#With Jaskier often managing to gently coax him out of them...

[thelostgirl21]

False Kings, A Radovid Tribute (feat. Radovid & Jaskier's relationship)

[vulturhythm]

until the blue ocean turns green - part one

There’s a man with golden eyes who sits beside Jaskier’s sea sometimes.

His hair is the silver of the seafoam, and it glows in the moonlight, when it isn’t made red with blood.

It’s red with blood quite often.

His eyes are like the coastal wolves’, bright and cunning.

Sometimes they’re black.

He comes to the shoreline now and then, at least once or twice in a moon cycle.

When he comes, he sits on a fallen tree, one that Jaskier remembers being struck by lightning many cycles before. Half of it is charred black, and the rest is saltwater pale, gnarled with age.

He sits on the fallen rock, and he merely… sits. Jaskier watches him from behind a rock far out in the water, watches him watch the waves.

The sea is usually calm, only ever riled by storms. Jaskier suspects that’s part of why he enjoys watching.

The sea isn’t fickle and upset like rivers and streams, and it’s a sight prettier than lakes, Jaskier likes to think.

Not that he’s seen many lakes - it’s hard to get to them. Rivers have a habit of becoming too narrow or shallow before he can reach a lake, so he’s stuck with tales from the gulls.

It’s from the gulls that Jaskier learns more of the man.

He learns that his name is Geralt, and that he rides a horse he calls Roach.

He learns that Geralt kills creatures like him for coin.

Jaskier knows coin - he’s heard travelers on the shore talking about it, sailors above water talking about it… the gulls tell him it’s currency, like the seashells where he comes from.

The gulls tell him that humans love coin, and Jaskier thinks them foolish for it, because the most seashells can buy down below is passage from one sea to the next, only sometimes the harpies and the selkies don’t honor the toll, and they sic a shark on you, and you make it away bleeding and poor, without ever getting where you meant to go, and you’re alive, but you’re missing half a fin off your beautiful, beautiful tail -

Well.

The gulls tell him the man is something called a witcher, and they tell him he’s right - the witcher always looks sad.

- -

Jaskier isn’t sure how many cylces pass with Geralt sitting at his shoreline.

“Months,” the gulls correct him, over and over, but Jaskier tells them, quite flippantly, that the merfolk measure by the moon, and they ruffle their feathers, and squawk at him but give up quickly enough.

Geralt comes to his shore wounded one night.

It’s the scent of blood that draws Jaskier up from the sea floor, away from the counting of his shells (he hopes, perhaps, he can buy his way up the northern river, the one guarded by the meanest of the sirens and the toughest of the sharks, and follow Geralt into the mainland).

He’s made a habit of lingering close to the shore when nightfall draws near, just in case his witcher comes.

Tonight, his witcher is hurt.

Watching from behind his stone, Jaskier feels his heart ache at the sight.

Geralt moves with caution, with obvious care, and he moves with one hand pressed to his side, and in the moonlight, Jaskier sees, quite clearly, the blood on his beautiful hands.

His heart aches.

Geralt remains for hours, staring out at the waves. Jaskier isn’t even sure he knows what his gaze is upon - he looks lost, and he looks sad.

He always looks sad.

--

Nearly a year passes before the sadness begins to fade.

“He’s in love,” proclaim the gulls, and something within Jaskier snarls. “He’s met a woman.”

Primarily, Jaskire believes them wrong.

The sadness is merely fading - it isn’t gone.

--

Two cycles later, Jaskier has enough for the northern river toll.

He has enough, and the harpies take the shells he hands them in the seaweed bundle, and he shudders at the sight of their wicked talons and human faces, and he swims past them as they sneer.

The gulls, flying overhead, keep watch.

Harpies aren’t known to honor their word, and the sharks circling down below look awfully hungry.

He makes it less than a ship’s length ahead before he feels the water shift, feels it ripple with the motion of something drawing near - drawing near too fast for him to get away.

--

He makes it out alive.

Only barely.

His tail is bitten deep, meat exposed, nearly to the bone. The fins along the sides are torn, and the fan at the end, the beautiful fan he’s adored his entire lifetime, is ragged now, ragged and bloody and raw.

Deep blue scales are flaking off his tail and arms, glistening as they drift away.

If his kind could cry, Jaskier’s tears would be blending with his blood in the water.

He bleeds silver, like the unicorns of the land.

Coiled into the side of his stone below the sea, Jaskier watches as it rises to the surface, glistening there in the moonlight. It clouds up and fades away soon, and yet, still he bleeds.

Geralt does not come that night, nor the next.

Still he bleeds.

--

Jaskier grows weak.

Without food to eat or plants to bind his tail, he bleeds, and he grows weak.

He bleeds, and he grows weak, and his grip on the rock is lost.

The sea fades to black as he drifts upward, toward the moon hanging low in the sky.

His heart aches.

--

He wakes up numb.

He wakes up numb, with the night air on his skin.

He wakes up numb, and he wakes up with the night air on his skin, and he wakes up with a hand on his chest.

Jaskier's world is foggy when he opens his eyes, but he manages it regardless, and for a moment, he only stares, because that's...

That's a pair of eyes overhead, and they're -

they're yellow.

They're yellow, and they're sad.

"Geralt?" he breathes, and those sad, sad eyes go wide...

... and Jaskier sinks back into darkness, Geralt's voice deep and rough and low and like home in his ears.

"How?"

--

He wakes up next when the sun is in the sky.

This time, he can feel water lapping against his sides, cool and comforting and familiar.

He breathes in deep, opens his eyes and blinks at the glare of the day.

It takes a moment for the rest of his senses to return.

He's resting in a little tide pool, deep enough to submerge his tail, his lower torso. Another second passes before he realizes he's laid across one of the rocks at the pool's edge, head propped on his folded arms. There's a damp towel laid across his back, lessening the heat of the sun.

Jaskier groans as he tries to move, pushing himself up on his arms to glance around. He knows this tide pool - it's not that far from where he surfaces to observe his witcher at night. Confusion knots his brow when he glances down and sees what appears to be an animal hide laid across the rock, cushioning his slumber.

"Don't move too much."

He jerks in ill-concealed surprise, finally looking up, and -

he goes still.

Geralt is seated nearby, crosslegged on a mostly-flat rock at the outer edge of the tide pool. He's watching him, golden eyes locked with deep blue, and Jaskier cannot breathe.

He can't breathe, because he is beautiful.

"What attacked you?" asks the witcher, and he speaks softly, as though he's trying to keep the merman from shying away from - from him, from the most beautiful thing Jaskier has ever seen.

Jaskier sucks in a breath, feels the gills along his throat tremble, looks past Geralt to where his red mare is standing still in the sand. "Sharks," he replies at last.

Geralt hums, low, and that's that. He moves with a heavy sigh, motioning for Jaskier to look back, down at his tail.

He obeys.

His tail is bound in white cloth, stained murky platinum with his blood. Geralt had taken obvious care, binding the fins along the sides as gently as possible. Jaskier moves cautiously, giving his tail an experimental sway, and he grimaces at the pain, but it lets him look at the fan at the end, resting in the sand.

Still ruined.

"There's nothing I can do," comes Geralt's voice, and he sounds apologetically resigned. Jaskier nods, tries not to let his face fall. "I treated everything with potions, the wounds should heal in time - they'll scar, and I'm afraid the fins might not regrow, but you won't feel the damage. Your, ah... the fan, though..."

Jaskier is having trouble following along, the majority of his attention devoted to the sound of Geralt's voice, rather than the words.

He catches just enough to know that his fan is lost.

Part of him - that vain, bitter part - hurts with the knowledge.

"Thank you," he says at last, his voice just as soft.

Geralt is quiet, but when Jaskier looks back at him, he nods, golden eyes on his tail.

--

Geralt comes back for him every day for - four, five months?

(Geralt calls them months, like the gulls, and so, finally, Jaskier gave up.)

Jaskier stays in the tide pool for the first bit of that time.

Eventually, Geralt begins to lift him from the stony area, sets him down in the ocean proper, lets him sink below and soak.

He keeps his arms around him the entire time, refusing to let him strain his tail.

When Geralt returns him to the tide pool, he always re-soaks the cloth draped over him, the deer hide laid out beneath him, and offers whatever food he's brought along.

Human food is... intriguing.

Jaskier develops quite the taste for rabbit.

Every couple of days, Geralt changes out the bandages, reapplies the potions he carries hanging off a belt.

It's very nearly maddening, Geralt's touch so gentle and caring on his scales.

Never once does he touch his skin, not with his palms.

Only ever with his arms, strong and torturous around his chest to support him in the shallows.

Jaskier yearns for his touch.

--

Geralt tells him stories, every day.

At first, it's extremely grudging.

Jaskier coaxes tales of slaying selkiemore and drowners and cockatrice and banshees from his witcher, and for the first couple of weeks, it's an agonizing process.

Geralt doesn't like talking about himself.

When Jaskier reminds him that he's the only source of entertainment available to a virtually bedridden merman, he becomes less reluctant.

A little.

One day, Jaskier asks if he's ever slain merfolk.

Geralt doesn't answer at first. He merely looks at him, and there's sadness in his eyes, just as profound as ever.

He nearly laughs - a low, weary exhale - and turns his head away.

"I won't kill you," is all he says, at last.

Jaskier believes him.

--

They play games, sometimes.

Well, Jaskier invents the games, and Geralt tolerates them, at best.

They play "count the seagulls" and "hide the seashell" and "braid your hair," only it's difficult to count the gulls when they always fly away in a rush as soon as they get wind of the fun, and there's only so many places to hide the seashell where Jaskier can reach it from his confinement, and Geralt's hair is the only hair long enough to braid, and he takes it with...

With...

Well.

He takes it.

Jaskier sings to him, most of the time.

He sings him the songs of his kind, and he sings him the songs he's heard from the sailors going by above, and he sings him the songs he's learned from the travelers at his shore.

Geralt teaches him some of his own kind - well, the human kind.

Drinking songs, he calls them.

Jaskier decides he loves them.

--

Geralt tells him about the woman, eventually.

Her name is Yennefer, and Jaskier loathes her immediately.

She's a sorceress - something like the sea witches Jaskier's kind fears.

They met while Geralt was after a djinn - he won't explain why, not even when Jaskier cocks his head to the side and causes Geralt to derail in an attempt to explain. He doesn't even notice that Jaskier is stalling.

One day, Jaskier asks if he loves her.

Geralt doesn't answer, not then.

Two days later, out of nowhere, Jaskier cradled in his arms so he can enjoy the sea, he says, "No. I don't."

Jaskier decides he loves him.

--

It's a long while before Geralt removes the bandages to reveal healed wounds.

There's raised lines of new flesh where there had once been deep gouges, and Jaskier's scales have grown back a brighter, truer blue, standing out against the deep shade of the rest.

The fins are intact, only the smallest notches in the edges indicating their trauma.

As for the fan, the wide, flowing, beautiful, gossamer, ghostly fan Jaskier had prided himself upon his entire life...

The edges of the bites are healed, no longer raw and sensitive to the sting of the sea, but the bites themselves are still apparent.

His fan is ruined.

Laying there in the tide pool, propped on his elbows to survey his tail, Jaskier wishes he could cry.

He lifts his tail, thwacks it against the water, feels no remorse when he splashes Geralt in the process.

Geralt doesn't seem to care.

Not about the water, at least.

It's as Jaskier's about to hit the surface once more that Geralt reaches for him, props a hand against the backside of his tail, holds him firm and meets his gaze.

Jaskier goes still.

His chest is heaving, fear and shame and pain clogging his throat, and he wishes he could cry, but he can't, and so he doesn't.

He stares back at Geralt, stares back at those wolf-gold eyes, stares at him until he lets his tail go slack. The weight of it is no doubt immense, but Geralt supports it like nothing, lays it down gently in the water and sets his hand on the underside instead.

"I'm sorry," he says aloud, smoothing his hand along his scales, down and down and down until he's tracing along the edges of the fan, of the ruined fan, once Jaskier's pride and joy... he traces the edges, and he watches his own hand, and he says, "I tried to save it."

Jaskier doesn't answer.

He's too busy trying to breathe.

--

Geralt sets him back in the sea that night, tells him to try swimming close to shore, stick close by, rest if he needs, he'll be back the next day...

Jaskier merely nods.

When Geralt pulls away, his fingertips graze across Jaskier's skin, across the point where scales fade into flesh along the v of his waist.

He shudders.

Geralt goes rigid, and yet he doesn't say a word.

He eases him into the sea, says goodnight, waits on horseback until Jaskier dips below the surface and doesn't rise again to leave.

Jaskier comes back when his scent has worn thin.

He floats there, near the tide pool, until his newfound strength begins to wane.

He falls asleep resting against the stones at the rim of the tide pool, Geralt's scent hanging heavy in the air.

--

Geralt doesn't come back until nightfall the next day, but he brings food, so Jaskier can't fault him.

His tail isn't powerful enough yet to drive him deep below and back home just yet, and the seaweed and crustaceans near the shore are nowhere near as satisfying.

Geralt sits crosslegged in the sand, watches with attentive eyes as Jaskier ducks and dives and whirls...

... as Jaskier shows off, twists and arches and writhes, lets what's left of his fan splay in the water in the closest thing to a mating dance he's ever fucking done, and he's always winded by the time he surfaces again, and Geralt...

... Geralt doesn't care.

He makes Jaskier come closer, wades out far enough to feel over his tail, over his fins, making sure they aren't strained and raw and split open.

They aren't, but maybe Jaskier plays up his exertion, if for nothing else than to have Geralt carry him back into the tide pool, sit down at the edge and knead into the muscles of his tail until it takes everything within him not to moan aloud.

--

This continues for another week.

Geralt is always watchful, golden eyes following Jaskier through the water so he doesn't grow weak, and at the end of every night, he carries him to the pool, massages the nonexistent ache from his tail and lets Jaskier sing.

One night, Jaskier asks if he likes his singing.

His witcher looks him in the eyes then, just for a moment, and looks away, the faintest of smiles on his face.

He doesn't answer, but Jaskier gloats regardless.

--

One night, Geralt comes looking... almost happy.

He tells Jaskier he's found Yennefer again.

(Jaskier didn't realize that she was lost, let alone worthy of finding.)

She's moved on, living in another town, in another kingdom. Geralt had gotten word from a traveling merchant, one he's known for years.

Jaskier should be happy for him.

He knows he should.

He knows this, and yet, when Geralt looks at him more closely, asks him what's wrong, he spits out, "Do you love her?"

Geralt goes still.

He's standing at the very edge of the tide, arms crossed.

Jaskier is floating just far enough out that the sand brushes his chest when he settles lower in the water, close enough to talk to his witcher with ease.

"Do you love her?" he repeats.

Geralt's jaw tightens, and he starts to speak, and when he does, it's a low and frustrated snarl.

"I knew her first."

Jaskier's tail hits the surface of the water with enough force to send a ripple through the current, to send a wave toward the shore, lapping at Geralt's boots.

"Jaskier, you can't leave the water, you know you can't - "

"There has to be a way, you see magic all day long, Geralt - "

"I'm not taking you from your home - "

"I haven't seen my home in months!" he nearly screams, and his voice is raw and wrecked and honest, and it hurts to yell, and it hurts to breathe, and, "I haven't gone back below since I met you, Geralt, you have to know that, you are my home!"

Geralt falls silent then.

Jaskier's voice gives out as he cuts himself off, and he falls quiet, and he waits, and he trembles there in the water, his witcher out of reach.

When Geralt speaks again, it's with his eyes averted, and he sounds...

"No. I don't love her, but I can't love you."

He turns away, and Jaskier starts to protest, to call out, to beg for him to stay - but his throat is dry, and so he says nothing.

He stays there, motionless in the water, and watches as Geralt mounts up on his mare and walks away.

He stays there until the sun is rising in the eastern sky.

He stays there until the daylight wears away at his skin and his head is pounding with the atmospheric heat.

He stays there until he grows weak.

He grows weak, and he turns away, sinks below the surface, dives down, down, down... down until the water is dark and he doesn't know if the shadows just beyond his reach are creatures come to kill or merely rock formations lurking in the void.

His heart aches, and he wishes he could cry.

--

The gulls tell him Geralt has moved on, farther north.

They tell him he's accompanied by a woman with hair as black as the abyss, a woman who heals his wounds with magic and keeps him warm at night.

Jaskier looks to the ruined fan at the end of his tail, to the fresh and brighter scales that mark Geralt's care.

He looks to the ruined fan, and he doesn't say a word.

--

The gulls tell him Geralt travels alone now.

They tell him that he left the woman in a kingdom called Cintra, and they tell him he's angry now, angry and just as sorrowful as ever.

Some bitter part of his heart is glad.

--

They tell him they've lost track of Geralt.

It's been years.

--

It's been years, and still, Jaskier waits close to the shore.

Geralt's scent has long since worn off the stones where they used to sit together, where they used to talk and laugh and sing and play... where Jaskier fell for the man with wolf-gold eyes and seafoam-pale hair.

His heart aches.

[dhwty-writes]

Chapter 7 - A Broken Sword

After that delightful dose of fluff last chapter I can assure you that we are now returning to our angsty scheduled program. Thanks to @persony-pepper for betaing. Have fun reading!

Summary: Ciri and Jaskier are getting along better by the minute. The Viscount and Geralt, however, can't seem to find common ground. 

Read on AO3

Part 1 | Part 7 | Part 9

In general, things got better in Lettenhove. Geralt didn't know what Ciri and Jaskier had done that afternoon before he had found them in Jaskier's nursery, but whatever it was, he wasn't about to complain. Because by some kind of miracle it made Ciri laugh and Jaskier talk — not to him, of course, but that was another story. Even Janina had stopped insulting him at every turn.

On a personal and petty level, though, things got worse. It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. But Ciri had spent an entire afternoon with Jaskier, she even got to call him Jaskier. She had even gotten him to call Geralt by his name; he hadn't even known how much he'd missed that, and yet— And yet. And yet, she refused to talk about whatever had transpired that day besides that Jaskier had told her some stupid story about some stupid hero.

It had been a week and yet every time he tried to coax the actual story out of her, she responded with: "Jaskier said, if you don't know it, it is not his place to tell me what happened. So, it is not my place to tell you what happened."

It was stupid. It was ridiculous. It was infuriating.

Not only had Jaskier stolen his child surprise, but he was also feeling more like an outsider than ever. Before, it had been Ciri and him who were obviously encroaching into the ancestral home of the Lord and Ladies Pankratz, their mere presence at the dinner table an unwelcome intrusion of the familiar rhythm the three siblings followed. Now, with Ciri animatedly chatting with both Jaskier and Józefa, he grew more uneasy every day.

From time to time he even played with the thought to leave. With a good enough horse, he might still make it to Kaer Morhen before the Trail became impassable. He could leave Ciri here for the winter and return for her come spring. He trusted Jaskier not to sell her out. But then again, Jaskier was no warrior. He might have changed a lot but not that much. If Ciri would be attacked he wouldn’t be able to defend her. He couldn’t leave— it was just wishful thinking.

To make things worse, Jaskier's attitude towards him didn't improve one bit. He probably could handle not being talked to; after all, he had wished for blessed silence long enough. It was the little things that made Geralt lose his mind. Like how Jaskier still insisted on calling him 'witcher' most of the time. Or how he had no qualms ordering Geralt around like one of his guards. Or that he just burst into Geralt's room one day while he was telling Ciri a story and triumphantly declared: "I have thought of a solution!"

"You can't just barge into rooms without knocking," Geralt growled.

The comment made Jaskier frown, as if he was thoroughly confused by it. "You're mistaken, witcher," he said and Ciri giggled. "I can go wherever I want, whenever I want. This is my castle, after all." He winked at Ciri and she laughed louder as if they were privy to some kind of joke Geralt didn't understand.

'Nobles.' He ground his teeth. There was a reason why he avoided aristocrats like the plague. How on earth had he managed two collect two of them? And why on earth stared the two of them at him as if they were waiting for something? Geralt sighed: "What solution, my lord?"

"We will dye Ciri's hair!" 

Ciri shrieked and attempted to scramble out of Geralt's lap, but he quickly caught her and pulled her back. "Not so fast, cublet," he said and dangled her from her ankle upside down,  before he turned to Jaskier: "I beg your pardon?"

“We will dye her hair,” he repeated.

“Why?” Geralt asked and Jaskier rolled his eyes.

"To better hide her," he said very slowly as if talking to a particularly stupid child. "A lot of people know — or know of — the ashen-haired Princess of Cintra, who was claimed as child surprise by Geralt of Rivia, who was foolishly immortalised for his white hair and is known to be my friend. I will try to shield her from view as much as I can but I can't lock her up for the whole winter. And pray tell, how suspicious do you think it would be to have a 'cousin' no-one has ever heard of, who fits the description perfectly, arrive with you at my home, witcher? Hm? That is disaster waiting to happen."

"So?"

Jaskier rolled his eyes at him. "So, I have had a nice little potion brought in that will dye our dear lion cub's hair in a lovely shade of chestnut brown that quite resembles mine if I do say so myself."

Geralt snorted and put Ciri down onto her feet again. "Why, because you hide your grey hairs with that?"

The moment the words left his mouth, he knew he had made a mistake. "That is none of your concern, witcher," the viscount answered and Geralt cursed silently. He couldn't quite get used to the no-jokes-about-the-viscount-allowed-policy in Lettenhove. They hadn't really talked about it — then again, what had they really talked about since his arrival? — but Jaskier enforced this unspoken law with an iron fist. The fact that Ciri seemed to be exempt — the only exception besides Józefa — didn't make it any better. Every time he saw her joking with Jaskier, both of them gently teasing each other mercilessly, he ached to join in.

Sometimes, their antics were enough to make his unyielding discipline waver, sometimes Jaskier's ramblings were. Every time he slipped up it was like starting over again. He cast his eyes downwards. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"Pardon, I didn't quite catch that," Jaskier retorted with that particular voice of his he used so often nowadays. Geralt still couldn't quite place its meaning.

"I'm sorry, my lord," he gritted out, swallowing down his pride and the bitter taste the address left in his mouth alike.

"You shall be forgiven," he answered politely and paused before adding: "In due time. Ciri, come with me?"

This time he didn't stop her when she wriggled out of his grasp and ran over to their host. He felt miserable just sitting there as the door closed behind them. Still, he couldn't quite stop himself from listening when Ciri squealed: "You're cruel."

He almost didn't catch Jaskier's reply: "Probably. But did you see his face?"

Even four days after he couldn't get used to seeing Ciri with dark hair. She had returned a few hours later to him, her hair still wet from washing the excess dye out. Like that it looked so dark it might as well be black. But Jaskier had been right: dried, it resembled his own hair colour very much.

He couldn't forget the little exchange he had overheard between Jaskier and Ciri either. He tried to avoid the word ‘eavesdropping’ when thinking about it — that wasn't really what he had been doing. Normally, they waited until they were out of earshot, even a witcher’s, before they started talking. That time they hadn't. He couldn't very well shut his ears. Which meant that he couldn't quite shake the feeling that he had been supposed to hear it. But if that was the case, he couldn't figure out why.

He itched to ask them but he couldn't really do that. Because if he hadn't been supposed to hear that he had been eavesdropping — a crime Jaskier formerly would have punished with a light slap on his wrist and some silly moniker. 'Scamp', maybe, or 'rogue' or perhaps even 'scoundrel'. Now, however… And he couldn't ask Ciri either. In the best case, she'd tell him she couldn't tell him again. In the worst case she'd tell Jaskier.

He was mulling over that question again, watching Ciri out of the corner of his eye as she balanced on the railing of the gallery when his thoughts were interrupted by a loud shout: "Ci- Fiona!" Jaskier rushed out into the courtyard without so much as a cloak to protect him from the dropping temperatures and stared up at his child surprise in horror. "What are you-" He turned to Geralt, seething with anger. "What is she doing up there?"

"Training," he answered matter-of-factly.

"Training?!" his voice cracked. "What do you mean, training? I thought you were teaching her how to wield a sword!"

"And I thought you weren't watching," he replied before thinking the better of it.

"That is not the point! This is not teaching her how to wield a sword, witcher! This is dangerous! What if she falls?"

"She won't," he insisted stubbornly. He had her balance on all kinds of narrow paths before, though none of them in such heights. Only when she had mastered the previous paths had he allowed her up the railing.

"What if she does?"

"That's why I'm watching her," Geralt growled and moved to brush past him. He was no idiot. He wouldn't let her fall. "Get out of the way, bard, you're blocking my line of sight."

Jaskier didn't want to hear any of that: "Get her down from there, now!"

"Jas-"

"Now, witcher!"

"My lord-"

Jaskier yelped as Ciri stumbled and flailed with her arms. Geralt pushed past him, ready to catch his child surprise. A smug grin spread on his face as she regained her balance quickly. With agile movements she finished walking and came rushing down the stairs.

"Jaskier!" she exclaimed happily, skipping over to them. "Did you see me?"

The bard in question nodded, paler than a death shroud and gasping for air as if he had been the one stalking the balustrade. 'Always so dramatic,' he thought and rolled his eyes. "I did, darling, you did wonderful," Jaskier patted her on the shoulder and forced a smile.

"Look at what Geralt taught me yesterday!" Without hesitating she did a handstand and began walking on her hands before closing with a cartwheel. With rosy cheeks she turned to them. "Will you watch?"

"I-" Jaskier faltered. Geralt could see him agonising over it. 'Ha!' he thought smugly. 'He's as much under her charm as I am.' It would have warmed his heart if not for the stink of vinegar, infected wounds and peppers in the air. "Sure," Jaskier said finally. "For a bit."

Her face lit up as she turned back to Geralt. "Can I do the barrels next?"

He waved his hand in permission and watched her run off. "Barrels?" Jaskier gasped. "What barre- sweet Melitele have mercy!" The stench of vinegar was strong enough to make Geralt gag. "Does she do that all the time?"

"She does," he agreed and watched Ciri clamber up the barrels of ale that had been transported in a few days ago. They had quickly been included into their daily routine.

"What if she trips?"

"My lord," Geralt sighed heavily.

"Witcher."

"You have just seen her walk over a railing that is thinner than her feet are wide. She won't trip."

"Geralt!" Ciri called for their attention. "Jaskier! Look!" She was doing a handstand on the highest barrel now and Jaskier blanched again.

"Oh, no, child, that's-", he cried.

"Don't get cocky, now!" Geralt added. "Or else-"

"I'll become a prick like Lambert, I know," she answered and stood upright again. He did his best to ignore the pointed glare Jaskier gave him. "I'll just balance over here real quick- Shit!"

It happened far too quickly for either of them to react. Ciri's foot caught on something and then she stumbled into the four feet of thin air below her. By the time Geralt was running towards her she was already lying on the floor, clutching her right ankle tightly. Pride welled up inside him to see that no tears stained her cheeks. "Are you alright?" he asked and tried to scoop her up.

She cried in pain as he touched her, and now there were tears and he felt horrible. "It hurts!" she complained.

"I told you to be careful," he chided, "I told you not to get cocky!"

"Am I becoming a prick now?" she asked so earnestly that it made him laugh. "No!" she sobbed harder. "Don't laugh! It hurts!"

"I won't, I won't," he reassured her quickly, trying to regain his composure. "Show me where?"

He barely registered Jaskier shouting while Ciri pointed at her right ankle. And her right arm. And her right shoulder. Her whole right side basically.

"Borys, don't stare and make yourself useful!" the viscount bellowed, "Take a horse and go get Wera- No, you idiot! Take two horses! Marin!"

"Yes, my lord."

"I'll have these barrels removed! Now!"

"At once, my lord."

"You know what? I'll have any climbable structure that could pose a threat to a ten-year old child removed."

"The stables too, my lord?"

“The stables- I- No, of course not, you imbecile!”

“Just checking, my lord.”

"Marin."

"Yes, my lord?" There was a pause. Geralt imagined Jaskier giving Marin a very stern look but he was too busy checking for injuries to look up. "No jokes, understood. Alright men, you heard his lordship!"

Jaskier fell to his knees next to Geralt. "Ci- Fiona, my dear, how are you feeling?" he asked anxiously, the scent of vinegar spiking again.

"I'm fine," Ciri sniffled. "But my foot hurts."

"Yeah, I don't doubt that... You!" He pointed at a passing servant. "Bandages and cold water. Now!" Jaskier shooed Geralt off and turned back to Ciri, carefully peeling the sleeve of her tunic away. "Here, let me see- ohh, that doesn't look good."

She gasped. "What is it?"

He frowned deeply. "I fear we'll have to lop it off. There's just no saving it..."

She shrieked and giggled. "That's not true! Geralt, tell me that's not true!"

He did his best to maintain a straight face: "No, he's completely right. I've had griffin bites smaller than that."

"An infected wound is a serious business, little one," Jaskier added. "Best not take any risks."

"Yeah, with a scrape as bad as this... best take preemptive measures-"

She made a very rude gesture at them. "You're horrible." Geralt scoffed and to his surprise Jaskier snickered. He hadn't heard him laugh since their arrival. Ciri shoved both of them hard. Jaskier at least had the courtesy to fall over.

"Now that's not true," Geralt said as Jaskier answered: "Anything to make you laugh, darling girl."

"I hate you," she pouted, "both of you."

"Say that again and you're grounded for the rest of the week, young lady. Melitele knows you need the bedrest..."

"I'm fine!" Ciri insisted stubbornly and sprung to her feet to show it. Geralt was impressed that she didn't even wince.

"You are fine when Wera says you are. Sit down and wait here for her. I need to borrow my witcher for a bit."

She frowned. "But I'm not finished, yet!" she insisted.

"Yes, you are," Geralt agreed with Jaskier. "You can't fight like that."

"You do!" she replied and he cursed quietly.

"Another reason why I need a word with him," Jaskier said and stared at Geralt angrily. "You can continue tomorrow, dear child, if Wera allows it. This is important."

"Is this one of those grown-up talks?" She wrinkled her nose. "If so, I don't want to see that."

Jaskier took a shuddering breath. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, exactly. Marta!" He waved for the servant to come over. "Go and draw Fiona a bath, Melitele knows she needs one. And then you just... take the day off, hm? Read a bit. Or have Marta help you over to see Józefa. I believe she's almost done with the cartoon for her tapestry."

Ciri scowled at him before letting Marta support her in order to limp back to the South Wing, muttering ‘Grown-ups are weird’ as she went.

As soon as the door to the well house shut behind them, Jaskier turned to him, his voice sharp as razor blades: "My study," he ordered. "Now."

Geralt narrowed his eyes and ground his teeth but still he followed him when he turned back to the East Wing. The way up the stairs, spent in complete silence, was torture. Every step poisoned the air more with the horrid stench of vinegar-fear and peppery anger.

It made Geralt want to retch as an icy hand grasped his own heart. He knew the fiery taste of Jaskier's fury well enough. Usually it appeared on his behalf, not because of him. That alone was worrying, but the truly terrifying thing was the sour stench that came with panic. Jaskier never smelled of fear in his presence: not upon their first meeting, not when facing elves and djinns and angry Yennefers. Not even with the prospect of walking down a deadly mountain trail all on his own. 'What have I done that he fears me?' he asked himself. 'What have I done that he no longer feels safe in my presence?'

His thoughts were interrupted with the doors slamming shut behind him. "What were you thinking?" Jaskier shouted and the spice flared again. "Climbing barrels, Geralt? Really? Were you even thinking, you absolute idiot?"

"I am training her," Geralt answered simply.

"You were endangering her!" He whipped around, his chest heaving heavily. "You're supposed to keep her out of harm's way, not thrust her in it!"

"Calm down. She only twisted her ankle. That happens all the time."

"And scraped her whole arm open! And her side probably, too! She could have broken something!"

"But she hasn't. She was just overexcited because you were watching. Normally she knows to be careful."

"She is a ten-year-old girl, Geralt! She has no sense of self-preservation."

"Funny, hearing that from you."

Jaskier scoffed and crossed his arms. "That doesn't matter right now. You can't have her climbing unstable barrels and balancing fourteen feet above the ground! She could die if she fell!"

"You're exaggerating. The railing's not fourteen feet high."

"For once in my life I am not! Fuck, Geralt, sometimes I wonder if you have a conception of humans at all. She's a child, not a witcher!"

"At Kaer Morhen-" he tried.

"We are not at Kaer Morhen!" Jaskier interrupted him. "Haven't you noticed? We are not there because the mere way up there is deadly to humans when it is too cold! You are in Lettenhove for precisely that reason! And as the lord of this castle, I will not tolerate it!"

He crossed his arms and scoffed. "Are you now going to tell me how to train her?"

Jaskier's face was unmoving, his voice cold as stone: "Precisely."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "You are being dramatic, my lord."

"No. No, I am not! Have you seen her bruises? I think there is not a single unmarked spot on her body! I don't even know how she can sleep at night!"

"Children are resilient. Besides, a few bruises don't harm anyone."

"Yes, they do!" There was the slightest quiver in Jaskier's voice that made Geralt falter. "Not everyone is like you and likes getting beat up!"

"She'll be fine," he said a bit more cautiously. "Everyone who learns how to fight goes through that. They all come around."

"No, they don't!" Jaskier's voice broke weakly, a broken sob ripping free of him that made him want to come closer and flee at the same time. "I didn't! I hate it! I hated it as a child and I hate it now and I will always hate it! Do not do the same to her!"

Geralt stared at Jaskier. What else was there he could do while the tears fell helplessly, staining his cheeks and dripping on his silken doublet. "I'm sorry," Geralt said finally, still trying to process his words. Now that he came to think of it, that was probably the most Jaskier had ever revealed to him about his life before leaving for Oxenfurt. Melitele’s tits, he hadn’t even been aware that Lettenhove was in Redania until recently. It was a shocking realisation, that he didn’t know anything about Jaskier’s childhood at all. "I didn't mean to, Jas-"

“‘I didn't mean to, my lord,’" he spat and turned away, "Get that into that thick head of yours already." The scent of spicy anger and salty-teared sadness was thick in the air.

"My lord," he tried again, tentatively reaching out, but Jaskier only recoiled even more.

"Go away," he murmured, his voice thick with tears, "I don't want to see you anymore."

Geralt tensed. He wanted nothing more than to make it better, to take his words back, quell the tears and smother the scent that reeked like a dusty mountaintop littered with corpses. 'I'm just trying to figure out what pleases me.' Maybe- "It would please me-"

"But it wouldn't please me!" Jaskier snapped. "Leave already!"

He hesitated for a few heartbeats, hoping that Jaskier would change his mind. He didn't. "Right," Geralt said quietly. "As my lord commands." He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

Not knowing what else to do, Geralt crossed over to the South Wing again to see if Ciri was alright. But as soon as he opened the door to Ciri's room, he heard a decided: "Out!" The old healer sat on the bed with Ciri, fussing over her injuries - to his shame, they looked a lot worse than he had anticipated.

"I just-" he began, but Wera interrupted him: "No. Out. You can see her when I am done."

He quickly glanced at Ciri, who smiled encouragingly. "Don't worry," she said, "I'll be fine."

"Fine," he muttered, and walked out of the room again. This day was not going as he had planned it.

He was still scowling when he reached the courtyard again, where they were still busy stowing away anything Ciri could climb. He snarled and moved to turn away, when he heard a familiar voice behind him: "So," Marin said, "you're an idiot. That's a surprise."

"What?" he snapped and whipped around. "I'm not-"

"Yes, you are. Because his lordship's right. That was bloody dangerous."

He snarled and turned away, pacing as vinegar filled the air around him. He didn't need another one telling him what to do. It had been fine until Jaskier had put his nose in places where it didn't belong.

"Geralt." He forced himself to still at Marin's firm voice behind him and grunted. "You're scaring the folks."

"I know," he growled, "I can smell it. Nothing I can do about it, is there?"

The Captain of the Guard shrugged. "Well, you could stop growling at everyone who walks past you. Grab an axe and finish that tree you massacred. Kill a monster or two. Spar with me."

"There're no monsters in Lettenhove," he answered.

"No, there's not. But I've heard news from Saltwall. That's a town a day and a half's ride from here. Apparently, they are having trouble with some necrophages or something."

He wanted to snap that that could mean anything but thought the better of it. "I don't have my armour. Or my sword."

Marin blinked stupidly. "What do you mean? Hasn't his lordship told you? They were brought in from Goldfurt four days ago."

Now it was Geralt who blinked. "No. He hasn't."

He shrugged. "I'll have it sent to your room. You go and look after Lady Fiona now. Wera will be done by now."

"Hmm," Geralt made and turned back to the South Wing. Before he could go inside, he said: "Thanks." He didn't wait for an answer. Instead he just rushed up the stairs, taking two steps at once.

Marin had the right of it; when he opened the door to Ciri's room, the old healer was gone. It was just the princess on the bed, reading a book. "How's princess Isabella the Brave?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes at him. "I read that yesterday, Geralt. This one's about Sir Bartel the Strong."

"My apologies," he said quickly. He had long given up trying to keep track of the various heroes the novels dealt with — he had no doubts that she would have made her way through the entire collection before midwinter. He poked her in her side and made her squirm. "How's this princess, then?"

"I'm fine," she assured him and giggled. "My ankle has almost stopped hurting."

"And the arm? Still attached to your shoulder, I see."

Ciri stuck out her tongue. "All bandaged up. And the salve stinks."

“Hmm,” he made. "Then it helps."

"That's what Wera said, too! Is that another stupid grown-up thing?"

He smiled a bit. "Probably. I-"

There was a knock on the door that made both of them jump. "Come in!" Ciri called.

The door opened to reveal one of the younger guardsmen in Jaskier's employ. "I, uh- Marin told me to bring this to you, Sir Witcher."

Geralt raised his eyebrows in amusement and snorted when he saw the boy struggling with the pack of armour and the silver sword in his arms. He stood and strode over to him, relieving him of his heavy burden. "Thanks. That'll be all," he said and shut the door in his face.

Gently he placed the armour on the floor — it was even polished — and passed his fingers over the new scabbard of his sword. With one swift stroke he pulled it free, turning to see the blade gleaming in the sunlight. It was marvellously crafted, not a single unevenness to be found. 'It must've cost him a fortune,' he thought stunned.

Ciri's voice ripped him back to the present: "You're leaving, aren't you?"

He sighed. He had planned to be sensible about this. That was no use now. "For a while."

She turned back to her book. "I understand," she said. "You can't train me now anyways. Just be back as soon as I can walk again."

"I will be back far sooner than that," he promised her.

"That's good. Will you stay with me this evening?"

"Sure." He sat down on a chair beside her. "What do you want to do?"

"There are some games in the nightstand that Jaskier gave me."

He nodded and pulled one of the boards out. Following her instructions, he began setting up the pieces as he tried to remember the complicated rules she told him. In the end he lost most of the times they played, but at least it had made Ciri laugh.

He and Ciri didn't attend dinner, and neither did Jaskier, as he discovered when he went looking for him afterwards. "His lordship has already turned in for the night hours ago," Janina told him coldly when he found her and her sister in the fireplace room.

"He doesn't wish to be disturbed," Józefa added in the same tone. "By you."

Geralt hunched his shoulders and retreated out of the room. He wasn't particularly looking forward to talking to Jaskier, especially not when his company was obviously unwanted. On the other hand, he'd rather get out of the castle sooner than later. So, he ignored the warning and climbed the stairs to the lord's chambers.

He took a steadying breath and rasped his knuckles on the door. "Come in." He pushed it open and stepped inside. Jaskier looked better now. His hair was still damp from bathing and he smelt of bath salts and chamomile tea. He was dressed in nothing but a green silk robe, sitting on his bed with some report or another. He normally only looked that relaxed when he had spent a night in a lover’s embrace. The room didn't smell of sex, though, and Geralt wasn't sure if he was surprised or relieved.

Jaskier barely looked up when Geralt stepped inside nor did he make any attempt to hide his bare chest from view. He did, however, pull at a few strands of his hair to try and hide his bloodshot eyes. Something in his stomach tightened. 'Now that's not fair.'

"Witcher?" Jaskier prompted.

'Ah. Still cross at me.' He cleared his throat. "My lord, there's a contract in the area."

"And?"

"I'm going to take it."

He hummed quietly, flipping his page over. "Maybe. If you ask nicely."

He suppressed a sigh. "Do I have your leave to take this contract, my lord?" After a while he added: "If it might please you."

The paper crumpled loudly in Geralt's ears when Jaskier gripped it tighter. “It doesn’t,” he said curtly and took his time reading the page. Then, he spoke up again: "I'll consider it."

With a frustrated huff he turned his back. It was no use arguing with Jaskier when he was angry.

"How long will you be?"

Geralt stopped in his tracks. "It isn't far from here. Saltwall, Marin said. Four days, maybe five."

The flipping of another page. "You leave at sunrise tomorrow, witcher. Take a horse that might suit your needs." There was a tiny pause. "Don't you dare be late."

A smile curled around his lips at the indignation in his voice. 'Missed you, Jaskier.' "I won't, my lord,” he promised. “Sleep well."

He closed the door behind him, the clicking of the lock nearly drowning out Jaskier's whisper: "Sleep well, my witcher. Return to me soon."

[notquiteaghost]

gnawing through the bars

the witcher, geralt/jaskier, 2.2k

established relationship, nonbinary trans man jaskier, trans woman geralt, #T4T, not actually a fic about jaskier wearing dresses but a fic about jaskier gently coaxing geralt to admit she’s trans

also on AO3

Sometimes, Jaskier gets an itch.

He has, over the course of his life, put a great deal of effort into being seen as a man, no matter the situation or the person seeing. Mages are not cheap, and surgery is not easy. And he doesn’t, in the slightest, regret any of it.

But, sometimes…

In Oxenfurt, he had a friend in a similar boat — not exactly, as she would have quite happily lived as a woman if women could become bards, and in fact did so whenever she wasn’t actively at lessons or performing, but similar enough. Her father was a very talented tailor, and every few months Jaskier would travel home with her, and they would spend days free of the burden of men’s clothing. Trousers, he will concede, are often more practical, but there’s something poetic about dresses that draws him. The flow of the fabric, the weight — no matter how good the tailoring, he never feels quite as himself in trousers and a doublet as he does in a dress.

He didn’t realise just how much he needed that time, that space, until he was without it.

It took some years, to rebuild. Enough money, the right company, a decent amount of luck, but now, he has a list of people who hold banquets he can attend wearing whatever he may like without risk anyone will, say, kick his ribs until they audibly crack. Small banquets, by invitation only, where he sometimes plays and sometimes dances, talks, fleeces everyone at cards.

And one such person is holding one such banquet, just as Geralt’s witchering takes them through the town.

And Jaskier maybe, possibly, slightly forgets he’s yet to commit this particular sin in Geralt’s company, when he asks if the Witcher wants to spend an evening playing at nobility with him.

Geralt has never understood the appeal of banquets.

Since Jaskier, though, he somehow keeps finding himself attending them. And, well, he’s suffered through worse things for the sake of the bard’s smile.

He leaves Jaskier abed in the inn, to see if he can restock some of the rarer ingredients he likes to keep on hand. It’s just past dawn when he leaves, early enough Jaskier won’t stir for anything less than mortal peril, and it’s just nearing midday when he returns.

Jaskier is, to his surprise, no longer in bed. Is, in fact, fully dressed for the day already, and is standing in front of the small mirror, carefully applying something to— his lips—

Geralt’s mind goes blank.

At the sound of the door clicking shut, Jaskier looks up, and grins, widely, as he’s wont to. “A successful shopping trip, then?” he asks. His lips are very, very red. There’s something about his eyes, too, but his lips—

“What,” Geralt manages to say. Jaskier’s face creases in a frown.

“What, what? Did I fuck the line of the paint up?”

He turns back to the mirror, to inspect his lips. Geralt makes a very quiet noise.

Jaskier is. Jaskier is wearing— Jaskier is in a dress. A well-tailored dress, tight to his torso, his waist, that shade of light blue he’s so fond of, sleeves close around his arms, wrists, somehow he’s both delicate and intimidating. The fabric makes a sound when he moves. A dress.

He must make another sound; Jaskier turns to look at him again. His face is more thoughtful, now. His lips are still red. The neckline sits just below the hollow of his throat. Geralt wants to bite it.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, “I forgot to say, didn’t it.”

Geralt nods, once, sharply. He has no idea what his face is doing but he’s sure it makes his feelings clear.

“Well, surprise! Sometimes I wear dresses. I take it by the clench of your jaw that you approve?” Geralt doesn’t bother nodding. Jaskier isn’t an idiot. “Sorry, you thought I asked you along as protection, didn’t you.”

And Jaskier moves away from the mirror, walks over until he can rest his arms on Geralt’s shoulders. The way he sways his hips is definitely on purpose. Geralt is going to catch fire.

“No, darling,” Jaskier says, his voice dropping lower, which always sets Geralt’s blood alight but in contrast with the dress is particularly affecting, “Tonight you’re accompanying me. I want to dance.”

Geralt’s voice says, without consulting him, “I want to have you against the wall.”

And Jaskier’s grin is wicked as he purrs, “Well, yes. It’s barely midday; why else do you think I’m already dressed?” 

 The banquet is, of course, wonderful. It’s been an age since Jaskier saw Elis, and he’s done so well for himself. One of few downsides to his nomadic ways are how difficult it is to get letters, and how out of the loop he is because of it. It’s always nice, to catch up on gossip, to spend an evening with his friends and good music and his Witcher.

Geralt isn’t usually one for dancing, but Jaskier’s beginning to suspect he could ask absolutely anything of him in that dress and Geralt would do it without question. It’s a very heady power. They don’t exactly make it back to the inn before they fuck.

Now, they’re led in bed, the dress carefully folded away again, Jaskier’s head resting on Geralt’s lovely chest. Usually, it’s no difficulty at all to fall asleep like this, spent and sore and safe.

Usually.

“I can hear you brooding,” Jaskier says, lightly. Geralt is tense, for some reason, and very much awake. Jaskier dreads to think what he’s brooding over. Most things he shrugs off like so much water off a duck’s back. “Did someone say something? Do I need to break out the daggers?”

“No one said anything,” Geralt says, gruff. He doesn’t want to talk about it, which, unfortunately, only further cements Jaskier’s determination to make him talk about it.

“I know you hate the nobility, dear, but musing on that hatred doesn’t usually keep you awake.” Geralt huffs, which means he’s trying not to smile, which is a start. “Come on, out with it, what’s wrong?”

Geralt doesn’t reply, but this isn’t Jaskier’s first try at prying emotions out his Witcher; he doesn’t say anything either, letting the silence drag out until Geralt huffs again, more annoyed, and says, “It’s not my business.”

“Wait,” Jaskier says, pushing himself up so he can see Geralt’s face, a frisson of alarm shooting through him, “Did I say something?”

Geralt isn’t glaring, exactly, but he’s closer to it than not. “No.”

“…But?”

And now, there we go, that’s a glare. They fall back into a silent stalemate, which lasts several minutes, until Jaskier gives in and says, “Look, I can’t sleep through the tension coming off you in waves, so either we’re talking about it, or— Well, the alternatives are all far more enjoyable than talking about it, so I won’t offer them, actually. Your choice is to talk about it or to deal with me being incredibly irritable tomorrow.”

Geralt’s glare intensifies, because he’s an idiot, and he never learns. He’s stubborn, sure, but of the two of them, Jaskier will always outdo him.

So, after another minute of resentful silence, Jaskier slides out of bed and gets his lute, to demonstrate clearly his commitment to not sleeping. He’s halfway through the tune of a ballad played at the banquet, trying to figure the notes by ear, when Geralt groans, and says, with great pain, “The— Dress.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, and sets the lute back on the floor. “Oh.”

Of course. He forgets, frequently, that while he may have far more many years on this earth, Geralt’s experience with the more avant garde approaches to gender amount only to what Jaskier has shown him. And while Jaskier has certainly, on occasion, been attracted to people content with the hand life dealt them, he has had… suspicions.

“It’s—“ Geralt covers his face with a hand. He’s still led on his back, Jaskier now sat cross-legged beside his torso. “I— You’re a man.”

“Ehhh.”

Geralt removes the hand to blink at him.

“I wanted to be a bard,” Jaskier shrugs. “Bards are men. I don’t mind it, being a man, but I didn’t particularly mind being a girl. If I wanted to be— Well, girls of noble stock really only get married and have children, but if I wanted that I imagine I’d have been quite content as a woman.”

That’s not entirely accurate, but Jaskier has learnt not to throw people in the deep end about this. Or at all, really. He’s yet to find anyone of a like mind, and explaining to people who don’t already know what he means isn’t worth the effort.

“…Huh,” Geralt says, still looking at him.

“You know,” Jaskier says, still musing about the many variants of this discussion he’s had, “I’ve never really managed to put it into words? I just… did it. Left Lettenhoven as a girl, left Oxenfurt as a man. I have always, I suppose, figured maybe it’s all a bit more complicated than everyone oh so neatly fitting as either woman or man, but I don’t really know where I’d even begin eschewing the whole thing entirely…” Geralt just keeps looking at him thoughtfully, no hint of disgust or bafflement, which. Is nice. Not the point, though. “Not that that’s what we were talking about, anyway. You were having emotions about the concept of men wearing dresses that I assume mean you yourself want to wear dresses.”

And then Geralt freezes, like a deer in the brush. Jaskier can’t help his fond smile.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, gentle, “What did I just say? Am I, of all people, going to cast judgement?”

It takes another minute of tense silence, but Geralt says, shortly, “I don’t.”

“What, think I’ll judge you? Have emotions? Want to wear dresses?”

“They’re not— Practical.”

“Gods, I love you,” Jaskier says. Geralt could be made of stone, he’s so tense, but still he’s here, in their bed, letting Jaskier see. It’s the greatest gift Jaskier has ever been given. “Okay, so if not dresses, what do you want?”

“This conversation to end,” Geralt says, immediately.

“Nope!” Jaskier counters, cheerfully. “I’m a dog with a bone, you know this. You want… to wear practical women’s clothing? No? No, that wouldn’t be much different, would it. You… want me to be sweet with you?”

“Is that not what you do already.”

Jaskier says, quite without thinking, as all his thoughts are focused on what about their night Geralt could be yearning for, “It’s only what you deserve, Geralt, honestly—“ And, suddenly, it clicks. “Oh.”

Geralt, of course, doesn’t say anything, but that’s fine, Jaskier’s having a lot of thoughts. About the looks on Geralt’s face, when Jaskier plays the songs only not blatantly about the Witcher because he’s using the wrong pronouns, when people say certain despicable things about Yennefer, and now Geralt never truly relaxes around any man except Jaskier, and tiny little Witcher children with no other option but the male path before them.

“Oh, I am a fool,” Jaskier laments, half to himself. “I am a fool, an idiot, how did I not know! I am the world’s expert on you! How did I not see—“

“What,” Geralt growls.

“You’re a woman.”

And, oh, if Jaskier thought Geralt was tense before. If he reached out and touched, he’s sure Geralt would shatter.

“No,” Geralt says, completely toneless.

“Ah, ah,” Jaskier wags a finger, “Don’t even try it, we’ve been over this already. I am in love with you, I will treat you with the utmost kindness, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

The tension isn’t easing out of Geralt, exactly, but the Witcher is beginning to look less like a deer waiting for the pierce of the arrow and more like a someone recently stabbed, somewhere painful but non-lethal. It’s that look, that tells Jaskier he’s right. That’s exactly how Geralt always looks, when Jaskier speaks into the light all the most secret, tender things Geralt keeps so guarded. How Geralt looked, the first time Jaskier said I love you.

Geralt says, with the barest hint of feelings, “Jaskier.”

“She wiped out your pest,” Jaskier sings, quietly, experimentally, “Got kicked in her chest…”

“Jaskier.”

“She’s a friend of humanity, so give her the rest—“ And, finally, Geralt’s composure breaks, and she sits up, clutches at Jaskier without looking at him, grips his hand with significant strength, stares at the wall as tears well in her eyes for, possibly, the first time in almost a century. Jaskier’s heart aches. He pulls her close, tucks her head under his chin, says, “Oh, sweetheart,” as he runs a hand over her back.

They stay like that for a while.

Eventually, Geralt sits up again, wipes at her face with her sleeves because she’s disgusting like that, and tries to once again pretend she’s never emoted in her life. Jaskier knows the expression on his face as he looks at her is ridiculously soppy.

“Can we sleep, now?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier laughs even as he lies down, wraps an arm around Geralt’s chest, lets her rearrange the blankets just so.

He presses a kiss to the nape of her neck. She takes the hand pressed to her chest and laces their fingers together. Tomorrow, Jaskier will see about contacting Yennefer, and finding out if the relevant magic has gotten any less complicated, and maybe a brief visit back to Elis’ for some clothes. Or, for advice about tailoring, more likely. Either way, it’s already far closer to dawn than not, and Geralt is finally relaxing into sleep, so, after pressing one last kiss to her jaw, he finally lets himself do the same.