#Ciri after having her hair and eyes pointed out: wears her hair loose and drops the mask immediately

[curiosity-killed]

Witcher fam is officially the worst at disguises

[limerental]

Here we go, my first @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo fill, for the prompt, Romeo and Juliet

Relationships: Ciri/Dara

Rating: T

Content Warnings: referenced genocide, briefly assumed threat of sexual assault, minor head injury, canon typical fantasy racism & misogyny

Summary: Canon Divergent. Ordinary princess Ciri (no elder blood, no child surprise) is dreading her upcoming political marriage when she meets Scoia'tael Dara in the woods outside of Cintra.

Ciri urged her mount on through the tangles of the undergrowth, leaning to cling to the mare’s neck as she surged up inclines that scattered loose soil underfoot, leaning back again as they dropped into vine-choked valleys. 

The horse was sure-footed and hot and could sense Ciri’s rush of adrenaline and frustration, the overwhelming need to flee and flee fast. Whoever dared to chase her would not keep up, not with the reckless route that she took through the landscape. 

But no one was chasing her. Not yet, at least.

“Go take that new mare out,” her grandmother had said after Ciri’s frustration bubbled over into snide words unbefitting of a princess. Her lips had pursed with pale tightness, but the softness of her eyes said that she understood some of what Ciri was feeling. She and Queen Calanthe only fought so fiercely and so often because of how similarly stubborn and rebellious and bold the both of them were. “I trust that you’ll come back with a clearer head.”

She could pretend for a moment while hugging the mare’s muscled neck, that this headlong race was part of a much grander, more exciting adventure. That her life was not spiralling utterly out of her own control in ways that were so mundane.

Princess Cirilla of Cintra, having been of age for nearly a year now, was to be married off before midsummer. 

“We have delayed long enough,” said her grandmother. “If it were wholly up to me, I would not have you marry at all except for love. But the threat from the Scoia’tael increases by the day, and a marriage will strengthen the coalition of our allies. You have known your whole life this day would come.”

Ciri’s whole life made for a dreadfully boring story. Nothing exciting or interesting had happened to her even once or ever would.

Even a harrowing flight through the forest in defiance of her Destiny was nothing more than a cliche. The newest feminist literature told similar tales over and over. Stories of bold maidens who spat and brandished swords and cut their hair short and fled from the marriage bed were all the rage in the more forward-looking areas of the Continent.

But this was Cintra, and Ciri was not a girl but a Princess. No one would ever write a story about her except as a footnote to some arrogant prince, further noted in the lineage of her sons and grandsons. 

Probably her name would be misspelled. <i>Princess Serilla of Cintra</i>, it would say. <i>Producer of prodigious heirs and otherwise simply not of note even a little bit.</i> 

The rugged landscape suddenly opened up as the mare charged ahead, and Ciri found herself on a beaten track, cutting off a rider on a grey stallion who scrambled desperately to avoid a collision. 

Her mare skidded in a great cloud of dust and veered one way while Ciri veered the other. She soon found herself sprawled on the path observing just how much faster her mount could run without a rider as the horse disappeared around a curve in the path, her hoofbeats fading.

Something nudged Ciri in the stomach.

“Ow,” she said, touching the velvety nose of the grey stallion who snuffled at her abdomen. The horse’s face was fine-boned and dished along the curve of its profile, and it wore a bridle embroidered with intricate stitching and hung with tassels. The reins jingled with miniature bells. The horse’s ears were pierced with golden barbells. 

This was no Cintran horse and certainly no Cintran rider.

Mustering all her courage, she forced herself to squint up at the towering rider, the dappled sunlight through the trees casting a mottled glow on his figure. A young man dressed in earth tones, his skin dark and jawline bare of facial hair. He looked down at her with brow furrowed, as though confused by the series of events that had led to a girl lying flat on her back on the path before him, dazedly stroking his horse’s muzzle.

Most distressingly, he wore a cap sitting askance on his head, a squirrel’s tail slung across his right shoulder.

“You’re a--” Ciri wheezed to clear the dust from her lungs and sat up on her elbows. “You’re an elf.”

“I’d say so, yes,” said the young man. "Have been since I was born.”

“I’m fine. Thank you for asking.” Ciri shoved herself up to stand and found herself much less fine than expected. The world spun.

“You alright?” asked the young man.

“No, of course not,” said Ciri. “What a stupid thing to ask.”

Her brain a bit addled by the fall, Ciri was not sure whether she should be more fearful that the elf would leave her alone in the forest or that he would take her with him. There were said to be Scoia'tael encampments scattered throughout the countryside, but she had not expected any so close to the outer wall. 

She didn’t notice the rider dismount until he was standing beside her at the stallion’s head.

“His name is Wyn,” said the elf, lying a gloved hand on the horse’s face, “and I’m Dara. How about you?”

“I’m--” She stopped herself. “I’m no one. I’m an orphan. A brigand. Nobody.”

“A brigand? Did you plan to rob me? By flinging yourself from your horse?”

“Well,” said Ciri, “I’m not a very good brigand.”

“That was a well-bred horse for an orphaned nobody,” said Dara. He was smiling, the slow sort of smile that touched his dark eyes first, though she didn’t know what exactly about this situation was anything close to amusing.

“I stole it.”

“I thought you weren’t a good brigand?”

“Suppose I just go lucky,” said Ciri. She drew a deep breath and felt a twinge in her ribcage. Ignoring it, she squared her shoulders and faced Dara with all the bold nobility she could muster. “Or not. I know all about that cap you wear. I know who you are. I know you hate my kind and want me dead. So go on, get on with it. Try to strike me down. I'll defend myself."

“Your kind?”

“Humans,” said Ciri simply. “You wish to wipe us out and claim our castles for your own and muddy our bloodlines.”

Dara bent over his knees to laugh, a startlingly loud noise in the quiet forest.

“I think you may have some things a little backwards," he laughed. “Is that really what’s being said about us these days?”

“Yes. In all the… brigand camps.”

“I didn’t know brigands cared about castles and bloodlines.”

“No but--” Ciri felt her cheeks turn pink. 

“You’re Princess Cirilla of Cintra,” said Dara, and Ciri’s heartbeat leapt in her throat.

“How did you--”

“You’re wearing the seal of Cintra at the clasp of your cloak. Your hair is as pale as they say. And you speak like a princess.”

“I damn well do not,” said Ciri. “Fuck you,” she added for good measure.

Dara laughed again, a sound both light and musical, a warming sort of laugh.

“Princess Cirilla,” he said, stepping closer to her. The horse between them seemed bored of the affair of standing in the middle of the road, his eyelids fluttering closed. Her head felt too muddy to know what she was meant to do in this situation. She expected that she should flee. Call for help. At any moment, a gang of Scoia'tael could burst from the trees and claim her for ransom.

“Ciri,” she corrected. 

“Ciri,” said Dara, smiling. “I’m not going to leave you alone in the woods.”

“Right,” said Ciri, suddenly dizzy. She found that it was not as gratifying as she thought it would be to be a part of a more exciting narrative. “You’re going to kidnap me and take me back to your camp and make my grandmother give in to all your sick and twisted demands for my safe return. Or worse, you aim to defile me and force me to bear your children which will ascend to the throne. Or you--”

Her dizziness overwhelmed her.

The forest pitched to and fro, and when she became aware of her surroundings again, she rode on horseback with someone’s arms clenched around her, the undergrowth a green blur and the horse’s pace swift and sure. 

Cold fear gripped her until she saw a familiar outer wall rise up from the forest. She knew if she craned her neck, she would see the glittering spires of Cintra’s main keep far away on the hill.

“You took me back,” said Ciri, her voice scratchier than expected. Dara’s grip tightened as she shifted to look round at him, and he reined the stallion to a halt. He had removed his cap, and she was struck by the strange urge to touch the line of his pointed ear. She realized a second too late that she had given to the urge and snatched her hand back, face burning. 

“I took you back,” said Dara. “I’m not an animal or a monster. I don’t kidnap or defile distressed maidens. None of my kind do. We want reparations, not slaughter. We want our relics returned to us and our history respected.”

“How boring,” Ciri mumbled. “The other story’s much more exciting.”

Dara dismounted and shifted to help her do so as well. Ciri swayed on her feet but managed to stay upright, distracted by the warmth of Dara’s hands on her arms.

“I’m sure you know there’s a gate not far from here. Follow the wall. I can’t go farther than this.”

He gathered up Wyn’s reins and turned to lead him back into the forest, and Ciri felt her heart clench strangely.

“Wait,” she called. “You saved me. You’ll be rewarded.”

“I don’t think that’s how this works, Princess,” said Dara and smiled his soft smile.

Ciri breathed deep, holding herself upright and summoning all her bravery, and strode with only some unsteadiness to stand before him. 

“Thank you, Dara of… the woods. For your service and protection.” 

“Very formal for a brigand.”

“Yes, as is taught at brigand school.”

Being almost of a height, Ciri needed only to rise slightly onto her tiptoes to brush her lips against the line of Dara’s brow. His fingertips touched the curve of her elbow, and she rested a palm on his chest. Small and lingering touches that she would remember with perfect clarity long after.

“Have you read any of the latest stories? With defiant maidens who flee from the marriage bed and learn to fight with swords and ride swift horses and cut off all their hair?”

“I can’t read,” said Dara simply, “but they sound like good stories.”

“Yes,” said Ciri, and with all the stubborn rebellion that was her birthright, she ducked forward to kiss him on the bow of his lips. 

[likecastle]

In which Jaskier cuts Geralt’s hair

Well, folks, I was inspired by Geralt’s slightly wavier wig in the new S2 promo photos to write a story in which Geralt finally gets some proper haircare and it brings out his natural curl pattern. This somehow turned into 7,000 words of Geralt musing about his own terrible self-image and Jaskier tenderly negotiating a haircut.

Credit for Geralt’s 3-in-1 shower products goes to @exrayspex​, with my thanks for their enthusiasm about this exceedingly soft concept!  

I’d like to put this up on AO3 at some point, but the title has me stumped, so if anyone has a suggestion, please let me know.

“When are you going to let me cut your hair?”

Geralt snorts, incredulous. “I’m not.”

Jaskier fixes Geralt with a pleading look. The streaks of peacock blue Jaskier recently added to his hair really bring out the color of his eyes—all the better to beguile him with. “Come on, Geralt, don’t you trust me?”

“No,” Geralt says, trying without much luck to keep his attention on the TV screen. Suddenly he has to fight the urge to tuck a stray strand of his hair behind his ear.

“It would look so nice if you just took proper care of it,” Jaskier wheedles.

“It doesn’t need to look nice.” Geralt can feel his shoulders creeping up towards his ears, and he wishes Jaskier would look at something else besides him. “It’s just hair.”

“But—”

Geralt jabs the remote in the direction of the TV. “Are you going to let me watch this or do you want to go home?”

“Fine, you grouch,” Jaskier says, returning his attention to the screen.

It must not hold Jaskier’s interest, though, because he can feel Jaskier’s gaze returning to him periodically throughout the rest of the film—which in itself isn’t all that unusual, since Jaskier watches even movies he really likes with one eye on his phone. Except that when Geralt meets his gaze, Jaskier’s looking at him with a wistful, almost sad expression. Geralt doesn’t let himself wonder what might be on his mind.

Later, Jaskier yawns wide and says he’d better be going if he doesn’t want to fall asleep at the wheel on the way home. It’s just a dramatic excuse not to help clean up, Geralt knows, but he can’t help smiling at the way Jaskier rubs at his eyes, smudging the faded remnants of his eyeliner. Geralt walks him to the door, and for a moment Jaskier just stands there on the porch, looking at Geralt thoughtfully.

When his hand reaches up, Geralt freezes. He thinks for a moment that Jaskier’s about to cup his cheek and drawn him down—but he just takes a strand of frizzy hair that’s come loose from Geralt’s ponytail and twists it around a finger.

“I thought so,” Jaskier says, with a private little smile.

Geralt’s sure Jaskier must be able to hear the way his breath’s gotten jammed up in his chest. “Thought—?”

“Nothing.” Jaskier digs his hands into the pockets of his jacket and starts down the front steps. “G’night, Geralt.”

As Geralt tidies away their takeout containers and empty beer bottles, his mind keeps wandering back to Jaskier’s offer. He knows Jaskier’s just trying to be nice—or trying to fix him, the way he tried to “liven up” Geralt’s wardrobe early in their friendship and tried to set him up on dates after he split up with Yen last year. But the options he tries to push on Geralt—the overpriced bomber jacket Jaskier bought him that’s still sitting at the back of his closet, the gorgeous chestnut-haired nurse Jaskier introduced him to—always seem to reflect more about Jaskier’s idea of Geralt than they do about Geralt himself.

Because the thing is, he’s not brash and stylish like Jaskier, who’s all eccentric colors combinations and flashing rings that accentuate his expressive hands. Jaskier knows how to construct an outfit that tells the world exactly who he is at any given moment, from his ever-evolving hairstyles to his painstakingly-sourced vintage clothes. Geralt, on the other hand, is just—nothing, an absence of style. His idea of a good outfit is one he can forget he’s wearing, one that will make everyone else forget him when he’s wearing it. His relationship to his appearance is as estranged as his relationship to his ex-wife. Being in his body, making use of it when he’s lifting weights or hammering a nail or swinging Ciri up in his arms—that makes sense to him. But thinking about his body is the opposite of that. He doesn’t like being looked at, even by himself. He avoids the mirror on his medicine cabinet as much as he can and starts feeling close and queasy if he so much as looks at himself in a dressing room mirror.

Before he goes to bed that night, he shakes his hair out from his ponytail and makes himself take a long, hard look in the mirror. All he sees is the sallow, tired-eyed face of a man who can hardly remember how to smile anymore, a face scarred from carelessness and creased from years of worry. His dull white hair, which Jaskier had twisted so carefully around his finger, is somehow greasy and dried out at the same time, limp around his face but bristly at the ends. He can’t find any sign of the potential Jaskier seems to think is there. He suspects it was never there in the first place—a mirage visible only to well-intentioned flatterers like Jaskier—and he feels foolish for looking.

No, Geralt decides, he’s not going to let Jaskier cut his hair, or do anything else to him. Better not to bother at all.

*

The next time the topic of Geralt’s hair comes up, he’s brought Ciri into Jaskier’s salon for an emergency haircut. Ordinarily, Yennefer handles things like haircuts and clothes shopping, but Saturday night, Ciri emerged from the bathroom with the front her hair lopped off somewhere around her eyebrows and a dawning expression of anxious regret on her face. Geralt had reassured her that everything would be OK, while texting Jaskier frantically for help and silently panicking about what Yen was going to say when she came to pick Ciri up on Sunday night. Thankfully, Jaskier was able to squeeze Ciri into his schedule this afternoon, and he promised to fix Ciri up.

So now Geralt is sitting awkwardly in the waiting area, hunched on a squeaky vinyl-upholstered chair. He’s been to Jaskier’s salon plenty of times—to meet him for lunch or a post-shift drink, to drop off something he left at the house or to give him a ride home—but he rarely does more than stand uneasily just inside the door. The relentless pop music and the echoing acoustics never fail to overwhelm him, as does the muddle of scents—clouds of different hair products and the pervasive smell of something sharp like ammonia. The abundance of mirrors unnerves him, too. Nobody can possibly need to see so many views of their own reflection, can they? Between the curious patrons peering at him in the mirrors and passersby staring in through the plate glass storefront, Geralt feels like he’s on display. And to make matters worse, he keeps catching glimpses of his reflection, his own hunted expression looking back at him from unexpected angles.

Ciri, at least, is having a great time, chatting happily with Jaskier as he snips away at her hair. The last time Geralt took Ciri for a haircut, it was at one of those children’s salons where the chairs looked like toy cars, and now here she is, sitting beside grown women almost like she’s one of them. It scares him, sometimes, to think of her growing up—more than sometimes. There are so many ways the world can fail her, and he can only do so much to protect her. There’s going to come a time when she’s going to get into some kind of trouble he won’t be able to bail her out of, and he’s not sure what he’s going to do with himself when that day comes. But for now, at least he can pay Jaskier to fix her disastrous home-brew haircut.

“What d’you think, Dad?” Ciri calls, and he looks up to see Jaskier removing her cape with a flourish. When he turns Ciri’s chair around to face him, Geralt’s heart catches in his throat. How grown up she looks, he thinks, but what really makes his chest ache is how much she’s coming into herself—becoming someone with her own unique taste in clothes and books and music, who won’t compromise about the bullshit dress codes at school and is brave enough to try something new even if the results are atrocious. He doesn’t know where she gets it.

“You like it?” he asks, not trusting himself to say something that won’t embarrass her.

“Yeah, I guess,” she says with a shrug, and hops down from the chair.

“We could do yours next, Geralt,” Jaskier offers, sweeping up the little blonde fragments of Ciri’s hair from the floor around his station.

“Ooh, yeah!” Ciri grins up at him. “I bet Jaskier would give you a really cool haircut.”

“I’m sure he would,” Geralt says mildly. He doesn’t want to quash Ciri’s enthusiasm or impart his own discomfort to her. It’s one of the things that keeps him up at night, the fear that he’ll pass down all his insecurities. He tries so hard to keep that shit buttoned up, to shield her from his own shortcomings—and he knows it’s inevitable that he’s just going to mess her up in other ways, but he wants to do better for her, has to do better. “Maybe some other time.”

“So you’ll consider it!” Jaskier says triumphantly, coming over to tell the receptionist the total for Ciri’s cut.

Geralt notices Ciri looking at herself in the big mirror behind the front desk, fussing self-consciously with her new fringe. Jaskier must notice, too, because he gives Ciri a big hug and says, “You look great, kiddo. Right, Geralt?”

“Definitely,” Geralt says, surrendering his credit card to the receptionist to pay a frankly staggering amount. He tips a hundred percent.

*

“You should take him up on it,” Yennefer says that evening when Geralt concludes the story of Ciri’s haircut by telling her about Jaskier’s offer to cut Geralt’s hair.

Geralt blinks in surprise. “Really?”

She glances back to where Ciri is waiting for her in the car. “Jaskier did a good job. She and I are going to have a serious conversation later about when to ask for permission and when to ask for forgiveness, but I have to admit it suits her.”

“It does,” Geralt agrees. He realizes he doesn’t know what it would be like, to feel his appearance suited him. He’s never tried, really, to make his exterior reflect his interior, wouldn’t even know where to begin.

“Besides,” Yennefer says, gesturing to his haphazard ponytail, “you really do need to start taking better care of yourself, now that I’m not around to make sure you’re presentable anymore.”

Geralt’s eyebrows shoot up, a smile twitching his lips. “Is that what you were doing? Looking after me?”

Yennefer lifts one hand to tug a lock of his hair, the gesture so similar to Jaskier’s that it makes him shiver, for some reason. “No, but somebody ought to.”

He ducks his head, hoping to hide the ache that washes through him—a longing for something they both wanted but never quite managed to find together. “If you keep Ciri waiting much longer, she’s gonna make a break for it.”

“She would, too,” Yennefer says affectionately. “Take care of yourself, Geralt.” She surprises him by brushing a kiss against his cheek, then turns to go.

Geralt waits until Yennefer’s car is out of sight before he goes inside. As he loads the dinner dishes into the dishwasher, he thinks again about Jaskier’s offer. He’s never been good at asking for things, let alone holding on them once he has them, but it’s been especially hard since he and Yennefer split—even the littlest things feel like they require an effort it’s not worth making. It’s so easy to tell himself he doesn’t need anything—a fancy haircut, a new jacket, a reassuring glance, a gentle touch. But sometimes, maybe, it’s enough to want them.

Wiping soapy water off his hands, Geralt pulls his phone from his pocket and texts Jaskier. Does your offer to cut my hair still stand? Only if you’ve got time.

OMG YES!!! comes the immediate reply. I can be there in 20. Then, a moment later, Jaskier amends, Shit wait make that 40 need to run to get some supplies

Geralt huffs out a laugh. Have to get up early tomorrow. This weekend?

All booked up this weekend but I’m off on Tues so I can come over to your place in the pm if that works for you

He’d hoped to give himself a few days to cancel, just in case he changes his mind, and in this respect Tuesday’s almost no better than forty minutes from now. But he does like the idea of doing this at home, instead of in the salon. He types out OK and hits send before he can think better of it.

Don’t chicken out before then

No promises, Geralt answers.

Jaskier responds with a string of emoji that Geralt finds completely inscrutable, but which make him smile nonetheless.

*

Jaskier arrives on Tuesday evening with a six-pack of cold beer and bag crammed full of supplies.

“I thought you were going to cut my hair, not outlast a siege,” Geralt says, trying to ignore the way his stomach twists with nerves over this impending ordeal. He should have cancelled. He should never have said yes to this ridiculous idea.

“Oh, none of this would be remotely useful in warfare,” Jaskier replies. Then, contemplatively, he says, “Well, maybe some of it. But first, I thought we could have a drink.”

“So you can cut my hair drunk?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier rolls his eyes and brushes past Geralt into the kitchen, dumping his bag into an empty chair at the table. “So you can relax a little for once. And so we can talk.”

Geralt feels the knot of anxiety in his stomach tighten even further. “What is there to talk about? It’s just a haircut.”

Jaskier lets out a long-suffering sigh as he rummages around in Geralt’s cutlery drawer in search of a bottle opener. “Geralt, have you not listened to a single word I’ve said about my job?” He pops off the caps of two bottles of beer and hands one to Geralt. “No, don’t answer that, I know you haven’t.”

Geralt takes a sullen sip of his beer, but he doesn’t dispute the accusation.

With a nod of his head, Jaskier gestures for Geralt to follow him into the living room, and flops down on what Geralt has come to think of as his side of the couch. Geralt sits at the other end, turned to face him. “You need to know what you want going into this, or you won’t get good results.” Jaskier fixes him with a gaze that makes Geralt take another swallow of his beer. “Have you ever given any thought to what you like, or don’t like, about your hair?”

“Not . . . really,” Geralt mumbles, wondering how angry Jaskier would be if he called this whole thing off now.

“Well,” Jaskier says patiently, “why do you keep your hair long? I always assumed it was because you liked how it looked, but I’m realizing now I’ve never asked about it.”

Geralt takes another sip of his beer and tries to think of answer that’s not Because I do. He’s worn it long since high school, when it was primarily something to hide behind. It felt like a kind of fuck-you, an off-putting choice to keep people from looking too closely at him—and to help him forget about other people, too. “It’s easier,” he says finally. “Don’t have to get it cut every few weeks, and I can keep it out of my face.”

“OK, that’s good to know.” The calm, encouraging tone Jaskier’s taking should feel condescending, but Geralt finds he doesn’t mind—or maybe it’s just the beer starting to relax him a little.

“You don’t always tie it back, though, do you?” Jaskier goes on.

Geralt shakes his head. “When I’m working, yeah, but the rest of the time . . .” He shrugs. It depends—on who he’s around, how comfortable he feels with them, hell, how hard the wind is blowing. Sometimes he can’t stand the feeling of it in face, and sometimes the pressure of the hair elastic at the base of his skull is enough to make him want to rip it out.

“Can I . . . ?” Jaskier gestures to Geralt’s hair, and Geralt inclines his head. It’s inevitable that Jaskier will have to touch him if they’re going to go through with this, so there’s no point in being shy about it. Jaskier scoots forward on the couch, and Geralt holds very still, letting him reach back and undo the tie holding his hair back. A sheet of frizzy white strands spills around his bowed head, almost obscuring Jaskier from view.

He can feel Jaskier, though, running his fingers through his hair. The touch makes Geralt’s scalp tingle and a shiver runs through him that he tries and fails to suppress.

“OK?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt nods.

“You’ve never told me when you went grey.” Jaskier’s voice is hushed, almost as if he’s afraid of startling him. He continues to card his hand through Geralt’s hair—with professional curiosity, Geralt realizes, but the touch is so gentle it also feels like a reassurance. Geralt closes his eyes, grateful to be shielded from Jaskier’s view.

“Started in high school,” he says. It’s been a long time since he thought about how, when those first thick streaks of white were coming into his dark hair, kids at school would call him skunk and Cruella de Vil, shit he knew better than to respond to but that just made him even more self-conscious. It occurs to him now that most of his memories of being looked at—really noticed—are colored by other people’s derision for things he can’t help. “It was all like this by the time I was twenty-one, twenty-two. Someone told me once it’s genetic, but . . .” He shrugs again. He’s got no one to ask about a family history of premature graying, no photos of distant relatives to compare himself to.

Gentle fingers tuck his hair back behind one ear, and Geralt looks up to see Jaskier smiling at him. “I would pay good money to see pictures of you in high school. I bet you were so surly.”

“You wouldn’t have liked me,” Geralt says “I was insufferable.��� Miserable and ungrateful and roiling with self-righteous anger all the time, hardly able to string a civil sentence together.

Jaskier rewards him with a snort of disbelieving laughter. “You’re insufferable now and I like you just fine.”

This is true, Geralt thinks. His anger has banked down somewhat since those days, but he’s no less difficult to be around, and Jaskier’s never seemed to mind his rough edges. If he’s being honest, he wouldn’t have been able to appreciate Jaskier in those day. His constant talking and absurd jokes would have grated on Geralt’s nerves, back then. They did when he first met Jaskier, in fact. He tried, for a long time, to keep his distance, sure that there was nothing he and Jaskier could possibly have to say to each other. But Jaskier kept turning up, kept surprising him, kept being kind to him for no damn reason. Geralt’s glad he did.

“So,” Jaskier says, pushing the conversation back in his desired direction, as he always does, “what I’m hearing is, you like wearing your hair long?”

Geralt considers, taking another swallow of his beer. Liking doesn’t figure into his thinking much, but it’s not just out of habit that he keeps it this way. “Yeah.”

Jaskier’s nod is solemn. “Anything you don’t like about it?”

Again, Geralt has to give this serious thought. “There are, uh . . .” He gestures to the wiry flyaways that tend to form around his head by the end of the day. They tend to tickle his face unpleasantly as he works, which is irritating when he doesn’t hand a hand free to brush them away.

“Yeah, it’s a little dry,” Jaskier says. “But we can fix that up.” Geralt knows exactly how soft Jaskier’s hair is, and he can’t imagine his own ragged hair could ever come close. “Anything else?”

Geralt shrugs.

“OK,” Jaskier says, “enough with the interrogation. I think I’ve got everything I need.”

Jaskier gets up and retrieves another beer—not for himself, but for Geralt. Jaskier’s fingers brush his as he hands over the bottle, and it gives him the same little shiver that he felt when Jaskier was combing through his hair. “D’you want me to tell you what I’m thinking, or just surprise you?”

Geralt’s gut instinct is to make Jaskier tell him what he’s got in mind, so that he has the option to veto it and put this whole thing to a stop. But he thinks of Jaskier’s teasing question the first time they talked about this—Don’t you trust me?—and how he’d said no when the answer is really yes. So he takes a deep pull of his beer and says, “Surprise me.”

The look of glee on Jaskier’s face is worth the knot of dread that immediately forms in Geralt’s stomach. He takes another drinks and reminds himself that it’s just hair. It’ll grow back.

“You’re not gonna regret it, I promise,” Jaskier says, and then his warm hands are urging Geralt up and off the couch.

It takes them a while to get everything situated to Jaskier’s liking—the bathroom is too cramped to accommodate a chair, so Jaskier has Geralt drag one into the kitchen, covering the floor in newspapers to catch the stray clippings. Then Jaskier sends Geralt to wash his hair while he sets up the rest of his supplies. When Geralt comes back downstairs, his hair soaking into his t-shirt, there is a truly staggering array of equipment spread out on the counter, Jaskier’s own little traveling apothecary kit, with everything from dangerously sharp scissors to brightly-colored bottles of product to some kind of instrument that looks like a bowl full of dull spikes, which Jaskier says attaches to his hair dryer.

“Rule number one,” Jaskier says, grabbing the towel out of Geralt’s hands. “No more regular towels on your hair. Your hair deserves to be treated with care.” Geralt snorts, but the towel he hands Geralt is pleasantly soft, with finer knap that’s soft as fleece in his hands. “And don’t rub at it,” Jaskier scolds. He steps closer, wrapping his hands around Geralt’s to guide him, his hand moving in a gentle squeezing motion. “That’s good,” he says, and Geralt feels his cheeks flush.

Once Geralt’s hair is toweled dry, Jaskier maneuvers him into the chair, and combs out his hair with a wide-toothed comb. Jaskier is exceedingly careful not to yank on the knots, but even so the gentle tug sets his skin tangling. Geralt knows his scalp is sensitive—he can remember fighting back tears while Vesemir struggled to brush out his unruly hair as a kid—but it’s never felt like this before. Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that ordinarily, when he finally breaks down and subjects himself to a trim, he just asks Eskel do come over and cut it with the kitchen scissors. Even with someone he trusts as profoundly as he does Eskel, it’s still an uncomfortable ordeal that makes him unaccountably tense. But this isn’t painful, or unnerving at all. It’s . . . nice, embarrassingly so. He can’t help wondering what it would feel like if Jaskier were to drag his nails along his scalp—and then he has to force himself not to think about it, because even the thought of the sensation sends a shudder through him.

Thankfully, Jaskier is busy fiddling with his phone, and a moment later he puts on a playlist he likes to call Geralt’s Sad Dad Rock mix. Geralt appreciates the background noise—familiar songs he can tune out if he wants to, quiet enough that the music’s not intrusive.

“OK,” Jaskier says, snapping a cape around Geralt’s throat. His hand comes to rest on Geralt’s shoulder and he leans in to speak almost directly into Geralt’s ear. “Ready?”

Geralt suppresses another chill and says, “As I’ll ever be.”

Jaskier gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and gets to work. Geralt’s grateful for the lack of mirrors, because it means he doesn’t have to see what Jaskier’s doing, but at the same time it leaves him without much to go on—just the touch of the comb, Jaskier’s hands carefully repositioning his head, his fingers pulling this or that lock of hair taut to snip at them with the scissors. Eventually, Geralt closes his eyes and lets Jaskier’s voice wash over him. Jaskier often accuses Geralt of not listening to him when he talks, but in truth it’s easy to get lost in the lilting cadence of his speech, like hearing a song but not its lyrics.

“. . . and the thing is,” Jaskier’s saying, though Geralt lost the thread of his rambling long ago, “the more you do it, the better your results will be. You just have to help them along . . .”

He can see why Jaskier’s clients like him so much, how nice it is to fall into the pattern of someone else’s words, especially when that someone has as nice a voice as Jaskier. He’s often grateful for Jaskier’s conversation, which fills silences Geralt didn’t even realize were empty until he came along.

When Jaskier says, “OK, you’re all done,” Geralt is surprised by how quickly the time has passed. “We can just leave it at that and just let it air dry, or . . .” Even though he can’t see Jaskier, he can picture the hopeful expression on his face.

“What?” Geralt asks, twisting around in the chair to look Jaskier in the eye.

Jaskier bites his bottom lip, looking almost nervous. “Or I could show you how to style it. If you wanted. Nothing over the top, I promise.”

Geralt thinks it over. On the one hand, there’s no way he’ll ever bother repeating anything Jaskier shows him how to do, but on the other hand, he wouldn’t mind having Jaskier’s hands on him a little longer. “All right.”

“Really?” Jaskier’s eyes go wide. “Nope, never mind, I’m not gonna second-guess this. No take-backs! You’re committed now.”

Which is how Geralt finds himself being hustled back upstairs and into the bathroom. Jaskier pulls back the shower curtain and is about to start issuing instructions when he lets out a squawk and staggers backward.

Geralt looks around in alarm, expecting to see a giant spider in the tub. It’s only belatedly that he realizes he’s thrown an arm out in front of Jaskier, as if that will protect him from whatever nonexistent threat he was reacting to. “What?”

“Geralt, for shame!” Jaskier exclaims, pointing to the bottle of 3-in-1 shampoo/conditioner/body wash on the edge of the tub. “Is that yours?” He says it with all the breathless horror of someone discovering a murder weapon.

“Uh . . .” Geralt has the distinct feeling he should try to deny it, but there’s no point in trying to pretend. “Yes?”

And then Jaskier is laughing, but it’s warm with delight, not mocking or cruel. In fact, he looks up at Geralt with such fondness that Geralt almost can’t bear it. “Oh, you poor man,” Jaskier says between gusts of laughter. “No wonder your hair is so dry!”

“. . . It’s efficient,” Geralt mutters in a half-hearted attempt to defend himself.

“It’s like washing your hair with dish soap. But don’t worry,” he adds, pressing a hand to Geralt’s chest, “I’ll get you sorted out and then your hair will be so soft it’ll be completely irresistible.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says dubiously, but Jaskier just grins at him.

“OK, this next part is going to be a little awkward. Ordinarily you’d do it by yourself in the shower, but I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you’d rather not jump in the shower with me right now.”

Geralt very much does not acknowledge the wave of heat that rolls through him at the thought.  “Probably wouldn’t fit, anyway.”

“Eh, I’ve made it work in smaller spaces than this,” Jaskier says, with such casual confidence that Geralt’s mouth goes dry. “But luckily, you’ve got one of those detachable showerheads, so we should be just fine. Might be easier, though, if you, uh, take off your shirt off.”

Geralt’s already come this far, and, besides, it’s not like Jaskier hasn’t seen him without his shirt on before. As Geralt strips off his shirt, Jaskier puts a towel down on the floor and beckons him to kneel down at the edge the tub. He’s careful to get the water to a comfortable temperature before he puts a warm hand on Geralt’s bare back, guiding him to lean over, his head bowed.

The routine Jaskier directs him through is more complicated than Geralt could ever have anticipated. There’s a thick, dark purple shampoo that Jaskier instructs him to use only once a week—he has another shampoo he’ll give Geralt to use at other times, but really, Jaskier insists, he should only be washing his hair a couple of times a week, anyway. Jaskier shows him how to rub the shampoo into his scalp only and let the water draw it down through the rest of his hair. The pressure of the spray on his scalp makes his skin tingle, as does the press of Jaskier’s body against his side. When Geralt doesn’t apply the conditioner to Jaskier’s liking, he adjusts Geralt’s hands with his own, smoothing their joined fingers through Geralt’s slippery hair. And when it comes time to rinse the conditioner out, he shows Geralt how to cup the water in his palms and press it into the wet mass of his hair.

“You’re doing great,” Jaskier tells him, and Geralt is grateful his face is hidden behind ropes of his wet hair.

Finally, Jaskier pronounces himself satisfied and turns off the water. Now that they’re done the task of washing his hair, Geralt’s awkwardly aware of his chest dripping with water in the cool air of the bathroom—and of Jaskier standing less than an arm’s length away from him.

Jaskier, on the other hand, is nothing but professional, rubbing a series of products into his hands and then smoothing them over Geralt’s hair. After each application, he gathers Geralt’s hair in his hands and presses it up toward Geralt’s scalp, just like they did with the water. It’s a bizarre motion, like nothing Geralt’s ever seen before, but it seems to be having the desired effect, because the strands of hair hanging down in front of his face are slowly forming into thick coils, and Jaskier keeps making little satisfied humming sounds with each new application. Jaskier finishes by wrapping Geralt’s hair up in another one of those extra soft towels.

“And now we wait,” he says, hopping up onto the sink.

Geralt pulls his shirt on again, careful not to disturb the towel on his head, and he might be wrong but he thinks that he catches a little disappointed frown cross Jaskier’s face, but it’s gone before he can be sure.

“Thanks for indulging me,” Jaskier says. “I know you don’t really like this kind of stuff, but I’m having a great time.”

“It’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” Geralt replies. But that sounds worse than it did in his head, and he hastens to add, “I mean—it’s nice—when it’s you.”

Jaskier’s smile is something Geralt can’t quite get to the bottom of—fond and wry and maybe a little sad, too. “Well, I’ve been dying to do this pretty much since the moment I met you, so, you know, thanks for that.”

It’s strange to think Jaskier has been harboring private aspirations where Geralt is concerned. But then Jaskier’s always been full of surprises when it comes to him—immune to his ill temper, amused by his rudeness, tenacious enough to bully his way past his silences. He’s never understood what Jaskier sees in him, and he often feels he offers a poor reward for the hard work Jaskier puts in to being his friend. Because it’s not easy, Geralt knows. Plenty of people have decided Geralt was too difficult to get to know, or too prickly to stick with. Even Yennefer, who’s loved him better than he could possibly deserve, struggled to make inroads against Geralt’s defenses. It never seemed to matter how much he loved Yennefer, he could never bring himself to relax around her. He was always on tenterhooks, waiting for the other shoe to drop—until, in time, it did, a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. He can’t blame Yennefer ending things. She wants things he doesn’t know how to give. He couldn’t figure out how to change himself into the sort of person she deserved.

“D’you want another beer?” Jaskier asks, nudging Geralt’s knee with his bare foot.

He wouldn’t mind another drink, but he’s loathe to puncture the peaceful little moment that’s grown up between them. “Let’s just stay here.”

Jaskier nods, and a moment later Fleetwood Mac comes on over Jaskier’s phone speakers—one of the only bands they can agree on—and Jaskier treats him to an inspired rendition of “Dreams,” his voice turned otherworldly by the chill acoustics of the bathroom tiles. Geralt watches Jaskier dance on his perch on the edge of the sink and wonders, with an ache in his chest, what it would be like to be so uninhibited, so comfortable in his own skin. He can’t imagine it, but sometimes he feels like he’s maybe just a half-step closer to knowing when he’s around Jaskier.

When the song fades out, Jaskier hops down from the counter and says, “OK, time for the last step.”

Jaskier sticks that torture device attachment onto his hair dryer and lets Geralt’s hair down from the towel. Jaskier lets him stay seated, and starts drying his hair. He doesn’t pull Geralt’s hair taut with a brush, as Geralt has seen Yennefer do when styling her own hair. Instead, he gathers it up a section of hair in that little torture device accessory and holds the dryer still, letting the air work around the strands. Geralt closes his eyes against the noise and sensation of the air against his scalp. It lasts a long time, Geralt bracing his arms on his thighs as Jaskier moves the hair dryer around his head. The noise of the dryer makes conversation difficult, and Geralt feels strangely distant from Jaskier all of a sudden, even though he’s standing so close Geralt could press his face to the soft flesh of his stomach if he wanted to. He knots his hands together between his knees to keep himself from just reaching out and pulling Jaskier close.

When Jaskier finally switches off the hair dryer, the silence it leaves feels big. It’s probably just the heat from the hair dyer, but Geralt feels flushed and a little rubbed raw.

“All right,” Jaskier says, fixing him with a considering look. “Let me just . . .” He reaches out and grips Geralt’s hair in both hands. He doesn’t so much tug as gently crush the strands, but the pressure is enough to make Geralt’s mouth fall open, and he doesn’t exactly make a noise but something happens in his chest like his lungs kickstarting. Jaskier glances down at him with an inquisitive smile. “Sorry, too hard?”

It’s all Geralt can do to shake his head.

“All done,” Jaskier says. When he lets go, Geralt immediately misses the touch. “Wanna take a look?”

Geralt stands up and turns to regard himself in the mirror. To say he doesn’t recognize himself would be an overstatement, but the sight of his reflection is a surprise. The cut doesn’t seem all that different in terms of length, but the ragged edges are gone. The dingy white of his hair has turned a gleaming silver, and it hangs around his face not in its usual lank tangle, but in softly curling waves. It’s almost . . . pretty, a word he’s never associated with himself in his entire life. The new brightness of his hair makes his face seem clearer, more open somehow, and the gentle curls offset the hard lines of his face in a way that make his features look almost delicate, or in any case less roughly hewn than usual. He reaches up to touch it, and to his amazement, it’s just as soft as Jaskier promised it would be. Maybe not as soft as Jaskier’s own hair, but much nicer than he can remember it ever feeling before.

“You like it?” Jaskier asks, and in the mirror, Geralt can see he’s looking at him with a hopeful expression. It makes something twist in his stomach—longing, and at the same time a rejection of what he wants, the certainty that he can’t possibly hang onto anything nice for long enough to enjoy it.

“You know I’ll never go to all this trouble,” he says, gruffly, and immediately regrets it when he sees Jaskier’s smile slip from his face.

“No, I know,” Jaskier says, and starts packing up his supplies. “I just wanted to try it. I’ll still leave you all the products, just in case you change your mind, or—”

“Jaskier.” Geralt swallows hard, and puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “I—”

Jaskier looks at him with such a searching expression that Geralt hardly knows how to look at him. He’s never known someone who’s so much all the time, expansive and loud and demanding and generous and so goddamn bright.

“What I should have said,” Geralt says, against the tension threatening to stop his throat, “is that I wouldn’t have tried this if it weren’t for you. It’s . . .” He’s not sure how to answer Jaskier’s question. Does he like it? He looks so unlike himself that he honestly doesn’t know what to make of it. He can’t tell if it suits him or not, because he still isn’t sure what that would mean. But he likes the idea that Jaskier’s uncovered this version of him, that this might be how Jaskier sees him in his mind’s eye. “I’m glad we tried it. Thank you.”

“I am, too,” Jaskier says, quietly. “Even if you never do it again, I’m glad you trusted me enough to try. And for the record?” The twist of his lips is almost pained, but it’s a smile all the same. “You look fucking gorgeous.”

Geralt ducks his head, his shoulders inching up. “Jaskier . . .”

“No, I’m serious, Geralt.” Jaskier sounds annoyed, almost angry, all of a sudden. “I know you don’t care about superficial stuff—”

“That’s not—”

“—but take it from someone who spends a lot of time looking at people and doing my best to make them look as good as I possibly can: you’re objectively really fucking good-looking.” Jaskier lets out a harsh, reckless laugh. “And if you don’t care about my professional opinion, I also happen to think you’re the most attractive person I’ve ever met in my entire life, so there’s that.”

“I—”

Now that Jaskier’s started talking, he can’t seem to stop. “You’re the most incredible person I know, Geralt,” he says, in a breathless rush, “and I’m not talking just about your looks—although you are genuinely so ridiculously handsome that it’s really not fair. You’re kind for no reason and incredibly devoted and, OK, sort of a dick sometimes, but also so goddamn careful with other people and so fucking hard on yourself, and I just—I wish you could see yourself the way I do. I wish I could show you, even for just a second, because—”

“You did,” Geralt says. Jaskier stares at him, stunned into silence, and Geralt takes the opportunity to continue. “You do. Not just tonight.” He’s breathing hard, and he tries not to think about how dangerous this feels, like standing up on the top of a tall ladder or walking the line of a roof that might collapse under him at any moment. “When I’m with you, I feel like I could be that person you see in me, maybe. I just . . . don’t know how.”

Jaskier laughs again—softer this time. “You dummy,” he says, “you already are. You’ve just got to believe it.”

“Oh, is that all,” Geralt says.

“Yeah, no big deal,” Jaskier says, waving one hand dismissively. “You’ve got me to convince you, after all.”

“Oh, yeah?” Geralt can’t help the smile spreading across his face, despite the shivery feeling still simmering under his skin. “How’re you gonna do that?”

“Well . . .” Jaskier takes a step towards him, and then another, settling his hands lightly on Geralt’s hips. “I’d probably start a little like this . . .”

The first touch of Jaskier’s lips on his is like a breath of clean air after a storm, and Geralt can feel something that’s been knotted tight inside him for a long time unfurling itself. It doesn’t feel dangerous anymore, that buzz under his skin transmuting into a golden glow. He knows it’s not as simple as it feels—he can’t expect Jaskier to change him with a single kiss—but for the first time in a long while, something feels purely, unequivocally good, and he wants more of it.

In time, Jaskier’s hands creep up Geralt’s sides to his back, even as Geralt’s own hands drift down past Jaskier’s waist. When Jaskier’s hands slip into his hair, Geralt wrenches himself free with a shiver. “You’re going to undo all your hard work,” he says, teasingly.

“D’you really care?” Jaskier asks, and scratches his nails along Geralt’s scalp, wringing a whine from deep in Geralt’s chest that should be embarrassing but isn’t.  

“Not really,” Geralt gasps, his whole body pressing closer against Jaskier’s. “You can always do it again.”

Jaskier’s smile is wide as he bends to kiss him again. “That’s what I thought.”

[sadsilktrader]

Secret Admirer

I apologize for my extreme tardiness for posting to the Geraskier Holiday Exchange. This was written for @gotfanfiction 

A modern Geraskier AU in which Jaskier is receiving gifts from an admirer.

...

"I'm telling you Yen, the man doesn't even know I exist. It can't be him," Jaskier paced the living room of his small apartment, small watering can in hand, completely forgotten. His plants looked on forlornly. 

"Hm," she replied, he could hear the scritch-scratch of the emery board while she only half-listened to his prattling. "All I'm saying is that he was there at the pub the night you played and he lives in your building and he can hear you when you practice and those have all been the nights you've got gifts from your secret admirer." 

"Half the building goes to that pub, it could be anyone! Plus, he doesn't even know I exist. " He flopped dramatically onto the couch, spilling water on himself. "Anyway, I'll let you go do whatever important business you have to do. You'll be here before my show on Saturday with Triss, right?" 

"We'll be there. We just have to drop Ciri off at her dad's first. Now promise me you'll at least talk to him next time you see him."

"Maybe." He grumbled. 

"What was that?"

"Fine, fine! I promise!" 

"You better. I'm tired of listening to you wistfully sigh every time we speak."

"You're the worst."

"I love you too Jaskier, bye." 

The phone clicked. 

He'd met Yen online, a friend of a friend of a friend. They played DnD together, starting off as catty enemies and somehow developing into the deep friendship they had now. She was a good person, just a little rough around the edges. Well, very rough around the edges. 

She'd settled down a lot over the last few years when motherhood had fallen into her lap though. He wasn’t certain about all the details, they were close but she was a private person. She shared custody of her adopted daughter, Ciri, with her ex. He'd never had the pleasure of meeting the man but he'd heard enough about him to form his own opinions. Heart in the right place but not exactly open about his feelings. 

Sounded a lot like his own mysterious love. He sighed again, there was no way it was his gorgeous and stoic upstairs neighbor. The man was gorgeous and kind and lovely. He was tall and pale with silky white hair. Not to mention outrageously muscular. Jaskier had seen him in their apartment's gym working out on more than one occasion. It had taken every ounce of his self-control to keep himself from openly ogling him. He'd seen him feeding the feral cat that lived in the parking lot. Helping their elderly neighbors with their groceries. Playing with his daughter on the weekends. The man was too good to be true. Which was why he was absolutely positive he couldn't be the one leaving the gifts at his door. 

The mystery man was perfect but he, Julian Alfred Pancratz, college drop out, jobless, barely squeezing by with the money he made by doing odd jobs in the apartment complex and occasionally performing at the neighborhood pub, was an absolute mess. There was no way someone like the man would give him more than a passing glance. 

He sat up quickly leaving the forgotten, spilled watering can to the side to search for his notebook and pen. At least all the angst and longing seemed to also be a fantastic inspiration. 

...

He chewed his lip, the leather-bound notebook balanced on his knee. He strummed a few chords on his guitar before setting it back carefully down to scribble something down. 

The sun was fully set now and his balcony light had flicked on giving the small area an ethereal glow. He loved the process of writing and creating outside where he could feel the world around him. There was something about feeling the gentle breeze against him, the sun and moon shining down on him, and the fluttering hummingbirds that visited his feeder that just felt right.  

He stretched and yawned and was contemplating packing up for the night when he heard it. A barely-there, soft knock at his door. Eyes gone wide he all but threw his things down and ran to the door to open it. No one. As always. There was however a small box tied in a ribbon and a note attached. 

A voice so sweet deserves something sweet in return. -love, your admirer 

He undid the ribbon and opened the box. Inside was an assortment of homemade chocolates. He popped one in his mouth and let it slowly melt over his tongue. Dark chocolate, caramel, sea salt. He couldn't help the sappy smile that plastered itself on his face and would stay there the rest of the night. 

It had been a little over a month since the gifts started arriving. Most of the time they were baked goods or sweets of some kind but occasionally it was something different.  A clutch of flowers, a silver bracelet with music notes engraved, once there was even a picture of a particularly beautiful sunrise left for him. He treasured them all. 

He was a hopeless romantic down to the core of his being. He had never met his admirer but he was sure it would be love at first sight.

…

He was bone tired. He'd spent the day hauling furniture away to the thrift store and painting the walls of one of his elderly neighbors who was soon moving to a rest home. For all the work he was paid thirty dollars and a batch of very good snickerdoodle cookies. He knew it was all the woman could afford to give him and he was grateful for that. Not exactly enough to pay the rent but enough to buy a few groceries at least. 

He stood in the deli section, weighing out the pros and cons of value pack meats when he saw him. The man, his white hair hanging loose around his shoulders, dark jeans, and a leather jacket. His breath hitched and his mouth went dry. 

Gods how can anyone look that attractive just going to the grocery store. 

The man looked up, catching him staring. His eyes the color of amber and honey. He felt like a deer in the headlights caught in his gaze. A few faint scars visible on his face and neck. He couldn't help but wonder if there were more on the rest of the man's body and felt a blush rise to his cheeks. 

"It's leaking." The man said.

"What?"

"The honey ham your holding, it's leaking."

He stared at the gorgeous being before him for a moment longer before it clicked. 

"Oh fuck," he dropped the squishy package on the ground, ham juices splashing on the both of them. 

"Oh, gods I'm so sorry," he wasn't sure his face could get any redder. 

"It's okay, really. I've had much worse things spilled on me before. You looked pretty lost in thought."

An employee glared at him with a mop and trash can. He smiled awkwardly, wishing he could just disappear. 

"You're the musician, right? I live in the apartment above yours. I can hear you playing from my living room." The way the man said it had him wondering if that was a good thing or not. 

"I'm Julian, well Jaskier to my friends and fans." He mustered up the courage he usually reserved for the stage and gave the man his best smile. 

"Geralt. I'd shake your hand but," He nodded to his arms full of groceries. "You know when you go into the store thinking you only need one thing?" 

"Well, you're in luck," he gestured to his cart, "I just so happen to have the best cart in the store. Not a squeaky wheel in sight." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Absolutely! The life of a musician leads to a very sparse diet. More than enough room for both of us. Plus we're headed to the same place." 

Geralt had an amused smirk on his face that made Jaskier's heart skip a beat. Conversation between them came easy. Geralt was the quieter of the two but his dry wit and cheesy jokes had him laughing harder than he had in ages. Handsome and funny. 

They made their way back to the apartment complex walking slower than was necessary, he noticed. 

"So you have a daughter? I'm not stalking you or anything, I just noticed her around the complex sometimes."

"Ciri," he replied. "My ex and I share custody, its-" he sighed, running his hand through his hair, "it's a bit of a complicated situation actually. But they’re moving closer soon and that should help.”

The elevator stopped at his floor and he stepped off. 

“So, I’ll be seeing you.” he mentally berated himself for not being able to come up with something more clever. The door was closing between them and he suddenly shot his hound out, stopping the door. 

“Actually, and please forgive me if this is too forward, maybe I could give you my number and we could grab a coffee sometime? Or do our grocery shopping together again?”

Geralt chuckled before reaching into his pocket, tapping at the screen a few times, and passed it over. He added his number with the name Jaskier followed by a heart and music note emoji. The moment the elevator door closed he was dancing, groceries in hand, for his forwardness paying off for once. 

…

It was colder tonight but he still played outside until his fingers were near numbing. His cheeks were flushed red from the cold. After his run-in with the man, he felt like he was walking on clouds. The world was at peace and he was the luckiest man in the world. He’d almost forgotten about his secret admirer completely until the same soft knock came from outside the door. Today was different though. Today he was brave and he had left a note for his admirer to find.

I beg of you to reveal yourself to me. I will be performing at the Royal Oak this Saturday. Please, wear this token so I may recognize you amongst the other patrons. Love, Jaskier

He strained his ears and purposely walked slowly to the door, giving his admirer time to leave the gift and find his note. He swore he heard mumbling of words. He closed his eyes and counted to ten before opening the door. 

His note was gone and in place of it a container he opened to reveal a miniature-sized three-layered cake elaborately decorated with chocolate-covered strawberries. It was, as always, delicious to the point of sin. 

He felt a twinge of guilt. He didn’t want to string along his admirer, especially if things with Geralt turned out well. But he was getting ahead of himself. They had spoken once and here he was already planning their life together. 

…

The next few days passed quickly. His wish of getting more work around the complex had come true but he was, unfortunately, unable to do any more practice for his upcoming performance. Every day he came back to his apartment with every intention of playing only to wake up from an unintentional five-hour nap on his couch. 

To make matters worse, he hadn’t received a single text from Geralt, and since his sleep schedule was completely messed up he hadn’t caught a single glimpse of him since their last accidental meeting. He thought of swinging by his place to invite him to his show but decided against it. Maybe he needed some space? Maybe he had come off as too clingy? The doubts and second-guesses were mounting.

He arrived at the pub early to set up and get some practicing in before going on stage. Geralt wouldn’t be there but at least, he hoped, his soon-not-to-be secret admirer would be. Inside the note, he’d left a silver brooch of a songbird in flight. It was small but something he would instantly recognize. The glimmer of it from the stage lights would catch his attention. At least that’s what he was hoping. He felt more nervous about this performance than he had in a long while.

“You okay there Jaskier?” The voice came from behind him and he turned to see Triss, her curls down, beautifully framing her face. 

“Oh thank the Gods,” he hugged her tight. 

“Where’s your better half?” he asked looking around the growing pub’s crowd. 

“Outside on the phone. It’s her ex, they don’t argue often but when they do,” she made a face. “Something about him needing her to watch their daughter.”

“Doesn’t he only see her on weekends? What an asshole.”

“Right?” 

He felt more at ease with a friendly face by his side and felt even better when Yennifer joined them. He was smarter than to ask her about the phone call and instead chatted about everything and anything to get his mind off his nerves. Time went by more quickly now and soon it was time for him to play. 

The second he stepped on stage his demeanor changed. Gone was any trace of nerves and doubt. The stage was his solace, the place he could bare his soul to the masses, or in this case to the forty-odd people crammed into the pub. 

It was halfway through his third song when he remembered to keep an eye out for his admirer. He scanned the crowd hoping for the familiar glint to catch his eye but there was nothing. He chewed his lip. 

The third song blended into his fourth and fifth. Still nothing. He took a break to grab a drink. He made small talk with Yennifer who raised a delicate brow at him. 

"Alright, spill it. What's got you so distracted?" 

He finished his drink and let his smile fall into a grimace. 

"I left a note. For my admirer. I asked them to come tonight. I left them something to wear so I would recognize them and-" 

"And they did show?" She finished for him. 

"Nope. Wait how did you know?" 

"First off you're terrible at hiding your emotions, and second I was fucking right and you owe me.”

“What?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “I guess I’m partially to blame, I should have realized it earlier.”

“I- what?” he asked again. 

“Jaskier. Darling. Sweetheart. I was right.” she said the words slowly as one would do to a small dog. 

“Right about what?”

“Your admirer. It’s your neighbor. You never told me but let me guess. Pale, white hair, roguishly handsome, looks like he could snap you in half like a twig?”

“How do you?” He was feeling a little faint now like he was at the edge of realizing something terrible.

“Your neighbor, your admirer, and my ex are all the same person.”

His eyes went wide. It all made sense. All the clues were there but he had just been too dense to put them all together. He’d seen pictures of Yenifer’s daughter but he’d never spent more than a passing glance at Geralt's visiting daughter. 

“Oh fuck.” he sat down, suddenly unsure of his legs beneath him. 

“He called me right before I came in going on about needing to go out for a few hours and if it was alright with me if he left Ciri alone.” she chuckled. “I told him to not be an asshole and spend time with his daughter.”

Jaskier’s head perked up. Geralt had wanted to come. He hadn’t blown him off. 

“I have to go. Fuck, I can’t leave in the middle of a set though.” 

Yennifer waved him off, “I’ll sort things off here, you go to him.”

He kissed the top of her head and gave her a quick, tight hug. “You would tell me if this bothered you right? I mean, he’s your ex and all.” 

“I think you two would do a very good job at evening each other out, now go!” She smacked him on the shoulder and off he went. 

…

He ran home, or at least halfway home before running out of breath and proceeded to briskly walk the rest of the way. He was still trying to decide what to say when he found himself outside the door, sweating profusely and looking an absolute mess. He knocked on the door before he talked himself out of it. 

“One minute!” A voice from beyond the door answered followed by the sound of an oven door closing and the chain sliding from the door’s lock. 

The door opened. He looked beautiful, even like this, wearing an apron covered in flour cocoa powder. Especially like this maybe. 

“I’m friends with Yennifer and she said it was you but I didn’t believe her and I didn’t realize that your daughter Ciri was also her daughter Cirilla which in retrospect should have clued me in but-” he took a deep breath in. Geralt looked nervous and his rambling wasn’t happening. He started over. 

“You’re my secret admirer?”

The man blushed. “I am. Is that okay?”

“Very, very okay.” He smiled. 

“Would you like to come in? I was just baking. For you.” his blush deepened and Jaskier heart felt like it would burst with affection. 

“I’d like that very much.”

[thesleepy1]

Fire Breathing Cat

A/N: @write-it-motherfuckers Seeing as the last fic did well and the support was incredible I thought I’ll write another one. This time with Lambert who deserves the world. He’s as much of a softie as Eskel, we all know it. Once again unbeta’d. 

Person A: “...What the fuck is that?”

Person B: “A cat.”

 Person A: “That is clearly a dragon wearing a cat ear headband.”

Person B: “No it’s not, it’s a cat.”

 Person A: “That breathes fire?” 

 Persona B: “...It’s a very rare breed.” 

 Pairings: Lambert x Reader, belief Jaskier x Geralt 

 Summary: Ciri, Jaskier, and Geralt come to Kaer Morhen for the winter with an unexpected guest. Only the guest is in a sack and you aren’t allowed to know what or who they are. Then they escape.  

 Word count:716

 Warnings: Suggestive comments and language, 

 You’ve spent a total of three winters with Lambert and this was the first year where he decided to spend it in Kaer Morhen. You’ve only heard stories of what the fortress was like, a vast castle soaking in the remaining light from the raid that had doomed them all. Well, not in those precise words. 

 Lambert wasn’t exactly the type to paint his stories with metaphors and little details, that was more of Jaskier’s thing. The bard had come with Geralt and Ciri, the trio making a grand entrance by arriving with a living creature stuffed in a sack. They told no one what was in there but Ciri’s poor excuse had you curious from the beginning. 

 “Um, this is just Kelpie’s food.” 

 “Should it be moving?” You pointed to the sack that was inching towards the open window. An open window overlooking a drop that would kill even Lambert mind you.

 “O-of courses, why wouldn’t it?” A look of pure panic crossed her face as she assured you that everything was as it should be. She was fooling no one. 

 “Don’t horses eat oats and greens? Plant stuff?” You’re more articulated than Lambert, but not by much. 

 “Horses are omnivores.”

 You raised your eyebrow at the blatant lie. But left it at that. You were curious, but it was really none of your business. “Sure they are.…”

 That was until whatever was in the sack got loose. One morning you woke up to the sound of Jaskier screaming and an empty sack thrown at Lambert’s half asleep face. 

“Fuck, what’s going on?!”

 “He escaped!” Jaskier yelled from down the hall. It looked like he had just woken up, shirtless and in the process of pulling up his pants. Geralt was one lucky witcher. 

 As if he could hear your thoughts Lambert whipped to face you. “What exactly escaped?” 

 “How should I know?” You shrugged, pulling on a shirt that was laying on the floor. It was consequently Lambert’s.

 “Wait now, shouldn’t we be helping them find whatever it is?” He gave you a sinful smirk, his eyes ripping his own shirt from the seams. 

 You quickly take the shirt off and fling it onto him, grabbing your own clothes and putting them on. You shook your head at his groans of protest. “But afterwards we are so getting rid of these extra layers.” 

 If by afterwards he meant two hours out in a snowstorm looking for who knows what then he was correct. After losing a boot, the three collective brain cells, and a pair of gloves you finally return to the safety and warmth of inside. 

 And that creature that you have spent the morning trying to find? A genuine baby dragon. No wonder Ciri was trying to hide the overgrown reptile. 

 “Ciri, what the fuck is that?” Lambert broke the silence that had grown when everyone had gathered in the dining hall. 

 “A cat,” was her innocent reply, looking for Geralt for support. The witcher in question only grabbed the dragon and shoved a hair ornament into place between two growing horns. The dragon seemed to be alright with the arrangement. 

 “That is clearly a dragon wearing a cat ear headband.”

 “No it’s not, it’s a cat,” Ciri tried again, pointing to said hair ornament. You looked to Jaskier and could only guess what he and Geralt got up to.  

 “That breathes fire?” You ducked out of the way just as a burst of flame left the baby’s snout. Not entirely opposed to the idea of a heat source you begin petting the warm dragon. He was so small but felt like putting your hand against a house set ablaze. 

 “He’s a very rare breed.” 

 “A rare breed indeed, do you know how hard it was to find him?” Jaskier began, going into a lecture of how he and Geralt had found the poor baby alone and without parents in the middle of the woods. “He was so thin and couldn’t even open his eyes. We couldn’t have just left him!”

 “We’re keeping him, he has nowhere to go and we’re not monsters,” Ciri added, petting the baby as well. 

 Lambert sighed, his shoulders sagging with his exhale. “Fine, but don’t let Vesemir or Eskel find out.” 

 “Find out about- Oh.”

[lemondropsssss]

“Hello Geralt.” By some strange miracle his tone is even, his hands don’t shake, and Jaskier doubts even Geralt could suss out his anxiety.

“Jaskier.”

Geralt looks different. Ragged would not be an incorrect word for it. Geralt’s hair is greasy, the white streaked grey from lack of washing. He’s dressed all in black par the course, but his shirt has seen better days and his cloak looks like it’s coming apart at the seams. Geralt is without his armor, but his steel sword hangs on his belt and Jaskier knows he has at least three knives hidden somewhere beneath the mess. He looks older, and more exhausted than Jaskier has ever seen him.

What is most curious is his companion. He can’t be more than fourteen, but why would Geralt have a young boy with him? He wears a loose shirt and worn trousers, and a cap covers his head. He looks up at Jaskier from under a too-big cloak, and he’s struck by all too familiar emerald eyes. There is only one green-eyed fourteen-year-old who could possibly be following a Witcher. A Cintran princess thought lost to the world.

He meets Geralt’s gaze and they have a quick nonverbal conversation over her head, Geralt confirming his suspicions of her identity with a curt nod. The ease and familiarity of their communication digs like a knife into Jaskier’s gut.

“We were hoping you could...” Geralt pauses, and Cirilla wastes no time in digging an elbow into his side. “We were hoping you could help us.”

“Help you.” He repeats, just to make sure he heard correctly. Not at all because asking had made Geralt’s face contort in ways Jaskier hadn’t thought possible.

Geralt sounds off a grunt and a short nod, which he supposes he should have expected from the Witcher.

“What kind of help do-” Jaskier is cut off by a door banging open down the hall, and the loud sounds of students spilling into the walkways. Geralt curls a protective arm around Cirilla’s shoulders, tucking her against his side and out of sight of any passing students.  

“We shouldn’t talk here. The University is safe enough, but walls have ears, and you carry precious cargo.” He nods towards Cirilla. “Right then. Help. You need to go to Number 6 Cheeseman Street. Tell Beatrice that you’re friends of Julian. Here, take this,” He tugs the heavy silver signet ring off his middle finger and holds it out to Geralt, “So she knows I sent you.”

“Who’s Julia- Wait. You’re not coming with us?” Confusion is evident on Geralt’s face, and the knife in Jaskier’s gut just cuts deeper.

You’re doing it again says the cruel voice in his head, You’ll give and he’ll take until there’s nothing left of use to him. And then he’ll run off with his sorceress and his child while you wither and die like the weak pathetic mortal man you are.

“You came at the end of this class, Geralt, but I do have another one today. Funny, how schools work on a non-Witcher-centric timetable, isn’t it?” Geralt looks reasonably chastised, and Jaskier can’t help but feel a spark of vindication at that. “I have responsibilities here that I can’t just abandon. Go and wait for me. Bea will take care of you, and you’ll be safe there.”

Geralt watches Jaskier turn on his heel and walk back into his classroom with a feeling akin to longing in his gut. He hadn't realized how much he had been missing the bard until he was standing in front of him. He was struck with the sinking feeling that their friendship may not have survived the dragon mountains after all.

“Here,” He grunts, passing Ciri the signet ring. If he’s disturbed by this new, different Jaskier he doesn’t show it. He can't show it, not around Ciri. She needs him, and he would die before failing her. Geralt knew Jaskier might have still been upset after their disastrous parting, but the changes he saw in his old friend were not what he had expected. He wore somber clothes, had shorter silver swept hair, and no open smile; the man who had come out of that classroom didn’t seem much like the Jaskier he remembered.

They collect Roach at the front gates, and begin the trek towards Number 6 Cheeseman Street. Ciri is quiet as they walk, toying the ring between her fingers. It’s been a long year, and Geralt knows she’s more tired than he is. He leads her through busy city streets, keeping her tucked close between him and Roach, finally coming upon the quieter richer streets favored by nobles and the prissier academics. Of course Jaskier would know someone here.

They reach Number 6, and Geralt pauses and situates Ciri half behind him before he rings the bell. It’s another minute before the door is opened.

“Yes?” An older woman asks. She’s short and stout, her more-grey-than-brown hair pulled back into a neat bun. There’s a softness to her, a kindness around the eyes, even as she frowns warily at them. She doesn’t seem like the kind of woman Jaskier normally fell into bed with, but it’s entirely possible the bard’s tastes had changed.

“Are you Beatrice?”

“I am. Can I help you with something?”

Geralt motions to Ciri, who holds Jaskier’s signet ring out to the woman. “We’re friends of Julian’s,” Ciri says, and Geralt can see the older woman softening at the sight of both the ring and the child. She inspects the ring for a short moment, giving a long sigh and muttering something about bringing home strays before stepping aside to let them in.

Beatrice is a force of nature, and it isn’t long before Geralt and Ciri have both been bathed, scrubbed, changed into clean clothes, and settled at the kitchen table with bowls of hearty stew and fresh brown bread. Roach is taken two houses down to be stabled. Bea, as she insists they call her, assures him she’ll be well taken care of. Their bags are brought back to the house and settled in their connecting rooms.

This is all done in the span of an hour, and it’s all Geralt can do to just let it happen. The woman doesn’t seem any particular threat, though he has put an idle thought towards what happens when whatever lord of the house shows up. He knows Jaskier has friends in all sorts of places, but he doesn’t know of any noble who would be happy to find an unknown Witcher at his table.

They’re halfway through their second helping of stew when Geralt hears the front door open, and an even tread making its way toward the kitchen. A moment later, Jaskier appears in the doorway. He looks over them both with a sharp eye, and Geralt feels strangely vulnerable under his gaze.

“Here you are, dear,” Bea hands Ciri another large slice of bread for her soup, and then passes another to Geralt. “Get in here,” She orders, and Ciri’s gaze snaps up, just noticing another has joined them. “I’ll not be bringing you supper to your room later, you’ll eat here with your guests.” It’s not a negotiation. Jaskier grins, holding up his hands in a sign of peace.

“Yes ma’am.” He sinks into the chair at the head of the table, and Bea puts down his own bowl of stew and bread. “I should have warned you, Witcher, Bea does have a tendency to over feed her guests; you and your companion are bound to roll away from the table.” Jaskier winks at Ciri over his bowl, and the girl offers a small smile in return.

“I am sorry dear, in all the commotion we were never properly introduced.” Ciri stills, and her gaze shifts to Bea in the corner before flicking back to Geralt. “Bea,” Jaskier calls out when he realizes her worry, “Would you mind giving me and my guests the room?” The housekeeper huffs but leaves, with a stern warning to Jaskier about what will happen if he lets the bread burn. It’s only when Jaskier can no longer hear her footsteps that he turns back to Ciri. “I admire your caution, little one. An important skill to learn when one travels with a Witcher. I wish you no ill will, and I can promise that no harm will come to you in this house.”

Ciri looks back to Geralt for confirmation, and he gives her a short nod. Jaskier feels a mild pull of hurt at the familiarity of their silent conversation, and quickly tucks it away before either can notice.

“Ciri,” She says quietly, sitting up just a little straighter as she does. “You can call me Ciri. But we use Fiona around everyone else.”

“Then perhaps you should remain Fiona during your stay here. I trust Beatrice with my life, and she’ll probably spoil you rotten as long as you let her, but it will be safer if she doesn’t know your true identity. Information is powerful, little one, but no one can let spill a secret they don’t know. I am very happy to see you safe here, Ciri.” He says her true name softly, and when she smiles at him the sight practically melts his heart.

“Who owns this place?”  Geralt interrupts, earning himself a scowl from Jaskier. “Not another lord you’re cuckolding?”

“It’s a bit hard to cuckold oneself, dear, but I supposed I could give it the old college try.” He’s smiling and his tone is light, trying to mask any hurt at the dig.

“What, this is yours?” Ciri asks, looking around the expansive kitchen. “Bea said it belonged to Master Julian, but Geralt said your name was Jaskier.”

“Yes, well, it’s been over a year and she still refuses to drop the ‘master’ part. I did try and tell her it wasn’t necessary and then she got very offended and didn’t speak to me for three days.” Geralt is giving Jaskier his dopey-what-the-fuck-are-you-on-about look that once upon a time would’ve made his knees weak. Now it just makes him sad.

“Well then, let me introduce myself properly. Or, reintroduce, as the case may be.” He stands and bows low to Cirilla. “Professor Julian Alfred Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, formerly known as the Bard Jaskier, at your eternal service.” When he adds an extra flourish Ciri giggles, and the sound tugs at his heart.

Geralt is watching him with a frown, and Jaskier meets it with a raised eyebrow himself.

“You never said you were a Viscount.”

“You never asked,” Jaskier points out, folding himself back into his seat, “I’ve told plenty of other people my name. Truly, twenty odd years and it never seemed strange to you that a woman would name her honest to gods son Buttercup ? It’s hardly my fault you weren’t paying enough attention.” Geralt opens his mouth to retort, so Jaskier shifts his attention back to Ciri. “It’s very good to have you here, little one. I came to sing to you a few times for your birthday, though you were quite young then, so I don’t expect you’d remember.”

“No, I remember you. A little, at least.” She pauses, tilting her head to think, “I remember grandmother didn’t like that grandfather had invited you.You brought me a carved wolf, but grandmother screeched and I wasn’t allowed to play with it. I didn’t know why. I liked your songs, especially the one about the lion cub.”

Jaskier laughs. “Yes, while Eist and I had a friendship of sorts, I can’t say your grandmother was overly fond of me. I think she worried I would tell you stories of a mighty Witcher who would one day come to claim you. Perhaps a wolf was a little too on the nose.” He grows somber, and reaches out to cover her small hand with his. “They were good people, your family. I am sorry they are gone.” He squeezes her hand, and gives the princess a reassuring smile that she returns, albeit shakily. “I admit I worried for you, when I heard of Cintra’s fate. It makes me very happy to see you safe here with Geralt.”

Jaskier can feel Geralt’s gaze on him, but he does not meet it. They finish their meal together, and Ciri warms to Jaskier quickly. He jokes and trades silly stories with her, Geralt grunting or adding short corrections to the ones about their adventures together. Soon enough Ciri is falling asleep in her stew. Jaskier sends her up to bed, bidding her goodnight and watching as she ascends the stairs to her room.

Geralt is still sitting at the kitchen table, watching Jaskier. His gaze is careful, his eyes follow Jaskier as the man collects two cups and a bottle of wine.

“I assume you still drink,” He says, setting a cup down for Geralt before sliding into a chair. He pours them both glasses before sitting back with a heavy sigh. “Go on, then. You’ve got that look in your eye. Does the mighty Witcher Geralt of Rivia have something to say?” It was much easier to keep his tone level with Cirilla there. Now he can’t keep the bitterness from his words, and they leave a bad taste in his mouth. He tries to wash it away with big gulps of wine, but it doesn’t help.

Geralt grunts instead of a real answer, and Jaskier huffs a laugh into his cup. He drains it, and pours himself another.

“You’re different.” It’s quiet, almost so quiet Jaskier can’t hear it over the crackling of the hearth but he does.

“Yes, well, that is normally expected of us humans. Change. Personal growth. That sort of thing.”

"Personal growth. Huh. I half expected you to offer to sing Ciri to sleep. Regale her with tales of the White Wolf."

Jaskier's answer is to huff a dark laugh into his cup and continue drinking with determination. At least he can be good at some things.

“Where’d you get the money for all this?” Geralt asks after a long silence. There’s a hint of accusation in his tone which Jaskier bristles at.

“Fishing, technically. And taxes, I guess, you’d really have to ask my sister.” At Geralt’s confused look he sighs deeply before explaining. “I’m a Viscount of a coastal estate, Geralt. I make money by having other people fish and then taxing them for it. Is this really the first thing you ask me? Eighteen months and all you have is a question about my business practices?”

Geralt doesn't answer, and that only helps to fuel the anger growing in his belly. The wine isn’t exactly helping, but he isn’t going to stop drinking it. They sit in silence, Jaskier drinking and Geralt watching him. After what feels like an eternity, Jaskier heaves a sigh and stands.

“Right, well, if you’re not going to say anything I’m going to bed.”

“Jaskier, wait.” He almost doesn’t. He almost leaves, but that voice. It haunts his fucking dreams, and he can’t say no to it. But he doesn’t turn around.

“It’s Julian, now, actually.”

“Julian, then.” The voice is closer now, and Jaskier had forgotten how quietly his Witcher could move. A hand tugs at his shoulder, turning him back around to face Geralt. His face is doing something Jaskier had never seen before, and on anyone else he’d say it was regret. “I wanted to...” He trails off, and Jaskier tugs his arm out of Geralt’s grip.

“If you have something to say, say it.”

“Damnit, bard. You don’t make this easy,” The man growls out, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “I am sorry. About what happened on the dragon mountain. About what I said. I was angry, and you were there. I didn’t mean it.” It’s more of an apology than Jaskier had thought Geralt would be capable of, but it does nothing to repair the gaping chasm between them.

He still needs things from you, the insidious voice in his head whispers, Once you give him what he wants he’ll leave you. Haven’t you learned anything? He doesn’t care about you. You’re a burden to him. You don’t make this easy. How pathetic.

Jaskier offers Geralt a tight smile, taking a small step back. “The mountain is in the past. What happened there doesn’t matter anymore. You don’t need to worry, I understand what this is now. I’ll help you, and as soon as you’ve both rested and resupplied you’ll be on your way.” He says it with some amount of finality, as if that would make it any easier to get out.

Jaskier will help Geralt, because there really isn’t any version of reality in which he wouldn’t. But he knows now not to make their arrangement out to be anything more than that; an exchange of goods and services. He owes Geralt more than his own life is worth, and helping him and his Child Surprise now is simply a way to pay back that debt. As long as he remembers the status quo he should come out the other side unscathed.

“I bid you goodnight, Witcher.” Jaskier’s voice is steady when he speaks, thank all the gods for small mercies, and he’s almost halfway up the steps before Geralt’s reply reaches him.

“Goodnight, Julian.”

.

@itsthedemonsboi @naominami ya’ll asked to be tagged

here is part one, part two, and the full story on ao3

[bard-llama]

If Only We Could Turn Back Time

Summary: When Geralt gets hit by a curse that turns him into a child, Yennefer, Jaskier, and Ciri are rather at a loss for what to do. Things get worse as Geralt slowly ages each day under the curse, and each night, he is plagued by nightmares of the memories from that time in his life. They knew that becoming a Witcher hadn't been something Geralt had chosen, but seeing the immediate evidence of the trauma Geralt has been through is more than any of them were prepared for.

Read on AO3

Written for @geraltwhumpweek Day 3: Cursed

--

Yennefer was too slow to block the curse, and she watched with horror as it hit Geralt dead-on. The Witcher made a surprised sound and his body seemed to pulse with light for long moments before the light grew so blinding she had to turn away.

When the light faded, the mage they had been tracking was gone, and where Geralt had been, there was a young boy with curly brown hair and a dazed expression wearing oversized black armor that slipped down his shoulders.

“Geralt?” Ciri called tentatively, her silver blade held loosely in her grip. She had been fighting the hounds the mage had summoned to hold them off, but now she gaped openly at the boy.

Yennefer couldn’t blame her. She was having trouble getting her jaw to work herself.

The boy blinked up at them, and then yawned widely, jaw cracking. Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hand, he sniffed and then asked in a cheery voice. “Are you here to see Ma?”

Before Yennefer could contemplate that minefield, the boy continued. “You’re in luck! She’s the best healer there is!”

“Your mom is a healer?” Ciri asked, voice slightly strangled. It must have been especially odd for her to see the man who had helped to raise her the past few years as – well, as an ordinary young boy.

Geralt had never been someone Yennefer had thought of as ordinary, but she supposed he must have been once. Long ago, before he’d become a Witcher without a choice.

“Yep!” The boy bounced to his feet, not seeming to notice the heavy armor that slipped down his too-small shoulders. “Her magic is the best! It’ll have you good as new in no time!”

“That’s good to hear,” Yennefer pulled herself together enough to say. “Your mother actually left you with us while she runs a few errands. I’m Yennefer, and that’s Ciri. Why don’t you come with us back to camp and we can get you some food?”

“Okay,” the boy shrugged, entirely unconcerned. At least that likely meant his life had been unthreatened up to this point.

Unfortunately, she knew that couldn’t have lasted long. Geralt had told them – Ciri was the first Witcher to ever choose to become one, and even then, she never underwent the mutations that Geralt had only ever spoken of in hushed tones.

It broke Yennefer’s heart, to know that if life had been kinder, Geralt could have had a normal, happy life.

They made their way back across the grassy knoll to where Jaskier was composing in their camp. She knew Jaskier was composing, because she could hear his awful rhymes from here.

Geralt didn’t seem to take notice of the noise, though, instead chattering at Ciri. “Do you fight with a sword? That’s so cool! I want to be a knight when I grow up, and wield a sword just like you!” He made dramatic slashing motions with his arm, nowhere near what proper form actually looked like, but it made Ciri giggle.

“I’m sure you’ll be an excellent swordsman,” she said, and the child who was once Geralt beamed a grin at them so bright that Yennefer had to turn away.

She’d never seen happiness on Geralt that wasn’t tainted by pain and darkness. It hurt to see it now and know that life had stolen that from him.

“Oh, you’re back!” Jaskier leapt to his feet, setting his lute aside. He hadn’t noticed there was anything amiss yet, but that would change soon because Geralt’s excited young eyes landed on the instrument and he was dashing forward, mouth already moving.

“Was that you playing? You’re really good! Could you show me how to do that? It looks fun, but hard. Is it hard?”

Jaskier blinked, gobsmacked. Then he turned wide eyes to meet Yennefer’s and she grimaced in confirmation. “Jaskier, meet Geralt.”

“Geralt,” the bard croaked, his famed voice cracking on the word. He stared down at the sandy-haired boy whose attention had already moved onto the next thing, wandering around their camp and touching absolutely everything. “I think I need a bit more explanation,” Jaskier asked plaintively, and Yennefer took pity.

“The mage got away,” she said quietly, watching Geralt. She wasn’t the only one.

“And he – I mean, will he...get better? Can we break the curse?”

Yennefer shook her head. She’d been contemplating that since she felt the magic coalesce around Geralt, had been feeling out the edges of it as they walked. “I can’t,” she admitted reluctantly. “I need to do more research, but I don’t think this curse can be broken. It has to be waited out.”

“But it’s not permanent.” Ciri’s voice was shaky and her words came out more as a demand than a question.

“No, it should fade within a week.” Yennefer said. Should being the operative word, but she wasn’t willing to trust Geralt’s fate to should.

This would require research and study. But first, they had to take care of the previously self-sufficient witcher. What did children even need? Ciri had been older than this when she’d come to Yenn and Geralt, and Yennefer hated to admit it, but it had been a long time since she’d been around young children.

Geralt’s exploration of their camp had now brought him to Roach, and apparently he was a natural horse whisperer. Roach snorted and lipped at his hair as the boy nuzzled into her neck and murmured praise without seeming to stop for breath.

“Do you travel all the time too?” The high-pitched timbre of Geralt’s voice still startled Yennefer, even though he was already talking as much as Jaskier on a good day. “Ma and I have been on the road for ages now. It’s kinda weird – the elders used to say that druids have to stay close to home, because of magic or something. But Ma’s magic is as strong as ever, so I think they were just talking. Can you do magic? I hope I can! I’m not old enough for the test yet – and I dunno what Ma’s gonna do about that. Maybe we’ll go back home before the test when it’s time!”

“Test?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt was distracted from responding by a passing butterfly and he took off after it, trying to clasp it between clumsy hands. They all watched him with varying consternated expressions on their faces. This was weird.

“Druids are tested for magic when they’re ten,” Ciri answered eventually. “Mousesack taught me. Said it was important that a Princess understood different cultures. But I didn’t know Geralt was a druid.” Her brows knit as she followed the wild boy with her gaze. “Though, I suppose our Geralt doesn’t consider himself one anymore.”

“He’s never talked about his life before becoming a Witcher,” Jaskier said. The concern on his face made him look constipated. “I didn’t – I wouldn’t have thought he’d be like this.”

No, Yennefer thought. She doubted any who knew Geralt would have guessed that he’d once been so – maybe innocent was the right word for it. Excitable. Childish.

For some reason, it had never occurred to her that Geralt had once truly been a child. If she had, she probably would have expected that he’d always been like her, braced against the pain of the world.

“Does he have magic?” Jaskier suddenly asked. “I mean, our Geralt has his signs, but that’s a Witcher thing, right? What if he has actual magic – like yours?”

Yennefer shook her head. “Druid magic is nothing like mine.” And if there was a snideness in her voice, it was only appropriate. Everyone knew druidic magic was pathetic compared to the power of a mage. “But if he hasn’t been tested yet, then we probably have nothing to worry about.”

“Probably,” Jaskier mocking mumble was low enough that she could pretend to ignore it. But because Yennefer could never let anything go, she flicked her fingers and magicked an ice cube into existence right above the collar of his doublet. The bard’s squawk and dance as he tried to get away from the cold dripping down his back was immensely satisfying, and made Ciri and Geralt laugh to boot.

She could see the high, joyous sound of Geralt’s giggles make Jaskier’s irritation melt away. “How would you like to hear a story?” the bard offered his unusually-attentive companion.

“Do you know anything about what’s beyond the Edge of the World?” Geralt asked eagerly, “or what the other spheres are like? Ma never answers when I ask about them, but I wanna knoooooow,” he dragged out the last word in a whine and Yennefer had to bite her lip hard to hold back her smile.

Jaskier tilted his head. “I’ve been to the Edge of the World, actually! With – uh, well, a good friend. Do you want to hear about it?”

Geralt’s headed nodded so furiously Yennefer was briefly worried he would sprain his neck. He plopped to the ground in front of Jaskier and leaned forward with bright eyes. Ciri – truly still a child at heart, even if the world had forced her to grow up so fast – gracefully dropped down into a cross legged seat beside him. As Jaskier told his tale – wildly inaccurate and horribly failing to remember not to call his companion Geralt – the boy slowly edged closer to Ciri until he wiggled his way into her lap. Ciri looked positively gobsmacked and Yennefer turned her laugh into a subtle cough. Geralt squirmed, getting comfortable even though he was probably a bit too big to really fit in Ciri’s lap, and the princess hesitantly wrapped her arms around him, tucking his head under her chin.

They listened to as one story turned to three, and then Geralt was telling his own wildly inventive story about noble knights on white steeds fighting for good and right. Yenn’s smile finally broke through, but it felt tight and prickly. If only the world was as simple and good as this child believed.

––

Jaskier couldn’t help the way he stared at the boy that had previously been his best-friend-and-more. Logically, he’d always known that there must have been a time when Geralt was different, before the trauma of becoming a Witcher. But he’d never thought he would see it, never thought he would be brought face to face with the sweet boy that life had beaten into a quiet, reticent man.

The boy talked so much, and Jaskier kept him engaged for hours, chatting about anything and everything. And even though running his mouth had never been a problem for Jaskier before, he kept getting distracted by the occasional sign of their Geralt within the child. The boy got bored with his distraction and Jaskier could see Geralt in the way the kid swung a stick around with loud “ha!”s as he stabbed the air, the way the corners of his eyes wrinkled in a smile in the exact same way, even though everything else about his face was different. Even the way he looked at Ciri, awed and admiring and with such affection that Jaskier knew the girl was overwhelmed. Nonetheless, she picked up her own stick and encouraged the boy to charge at her, sloppily parrying the attack with the stick. They entertained themselves “sword fighting” and Yennefer came to sit next to him. She looked composed as ever, but from the way she pressed her shoulder against his, Jaskier knew this was freaking her out just as much.

“What do we do?” he whispered.

Yenn shook her head. “I don’t know. Of all the things we could have prepared for, never saw this coming.”

“He’s so…” Jaskier trailed off, not even sure how he’d planned on ending that sentence. Innocent? Sweet? A long-dead part of their lover’s life that they were being granted access to? Jaskier wasn’t sure yet whether that was a blessing or a curse.

Geralt would never have told them about this boy he used to be, given the choice. And it broke Jaskier’s heart to know that this bright young child – so curious about the world and so eager to make friends with everything that moved – would suffer all the things he knew Geralt had gone through.

And all the things he didn’t know. Geralt had never told them anything about becoming a Witcher, except to whisper in a hoarse voice that they could not do that to Ciri. All Jaskier knew was that it had been bad.

“Is he – you said we have to wait for this to fade. Do you think he’ll remember this when he comes back?”

Yennefer rubbed her fingers in circles on each side of her brow, and Jaskier’s hand automatically rose to squeeze at the base of her neck, where her muscles grew tight from stress and made her head ache. She leaned back into him and sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t like how much I don’t know about this. I think we need to hunt down that damn mage and find out everything they know about this curse.”

“Okay. But also, how do we keep a little kid alive?” Not that Jaskier was panicking or anything. But his experience with children was usually limited to making faces and playing jaunty tunes when he ran into them in public.

Sure, Ciri was still pretty young, but she’d lived through too much to be thought of as a child. At least, not the same kind of child that Geralt currently was – helpless in the face of danger and far too curious to keep himself safe. Jaskier recognized the signs easily – they were the same traits that Geralt often cursed in himself. Not that he was a child, or really entirely helpless – Jaskier was going on five decades; he knew how to throw a punch, thank you very much! – but it was true that he often relied more on luck and Geralt to keep him safe than anything else.

It was a strategy that hadn’t failed him yet, but he was an educated, experienced adult. If nothing else, he stood a decent chance of talking himself out of any trouble he might run into. But this small inquisitive boy, who talked about magic and dragons and knights as if life were one big fairy tale? Were they really going to be able to keep him safe while hunting down a mage on the road?

Yennefer was terrifyingly powerful, of course, and Ciri was no slouch with a blade, though their usual Geralt still gruffly rumbled that she had more to learn. But the mage had gotten past them and Geralt once already, and travel had become so much more dangerous since the start of the war. Even when they took the main roads, a day rarely passed without some necrophage or bandit attacking them. He himself had honestly gotten a lot more wary about traveling alone, though their Geralt would no doubt argue that that wariness didn’t stop him from getting into trouble.

All he could really do was hope that they would be able to protect this innocent child from the horrors of the world. Jaskier had wanted to protect Geralt from the world’s cruelties many times, but it had never felt quite this urgent before. Their Geralt was so hurt and so world-weary already – the need to protect him ached deep in Jaskier’s heart, twisted with sorrow that Geralt had been through so much. But this feeling, the anxiety creeping up his spine and the knot of cotton in his throat was different from that. Jaskier wanted to be able to protect this child the way Geralt should have been protected, if the world had ever been fair.

At the same time, the void in his gut desperately wished that their Geralt was here. He would know what to do, would know how to protect a child. Of all of them, Geralt was actually the best with children, as long as they didn’t fear him. And Geralt liked children in a way Jaskier just honestly didn’t. He wasn’t the sort of asshole who hated kids, but anyone with sense would never leave him responsible for a child. Even he knew that was a bad idea.

“Breathe, bard,” Yennefer’s smoky voice ordered and only when he inhaled sharply did Jaskier realize that he’d been hyperventilating. “We’ll figure this out. We’ll protect him.”

And although he knew Yennefer was just as terrified as he was under her calm exterior, the steel in her voice helped him feel grounded. This situation may have been far from ideal, but if anyone could keep Geralt safe, it would be the most powerful sorceress on the continent and the witcher cub trained by Geralt himself. And maybe Jaskier didn’t know this Geralt, who was so young and so open, but he still knew Geralt at his core. Their Geralt would never run around with a bucket on his head pretending to be a knight, but Jaskier knew that the same nobility that this child saw in knighthood ran deep in Geralt’s veins. More than anything, Geralt was good and noble and honorable, despite the world chipping at him constantly. This child may look and act different, but he was still Geralt.

Jaskier took a deep breath and released it slowly. They were going to be okay. Somehow. They were going to keep this kid safe until they got their Geralt back, and they were going to find that mage and make sure they got their Geralt back soon.

Jaskier swallowed and knocked his shoulder against Yenn’s. “Kids have bedtimes, don’t they? Maybe we should set him up in your ridiculously fancy tent.”

“You love my tent.”

“Never said I didn’t. I’m a slut for luxury. But you literally fit a bathtub in your tent, Yenn. It’s ridiculous.” A smile tugged at his lips and he remembered just how much they had enjoyed that copper tub in the past.

Of course, now they had children. Even after two years, Jaskier still struggled to remember that he really shouldn’t just walk around shirtless with love bites proudly on display. Fortunately, Yenn had magically given Ciri her own room in the tent. Unfortunately, the room was not soundproofed.

It was a good thing Geralt was a lot more conscientious than Jaskier was, honestly. Ciri might not have much innocence left, but no one wanted to walk in on their parents fucking.

Jaskier shuddered and tried to refocus. “Is it weird if he sleeps in our bed? Weirder than if he stays in Ciri’s?”

Yennefer shrugged. “He might be young enough to want someone he trusts around, or he might be independent enough that he’ll refuse to share. Only one way to find out.”

When they got Geralt to sit down for five minutes to actually eat dinner and then guided him into the tent, the look of wide-eyed wonder made Jaskier melt. “So cool!!” Geralt exclaimed and wiggled out from under the grip on his shoulders to race around the tent. “Ma’s magic is amazing, but it’s nothing like this!! She mostly just conjures us food. But I bet you never sleep in the hay!” He jumped on the gigantic bed in their room and let out a deep contented sigh, as if the world was utterly perfect at this moment. “It feels like a cloud,” he whispered. “I’m never moving.”

Jaskier had to laugh at that. “How about you get under the covers before you never move again, hmm?”

Geralt hummed and wiggled around until Jaskier and Yennefer were able to pull the blankets out from under him and tuck him in. Ciri hovered in the doorway, shifting her weight awkwardly from foot to foot.

“Ciri?” Yennefer asked, and the girl jumped as if she’d forgotten they could see her.

“Can I – I mean,” she scratched her arm and looked at the ground, “it’s hard to believe he’s okay,” Ciri whispered so quietly that Jaskier had to step closer to her to hear. “I don’t wanna let him out of my sight.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier said pointlessly.

“Come on,” Yennefer beckoned them over to the bed. “There’s room for all of us.”

There hadn’t been, actually, but the bed magically expanded to be as big as they needed it to be.

Ciri huffed a laugh and pulled back the covers to wiggle in next to Geralt. “I used to have sleepovers with my friends in Cintra sometimes. This is kinda like that. But comfier.”

Yenn’s expression didn’t change, but Jaskier knew she was preening that her magic could make a more comfortable bed than all the royal power of Cintra. He shook his head and circled around the bed to his side.

He was still worried about Geralt, and as nice as it was to be cuddled up with his family, he missed the warmth of their Geralt pressed against his back. The way Yenn’s arm stretched over the kids to wrap around Jaskier’s wrist told him she missed having Geralt between them too. She liked to hold them, liked to make sure they wouldn’t disappear in the night, but somehow it was less comforting when one of them was already missing, even though he technically still rested between them. Eventually, they each drifted off to sleep.

Then the nightmares started.

[jaskierswolf]

You Set My Heart Ablaze pt.4/25

Previous

Jaskier woke up on Thursday to the sound of his alarm blaring in the back of the rather lovely dream he’d been having. At least it had started off as a lovely dream. He’d been rescued from his flat by a rather dashing, and topless, Geralt Rivia. Not all his dreams involved a burning flat and topless firemen but it was starting to become one of his regular ones. Geralt had just been about to kiss him senseless when the fire engine’s sirens had started going off and Geralt had dropped him in surprise. He’d fallen a good few feet before he’d hit the ground and sat up with a start in his bed.

He cursed and flopped back onto his pillow. It was still dark outside and he’d stayed up far too late last night writing a new song. In his defence, he’d been hit with inspiration at the most stupid hour but what was else was he supposed to do? If he’d tried to go to sleep without figuring out the chords he would have been awake all fucking night.

His alarm was still beeping incessantly at him. “Oh fuck off!” He groaned and knocked the clock off his bedside table and buried his face in his pillow.

He was just about to fall back asleep when his phone started to ring.

“Cock.” He moaned as the screen suddenly lit up the room. “Fucking. Bollocks.”

He peered at the screen and winced at the light burned his eyes. He squinted as he tried to make the letters out. He struggled to see without his glasses or contact lenses and wasn’t sure where his glasses were. They’d been on his face when he’d fallen asleep. “What the?”

It was Tissaia de Vries.

Jaskier was not aware they were on friendly enough terms for early morning phone calls. He pawed at his phone to put it on speaker phone. “Tissaia…”

“Jaskier.”

“The fuck?”

He heard an exasperated sigh from the other end of the line. “You text me last night, Jaskier. I do not want to know why you were awake at two in the morning but you left very strict instructions to call you. It’s the firefighter’s event today. Stregobor is expecting us in the school hall in an hour. Get up.” The phone clicked off.

Jaskier frowned. He searched in the mess of sheets for his glasses before finding them on the floor. Luckily he hadn’t squished them in his sleep and they weren’t too crooked on his nose. He scrambled to unlock his phone, sure enough there was a text to the slightly terrifying art teacher begging her to wake him up in the morning.

“Huh. Go past me.” He groaned and hauled himself out of bed.

He reluctantly went to shower. He probably didn’t have time but for no particular reason he really didn’t want to skimp on the personal hygiene today. He washed his hair in record time and then cursed as he stood in front of his wardrobe. Normally if he wanted to impress someone he’d go for tight skinny jeans and one of his favourite floral shirts but he couldn’t wear his jeans to work and they’d be outside all day so he’d probably freeze in the shirt. He stroke the fabric of his favourite shirt, the one with dandelions on, and then shut the cupboard. He moved to where he kept his jumpers. He had a rather nice turquoise one that really made his eyes pop. If he matched that with a nice pair of black trousers he would lot hot and work appropriate!

He ran a towel through his hair to get the excess water out. He thought about styling it properly but again being outside for most of the day would mess it up anyway so he might as well go for the naturally fluffy look. Maybe Geralt would think he looked adorable and extra cuddly like this. He swapped his thick rimmed glasses for his contact lenses and he was almost ready to go.

He glanced at his phone to check the time.

“Oh shit!” He cursed and pulled on his jumper in a rush. He’d have to skip breakfast today if he wanted to make it to school in time.

He rushed around the kitchen to swig some water before leaving for school, and not a moment too soon. He skidded into the school hall with one minute to spare. The rest of the teachers were already assembled. Tissaia rolled her eyes at him as he entered and he hid behind Triss from the headmaster’s glare.

“Close call.” Triss hissed.

“Yeah yeah. Laugh it up.” Jaskier snapped back.

Stregobor began to run through the schedule of the day, letting them know which classes would be heading out to meet the firefighters at what time, the changes to the lunch rota, safety measures for if a fire alarm was to go off with so many people on site. Jaskier snorted a laugh at that, earning himself another steely glare from the headmaster, but it was worth it. There would be literal firefighters on site and Stregobor was mansplaining fire safety. He heard Triss giggling in front of him, even Istredd smirked as Jaskier caught his eye across the room.

“Oh for god’s sake, Julian. Can’t you stay professional for just five minutes?” Valdo sighed loudly so that everyone could hear. Jaskier glared at his former university friend and he felt his nails dig into his palms, an impressive feat considering how short he kept them as a musician.

“Well excuse me for actually having a sense of humour instead of being a soulless demon from beyond the void.” Jaskier hissed back. It wasn’t his best comeback but he hadn’t had coffee this morning and he was in serious need of a nap.

“Mr Pankratz. That is the sort of behaviour I would expect from your children, not one of my staff.” Stregobor snarled from the front of the room.

“Sorry, sir.” Jaskier grumbled. “Won’t happen again.”

In his head Jaskier was already composing a brilliant scathing song that would highlight all of Valdo’s numerous flaws in vivid detail. It was a pity there weren’t any good rhymes for his name. He could make do with comparing the other teacher to mouldy farts. It wasn’t grammy winning but it made a point. Perhaps his bandmate, Priscilla, could help him find some better rhymes. It had been a while since they’d gotten together in the recording studio and taking down Valdo Marx was something they would both delight in. It had made such great fodder for their second album. He was sure he still had some bitter songs left in him about the traitorous failure of a teacher.

The doors crashed open near the end of Stregobor’s monotonous dribble, and Jaskier almost swooned.

In the doorway were four firefighters, all built like a house and looking absolutely delicious in their uniforms. It was better than Jaskier could have imagined, and dear god had he imagined. It was a pity that they had opted to wear shirts but beggars can’t be choosers. Despite their similar build, the four firefighters were all vastly different in looks. The eldest had silver hair, not too dissimilar to Geralt but a few inches shorter and he was stockier than his younger colleagues. Even from a distance, Jaskier could see the webbing of burns over his hands. The thing that really stood out were his eyes. They were a dark chocolate brown but they had such depths. If Jaskier didn’t know better he would have said the man was an immortal. His eyes were ancient and wise. He would bet that the firefighter had some incredible stories to tell.

The next firefighter had a brilliant shock of red hair on his head that tumbled over his ears in luscious curls. Jaskier had some serious hair envy. He wondered whether it still looked so naturally tousled even after wearing his helmet. He was also sporting a matching bushy ginger beard. The man almost looked like a phoenix which was ironic considering his job.

The last new addition had a very similar bone structure to Mr Phoenix, both had startling green eyes to match. Jaskier supposed they must be related in some way. Instead of ginger, he had a dusty sandy blond hair. It was messy but shorter than the rest of the crew, falling just below his ears. What drew Jaskier’s attention was the jagged scar across his face. It was messy and Jaskier couldn’t but imagine what could have caused such a nasty scar. His heart went out to the fireman.  Jaskier didn’t know the man but he knew that the man did not deserve whatever pain was in his past.

And then there was Geralt.

And to the gods was he beautiful.

Of course, all the firefighter’s were beautiful in their own way. Jaskier could find beauty in everyone as long as their heart was kind, but Geralt just was wow. Jaskier had never had a type before but his type was Geralt now.

Oh Freya was he smitten or what?

He should probably try and rein in his crush slightly. It was really getting out of control. He tore his eyes away from the man and back to the tyrannical monster that was the headmaster.

“Gentleman. Welcome.” Stregobor smiled sweetly at the new arrivals. “Vesemir?”

The eldest firefighter nodded. “That would be me. We spoke on the phone.”

Stregobor’s smiled didn’t reach his eyes, and Jaskier thought he looked downright creepy. He turned his attention back to his latest infatuation.

But Geralt was already looking him with those gorgeous amber eyes. A strand of silver hair had escaped the half up do that he always wore and was falling in front of his face. Jaskier so wanted to tuck the loose strand behind Geralt’s ear, maybe braid his hair so it stayed back properly. He’d look so handsome with a braid and Jaskier could only imagine how soft his hair would feel between his fingers.

Jaskier mentally berating himself for staring and gave Geralt, no, Ciri’s father, a wave. Geralt nodded almost imperceptibly and Jaskier only noticed the tiny smile because his gaze was drawn to Geralt’s lips as if he were a siren singing the sweetest melody.

“As you may know, Mr Rivia’s daughter Ciri” Stregobor was saying. Jaskier snapped himself out of his Geralt fuelled daze to focus back on the headmaster when he heard Ciri’s name. “is in the Buttercups with Mr Pankratz. Julian, you will need to look after Ciri today as the other children will be able to spend time with their parents or guardians.”

Geralt cleared his throat. “Actually, I’ve made arrangements for my friend to look after Ciri today. There’s no need to bother Jaskier with extra duties.”

Jaskier felt a little weak at the way Geralt said his name. It wasn’t anything particularly special but Geralt’s naturally gravelling voice just made him feel things that really weren’t appropriate for the workplace, but he still managed to force his own voice to function like a normal human being who wasn’t dying of thirst. “It’s no bother, Geralt. I assure you.” It came out a little flirtier than he intended but honestly who could blame him.

“Hmm. Thank you, Jaskier.” Geralt’s eyes soften and Jaskier felt like his heart was going to burst out of its chest.

He blushed furiously. “No problem, Geralt.”

“Get a room.” Triss whispered back at him.

“Oh shush!” Jaskier snapped back.

It was going to be a long day for his poor bisexual heart.

_________

Jaskier had rounded up all his kids in the classroom. The parents were having an introductory tea and coffee session with Vesemir and Stregobor. Vesemir was doing a presentation on the rising statistics that his team had been facing over the month or so, and the younger children had been asked to stay with their teachers in case they found some of the images and stories too distressing.

Jaskier’s class had spent the beginning of the morning drawing their best attempts at firefighters. Most of the children had drawn the four men in uniform with their hats and long hoses. Jaskier had plastered a wide smile on his face as he’d praised the drawings, even if a few of them looked as if they’d never seen a firefighter in their life. Ciri had drawn her father, but not in uniform. Ciri’s Geralt was wearing all black and was stood next to some kind of large dog. Geralt holding Ciri’s hand in the picture and Ciri beamed as she showed off her artwork.

“Wonderful Ciri!” Jaskier clapped his hands. “Who’s this?” He pointed to the dog creature.

“Roach!” She giggled.

“Roach? That’s… a good name?” He lied.

“All of Dad’s horses have been called Roach!” Ciri explained. “We always go to the stables at the weekend. Dad even lets me ride her as long as he’s holding onto the reins.”

Jaskier blinked trying to process this new information. The image of Geralt riding a horse was now seared into his brain. Shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbow and hair flying in the wind as he gripped the animal between his thighs.

Fuck…

Jaskier really needed to get laid.

This infatuation with Ciri’s father was getting out of hand.

“Wow Ciri! That’s really cool. You should bring some photographs in for next show and tell. I’m sure the others would love to see Roach.” He replied to the young girl.

The bell rang and Jaskier took a deep breath. It was their time to head outside to the truck. A perfect time to start working on getting over his crush on Geralt Rivia. He was Ciri’s teacher. It wouldn’t be appropriate to start flirting with her father in front of the whole class.

Jaskier clapped his hands with a stamp of his foot to get the class’s attention. “Listen up, Buttercups!” He called, signing the words as he spoke. The class quickly quietened down but he could still feel the excitement buzzing around the room. “We’re going to head outside now! Nobody is to run off with their parents without telling me first. I know you’ll be excited to see them but I just need to know where you are so I know you’re safe, ok?”

“Yes, Mr Jaskier” The class echoed back.

“Excellent. Now the fire engine is all very exciting. Trust me, I can’t wait to have a look! But do we remember the rules?” He looked around expectantly.

A few of the kids nodded.

“Dara?” He asked.

“Don’t touch unless the fireman says we can.” Dara replied dutifully. Jaskier hummed as he focussed, carefully watching the young kids hands. He’d done a course in sign language over summer when he’d been told about Dara being in his class but he wasn’t fluent yet and he still missed words. Dara’s interpreter was a great help but he was still determined to be able to communicate with the young boy on his own by the end of the term. Luckily the internet was full of really useful tutorials to assist him in his quest.

“Yes, good! Anyone else?” Jaskier beamed. “Marilka?”

“We can’t keep asking them to put the sirens on.” She sulked.

“Now that’s an important one! We have to protect those eardrums! Otherwise I might as well forget about my guitar.” Jaskier laughed when all the children protested at that. “Last one!”

The kids frowned as they thought about it. Jaskier took pity on them.

“No running off without telling me.” He reminded them. “Are we ready?” He asked brightly and pretended to cover his ears as the class all screamed back a yes. “Come on then!” He grinned. “What are we waiting for?”

________

Jaskier was enjoying a blissfully childfree hour. All his children had been passed back over to their parents or guardians and were crowding round different parts of the schoolyard. Vesemir was running drills, adjusted for the children, to give them an idea of what training the firefighters went through on a daily basis. Two other firefighters, Lambert and Eskel, were helping the children hold on to the hose as they took turned at pretending to put out a blaze. The children were squealing excitedly as the adults took photographs. Geralt was in charge of the fire engine. He was calm with the kids and seemed to have endless patience for their requests to put the lights and sirens on. Jaskier leaned on the wall as he watched Geralt point to the buttons on the fire engine’s dashboard. Marilka was fidgeting happily next to him, an oversized helmet almost covering her eyes.

Jaskier smiled fondly at the pair of them. He hadn’t interacted much with Geralt, outside of his dreams of course, but he seemed to be a man of very little words, preferring actions to long speeches. He always thanked Jaskier for his weekly update email or letter if he was feeling extravagant, and after the unfortunate babysitter incident Geralt had insisted on buying him a coffee as a thank you. Jaskier had tried to protest but reluctantly sent his favourite coffee order along with his weekly report. The next time Jaskier had been on playground duty, Geralt had walked up to him in the playground and pressed a large caramel latte into his hands. It even had a sprinkle of cinnamon on the top. Jaskier would have blamed his flushed face on the cold weather if Geralt had asked but thankfully the other man didn’t seem to notice.

The only thing Jaskier knew for certain about Geralt, was that he completely adored his daughter. Jaskier mused that it was probably appropriate that Ciri was the only thing they ever really discussed but he wanted to know more. What was Geralt’s coffee order? Did he always wear black when he wasn’t wearing his uniform? Were his eyes really that colour or was he secretly wearing contacts? What was his favourite type of food? Did he have any favourite bands? Would he like to hear Jaskier’s music? Jaskier so desperately hoped Geralt would like that.

He sighed dramatically.

He was being ridiculous. He was pining after a man he didn’t even know. It was so shallow of him to yearn over the man based purely on his looks. Well, not purely. Jaskier was certain the man had a heart of gold. He was raising Ciri after all and the girl was an absolute delight! Jaskier didn’t choose favourites but if he did Ciri would certainly be his favourite student. She just had a way of making everyone she met fall under a charm. She wouldn’t love Geralt if the man was a complete dick.

Maybe Jaskier was putting him on a pedestal? But he didn’t seriously have a chance with the man so was there any harm in that? He just needed to keeping his thirsting under control when Geralt was close by. It couldn’t be that hard? Could it?

Geralt’s amber eyes looked up and caught Jaskier staring. Jaskier chuckled breathlessly and gave him a little wave. Geralt tilted his head with a small smile as if to beckon him. Jaskier narrowed his eyes suspiciously but went over to see what the problem was.

“Geralt?” He asked as he reached the bright red truck. Marilka was still pretending to drive the engine to some emergency or whatever, gripping the steering wheel tight and making her own siren noises.

“Jaskier. I umm. It’s not from the coffee shop and I didn’t have any caramel or cinnamon but… here.” Geralt pulled out a thermos from the door of the fire engine. “Figured it might be a long day for the teachers.”

Jaskier stared dumbly at the flask in Geralt’s hand. “You didn’t need to do that.” He stammered.

“I know.” Geralt shrugged. “It was Ciri’s idea.”

Jaskier smiled brightly. “She’s a good kid, Geralt. You should be proud.”

“Mr Rivia!” Marilka shouted to get the fireman’s attention. “Can girls be firemen too? I wanna be a fireman!”

“Yes.” Geralt pulled out a photograph from the glovebox and pointed to a girl who was laughing and had her arm around Geralt’s shoulder. “This is Renfri. She’s part of our team. She had to stay behind today. She’s probably the best of all of us.”

Jaskier felt his heart ache as Geralt’s eyes softened when he spoke about Renfri. He was such an idiot. The coffee was Ciri’s idea, it had probably been Ciri’s idea the first time too. Geralt probably didn’t even like men, and on top of that his ex was Yennefer Vengerberg. Jaskier was nothing compared to her. Just a silly musical primary school teacher. Renfri looked fucking beautiful too.

But there wasn’t time for his personal crisis. He was a teacher and he had a job. “Even if Renfri wasn’t part of the team, that shouldn’t stop you wanting to follow your dream, little Buttercup.”

Geralt hummed in agreement and then propped the photograph up on the dashboard. Marilka’s father appeared moments later and dragged his daughter from the truck to allow the other kids to have a chance. Geralt nodded a goodbye at the child and then patted the vacated seat.

Jaskier grinned and slid into the seat. “I’m not a child, Geralt.”

“Fire safety is for adults too.” Geralt said seriously but when Jaskier looked at his face he could see the way Geralt’s eyes were twinkling with amusement.

“Oh screw you.” He muttered under his breath.

“You got lunch?” Geralt asked as he pulled out a lunch box. Jaskier almost squealed when he noticed it was a My Little Pony lunchbox. Sure it wasn’t the Applejack that Jaskier knew and loved, he’d never forgive them for changing the design, but Geralt Rivia had an Applejack lunchbox! Jaskier’s day was made!

Jaskier shook his head. “I’ll eat with the kids when we go back inside.”

“I am proud.” Geralt said quietly as he unwrapped his sandwich. Jaskier’s stomach rumbled and he suddenly remembered he’d skipped breakfast. Geralt raised his eyebrows at Jaskier before tossing him the apple from his lunchbox. Jaskier failed to catch it and it landed in his lap.

He smiled brightly at the fireman. “Thanks.”

“She’s so strong.” Geralt continued without missing a beat. “She’s been through more than any child should, more than any person.”

“She’s coping alright.”

“Yeah, but that’s got nothing to do with me.” Geralt sighed. “I’m just gonna fuck it up. You’re good with the kids. Ciri adores you. I wish.” Geralt paused and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I wish I knew how you did it.”

Jaskier gaped at the fireman. “Geralt.” He breathed shakily. “You’re amazing with children.”

“No.”

“Yes!” Jaskier protested.

“Hmm. How would you even know?” Geralt spat out bitterly but made no move to evict Jaskier from the truck.

“Call it instinct. That and I was watching you talk to my kids.” Jaskier admitted. “They loved you.”

“It’s just the uniform. Makes people trust you.” Geralt shook his head.

“Geralt Rivia!” Jaskier gasped in outrage. “Enough of your self-loathing. What would you say to Ciri if she started talking that way?”

“Hmm.” Geralt growled.

“Precisely. So, have a little confidence. You didn’t choose to be her father but you’re doing a bloody brilliant job from what I can see.” Jaskier insisted. “We’re trained to spot potential home problems you know, and given the circumstances I think you’re doing just fine.”

They fell into silence whilst Geralt ate his sandwich. Jaskier was afraid to say anymore in case he accidentally revealed just how much he’d been watching Geralt whenever the man visited the school, or how much he treasured every email and look that he received from the man. He knew he had a habit of talking to much, to be honest it was why he was good at teaching. Instead he began to hum under his breath, the song he’d been composing the night before. Geralt didn’t seem to mind so he sang a little louder, experimenting with lyrics. He’d thought of a few but nothing seemed to fit.

“It wasn’t Ciri’s idea.” Geralt eventually said as tucked his lunchbox back into his bag under his seat.

“What?” Jaskier frown at the non-sequitur.

“The coffee.” Geralt nodded and the pushed open his door and jumped out, leaving Jaskier very confused and alone in the truck.

He glanced down at the flask in his hand and opened the lid. He inhaled the smell of coffee with a moan. It was strong coffee, Geralt really knew the way to his heart. He took a tentative sip, expecting it to be bitter without the caramel syrup he so adored but to his surprise it was sweet and creamy just like his usual order. It wasn’t caramel but Geralt must have dumped a shit ton of sugar in the thermos to compensate. Jaskier hummed happily as he took another sip. Oh it was definitely strong yet milky and sweet. The only way to drink coffee in Jaskier’s humble opinion.

He laughed to himself, alone in the fire engine. How was he ever going to get over his infatuation with Ciri’s father if he kept being so thoughtful?

Jaskier was well and truly fucked. ______

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