#but despite this i shall persist. fuck em i say

[solpng]

woke up and was immediately thrown into the hot fiery soup of a tense household siiigh

[writinglizards]

Make me Happy

Summary: "I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous." - Mary Shelley's Frankenstein He is created. He is abandoned. He is found.

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The first thing he knows is agony.

He feels set on fire from the inside, bright white pain arcing through his veins. He cries out, voice hoarse. The sharpness of it ceases as quickly as it came, but the ache persists.

A clatter to his left draws his attention. He shifts. Distantly, he’s aware of the scratch and shift of the rough-hewn shirt and trousers he’s dressed in, but there are larger concerns, at the moment. His limbs feel awkward but otherwise cooperative, so sits up.

There is a man across the room with his back pressed against the counter. White hair, a beard. The man’s face is drawn in an expression he can’t parse. Beneath the man’s feet are shards of glass.

He doesn't understand where he is or what's going on. He opens his mouth to speak--and finds he doesn't know the words to communicate this. He makes a quiet, wordless sound, questioning. He hopes it's enough for the man to understand. He so wants answers.

In response, the man jolts for the door.

He starts at the abrupt movement, makes another quiet noise of surprise, reaches out a hand toward him, wait, please--

The man makes a shrill noise, "Stay away, you, you--" he flings the door open after a brief scrabbling with the lock and bolts, a high pitched terrified noise leaving his throat. He throws the door closed behind him, but it hits the doorframe and bounces back, hard.

He follows because he doesn't know what else to do. The other man is scared. Should he be scared?

He lets the smell of terror, sickly and awful, lead him down a spiral staircase and out a partly concealed door onto the street where he's abruptly hit with an overwhelming wave of scents and sounds. It's too much for him to understand; all he knows is he needs to find the man again. He hopes he can help.

He sees someone, not the man from the room, on the street a few feet away. He approaches, timid. He's trying to work out how to ask what he wants to know--where did the man from the room go?--when he catches the other's attention.

"What the--what the fuck?" He doesn't understand the words, but the tone--the man spins on his heel and sprints away, terrified. It catches the attention of several people up the street. The first man was scared, but these men--help, maybe?

He takes a few slow steps in their direction, still trying to figure out how to ask what he wants to know when he catches the glint of steel. He freezes. He takes quick stock of their expressions, the naked weapons in their grips, and hesitates.

"You'll get the fuck out of here if you know what's good for you, monster." He doesn't understand, doesn't know how to respond in a way that will ease the aggression of their posture. He just wants help.

"Well? Get," one of the men shouts, rapping the flat of his blades together. It makes a harsh sound, makes him whine with how the sharp noise hurts. He ducks his head, cups his hands over his ears to try and make the hurt stop. "I said get," the man shouts again, repeats the movement of his weapons. He keens, a low, quiet sound full of pain. He doesn't understand--

"You got to the count of fucking three," another says, and he doesn't wait for them to make the noise again. He runs.

Every person he sees in his mad dash down the street and away from the pain reacts similarly. Either they flee or they bare steel and make threats, loud and angry. The mixing scents, the noises, his own fear, it's all too much. He doesn't know where he is or where he's going. He just runs.

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By the time the sun is beginning to rise, he's finally broken out of the rows and rows of buildings and into the trees, where he runs until his lungs burn and his feet hurt before he collapses in the shade at the base of a tree. He doesn't know where he is or what's going on, doesn't understand the fear and hostility of the people he'd seen. He sits there, somewhere in the middle of the forest, and finally feels it hit him. He doesn't know, he doesn't understand. He sits and he cries, deep chest wracking sobs, until he's too tired to keep his eyes open. He curls himself up small and tight in the roots of the tree, and sleeps.

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He's woken some indeterminate time later, to the sound of footsteps. Lots of them. The sky is going grey at the edges, so he knows he must have slept a while. There's shouting coming from the direction he came from yesterday, words he can't understand in a tone he can--they sound like the men who made the awful noise.

"If you see that fuckin beast, just kill 'em. No need to leave him loose to terrorize the city again."

“Nah, the mage wants ‘em. Said--”

“I know what he said and I’m saying just kill ‘em.”

They're not that far. He knows enough now that he doesn't want to run into these people, doesn't want a repeat of last night. He rises very quietly, and treks farther into the forest, away from the sounds of the approaching men. He'll walk all night if he has to.

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He walks until he can't hear them any longer, and then he keeps walking, for good measure. He walks until he stumbles across another group of buildings, much smaller than the one he'd fled last night. He lingers at the edge of the trees, watching a trio of young women leaning against a wooden fence not far, talking. One of the women has something she appears to be eating in her hand, and his own stomach growls loudly in reminder that he has eaten nothing since...he doesn't know when.

These women look nothing like the men with their weapons, which is the only reason he steps out of his hiding spot in the trees, starts towards them.

"Sara, look--" one of the women catches sight of him and goes pale. She steps backward, hands shaking, and he freezes. He doesn't want them to be afraid. He only wants--

The one eating turns to look back over her shoulder and their eyes meet. She drops the thing she'd been eating. There's a shriek--the third woman--and then all three of them are running pell-mell back towards the rest of the buildings.

He tamps down on his hurt and darts forward to scoop the food off the ground--an...apple?--and then he's running again, farther into the forest. He knows better than to stick around for the angry men and their weapons.

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He doesn't pause until he feels he's far enough away he'll be able to hear anyone coming with enough warning to escape. He settles at the base of a tree and gnaws on the apple slowly, trying to savor the small thing. It's a little better than nothing, but it reminds him he's hungry, sets his stomach to rolling uncomfortably. When he's gnawed the thing down to its core he finally sets it aside, disappointed.

He’ll have to see if he can find more food, or venture back towards the buildings to see if there’s anything he might be able to take that won’t be missed. But not tonight.

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In the end, he ends up doing quite a bit of stealing from the village at night while he hides in the trees during the day, watching the way the people interact with one another. He feels bad about just taking, but there’s nothing much that can be done for it--there’s no easily accessible food in the forest and the people still spook and run at the sight of him.

So that’s the way he survives, for a bit. It's not a comfortable existence and he knows the people of the little town both know he's there and are upset by it. He tries not to scare them, only slips down into their fields at night, when most are asleep, only takes as much food as he needs to quell the emptiness in his stomach.

Watching the people interact with one another is helpful, though, even if he can’t approach them. The field workers do a lot of talking to one another as they work, and over time he starts to pick up what the words mean, in a roundabout kind of way. So he lingers and he watches and he hopes for...something he can't put a name to.

He's finally forced to move on when he tries to slip down into the town about three weeks later and there are men with swords again, lining the outskirts of the village. He knows enough about people at this point from what he's observed and he doesn't want problems. He moves on, just picks a direction and starts walking.

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When he stumbles across a tiny cottage out in the woods all on its own, he assumes it must be abandoned--people don't live alone, after all. He would investigate further, but the sun is already peeking over the horizon, sky dusting pink, and he knows he needs to find somewhere to settle before daybreak.

There are several little shacks sprinkled around the clearing that he doesn’t know the purpose of so he picks one--the shack behind the cottage--to test the door and finds it unlocked. It's a storage shed and moderately well-stocked, despite how the little room seems to be on the verge of collapse. He settles to the ground on the far side of a crate and tucks himself into a tight little ball. He'll stay here today and investigate more closely tonight.

Shortly, he dozes.

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He wakes much too soon to the sound of...something. He's never heard it before, this softly twanging noise. It's good. Nice.

He knows it must be well past mid-day from the way the light slants in through the chinks in the walls. He's just thinking it's too early to try venturing out when the singing starts, soft and lovely and he thinks, oh, It's a person.

He rises very slowly and quietly and crosses the tiny storeroom to the wall that's shared with the cottage. The music is a little louder here, and he can make out the words, a story of a knight saving a fair maiden and true love's kiss. He can understand what those words mean a bit now--language has come slowly, but he's getting better at piecing together bits and pieces from the things he's heard, although not all of it makes sense all the time. And well, some things just feel right, like he's known them all his life. Language has been a little like that, even if speaking is a challenge.

So he can follow the story, vaguely, even as the song ends and another quickly takes its place. He hears no other voices or movement in the adjoining room, just that smooth tenor singing of heroics and heartbreak. He settles down beside the wall, rests his temple against the rough wood grain, and listens.

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He wakes again an indeterminate time later. It's late, the sun is down and the man in the cottage sounds as if he's retired for the night. It's quiet. He...probably shouldn't stay here, but it's warm and quiet and the man sings so beautifully. He borrows a small meal of hard bread from the stores and tells himself he won't be back when he slips out of the storeroom to stretch his legs.

By the time the sun rises, he's tucked back into the storeroom anyway, curled up against the wall that joins the cottage. What's one more day?

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One day becomes two days becomes a whole week. He's reluctant to leave the security of the little storeroom, the pleasant singing. A few days in, he finds a chink in the wall that lets him see into the cottage room and he now spends his daylight hours pressed to that wall, watching, listening. The man is...beautiful. He looks like they would be of a height, even if the man is a little leaner than he himself is. Despite that, the man is still broad-shouldered and strong looking, with brilliant blue eyes and a sweep of brown hair he can only think of as pretty. And he can tell the man is not just beautiful; he’s also intelligent, witty. He talks to himself constantly, sings, reads, dances his way around the room. The man moves through life as if he has not a care in the world. He wants so badly to be a part of that.

Despite how much he yearns to join the man, he still won't reveal himself, too afraid of the potential reaction to him. He finds himself growing attached, despite how much he shouldn’t. If this soft and delightful man is as afraid as the village people were, it will break him.

So he watches and he dreams and he tries to help around the cottage, at night. It starts with some chopped wood when the woodpile gets a little too low, which the man reacts to with delighted confusion. Then it's a few rabbits and other small animals, here and there, to replenish some of the food stores he's been dipping into to feed himself.

"Well, looks like we've got ourselves an admirer," the man says softly the morning he finds the first rabbit. He'd been...nervous about leaving the little thing. Nervous it might upset or scare the man. Instead, he looks...pleased. He smiles all day, even when he comes back in from caring for the chickens, which he knows the man dislikes. It's nice, kindles a warm feeling in his chest.

He wants to be the cause of that smile more often.

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A few days later, he wakes to the sound of more than just the man in the yard out front. There are several people he can't see but he can hear them, carrying things to and fro.

"Jaskier, where do you want this?" one of them asks.

"Oh, that's fine there," the man says. Something flutters in his chest. Jaskier.

There's a few more crates the other men bring into the cottage that he can see through his chink in the wall. The man, Jaskier, watches the stacking of these crates on the far side of the cottage along with another man who stands at his elbow. Compared to Jaskier, the man is very broad and well built with short cropped dark hair. He carries a sword on his hip and stands like he'd be ready to draw it at a moment's notice. He reminds him of the men who'd threatened him the first night.

"I should also warn you there's been sightings of some kind of monster lately." Jaskier turns to the man with the sword, effectively presenting his back to the chink in the wall. He wishes he could see his face.

"What kind of monster? Monsters have been gone for almost a hundred years."

The other man is already shaking his head, "not a monster, monster, no. This is some kind of abomination. Looks like a man but...not. Wrong. He's been spotted at one of the nearby villages as little as a few weeks ago."

"And? How do they know he's a monster then?"

The man puffs out a tired sounding breath, "I'm just relating what I heard, Jaskier. I don't know."

"Of course not," he says, tetchy. There's something beyond the words that have upset him.

"Look, I--"

Jaskier pulls away from the hand hovering over his shoulder. "I don't care, Vincent."

"Jask, you know I didn't--"

"We're not talking about us," Jaskier says, tone sharp in a way he's never heard, "just...let the men finish and then you can run on home to father and tell him what a good little disowned son I've been, hm?"

Jaskier doesn't give him a chance to respond, just steps over to watch the men bringing in the crates more closely, steps just a little too heavy.

When they're gone, he watches Jaskier cry, head in his hands. It makes his chest uncomfortably tight but there's nothing he can do.

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When night falls and he's sure Jaskier is asleep (and he feels a little flutter of delight in his gut when he thinks the man's name, elated that he knows it after all this time), he slips out of the storeroom and into the pooling moonlight of the little clearing, stretching his legs. His goal tonight is to chop some more wood so Jaskier will have enough to stay warm tomorrow. Then...maybe a walk. He'd seen some blackberry bushes a few nights ago. Maybe he'd pick some, leave them for him in the morning.

The wood chopping goes quickly and he stacks the split logs nicely with the other chopped wood against the wall by the front door. He does so quietly, not wanting to rouse his sleeping friend. Not that he thinks it likely the man will rouse tonight. He'd been somber the rest of the day and he'd cried again, curled in his bed when he should have been sleeping. He finds he wants to do something to ease the unhappiness that's settled over him since the men had come by.

It's with that thought he wanders off in search of those blackberries. He takes one of the wooden buckets Jaskier usually uses for gathering eggs and sets off to find the blackberry bushes.

They're right where he remembered them, just a short walk from the little pond where the ducks gather from time to time. He goes about picking them to fill the bucket, careful of their little thorns. He gets the bucket three-fourths or so full before he calls it good. By then, he's covered in sticky juice and the sun should be up soon. He's got just enough time to visit the pond, wash off his hands and leave the bucket out front before he’ll settle back in the storage room.

The pond is silent and still when he wanders up, the bucket dangling from one hand. He sets it aside on the shore and kneels at the edge of the pond. He tries not to peer into his reflection in the water, even as the moonlight reflects back off its surface.

Unbidden, then man's words resurface in his mind. Like a man but not. Wrong. He knows he looks...different. There are harsh scars scattering his face, his temples, his arms, his torso. His eyes are wrong, too bright, too strange a color. His hair is unnatural, too pale, too wild. He understands why the villagers are startled by him, understands why they react with fear. He's...wrong. He just doesn't know what to do about it.

He pushes the thoughts from his mind and doesn't let himself linger. Instead, he washes up quickly and treks back over to the cottage. He leaves the bucket of berries on the doorstep and retreats to the storeroom.

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He rouses just a little when Jaskier rises. He listens to him sing and go about his morning routine with half an ear, still mostly asleep. The sound of his friend awake and back to normal is a comfort, so it's disturbing the way he abruptly goes silent when the door creaks open.

"Oh--" he's obviously found the berries. The quiet stretches out for a beat too long and then there's a sniffling noise. "Shit," Jaskier mutters. The door clunks back shut. He hears the noise of the bucket being sat down somewhere in the cottage. "'s stupid to fucking cry over berries, Jask, pull it together," he tells himself, voice thick with tears.

He can't help the surge of alarm that rolls through him--he didn't mean to make Jaskier cry. He presses his face to the wood, eye at the chink in the wall, and is surprised to find him smiling despite the tears, gazing down into the bucket of berries as if they are something far more precious as he wipes aggressively at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

"Blackberries," he repeats, once his breathing is a little more under control, "I'll have to make a pie." He's still smiling. Maybe they weren't such a bad idea, after all.

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Jaskier continues with his daily routine after that, and he lets himself sleep again, after a time. He's fairly attuned with the noises of Jaskier going about his day, so he doesn't startle when Jaskier begins going through the crates of supplies the men brought yesterday. By the time he realizes what that means, Jaskier's already at the door of the storage shed, dried goods tucked under his arm.

He lays very, very still where he's curled in the corner, pressed against the wall of the cottage, eyes squeezed shut, and waits for the inevitable.

The gasp is expected. The sound of the bundle Jaskier is carrying hitting the ground is as well. What is not expected is the hands that land on his shoulder, tug him over gently. He blinks up at the face of the man he's only watched from a distance, startled. He expected revulsion, fear, the sound of footsteps fleeing. Instead, he's peering down at him with concern.

"Oh, thank the gods you're alive," he sighs out on a breath, patting reassuringly at his shoulder where his hands still rest. "What are you doing in my storage shed, darling?"

And oh, this is...not something he'd been prepared for. He swallows hard and can't seem to force words out.

"You don't have to tell me," Jaskier says softly, "but let's get you inside, alright? It can't be comfortable out here."

He follows in a daze when Jaskier tugs him gently upright and leads him into the cottage. This doesn't feel real. He must be dreaming. Why else would Jaskier be looking at him like that?

"Have you had anything to eat? Are you hungry?" Jaskier asks once he's settled at the table. He at least can follow that much so he shakes his head, still afraid to speak. Jaskier jumps to preparing him a small meal of hard cheese and fresh bread. “Sorry, I haven’t had the chance to make that pie yet,” he says as he sets the little plate before him and settles across the table from him, smiling. "Go on, eat," he says, and he doesn't have to be told twice.

The food is the best thing he's ever tasted. The pleased look never falls off Jaskier's face. "Thank you," he whispers once the plate is empty, wincing when the words fall rough like gravel from his disused throat.

"Oh," Jaskier breathes, freezing with his hand outstretched to take the empty plate. He thinks maybe he's made a mistake, but Jaskier's smile stretches impossibly wider, eyes sparkling, "you're very welcome, dear heart." The look on Jaskier’s face, that tone, settles something warm in his chest.

Jaskier puts the plate on the counter and resumes his seat. He doesn't know what to do with himself in the face of Jaskier's kindness and keeps his eyes averted. Jaskier doesn't give him time to start feeling self-conscious, though.

"I'm Jaskier. Do you have a name, darling? Something I can call you?" And he knows Jaskier’s asking a question but--

Jaskier can tell his mistake almost immediately. “Oh! Um,” he fumbles to press his hand to his chest, “Jaskier,” he repeats, and he nods. Then, tentatively, Jaskier holds out his hand to him. He doesn’t move, not quite sure what Jaskier means until his palm makes careful contact with his chest. His breath catches. “You?”

He shakes his head, understanding that Jaskier is asking for his name. He feels a bubble of shame rise in him. It's not his fault he doesn't have something to go by like everyone else, he knows, but that doesn't lessen the feeling he's let his friend down.

"Oh, sweetheart," Jaskier breathes, and he doesn't sound upset. Or at least, not at him. "What should we call you then?” He looks thoughtful for a minute before, “Hold on, I’ve an idea.”

Jaskier rises and crosses the room, bringing back something from one of the shelves. “I’ve got a book here,” Jaskier says, settling it on the table in front of him, “It’s a storybook, but I could read you the names of the characters here until you find one you like?” and that was a lot of words but…“Just nod if you hear one you like, yes?” He can do that.

So Jaskier flips through the book, stopping periodically to read out the names as he finds them. And they’re...fine. But none of the names sound right to him.

“Hm, Eric?” He shakes his head, “No, I agree, too bland. Jakob? No? Alright then, Alice? That’s typically a lady’s name but--nope okay, um, Geralt?”

And that’s--“Yes,” he says softly. Something about that feels right.

The smile on Jaskier's face is small and delighted. "You want to be called Geralt?"

"Mm." And something about choosing the name makes his face hot. He ducks his head.

The grin that stretches Jaskier’s face looks like it hurts it's so wide. "A good name. Heroic. Kind." His gaze softens as he reaches across the table to rest his palm on Geralt's forearm. The touch is reassuring, even as he burns hot under Jaskier's fingertips. "It suits you."

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He doesn't pressure Geralt for an explanation of anything, but he reassures him several times that he can stay, that it's no trouble. He even sets him up with new clothes, soft cotton that isn’t as scratchy as what he’d been wearing.

"Really Geralt, I have to insist. I won't be able to rest knowing you're out there somewhere with nowhere to stay. And," he continues, “if you stay long enough, I’ll even send for some clothes of your own, if you’d like.” And well. He can't let Jaskier worry (and the new clothes would be nice, too).

He sleeps on the little divan and marvels at how quickly Jaskier drifts off, breaths evening into sleep. The trust inherent in the action shakes him to his core. He follows a while later, chest overly tight.

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They settle into a habit surprisingly quickly in the weeks that follow. Geralt picks up many of the tasks he'd already been performing for Jaskier in the twilight hours and Jaskier provides excellent company. He still sings and plays his lute in the evenings, preening to have an audience that Geralt is happy to provide.

He's thankful Jaskier asks no questions, although it's obvious Jaskier would like to know more about him, about what happened. He catches him staring at the scars when he thinks Geralt isn't looking, but it's not with revulsion. Geralt can't name the emotion on his face, but it's not a bad one necessarily.

There's only one question he does ask.

"So, do you know who my admirer is?" he says finally. Geralt’s just starting to feel truly comfortable here with Jaskier and is less worried about Jaskier changing his mind about keeping Geralt around. He’s proven he’s helpful and he’s trying very, very hard not to scare him (he’s beginning to think Jaskier can’t be scared, actually).

Geralt's in the middle of chopping wood when he asks. "Because you know, it was really very sweet of them." He's grinning.

"Uh," is the very elegant response Geralt comes up with, cheeks hot. He’s not sure why he’s embarrassed. Jaskier obviously knows it was him. He chops the next piece of wood with a singular focus, doesn't shift his gaze back over to Jaskier.

"He must have very fine arms. He chopped all my wood for weeks, you know," Jaskier says offhand, and oh. He's teasing. His tone is friendly. Geralt only flushes harder. He’s not sure why Jaskier can fluster him so quickly. "Not as good as yours, I'm sure," he continues, and Geralt nearly jumps when Jaskier's hand settles on his bicep, squeezing. "Mm, not sure anyone's as deliciously built as you are, darling."

"Jaskier," he finally bites out, mortified. He feels--he feels--he doesn’t know the word for it, but he’s pretty sure it’s not appropriate. Jaskier laughs.

"It's alright sweetheart," he grins and shoots him a wink, "your secret's safe with me." And Geralt doesn't know what to do with himself, but he likes the way his stomach clenches when Jaskier touches him, the soft way he speaks. And he does trust that he's safe with him. It's...reassuring.

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Despite how safe Geralt feels, he still can't bring himself to tell Jaskier how he ended up hiding in his storeroom. He's fairly certain Jaskier won't care at this point, but every time he tries to say something, he finds the words have abandoned him. Unlike Jaskier, he struggles to voice his thoughts, even when he has the words neatly arranged in his head. Jaskier reassures him that it's fine, not everyone is gifted with their speech and it's normal for words not to work the way you'd like, but it frustrates him anyway. He...cares...about Jaskier. He’s…different. He wants to share this part of himself with him. He just doesn't know how.

His efforts are further complicated by the way his stomach flips uncomfortably every time Jaskier is close. He's not an idiot, he knows what it means (Jaskier is a big fan of love ballads, the raunchier the better, he says and it’s…that) but it feels...dishonest to entertain Jaskier's subtle flirting, especially when Jaskier knows nothing about who he really is, how he came to be. After all, who could love a monster?

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"Geralt," Jaskier calls from his mound of blankets as Geralt stokes the fire for the last time that night, "come to bed with me, darling."

Geralt can feel himself flush. "Jaskier," he admonishes, but Jaskier only laughs, lifts the corner of the blanket invitingly.

"It's been cold at night and it will only get colder. Come on, Geralt." He bats his eyes enticingly, pats the corner of the mattress again.

"I can't," he says, quiet, and something in Jaskier's expression softens.

"Alright, darling," he says, letting the blankets fall closed around him, "but that's a standing invitation."

"Hm."

Jaskier doesn't press further, but Geralt lays awake thinking about it for far longer than he should.

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"I'm a viscount," Jaskier says apropos of nothing a few days later. It's early morning and they're outside, returning from the chicken coop. Geralt turns to where Jaskier's stopped in the middle of the yard, bucket of chicken eggs forgotten on the ground beside him. "Or at least, I used to be. My father disowned me about a year ago now."

"Why?" Geralt asks, because Jaskier seems to need the encouragement. He wouldn't have brought it up if he hadn't wanted Geralt to know.

"I...embarrassed him. With who I chose to take to my bed." He's staring hard at the tree line opposite the cottage. He's not even facing Geralt. "My father's head of the guard. Vincent."

The name brings to mind the day the crates were delivered. The man with the sword who stood too close.

"I was disowned either way and I knew that, but Vincent..." he trails off.

"Thank you, Jaskier. You don't have to tell me." His eyes meet Geralt's finally and he smiles. It's a tiny, watery thing.

"No I--he chose to stay. With my father. And I'm...here. It bothered me. For a long time." He's quiet so long Geralt thinks maybe that's the end of it, but when he steps forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with Jaskier, he keeps talking. "I thought...who would want a disowned viscount? Vincent certainly didn't. I'm damaged goods."

"Jaskier, you're not damaged," Geralt says, horrified at the prospect. Jaskier is...wonderful (even if he talks a little too much for Geralt's taste, sometimes). How could anyone think him lesser for loving who he loved?

Jaskier extends his hand to catch Geralt's and squeezes tightly. Geralt squeezes back, stomach fluttering when Jaskier smiles at him. "I know," he says softly, "and I know you’re not ready to talk about yourself yet, but whatever it is, it’s okay, okay?" And when Jaskier says that, looking at him the way he is, Geralt can almost believe him.

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They settle deeper into their routine, something Jaskier calls "disgustingly domestic" with a smile that nearly splits his face, so Geralt's pretty sure he doesn't think it's a bad thing, actually. Geralt certainly enjoys it.

Jaskier talks incessantly about anything and everything and Geralt likes listening.

“You know,” Jaskier says one night, after he’s wound down his playing and put the lute away, “I haven’t had many guests out here since I was disowned. It’s been...nice.”

“Why not?” Geralt asks, stoking the fire before settling back on the fur rug. Geralt can’t understand why someone wouldn’t want to spend time with Jaskier.

“Being disowned is…” he pauses, obviously searching for the right words, “it’s not something that’s done lightly. It means the people I grew up with, the people who were close to me, they can’t see me anymore, or risk having their own reputation tarnished.”

Geralt feels his lips twitch in a frown. Jaskier laughs.

“Oh, don’t make that face, I know. But that’s how it is. I’ve spent some time with the village locals, but it’s...not the same. I’m still nobility to them and I’m no longer nobility to the actual nobles.” He shrugs, but Geralt can see the thought still bothers him.

“You were lonely,” Geralt says. He’s not sure he should have pointed it out, but Jaskier doesn’t seem angry.

“I was,” he agrees softly. Something in his eyes pins Geralt to the spot, “until you.”

And that’s...too much to think about. “Hm.”

The smile that creeps over Jaskier’s face is blinding. “Yes,” he agrees, “hm, indeed.”

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"My father's men should be stopping by in the next few weeks," Jaskier says on a morning like any other.

"Did you want me--"

"No," Jaskier corrects hastily before Geralt can offer to hide, "No, I want you here. I just--wanted to give you a heads up."

"Oh."

They don't talk about it again. They probably should have.

------------------------------

"Jaskier?" Geralt calls across the small space of the cottage, sitting up.

There's banging outside. People. Jaskier shifts in his cocoon of blankets that is his bed, only the top of his head visible. "No," he mumbles fuzzily, "don't wanna." He's...not really awake.

"Jaskier," Geralt rumbles, voice still thick with sleep himself, "we should--"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence before the door is swinging open and a man is striding through. When he sees Geralt, his hand lands on his sword.

"Jaskier, what the fuck--"

"Vincent," Jaskier gasps, nearly tripping in his haste to extract himself from the blankets. He’s eyeing the space between Vincent and Geralt with panic, "ever heard of fucking knocking?" he bites out, shifting to put himself between them as much as possible.

"Jaskier, you've got a--"

"Don't finish that sentence," he says, tone flat and threatening, "and I'd appreciate it if you'd give my companion and I some fucking privacy. I'll meet you in the yard in a moment."

Vincent's hand tightens around the pommel of his sword, "I don't think--" he starts, but the look Jaskier pins him with is cutting. He hesitates, but he leaves without another word, pulling the door shut behind him.

"Fucking prick," Jaskier growls, stalking over to his wardrobe to put on some clothes before facing their company.

"I should--" Geralt starts, but Jaskier cuts him off.

"You should get dressed and let me drag you around the yard to hang off of while I make sure my father hasn't fucking shorted me on supplies. I'm already disowned, what more can he do to me?" The grin on Jaskier's face is brittle.

When they exit the cottage, Vincent is hovering by the door, obviously nervous. He's still got his hand wrapped around the pommel of his sword like a lifeline. Jaskier scoffs at it, but Geralt stays carefully back and works to make his posture non-threatening.

"Jaskier," Vincent says the minute he's out the door, "what is--"

"This is Geralt," Jaskier cuts in smoothly, "my companion." Vincent winces.

"He's--"

"My companion," Jaskier reinforces.

"The mage in Novigrad is looking for him." Geralt stiffens.

"I assure you we have no idea what you mean," Jaskier bites out, even as Geralt feels his stomach drop uncomfortably. The mage. The man from the room. He no longer cares one way or the other who the man is or what he wanted from Geralt. He’s happy here, he doesn’t want to leave. Vincent opens his mouth to respond, but he snaps his jaw shut a moment later with no protest.

"Okay," he sighs. Then-- "Where do you want the supplies?"

The men don't stay any longer than they need to, but it's a tense affair for everyone involved. Jaskier takes Geralt's hand in his and doesn't let go until long after Vincent and his underlings have left.

------------------------------

The rest of the day, Jaskier’s filled with a frantic sort of energy. He breezes through chores, drags Geralt on a walk with him out to the pond where he paces the water’s edge for near an hour before they head back. And it doesn’t dissipate even after they’ve returned to the cottage and had dinner.

The fire’s lit and Geralt is settled on the fur rug before it the way he normally does. Usually, this is about the time Jaskier would fetch his lute, or perhaps a book to read from. Instead, he’s still pacing.

“Jaskier,” Geralt finally says, breaking his focus as he comes up short in another circuit of the room, “come sit. Your pacing makes my head hurt.”

“Sorry,” he huffs, flopping down beside him with a heavy sigh. He leans against Geralt’s side for a bit, but he’s still restless, still shifting.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again and Jaskier sighs hard. He pulls away only to lay beside him, pillowing his head on Geralt’s thigh. Immediately, Geralt slips his fingers into Jaskier’s hair, soothing.

"So that was awful," Jaskier mutters.

"Mm."

He rolls so his face is pressed to Geralt's stomach. Geralt's fingers stay tangled in his hair, gently petting.

"I don’t want you to go," Jaskier says into the silence, muffled against Geralt's bulk.

Geralt’s chest siezes.

“I know you aren’t ready to tell me anything and that’s okay, but I--” his breath is warm against the thin cloth of Geralt’s shirt, “If that mage really is looking for you, I don’t want you to go,” he repeats, voice small.

Geralt feels as if his throat has closed. "I'm--I want to stay here,” he forces out, swallowing roughly. He should explain because Jaskier doesn’t know, but Jaskier sags with relief, presses his face closer to Geralt's stomach, fingers digging into his side and Geralt doesn’t want to take that relief from him, not now.

"That's--I'm glad." They don't say anything else for a long time as the fire burns down.

------------------------------

Geralt can’t stop thinking about the fact Jaskier doesn’t know, though. He needs to tell him. So that he’ll understand. Geralt owes it to him to tell him, whether he wants to or not. And if Jaskier wants him gone after? It will hurt, but he’ll go.

"Jaskier, do you have a minute?" he asks while Jaskier's tuning his lute that evening. He'd been getting ready to play, as he usually does.

"Of course, sweetheart. What is it?" he asks, strumming through a simple, uncomplicated tune. He meets Geralt's eyes with a playful smile, but his expression sobers when he sees the seriousness in Geralt's gaze.

"You asked me," he says carefully, "about before."

"Only if you're comfortable, dear. You don't have to--"

"No," he says, "I do." He needs to understand. He drops his gaze to his lap where he's wringing his hands together nervously. He stills them with effort, but that only makes the scars there stand out more starkly. He startles when Jaskier catches his hands in his own, traces those scars tenderly with lute-calloused fingertips.

"Well then, I'm listening," he says and smiles, small and encouraging when Geralt's gaze flickers back up to his face. It makes his chest tight. He doesn't deserve this. Jaskier. He tries to take in his face now, that tender care, that concern. Just in case it’s gone, after. So he knows. So he can remember.

Despite the fear churning in his gut, he takes a deep breath and starts talking, gaze glued to their still joined hands.

"My earliest memory is--uh. I. I woke up in a...room. I didn't know where I was. There was...a man. The mage, I guess." Jaskier is very, very still but his thumbs rub soothing circles against the back of his hands, a grounding point of contact.

"I tried to ask him what was going on, but I--" he trails off, unsure how to phrase what he means. He shakes his head. "--I didn't know how. I didn't have the words. And I--scared him. I think. He ran."

Jaskier sucks in a noisy breath and squeezes his hands briefly. "Go on," he encourages when Geralt glances back up.

"I followed him. I didn't know what else to do. I was in a town, I think."

"Novigrad," Jaskier interrupts before wincing. "Sorry, go on."

"The people there--I tried to ask for help but they--" he can feel the tears burning in his throat and tries to breathe through it, keep going, "they either ran or they threatened me. I didn't know what was going on." He feels the tears spill and ducks his head. If he stops now, he won't be able to continue. "I ran."

"Oh, Geralt," Jaskier whispers. He lets go of one hand to bring his palm up to Geralt's face. His fingertips brush the corner of his eye, wipe the tears away gently.

"I ended up in the forest. There's a village not too far from here," Jaskier makes a quiet noise of acknowledgment. It’s the village Jaskier goes to sometimes when he needs things his father won’t or doesn’t send. "I stayed around there for a few weeks. Until the men with the swords showed up." Jaskier makes another small noise, rubbing his thumb along Geralt's cheekbone. Geralt closes his eyes. "So I picked a direction and started walking. And I found you."

"And I'm glad you found me, love. Sounds like you've had quite the rough go of it."

The calm acceptance is...too much. Does he not understand? He's a monster. Not natural. The mage wants back his creature. "Jaskier, I'm--"

"Shh," he cuts him off, grip still tight on his hand as he caresses his face, slips his fingers back into his hair, "I'm glad you told me, darling, but it doesn't change how I feel about you. You're a good person." He tugs him into his arms, gentle. Geralt goes, feeling like he did when he woke--unmoored, lost. He feels the tears slip down his cheeks, feels the way his breath catches on a sob. "I love you."

"Jask--" he can't get the words out past the lump in his throat so he just tucks himself a little closer, presses his face into Jaskier's neck. His lute sits forgotten beside them.

"You don't have to say it back, sweetling. It's okay," he says, stroking his free hand through Geralt's hair, the other tucked around his waist.

"I do, though," he whispers, lips brushing his throat, "I do." Jaskier sucks in a shuddering breath and holds him tighter, presses his lips to Geralt's temple, right over the mass of scars there. It's gentle, reverent.

That night, Geralt sleeps in Jaskier's bed, curled against his chest. He’s nearly asleep when the gentle tenor of Jaskier’s voice cuts through the soft haze of near-sleep. “--don’t know where I’d be,” Jaskier is saying softly, lips pressing intermittently to the top of his head, “gets hard being alone out here. And you’re so--” he cuts off, presses a kiss to Geralt’s hair again. He obviously thinks he’s already asleep. “You keep me grounded,” he says. “This is the happiest I’ve been in a long time.” He breathes it like a secret.

As Geralt lets sleep finally pull him under, swimming in Jaskier’s quiet confession, it's the most cared for he's ever felt.

------------------------------

And that’s how things continue, for a long time. Jaskier frets over who may or may not be looking for Geralt and vacillates wildly between stressing himself out about it and pretending it’s not a problem. Vincent and his men show up about every eight or so weeks with supplies from Jaskier’s father and Jaskier drags Geralt out with him to watch every time. Vincent eyes Geralt skeptically still, but he no longer comments or reaches for his sword. And as Geralt begins to experience what contact with other people is like when they’re not running from him or threatening him, he’s further convinced that Jaskier is special. He doesn’t feel this way about Vincent or the other men who deliver their supplies, or the people in the village who Jaskier’s taken him down to meet a few times now (they still won’t come anywhere near him without Jaskier around, but Jaskier is insistent they treat him like anyone else and it’s...it helps).

But Geralt doesn’t know how to make it clear to Jaskier that he’s interested in more. They share Jaskier’s bed, they touch frequently, but things are...remarkably tame. They already say “I love you.” At some point, Jaskier’s flirting had tapered off and now he’s just...sweet. And Geralt loves it, but he also wants...that. The raunchy flirting and the...the things that come after. And the happy ending, like the ones from the fairytales Jaskier readers, sometimes. He just doesn’t know how to let Jaskier know that he wants everything.

It turns out he doesn’t have to ask at all.

"So I know this is a dumb question but," Jaskier's paused over making their eggs one morning, gaze downturned and intense, "I'm--uh. I mean, you--fuck. I have no idea how to say this," he huffs, taking the pan off the open flame and tipping the egg onto a plate. "You want to stay. Here. With me." It's obviously supposed to be a statement, but it sounds like a question.

They’ve already talked about this, haven’t they? "Yes, Jaskier," he says softly, "as long as you'll have me."

Jaskier lets out of a gust of breath, "Fuck okay, so--" he turns to face Geralt, egg abandoned, to take his hands in his, crouching at Geralt’s knees, "I want you here with me, too. More than I, uh, probably should."

Geralt makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat. This sounds like--

"And I know there's no real practical purpose for it since I have nothing but this--" he gestures around them at the cottage, "--to give, but, um. I'd--If you'd be so inclined I'd like to marry you, Geralt." He pauses, eyes downcast and face flushed. Geralt for his part can't seem to put words in any order that might allow them to come out of his mouth and communicate just how much Jaskier's offer means to him.

"It's, uh, a little bit of protection. If the mage does come back for you, or something. But," he's rambling now, words falling from his lips so quickly his tongue is almost tripping over them in an effort to get them out faster, "but it's not like I don't want to marry you, or anything like that. I've been thinking about it quite extensively and I--"

"Jaskier," he cuts in, and he shuts up immediately, wide eyes focused on Geralt's face, nerves pouring off him. "Yes," Geralt says simply, and Jaskier gives a giddy little laugh, tips forward to hide his face in Geralt's lap.

"That's--yes. That's good. I'm glad." When he pulls back to look up into Geralt's face again, his eyes are shining. "Thank you, Geralt."

Geralt's not sure why Jaskier is the one thanking him when Geralt's the one who will most benefit from the arrangement, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

------------------------------

Jaskier makes a special trip to the village to bring the priest of Melitele back to their cottage to officiate the hand fastening less than a week later. Geralt's nervous the man will balk when he sees him, but other than going a little pale at the sight, he stands fast. Even the temple boy that he brought with him doesn't do more than flinch when Jaskier levels him with a look.

"Are you sure--" the priest begins, but Jaskier cuts him off quickly.

"We are. And we want a small, private affair. No fanfare. I'm disowned, remember?" he says sardonically, and Geralt knows it's a tactic to keep the man from asking too many questions, they'd talked about it beforehand, but it still makes his chest ache. Jaskier is so good, he doesn't understand why everyone isn't as drawn to him as Geralt is.

"Now?" The priest asks, fiddling with the cord he's brought with him.

"Geralt?" and Jaskier's expression is so cautiously guarded--

"Yes," he agrees, stepping forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with him in their little clearing, just outside the door of the home they've already shared for months. The priest heaves a gust of breath.

"You'll need to kneel," he says, "Jaskier, give him your right hand. Uh--"

"Geralt," Jaskier supplies, eyes hard.

"--Geralt, give Jaskier your left." They kneel before the priest, hands clasped and held up in offering. The priest slips the cord around their joined hands, talking all the while. "Now, you don't untie this once it's done. Bad luck and all that. Ready?"

"Yes," Jaskier says, and Geralt nods.

"Alright." The priest waves the boy over to watch and serve as witness, and then he begins.

"As this knot is tied," he says, twisting the cording together in the first of several knots, "so are your lives now bound."

Jaskier squeezes Geralt's hand so tightly he can feel how he trembles.

"Woven into this cord, imbued into its very fibers, are all your hopes for your new life together." Another knot.

"With the fashioning of this knot do I tie all the desires, dreams, love, and happiness wished here in this place to your lives for as long as love shall last." He ties off the third and final knot and leans backward.

"Hold tight to one another through both good times and bad, and watch as your strength grows." The silence that rings out after the priest ceases speaking is deafening. Geralt can hear the blood rushing in his veins. "It is done."

"Geralt," Jaskier whispers as their joined hands fall to rest on Geralt’s thigh. He can't help but follow the movement of those lips with his eyes. "Kiss me, Geralt." And who is he to deny Jaskier anything?

He squeezes their joined hands, free hand rising to cup Jaskier's cheek. The look in Jaskier's eyes, the tenderness, the love, the thinly veiled excitement, twists his chest. How could he have ever feared this man would reject him?

"Geralt," Jaskier says again, and Geralt doesn't make him ask twice. He leans forward and presses their lips together in a tiny, chaste kiss, hardly more than a brushing of lips. It's still electric, especially when Jaskier makes a tiny, wounded noise and presses in closer, nearly in Geralt's lap.

Somewhere behind Jaskier, the priest clears his throat and Jaskier draws away reluctantly.

"You'll make it official in the books?" Jaskier asks without actually moving from where he’s perched on Geralt's knees.

"Of course. Should I send word to your father?"

"No," Jaskier scoffs, "don't bother." Geralt sees the priest nod behind Jaskier's shoulder. "Thank you."

"You are very welcome, son. May Melitele bless your binding. Come, boy." Before Jaskier or Geralt can say more, the man is hurrying away with the temple boy who's eyes are still wide and fixed on Geralt.

"I'd like to see them take you from me now," Jaskier says once the man's footsteps have faded from hearing, "husband." Something in Geralt trembles at the word.

"Husband," he repeats slowly, testing out the word on his tongue and finding it to his liking. Jaskier grins, wide and bright.

"Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?" He leans forward to kiss Geralt again, as if some dam has broken and he can't help himself. "My beautiful husband," Jaskier breathes against Geralt's lips.

When he pulls back, breathing hard, Geralt brings their still bound hands up to his lips to kiss Jaskier's knuckles, tender and reverent.

"How could anyone not look at you and see how sweet you are," Jaskier breathes, pulling his knuckles away from Geralt's mouth to give Geralt's scarred fingers the same treatment. "So beautiful, so full of love, my husband is."

"Jaskier--"

"Shush, I'm basking," he teases, giving another deliberate kiss to the back of his hand.

"I'm not--"

"No," Jaskier corrects immediately, "you just don't see yourself the way I see you. You're beautiful, Geralt and I love you very, very much."

He feels his face heat, ducks his head so his hair falls in the way, hiding his eyes.

"And I'll say it as many times as you need to hear it. I love you and I'm not going anywhere. And--" he continues, slipping the fingers of his free hand under Geralt's chin and tilting his head up until their eyes meet, "--I'm not letting anyone else have you. You're mine, husband dearest."

"Yours," Geralt agrees easily. The mage may or may not be looking for him, but it doesn't matter. Geralt wants nothing to do with him anyway.

"And I'm yours, darling. As long as you want me."

"Mine," Geralt echos, "Always."

And that's enough.

[sleekervae]

Young God [0.4]

It was early afternoon in Ventura, the muted brightness of an summer day having given away to a pale blue sky and the sun beaming down at full capacity. Nevertheless, the air was still fairly humid and Taylor fanned her face as a meagre means to ease the blistering heat biting at her skin. Her teal blue hair was tied up today, and what little makeup she had on had been melted down and quickly wiped away. And here, she thought Danny was exaggerating when he went on about the California heat.

Two days had passed and so far, aside from the brash heat, Taylor had found herself to be enjoying her brief American leg. Having close friends by her side eased some the nervous qualms she had carried, as did making many new friends in the wake of the festival. Within the few hours she spent with them, Black Veil Brides had taken Taylor into their circle as though they'd known her for years; laughing, joking around, and drinking, yes. But overall, Taylor had quickly grown fond of spending much of her time with Andy -- which hadn't gone unnoticed by Danny and Ben.

With a quick crack of the knuckles, Taylor plucked at the strings of her guitar in preparation for her next tent show. They certainly weren't her favourite gig to play, yet to her surprise, Taylor had found that she had gathered a small following in the crowds she sang to; quickly accumulating with every show.

The grass beneath her pricked at her bare legs and the heat made it difficult for her to persist with her practice. Despite that, her face lifted when she saw him out of the corner of her eye, and she smiled when Andy sat down beside her, placing the cool water bottle down and relaxing into the warm field.

"One water bottle, as per request," he said, then reached into his vest pocket again, "And one granola bar -- because food," he still wore that cocky grin, eyes twinkling like a mischievous child.

"My knight in shining armour," she spoke with a withered exasperation and quickly took the water bottle, "How much do I owe you?" she asked before taking a sip.

"Don't worry about it," he shrugged.

Taylor glowered at him as she swallowed, "Come on, Andy. Don't be ridiculous,"

"Taylor, it's a water bottle and a shitty granola bar. Hardly put a dent in my wallet," he said, "And don't argue with a cripple,"

"My bad," she chuckled and took the granola bar between her fingers, struggling to pull apart the foil, "How are your ribs, by the way?"

Andy shifted again at the mention, "Can hardly feel 'em now," he said, "Just watch: by the end of the month I'll be right as rain again,"

Taylor refrained from scowling despite the willful foil and adhesive, "Are those your doctor's words or you trying to put me at ease?" she rebutted.

"Perhaps a bit of both," he smirked, taking the granola bar from her and with a quick pull, the foil tore open. Taylor glowered then as he handed it back to her.

"... Showoff," she took the first bite of the sticky, chocolatey goodness before offering the bar his way. He took a bite and commented on how it was simply just a glorified chocolate bar for children. He chewed thoughtfully, watching her for longer than necessary; her long lashes grazing her cheeks, her nude pink lipstick leaving a slight imprint on the foil top and she blinked back at him, shrugging at his remark before taking another bite.

"Aren't you hot like that?" she asked then, pointing to his long, thick black hair.

Andy scratched his jaw with his finger nonchalantly and gave a small shrug, his lips pouty, "Haven't really noticed,"

"Ya' haven't really noticed?" Taylor mocked back in disbelief, "Mate, I'm hot just looking at ya!"

His face flushed then at her nickname, that and the way the twang in her Northern accent held a slight squeak to her outburst, "Honestly, I'm fine," he assured her, "Live in Los Angeles long enough, you get used to it,"

"Ugh, Americans," she joked, lying back and enveloping herself fully in the sun's rays, "Whatcha' doing after your show today?"

Andy bit down on the inside of his lip, "What do you wanna' do?" he replied. Taylor raised her eyebrows, unable to help but admire the strip of sunlight that fell over his face.

"I don't know. The beach, perhaps?" she replied, "Could use a good cooling off,"

He tried not to let his smile grow at that the insinuating thoughts in his head, instead he chuckled, "Taylor, do I look like somebody who goes to the beach?"

Taylor simply shook her head, "You look more like the monster that crawled out of the water to scare the horny teenagers off,"

" -- I won't argue with you there," Andy chuckled back, "But for you, I might entertain the idea of going to the beach,"

"For the prospect of seeing me in a me swimmers, I'd wager," she teased.

"Well," he nodded truthfully, trying not to let his smirk falter, "I wouldn't mind, personally,"

She laughed as she looked back at him, brown eyes bright and shining, "Got ya' figured out, Andy,"

He'd been trying not to lose himself in her too often, had purposely ignored the splash of colour of the thin feathers tied into her teal bun, the way the freckles he'd previously tried to count and memorize the pattern of were highlighted in the sun, had willed himself to focus on the conversation each time her lips had wrapped around the bottle of her water but now he couldn't not notice it all, admired her up close, fantasized about the mere idea of his hands being where she currently had them sitting atop her stomach, then bit the inside of his cheek at how lewd his thoughts were.

"That you do, Taylor," Andy drawled, his voice deeper than it had been before, laced with awe.

Taylor's eyes travelled up the gallery of tattoos that littered his arms. His body was close to hers and it radiated heat, he must have been sweaty with all that hair but she couldn't tell, could smell his cologne instead, the linger of cigarette smoke she'd inhaled before.

"Shall we go, then?" she asked, slowly sitting up, "You have another show and I have another tent to play,"

"I say fuck it," he shrugged back, lowering his face slightly to hers, desperate to win her over, "Let's just stay here for the rest of the day. Watch the clouds, eat glorified chocolate bars and that bullshit,"

Taylor smiled, her cheeks straining from how much his happiness was rubbing off on her.  Her heartbeat had sped up a little and she quickly blamed it on the lack of food since breakfast and the morbid heat, but there was something about his presence that still enthralled her too. She wanted nothing more than to hear him talk about everything and anything for hours, found herself so connected to his mind and the way he worked, couldn't wait to watch him perform again, especially now she'd done a little revision on his music. Her gaze locked on his fearlessly, she raised her chin.

"As enticing as that sounds, our agents will have our heads on spits if we ditch," she said.

Andy shrugged and wet his lips, "Do you often do what you're told?" he asked.

A smirk spread over her pearly pink lips and she leaned in closer, "Only when it suits me," she replied softly.

Despite all the control he'd fought for, the arrogance and air of nonchalance he was desperate to exude, his face lit up; he couldn't help it.

"I'll keep that in mind," he grinned back, untangling his long legs from their pretzel to get to his feet, "You coming then?"

Taylor only extended out her arms, a silent asking for him to take her hands and yank her to feet in one deft swoop. She squeaked at the sudden force and nearly tripped into him, falling straight into his chest. Andy held her steady and couldn't help his bemused giggle.

"You alright?" he asked, his left eyebrow arching in query. Taylor couldn't decide if it was nerves that had prompted the action, or if he was trying to keep up his act, but either way, he looked effortlessly cool doing it.

"Absolutely," she nodded and pulled herself away.

She stuffed her things back into her tote bag and picked up her guitar. After arguing back and forth with himself, Andy nervously threw his arm around her shoulders to bring her to his side as they began to walk. Taylor's eyes were wide with shock for a moment.

"Is it alright if I do this?" he asked, holding his breath for her reaction.

Taylor smiled back in kind, "Yeah," she settled into him with ease, didn't feel uncomfortable with his immediate closeness, his friendliness and need to make her feel comfortable reassuring her that he wasn't trying to put anything on her.

His thumb smoothed down her arm an inch or two as he kept her locked there, her skin smooth and silky but he tensed his jaw to stop himself from going any further, would hate to make her feel uneasy or to do something to scare her off.

"I like those feathers," he drawled, pocketing at his tight jeans for a smoke.

"Thanks," she tucked a stray hair behind her ear, "You know, Ben and Danny would probably have a fit if they saw us together like this,"

"How do you mean? Like -- jealousy?" he mumbled, popping the cigarette between his lips with his free hand, "Personally, I don't blame 'em for it. I got one of the hottest girls at Warped Tour on my arm today," he smirked with a cocky bravado.

"I don't mean like that..." she laughed back, nudging his ribs with her elbow gently, watching the smoke bob from where it was placed between his lips, "In a more brotherly protective manner, so to speak,"

"So, you've known them long?" he asked.

"Meh. Since I was about nineteen," she sighed, "Being young and reckless, trying to stay outta' trouble and shit. They've gotten me out of a few jams in the past,"

"Care to elaborate?" Andy asked, now pocketing around for his lighter.

Taylor shook her head, "Nah, not really," she replied with a nervous giggle, "S'pose I'm just grateful to having them look out for me,"

"Well, I'm very grateful that they introduced me to you," he said, biting the inside of his cheek at his own cheekiness as he brought the smoke away from his mouth to light it.

"As am I," before Andy could barely take the first puff, Taylor snatched the cigarette from his lips for herself.

"Naughty girl," he teased, to which Taylor giggled merrily and handed the bud back to him after her exhale, "I didn't like that, but I respect it,"

A few feet in front of them sat a newer indie rock band; three young hipsters with shaggy hair, baggy muscle tees, and leather woven jewelry. The lead singer noticed Andy and Taylor coming their way and turning his nose up at their loud, eccentric visage. Taylor wasn't so bad on the eyes, with a bit of cleaning up and she'd probably be one of the most beautiful girls he'd ever laid eyes on. Andy's appearance however puzzled him greatly; didn't this taller kid know that hair metal was out of trend?

The singer, with beady green eyes, glowered as the couple passed him by -- his bandmates hardly took notice until their singer suddenly shouted.

"Hey dude!" he called to Andy, "The 80s called, they want their hair back!"

Andy and Taylor stopped short at the whiny voice. Taylor then noted how Andy's face had twisted from pleasant delight to that of simmering irritation. She found that suddenly unsettling to her. He turned slowly to the hipster, cigarette still brandished between his lips with a glare that was sure to kill if looks only could.

"You talking to me, kid?" Andy asked the hipster.

The hipster shrugged without care, much to the chagrin of his bandmates who tried to tell him to shut up, "I sure as shit wasn't talking to her," he spat back, nodding in Taylor's direction.

Andy tore the cigarette away in a deft swipe, stepping over to give this little shit a piece of his mind. Taylor however quickly placed her hand over his chest, effectively stopping him in his tracks.

"Just leave him alone," she murmured to him, "He's looking for a fight is all, and he ain't gonna' get it out of you,"

As if by a sudden wave of magic, Andy's boiling rage simmered down to barely lukewarm. As much as it pained him to admit it, Taylor's words had some truth to them. He could see it in the way this little hipster bitch was smirking at him, just goading him into throwing the first punch. But when he looked down, he was met with Taylor's dark, pleading eyes. He didn't want to let her down. So, Andy inhaled deeply and stood back, taking the high road and placing the cigarette back in his mouth.

"Let's get out of here,"

Taylor, flush was relief, scowled at the twenty-something-year-old boy with disinterest. She instead took Andy's hand in her own and sneered at the hipster before walking away, "Twat!"

The air was much cooler in Asking's bus thanks to this ingenious invention called air conditioning. In turn, Taylor and Maxeen had let their hair down as they sat cloistered together on the floor of the bunk cave. With two bottles of beer before them, Taylor kept as still as possible as Maxeen applied the fresh coat of raspberry pink nail polish to her fingernails while Maxeen waited for her own toe polish to dry.

In the common area, they could hear the faint, muffled commotion of the Asking boys as they battled each other on the video game consoles, swearing and shouting every few seconds it seemed. Taylor's mind was preoccupied, Maxeen could tell from the lack of response she gave when she tried to initiate conversation.

"What's on your mind?" she asked. Taylor flickered her eyes up to meet her friend's, but she shrugged nonchalantly.

"Nothing much," she replied, "Why?"

"You just seem to be somewhere else," Maxeen said, "Were you alright after the gig?"

"Well enough, I suppose," Taylor said.

Maxeen dipped the polish brush back into the jar before she started on the other hand, "Sad we only got four days left?"

Taylor's chest rippled with apprehension, the sullen reminder that her time here was short was nearly enough to send her into a funk. She had enjoyed the time she'd gotten to spend with Danny and Ben, and Andy of course. The time she'd spent with Andy made her feel as though she'd known him for years, forming a bond she hadn't experienced in quite some time. She had told herself over and over not to become too attached to this boy, but like many things in her life that plan too went awry.

"Yeah. Back to the bleak fucking cold," she sighed.

"It's not cold right now back home," Maxeen pointed out, "It's July,"

"I'm aware," Taylor said, "I think it's just like -- you get a small taste for what you could have here but you don't have enough time to really enjoy it,"

Maxeen stopped mid paint-stroke, quirking her head at the mysterious notion Taylor was grappling at, "Whatcha' on about?"

Taylor quickly shook her head, figuring Maxeen would think her ridiculous if she was honest, "Nothing," she mumbled.

Maxeen pursed her lips as she finished the last coat, eyeing Taylor cautiously as though she expected to burst out into tears. Despite not having known Danny, Ben, and the others for as long as Taylor had, Maxeen could very well understand how sad she would be for leaving at the end of the week. However, she could sense from the aversion of Taylor's big brown eyes that she was miffed about something more than just having to leave her friends behind.

"You've been hanging around a lot with that goth-looking guy, eh?" she said, carefully gauging Taylor's next moves. The young rockstar only met her gaze for a brief moment with a nod, "What was his name... Andrew?"

"Andy," Taylor said in wallow.

"Yeah, that's right," Maxeen nodded, "Seems like a nice chap -- could do with a fucking hair cut, though,"

Taylor shrugged again, the tangy smell of nail polish slowly infiltrating her nostrils and making her scrunch, "I think it's alright, actually," she admitted, "It's more his face I notice. Underneath all that paint he's quite handsome,"

"Oh, I'm sure," Maxeen chided back, quirking her head as she tried to read off her friend, "Do you like him, then?"

"Oh course," Taylor nodded, "Him and his mates have been lovely,"

"Okay, but do you fancy him?" Maxeen asked again, "Like... in the same way you felt for Spencer?"

Taylor's ears burned at the sudden mention of her old flame. Thinking back now, that relationship felt like an entire life time ago, a distant memory that she didn't care to hold on to in that it kept her from evolving in her personal life. This however left Taylor with the question of whether or not she was ready to move on.

"It's been three fucking days, I couldn't tell you that, Max," she replied, "Besides, even if I did -- and I'm not saying I do -- but if I did, who's to say it would work anyway? I live on another bloody continent!"

Maxeen shrugged, "Well, that is to say if you did fancy him, I reckon you wouldn't give two shits about long distance. There are lots of couples out there separated, but they make it work,"

Taylor picked up her half-empty beer bottle, "You trying to talk me into a relationship that don't exist?" she took a quick swig and set it back on the carpeted floor.

"All I'm trying to say is if the opportunity presents itself, try it out," Maxeen replied, "So we leave in four days. How much you want to bet you'll be kicking yourself if you never saw him again and didn't at least entertain the possibility of what could've been? And besides, out of all the freaks and nerds we've met on this tour, Andy certainly wouldn't be the worst one to shag,"

A faint blush creeped over Taylor's face as she smiled, shaking her head at Maxeen's snide comment. That being said, the more she thought about it, the deeper Taylor's racing mind sunk into the gutter. Her face went redder and she snickered to herself.

Maxeen's own face meanwhile lit up, fascinated and excited by Taylor's meek and sly response. She shuffled in closer and leaned in to whisper, "Are you actually thinking about...?"

Taylor's nodding and anxious giggling gave her away in an instant, "I wouldn't mind, personally," she  murmured, blushing like a nun outside of a fetish shop.  

Maxeen's newfound glee reached a new height of mania. From the diabolical glint in her eyes, Taylor could tell in an instant that she was up to no good. And she was right. In an instant, Maxeen scrambled to her feet with a sadistic grin and started shouting, "Fuck me! Danny!"

Taylor was overcome with sudden horror, "Oh, god! Whatcha' think you're doing?" and she was then in hot pursuit.

Danny was currently caught up in a cut-throat game of Mario Kart with James. With some fancy thumb work, Danny desperately urged the Wario avatar to pass into first, however James' Toad proved to be a worthy opponent as the carts were now grill-and-grill in an effort to hit the checkered finish line.

"Danny! Ben!" At the sudden call of his name though, Danny lost his train of thought for a millisecond before Wario had veered off the track and had plummeted into the lava pit below. Toad meanwhile finished with a first-place victory.

"What the fuck?" Ben and Cameron turned towards the commotion in question.

Maxeen emerged from the bunk cave, eager to spill her gossip, "Boys! Taylor wants to shag -- oh!" but she stopped short, realizing that it wasn't just the Asking boys wasting their night in front of the tele.

When Taylor grabbed hold of Maxeen, she felt herself go a deep shade of red. Andy, Ashley, and Jake had come along for the digital race, they and everybody else taken aback and amused at Maxeen's outburst. Oh, for fuck sakes...

James however started snickering as he set down his controller, eager to hear this play out, "Who does Taylor want to shag, Max?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows at the blue-haired beauty. Taylor slapped her hand over Maxeen's mouth before she could say anything incriminating.

"Your ma!" Taylor snapped, "Don't mind her, she's just drunk. Carry on, then!" and she yanked Maxeen back into the bunk, scowling at the echoing howls of Ben, Danny, and the others pissing themselves with laughter.

When the girls had disappeared and the hysteria died down, Andy took a thoughtful swig of his own beer; while Danny demanded a rematch from James on account of unforeseen distractions. A cocky smile had come over Andy, just still able to makeup the silhouette of the girls in the dark shadows -- with Taylor no doubt reprimanding Maxeen for being so out of line.

"NO! AYE!" Andy suddenly sat upright in his bunk, not yet awake enough to sense his smaller enclosure and he smashed his head into the rock-hard ceiling.

"Motherfuck!" he groaned, holding his now-throbbing head. His bandmates were now awake as well, all thanks to their lighting technician who just so happened to have the bunk over Andy. The poor fellow had night terrors, and the band was sympathetic to the matter -- just not at five in the morning.

"Fucking -- Richard!" Jinxx pulled back the curtain of his own bunk and hurled his pillow into Richard's, promptly waking him. The older man snorted and grumbled before coming to, realizing what had happened and groaned to himself.

"Sorry," he called. Andy whimpered and slowly rolled out of the bunk, continuing to clutch his head. He had hoped that because his hair was so thick that it would've absorbed some of the impact, then he felt stupid for thinking such a thing. CC then poked his head out of the bunk, and when he registered what had happened he started to laugh to himself. The hungover side of him found the situation hilarious, the sober part of him found it sad, however.

"You okay, Andy?" John, their tour manager, had peaked out from his own quarters at the sudden commotion.

Andy didn't raise his head, instead he held up his hand in the A-OK sign. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, hoping to ease some of the pounding in his head. The reverberations of the bus' engine certainly weren't helping him.

"Are we there yet?" he called to their driver, Collin.

"Forty-five minutes!" Collin called back.

"Take an ice bag for that," John instructed, "Last thing we need is to take you back to the hospital for a cracked skull,"

Andy grimaced at the notion of going back to the hospital again. He staggered to his feet and grabbed his phone, using the light to guide him as wandered through the blacked-out bus and went for the cupboard that held the first-aid kit. He grabbed the plastic bag out of the red box and slammed it down against the countertop several times, trying to illicit a chill from the chemicals inside. When it was cold enough for his liking, he pressed the bag to his forehead and slumped down onto the couch.

He sat in the silence on his own, basking in vibrations of the bus engine. It compounded against his headache but Andy found the sound soothing nonetheless. The throbbing seemed to extend from his head down to his ribs, reminding him of another literal pain that he'd foolishly caused to himself. Knowing how Richard was with his sleep terrors, he pondered whether he and the other boys should get their bunks lined with some padding to avoid situations such at this.

From beside him, Andy's phone suddenly buzzed. It hurt to turn his neck, but he glanced down and squinted at the blue light coming off the screen. The scowl on his face however eased into a smile when he saw Taylor's text message.

Hello from the bus ten meters behind you.

Andy glanced at the time, confirming that Taylor was indeed up earlier than she needed to be as he texted back.

Ello, dahling. What are you doing up?

You're mocking my accent over text now?

I'm not mocking, I'm impersonating

... that's kind of stupid now that I'm thinking about it

Lol, it's cool. I just can't sleep, James is snoring and I have bad jet lag :(

Well, shit.

You think that's bad? Our lighting guy woke me up with his night terrors. I hit my head.

You poor kid! You ok?

Eh, I've had worse. I'll survive

Did you like the show yesterday?

You already asked me.

You just said it was fun. Any analytical criticisms??

I liked the band and the music was really good! Not quite sold on the frontman tho

Well, I thought he was pretty fucking charming.

I think you should give him a chance.

He's a bit of a poser, don't you think? All that body paint and his piercings...

I think you secretly find him really hot. ;)

Well, with all that hair on his head he reminded me of a goth cousin It.

That hurts me right in my core, Taylor

Whops, my thumb slipped :P

Andy couldn't remember the last time he had smiled as much as he did that morning. He stared at that little emoticon with endearment, the ache in his head and ribs quickly forgotten as the three little dots appeared under the message, and he waited patiently. In his head he could hear the ring of her accent speaking the words she'd written, could still hear her laugh tinkling in his ears.

Seriously though, I think I've had more fun with you the past three days then I have all year. You turned me on to glam metal

His heart thundered in his chest as he read over the words. He didn't think it was possible but his smile seemed to get wider. He'd promise himself not to flirt with her but fuck, she made it really hard. Especially with that English humor of hers. It wasn't as though she wasn't guilty on her part.

Darling, you just made my fucking day

Asking Alexandria's bus wasn't far behind from Black Veil. Within the confines of her bunk Taylor felt as though a candle had been lit was slowly glowing brighter and brighter within her chest. Her rapport with Andy was different from her past relations with men, different to what she had with Danny and Ben.

He was sweet and flirtatious, as well as playfully narcissistic in a way that boosted his own ego despite making Taylor laugh at him. And those eyes of his -- she could picture those beautiful eyes staring at her own text message, probably with a hint of irritation as his head ached. Those eyes could stare into her soul, find out her deepest vices and yet she'd welcome him fully.

[that-is-vexing]

Harry was pub-crawling with Lancelot and Percival when they ended up at the Black Prince.

It was packed, but they wedged themselves in a corner and Harry went up to order their drinks. There was a young man waiting his turn, too, obviously drunk and not happy with it. Or maybe he was just an annoyed drunk. He looked at Harry, did a double-take, then sneered, “What’s a snob like you doing here?”

“That was a horrible flirtation,” Harry replied calmly. “I’m here to drink, same as you. It’s your turn to order.”

“It wasn’t—!” The young man seemed flustered and outraged, but he did the right thing and turned forward sharply to say, “The usual, all three.”

“I’ll pay for your drink, if that’s alright,” Harry offered casually, remaining calm as the young man whirled around again and the barman stared, hand still reached for a glass.

“I ain’t some rentboy,” the young man told Harry tightly.

Harry had actually been hoping he was, but all he did was shrug and say, “Suit yourself.”

The youngster received his drinks and edged around Harry, watching him warily. Harry stepped up, bought his own trio of drinks, and carried them carefully back to Lancelot and Percival, who were arguing about the economy. He always kept out of those conversations; his opinions generally seemed to sway the others, and he didn’t like when that happened. So he drank in silence while the others chattered, eyes lazily taking in the whole pub.

The young man was sitting with two of his own friends, and all three were sending hostile glances Harry’s way. He raised an eyebrow at them, and the two friends looked away quickly. The first one, the leader perhaps, continued to glare for a few seconds before turning away. Showing he wasn’t afraid. Harry wanted so badly to get up and go over to them…

“Weigh in, old man!” Lancelot prodded, elbowing Harry.

“On what?” he drawled, after one more thoughtful glance. “You’re both wrong. What else is there to talk about?”

“You weren’t even listening!” Percival accused with faked outrage.

“Certainly not,” Harry replied. “You’ve had the same conversation a million times. I know your arguments, and you’re wrong.”

This, unfortunately, drew him into the very argument he’d been attempting to avoid. He sighed, but resigned himself to it. There was no getting away from Percival, and Lancelot was strong in his (incorrect) convictions. Harry had quite a fight on his hands.

By the time they’d finished their third round, they were tired of the scenery. They stood, and Harry led the way out.

“Ya still owe us, ya lil prick!”

All three agents suddenly straightened, heads snapping around to find the hostile snarl.

“I don’t have your money!” the young man Harry had spoken to snapped, pressed tight against the wall mere yards away, held there by a burly fellow in his mid-thirties. They were surrounded by four thugs; nasty pieces of work, but nothing challenging.

The agents looked at each other. Then they advanced on the thugs, Harry twirling his umbrella lazily.

“No, ya been drinkin’ it all up!” the man pinning the youngster snarled. “Search ‘im, boys!”

“Now, is that any way to act in public?” Harry drawled, startling all six ruffians. “Doesn’t this new generation know anything about manners?”

“Apparently not,” Lancelot answered cheerfully, cracking his knuckles. “I don’t mind teaching them a thing or two, though.”

Percival simply took off his glasses and put them in his pocket.

“I don’t need help,” the would-be victim retorted, even as his attackers slowly turned away from him.

“No.” Harry gripped his umbrella near the middle and set his feet. “But they do.”

The fight was short and brisk. None of the agents broke a sweat, although Lancelot earned a split lip. He’d always had trouble guarding his face.

“Well,” Harry sighed, “Shall we head home?”

“That would probably be best,” Percival answered, rubbing his hand gingerly. “Are you alright, lad?”

Harry turned, surprised; he hadn’t noticed that the youngster hadn’t run when he’d had the chance. Instead, he was staring at the three agents with wide eyes, gaping.

“They won’t stop,” he croaked. “You just made it worse.”

Harry shrugged and took out his business card case. Percival groaned and Lancelot sighed heavily.

“You don’t have to offer protection to every waif and ragamuffin we come across,” Percival objected.

“No, but it’s never been a bad idea,” Harry answered smoothly, holding out a card to the boy. “Take it. And if you need help, call that number, or come to that address.”

The youngster took the card gingerly, and looked it over, brows drawn together. Harry turned, gesturing for the others to precede him. They nodded, and the three agents turned to walk away. The lad would either come to them when it went tits-up, or he wouldn’t. There was no point asking.

“Wait a minute!” A hand grabbed Harry’s arm, and he barely refrained from striking out of reflex. Instead he wheeled around, frowning slightly. The young man flinched, then scowled. “Who the fuck are you?”

“We’re tailors, Harry answered, amused. “If you’ll excuse us, we have work tomorrow. Pleasure meeting you.”

And the agents walked away.

~

Several weeks later, Harry was in for a fitting (his middle was growing, despite his best efforts) when the young man stumbled through the door.

“I think I lost ‘em,” he panted, holding his side, where an ugly red splotch of blood blossomed. “But they’ll find me again.” That was real terror in his eyes, one of which was blackened. He showed further signs of being beaten or in a fight, but Dagonet still turned up his nose—or perhaps he did so because the youngster was dripping blood on the expensive carpet.

Harry couldn’t, though. He turned away from the counter, towards the desperate fugitive, and said simply, “No they won’t. Upstairs, now. There’s a broom closet to the right you can hide in.”

“Mr. Hart!” Dagonet exclaimed reproachfully. But the fugitive was already heading for the stairs, limping, but moving quickly. Harry watched him sharply, and was satisfied to see the boy go right, just as Harry had instructed. Then he turned back to Dagonet as if nothing had happened.

Ten minutes later, when Harry had just set one foot on the bottom stair to go up and make sure the lad hadn’t bled out in the closet, three rough-looking blokes strode in, looking angered to simply be there. Harry hesitated, watching, as the three zoned in on Dagonet.

“You seen a kid come in here?” the tallest ruffian grunted. “Average height, blue cap, blue and white jacket?”

“No, I have not,” Dagonet answered, with all the dignity of his seventy years.

“Green eyes, blond?” the asker persisted.

“No, no one of that description has passed through here. If you’ll excuse me.” And Dagonet returned to work.

The asker’s eyes flicked past Dagonet to Harry, lingering on the stair. Harry nodded genially and continued on his way.

“OI! Yer one of them codgers as done the others!”

Harry sighed heavily and turned around again to face them. “If by “others” you mean those idiots accosting a defenseless child in the street, yes, yes I am,” he confirmed.

Dagonet quietly got out of the way.

The three intruders didn’t notice, or, if they did, they paid no mind. Their eyes were fixed on Harry, waiting calmly on the stairs. He could, if he wanted, call the police. He could even call for Merlin, and they’d send these pathetic fools packing. But he wanted to take them out himself. For some reason.

Maybe it was seeing that blossom of red on a blue and white jacket.

“Why don’t we take this out back?” the tall one sneered.

“And have the whole street hear us?” Harry riposted. “No, I doubt even you would be that stupid. How about we talk this out like civilized people? Without you attempting to hurt yourselves.”

“Yer all talk without yer backup,” the shortest ruffian accused.

Harry stepped slowly down, staring hard at them. They began to look uncertain almost immediately.

“Oh I am, am I?” Harry replied softly.

“Y-yeah.”

“Hm.” Harry stood on the shop floor once more. He advanced on them, wishing he had his umbrella. Ah, well; he didn’t actually need it. His fists were enough. “Let’s see about that.”

~

Eggsy sniffled, and immediately stifled himself with his arm over his mouth.

He didn’t know why he’d come here. He just knew that all his safe places were violated, known, found out and ruined. This was the only place he knew that the others didn’t. And they’d still followed him.

He lifted his hand gingerly and flinched. It was just a shallow graze from a small knife, but the blood was hideously abundant. Maybe it wasn’t shallow. He didn’t know and did not care to find out. He pressed his hand against it again and focused on the rest of his injuries.

Bruised ribs. Black eye. The back of his head hurt, as did his tailbone. Maybe something wrong with his knee, since it was the fucking worst. He should go to the hospital.

But before he could even stand up from his position curled up on the floor of the broom cupboard, the door opened.

“They’re gone,” the old bloke from the pub told him. He looked very pleased with himself. There was a single small cut on his cheekbone, already scabbed over. “Would you like a ride to the hospital?”

“…Yeah, alright.”