrument. But he gets other gifts, like the buttercups he apparently leaves when he’s lingered. And he hears Witchers talk to each other about him. He catches a conversation between Lambert and Aiden and Aiden learns his name. Letho and Geralt chat and Letho starts calling him Jaskier. Jaskier gains a reputation as a helpful spirit, and sometimes Witchers will cal on him directly, seeking a little emotional support. Jaskier is happy to provide.
Jaskier talks to them a lot, even though they can’t hear him. He finds Geralt walking down a road in Redannia and starts telling him about the Witchers he’s helped that day. He tells him about the gifts he’s been given. The excellent wine that Lambert left him the other day. He rubs Geralt’s back and tells him how much he values him.
Mages can see him now.
Nearly all the Witchers know him by name, and he’s become quite a presence in their stories to each other. They even make some up, and wonder what he gets up to when he’s not helping Witchers. The answer? Well, Jaskier isn’t sure what he does either.
He first encounters his mage issue when he’s with Geralt, appearing where he’s rested his swords by the door of Yennefer’s cottage. They’re talking, and Jaskier strides over.
“Yennefer again, Geralt? I should have known you’d still be in touch. She’s not good for you, you know.” Yennefer looks right at him. Geralt is still looking at her.
“Geralt?” Yennefer asks, turning back to him.
“Hm?”
“How long has Jaskier been a ghost?” Geralt looks around.
“Can you see me?” Jaskier asks, looking at his body. It’s a little more solid now, after years of existing. Yennefer nods a little. Jaskier claps a hand over his mouth.
“Since his death, likely,” Geralt mumbled. He sounds sad again.
“Look at that, you’ve gone and made him sad again.” Yennefer scoffs.
“Not my fault Witchers can’t see spectres.”
“He’s here? It’s him?” Geralt’s questions for ignored, and Jaskier starts bickering with Yennefer.
“You’re looking young, Jaskier... I know. Yes, I’m hilarious aren’t I?” Jaskier tuts at the insensitive joke about his death.
“Well I’m going to go, since you two are clearly occupied. Since you can talk to Geralt, do tell him I miss him, won’t you? And that I don’t hate him?” Yennefer’s eyes soften.
“Alright,” she agrees. Geralt looks confused. “Bye, Jaskier.” Jaskier tilts his head, listening for any summons. None come, so he decides to travel with Eskel so he can rant. Eskel’s always been good at interpreting him.
- -
Jaskier continues to gain power, and manages to figure out his connection to Witchers swords. It’s easy now, to lock onto large bulky silver and manifest. He manages to find their daggers too— viper school is more fond of the smaller ones. Then he can get around by sending their medallions— though it was riskier, as he discovered it made them vibrate when he concentrated on them. Jaskier has been met more than once by a Witcher whirling around for a fight, and had to calm them down by moving dirt and stomping his feet for them to discover it’s just him.
After that he can teleport to anything silver, not just on Witchers. He finds himself freeing an elf prisoner from silver handcuffs. Rescuing a woman wearing a silver necklace from bandits by shouting in their ears. Comforts a recently widowed man wearing a silver ring. He was proud of that one, seeing him cry out his feelings and telling him his wife was in a good place. He had gone to sleep satisfied.
Jaskier was also given more gifts— he liked the wine a lot, but a Kadewen town where he’d helped several people near Kaer Morhen started bringing silver coins and buttercups to a fountain in the square. Jaskier was pleased, liked to sit and sing to passerby. They’d pause sometimes, almost as if they could hear him. And Jaskier gained more power.
- -
The fountain turned from stone to silver where he sat, when the offerings of silver coins grew, and Jaskier seemed to just bring it lut. It was a miracle, people said, but the Witchers who came in for supplies just before winter knew, had figured out where Jaskier came from.
Jaskier starts to turn more things into silver. Plated earrings into solid metal, cheap gifts from husbands turned into expensive indulgences for their wives, and it wasn’t long before that little trick was discovered and people started putting things in the fountain to purify. Jaskier discovered by accident the water had been purified, and upon following the source found a whole stream of pure freshwater. He didn’t know what it was, but Jaskier was happy to be helping. He couldn’t do it on command at first, but his ability grew until he could.
More often than not of course, Jaskier traveled with other Witchers. He only took reprieves to inspect his fountain. (Because undoubtedly it was his fountain. The Witchers called it his, the townsfolk called it an offering to “the silver being” and Yennefer called it a sham.
“You realize,” Yennefer said one day, sitting beside him on the fountain. “You’re a god?” Jaskier’s jaw dropped.
“I’m just a ghost!” He said. “And a lot of people know I exist!”
“Jaskier,” Yennefer shook her head. “You’re sitting on your shrine.” Jaskier blinked and looked at the fountain.
“This is just a fountain,” he said sheepishly. But people put things in it as gifts to him. People called on him for aid. There were stories about him. “Oh,” he said. “I’m a god.”
“Congratulations,” Yennefer said jokingly. “But what are you the god of?”
“Witchers?” He suggested. “Turning things into silver?” No, he had turned water fresh, not into silver.
“Maybe...” Yennefer said softly. “Maybe you’re the god of purity.” Jaskier snorted. “Think about it,” she said again. “You remind Witchers of their worth. You turn stone into silver. You turn a dirty stream into freshwater.”
“I’m no pure god,” Jaskier repeated. “I just see the good in everything. The value. And the water was an accident.” Yennefer smiles brightly.
“That’s it then,” she says.“The god of the pure within the impure.”
That made sense, actually. There was silver in stone. There was humanity in mutants. There was freshness in water.
“Can I also be the god of Witchers?” He asked. Yennefer laughed, but Jaskier was serious.
“Jaskier, you’re a friend to Witchers. You’re the god of their weapons. Just as you’re an enemy of their critics, but a god of their critics’ jewelery.” Jaskier smiled, content with the explanation.
A ghost to a god.
Well, there was some purity in his spirit after all.
Official Summary: Despite what his outward code of conduct would have you thinking, Jaskier knows when he is not wanted.
He allows himself the exact amount of three days of wallowing in that small town before he packs his meager possessions and hits the road like nothing happened. In those three days he sings and dances for his food and drink, fucks the pretty barmaid and sleeps off the hangover before heading out in the morning of the fourth day. He travels alone for the first time in a while but it’s alright.
Now, if only people would stop telling him that the Witcher asks about him - that’d be swell.
Own Summary: Jaskier travels on his own after the mountain, accidentally befriends Triss and Yen, and gets the house on the coast he always wanted. Geralt is miserable for a year and finally is allowed to visit him there to atone and grovel.
Remarks: Especially loved Jaskier’s edges and him standing up for himself by making Geralt communicate.
On the mountain a bright, kindhearted bard named Julian died, and Jaskier was born.
Ciri had always known that a man by the name 'Julian' was someone very important to Geralt. He had spoken of him often and told her stories about their adventures together to make her laugh when she was scared. He let Eskel sing and play some of Julian's songs to her because he said he didnt have a voice for singing but he wanted her to hear them.
But judging by the way he would silently stand and leave the room when songs mentioning the 'white wolf' were played, she suspects there was something more to it.
She recalls years ago when she had just found Geralt that people would often ask him 'where is your bard?'. There was always a flash of pain on his features.
She knew over the years that Geralt had tried to search for Julian, but had given up as it seemed the bard had disappeared. Died most likely. And Geralt mourned.
One night when it was just the two of them around a campfire he quietly whispered that his greatest regret, in all his years, was letting Julian walk away.
He never mentioned him again.
Its years later and Ciri is traipsing across the continent when she stops dead in her tracks at a familiar tune playing in a tavern. A tune she hasn't heard in 10 years.
The bard has the tavern in rapture with his voice and lute, even as he ends the song by saying they better tip double for making him sing 'that old rubbish' they cheer and applaud. The man handsome, tall, with a mop of brown hair and eyes as blue as the sky that shine as he smiles. He clothes are colourful and ridiculous and he throws her a wink when he sees her staring.
He is exactly like Geralt described him.
"Julian?"
His smile falters and he seems on his guard. "You mistake me for someone else. I'm Jaskier".
"Ah pity. I know a man who has spent years searching for Julian. He had thought the man died and it devastated him. But it seems maybe Julian didnt want to be found."
Jaskier fidgets and looks away. "Why would he be looking this Julian?"
Ciri shrugs. "From the stories he told me, the songs he let me hear, and his saying that losing Julian was his greatest regret I'm thinking maybe he missed Julian. Maybe there were words left unsaid. "
Jaskier's hands tremble and he shoves them into his pockets. "I'm sure Julian would've like to hear that."
Ciri gives him a small smile. "So Jaskier. Ever been to Kaer Morhen?"
Geralt sits in the courtyard sharpening his blades on the early winter cold. Ciri should've been here two days ago and he is getting nervous.
Its nearly nightfall when he hears Lambert's call from the gates. He sighs in relief. Finally.
But when he reaches the gate two figures are dismounting. One with white hair and a grin that got her out of trouble too many times.
And one with blue eyes he had never thought he'd see again except for in his dreams.
For all the advantages that witcher mutations have in a fight, there are times when Geralt wishes he could turn down the din of the outside world. Like when villagers jeer at him and their curses ring loud in his ears, or when the stench of bodies packed tight into a tavern overwhelms him, or when his sleep is interrupted by the scurrying of an animal half a mile away.
Or, on nights like tonight, when they’ve stopped at an inn and Jaskier has sought out company, and Geralt can hear every damned rustle and moan, even from another room.
He turns over in his bed, unreasonably irritable, pressing a rank pillow over his ears to try and block out the sounds coming from Jaskier’s room next door, not that it helps.
He can hear Jaskier’s low, teasing voice, and the gruff responses of the sturdy blacksmith he’d spotted in the bar earlier in the evening, and he can hear the creak of the old wooden bed. Visions of exactly what is going on in that room swirl behind his eyelids, and he steadfastly ignores the way his dick is traitorously rising.
It’s not as if he has a problem with Jaskier bedding men in principle. Given Geralt’s own history, that would be rather hypocritical, although their situations are clearly different. Jaskier is free and easy with his love, unconstrained by norms and the assumption of others. Geralt is a creature of quiet desperation, and when you have been rejected for who you are all your life, you take whatever comfort you can find from anyone willing to offer it.
And It’s not as if this is the first time Geralt is overhearing one of Jaskier’s conquests, much as he’d rather not listen to the women Jaskier usually beds giggling and gasping either.
But this feels different, in a way Geralt can’t explain or justify. Seeing Jaskier with women is uncomfortable, in the way that seeing any excessive display of affection is uncomfortable, but seeing Jaskier with a man makes something ripe and furious race under his skin, something ugly and mean, and Geralt doesn’t understand where that comes from.
He only knows that he’s too hot and his heart rate is climbing and he wants to gnash his teeth and bite down into something soft and yielding. He wants to walk out into the forest and never look back. He wants to kick open the door to the room next door and throw the damned blacksmith out the window.
He hears the noises next door building in volume and intensity, Jaskier’s moans getting more obscene, and as much as he wishes he could think of literally anything else he can’t stop picturing Jaskier naked and blissful, how the blacksmith might be pleasuring him to induce those noises, what positions they’re in and how Jaskier looks when he throws his head back and groans, rough and throaty.
The noises build to a crescendo, the wet slapping of flesh on flesh ringing through the wall, overlaid with the blacksmith grunting like an animal. But one sound holds Geralt’s attention like no other: Jaskier’s breath, coming faster and faster now, heavier and heavier, and Geralt can’t deny the fact he knows what that means, that he knows exactly what Jaskier sounds like when he’s on the edge of orgasm.
And then Jaskier’s breath hitches in a moment of frozen stillness, and in a voice so quiet it would be impossible for anyone but him to pick up on, he gives a tiny, contented sigh as he breathes a single word, “Geralt.”
What the fuck.
Geralt sits bolt upright in bed, hard as iron and still unaccountably furious, and he knows he didn’t mishear that. But that would mean that Jaskier was… that Jaskier was thinking… while he was…
Geralt’s head swims, and in a great rush the frustration and irritation crystalise into a startling clarity: He knows why he’s angry, and it’s not because he has a problem with Jaskier sleeping with men. It’s because he has a problem with Jaskier sleeping with someone else.
