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kayte-overmoon · 1 year ago

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Daisy Chain - Part 5 (Finale)

Previous Part

Alpha Geralt/Omega Jaskier

Rated E

Pregnancy AU

Full tags on AO3

“I’m fine, truly.”

Everyone in the room ignores Jaskier’s insistence.

“Honestly, you’re all making such a—”

“Hush.” Geralt’s command leaves no room for argument.

Jaskier, pale and bright eyed where he lies in their bed, snaps his mouth shut.

Geralt hasn’t stopped pacing since he deposited Jaskier on the bed while Yen got Triss and Vesemir. Eskel, Lambert, and Aiden heard the commotion and followed the sound of Geralt’s bellowing to see what all the fuss was about, so now, all the keep’s inhabitants are packed into a room barely big enough for the two of them. Geralt nearly trips over Lambert’s feet every time he paces, but neither of them care to do anything about it.

Triss holds Jaskier’s hand, her brow furrowed in concentration while Vesemir holds an instrument up to his ear and presses the other end to Jaskier’s belly. They’ve been checking Jaskier over for what feels like hours in Geralt’s mind but has really only been a few minutes.

Geralt’s getting impatient. “Well?”

Triss looks up at him then to Vesemir. She’s frowning, but she’s not making any sudden moves to save Jaskier’s life, so it can’t be too dire. Vesemir shakes his head, lowering the instrument.

“They’re both fine,” Triss says.

Geralt does trip over Lambert’s foot, then. He catches himself at the last moment and stumbles to Jaskier’s side. The bard finds his hand and tangles their fingers together. Geralt squeezes as hard as he dares.

“Fine?” Jaskier asks. Gone is his bluster from earlier. Geralt can hear the too-quick thrumming of his heart, smell his worry in the air.

“You’re well, Jaskier,” Vesemir assures him. “And so is your pup. It’s just that your heart is working a bit too hard. Have you been experiencing any dizziness, black spots in your vision when you stand?”

Jaskier flicks his eyes to Geralt’s for only a moment. “Yes.” When Geralt rises again, prepared to yell at him, he corrects, “Only the past day or so, though.”

“You could have told us, Jaskier.” Triss’ voice is soft. She looks a bit peaked in the pale green dress she’s wearing. She’d hastily tied her hair up into a bun upon entering the room, and half of it is falling loose. She’s worried about him. It warms Geralt’s heart just the slightest to know he’s not the only one going frayed at the edges over this. “We’re here to help you.”

Jaskier pouts and starts playing with Geralt’s fingers. A few days ago, he’d taken one of his own rings and jokingly shoved it on Geralt’s pinky, and he’d yet to remove it since. Geralt likes the feel of it. Jaskier likes messing with it while they’re holding hands. “I didn’t think it was anything worth noting,” Jaskier murmurs.

Everything about you is worth noting, Geralt wants to tell him, but all that comes out is a grumble.

Jaskier avoids his gaze then asks, “What do we do?”

“You aren’t doing anything.” Vesemir rises from the bed with a parting pat to Jaskier’s leg. “You need rest. As much as you can get. You’re not to leave this bed for more than a few minutes until the pup comes.”

Again, Geralt tries to speak, to say I’ll strap him down if I must, but he only manages a low growl.

Triss drops Jaskier’s hand and backs away from the bedside. Lambert takes a reproachful step in front of Aiden.

Yennefer, who’s been hovering nearby in case Triss needed her assistance, steps forward and places a hand on Geralt’s arm. “Put your teeth away, Geralt. No one’s going to touch your little bird.”

With no small amount of shame, Geralt realizes he’s been snarling. He ceases at once and leans closer to his omega to press his nose in his hair.

Blessedly, Vesemir starts talking before anyone can make note of Geralt’s behavior. “This is relatively normal at this stage of pregnancy. We should be thankful it’s only becoming an issue now instead of earlier. We’ll make sure you have lots of water and meat to keep your strength up. You can go for a short walk once a day, but never on your own. Don’t even attempt the stairs. You’re staying within running distance of this room.”

“How long?” Jaskier’s voice is tense. Geralt can smell his worry wafting off him in waves. He growls softly, hoping the rumble of his voice will calm the omega. “Should I expect the pup tomorrow? Another month from now?”

Geralt’s head is turned away still but he can hear Vesemir shrug. “It’s hard to say for certain, but I would wager sooner rather than later. You said you conceived around Belleteyn?”

Jaskier nods, bumping Geralt’s nose as he does.

“Then it could be any day now. We pray you carry to term, but I wouldn’t hedge my bets on it.”

The bard’s hands stray to his belly and Geralt covers them with one of his own on instinct. The others shuffle out, giving them privacy.

Once the door closes, Jaskier drops his head and groans. “I feel like an invalid.”

Geralt frowns and presses a kiss to Jaskier’s ear. “You’re not.”

“Ah, so you can talk,” the bard muses. “For a minute there I was worried you’d gone full alpha on me. It’s very sweet, and possibly one of the sexiest things I’ve ever witnessed, but you’re rather a bore to talk to when you’re like that.”

Geralt snorts. “Can’t have you bored, can we?”

“It’s quite possibly the worst thing that could happen to me at this moment.”

Rolling his eyes, Geralt sits up. “And how can I ensure you’re entertained, my liege?”

“I can think of a few ways…” Jaskier drifts a hand down Geralt’s chest, across his stomach, to hook into the waist of the witcher’s trousers—

Geralt catches his wrist before he gets any further. “Anything but that.”

Jaskier pouts like Geralt’s just told him he can’t have dessert before dinner. “Can’t I just have you in my mouth? Nothing more.”

Geralt feels himself start to harden at the soft plea, but he ignores it. “You already had me in your mouth this morning.” His chest warms at the memory. Soft lips, hot tongue, stuttered breaths stirring the hair beneath his navel… “Besides, if standing is an issue for your health, I can’t imagine gagging will do you much better.”

Jaskier blushes, drawing his legs up under the covers. “I’m getting better at it, though,” he protests. His scent has mellowed back out, sour worry replaced with the sun-warmed honey of arousal and embarrassment. “I hardly choked this morning. Only once or twice.”

“Which is one or two times too many for my liking.” Geralt eases the bard back against the pillows, tucking a few more in around him to keep him secure. “Can I get you anything? Other than—” He cuts Jaskier off when he sees the glint in those pretty eyes. “—my cock.”

With a huff, the omega flops into the pillows. “I suppose a book will do. But only if you read it to me.”

Geralt rolls his eyes at the bard’s impertinence but goes to find a book of fables Jaskier adores.

⚘⚘⚘

Even with books, and a minimum of two guests to keep him company at any given time, it takes Jaskier all of three days before he’s complaining.

“Can’t I just go to the library?” he whines from the bed. He’s given up on asking to be taken to the hot springs. Geralt doesn’t want to risk taking him that far. Besides, his omega’s heart always beats faster in the hot springs, from the heat and the proximity of Geralt’s naked body. He’s not willing to risk the added stress to his heart.

But this? This he can do.

Geralt uncorks a bottle and upends its contents into the tub he’s been gradually filling with water. The scent of chamomile, a bit too strong for his sensibilities, fills the air of their room. “No.”

“But Geralt—”

“Jask, we’ve talked about this.” He sets the bottle aside and lifts a hand, casting Igni. There’s a ripple over the water, then steam begins rising from its surface.

“No, you’ve talked about this. I’ve had no say in it.”

Geralt turns his back to the tub (it will need to cool down for a few minutes before he lets Jaskier in) and puts his hands on his hips. “Exactly. Because if it were up to you, you’d still be strutting about the keep.”

Jaskier frowns. He looks ridiculous, frankly. His hair is fluffed up on one side from his post-lunch nap. He’s managed to acquire every unused blanket and pillow in the entirety of Kaer Morhen—and a fair few of the in-use ones as well—and has constructed himself a truly impressive nest. Geralt has to climb over its walls every time he leaves or enters the bed. It’s enough to make him smile, even with Jaskier’s near-constant complaining.

“I do not strut.”

Geralt snorts.

When he deems the water cool enough, he coaxes Jaskier slowly from the bed, making sure he doesn’t rise too quickly. He strips him efficiently, ignoring the bard’s waggling eyebrows, and gets him in the tub with little fuss.

Jaskier sinks into the water with a sigh, leaning his head against one end. Luckily, it’s large enough for him to lay back and stretch out his legs. It was made for witchers, who are tall and broad and often covered in unspeakable things, so it’s the perfect size for a man of average height and build to lounge in.

“I know it’s not the springs,” Geralt says, taking a seat on stool beside the tub. “But it’s still nice, right?”

Jaskier grumbles his unhappy agreement.

His discontent melts away almost as soon as Geralt gets his hands in his hair, washing it and brushing it out with his fingers until Jaskier’s purring drowns everything else out. Geralt tries not to be too smug about it. He’s been patient with Jaskier’s moods the past few days. He’s never carried a child, so he has no clue what his bard is going through. He’s seen how he winces when the pup kicks him, noticed how frequently he has to relieve himself these days. Geralt knows Jaskier’s not upset with him—he’s just upset. This is one of the small things he knows Jaskier loves.

He rinses Jaskier’s hair then runs his hands down the omega’s neck, massaging his tight muscles.

Jaskier melts further, his chin nearly dipping beneath the lukewarm water. He looks as if nothing can shake him from his peace.

Nothing, that is, except for a loud thud from the room next door.

Jaskier jolts, and Geralt turns his head to listen: there’s another soft thunk, a hiss of a voice, then a shuffle, then Eskel’s voice muttering an apology. From Jaskier’s curious eyes peeking back at him, he knows he can’t hear the voices and is trusting Geralt to relay any pertinent information. A soft chuckle—light and feminine—from the room next door makes Geralt decide it’s none of his business until someone makes it his business.

He shakes his head softly. If Eskel has decided to whisk a certain curly-haired sorceress to a more private room, it’s no skin off Geralt’s teeth. It is, however, a bit strange they’ve decided to dally in the room right next to the nesting omega. Odd choice, but who is Geralt to judge?

“Just Eskel,” he tells Jaskier. “Sounds like he’s finally getting around to replacing the chipped grout in the room next-door.”

There’s an innuendo there waiting to be picked apart, but Jaskier doesn’t pay it any mind. He reclines in the tub and tips his head, letting Geralt know he’d like to continue this little massage, please and thank you.

Geralt snorts and does as he’s asked.

⚘⚘⚘

The mysterious sounds from next door continue for the better part of the week before Geralt gets answers.

He’s dubious about his first assumption. If the constant clunks and scrapes are the sounds of Eskel’s lovemaking, he may need professional intervention—in the medical sense, not the professional sense. Though he supposes Eskel’s partner has all the expertise he would need for such an ailment.

The medical expertise, of course.

He and Jaskier are having dinner—roast quail and potatoes in some fragrant broth for which Vesemir refuses to share the recipe—with Yennefer keeping them company in the chair by the fire. None of them have dared trying to enter the nest. Geralt grits his teeth when anyone is within shouting distance of his omega, but Jaskier himself has begun showing signs of aggression common in nesting omegas. Everyone steers clear from his nest, not even daring to look at it for more than a few seconds, and no one besides Jaskier has touched Geralt since Lambert patted his arm in passing after breakfast one day and Jaskier exploded into a bone-chilling snarl. Geralt had been floored. He’s never even truly heard Jaskier raise his voice at anyone besides the occasional alderman who thought he could get away with shorting Geralt on payment for a contract. This snarl—primal and raw and wholly un-Jaskier—made him freeze in place.

So, Yen keeps her distance.

Surprisingly, she and Jaskier get along great. Geralt worried that now Jaskier knew about his romantic past with Yennefer, things would be strained. Quite the opposite. It seems both having had Geralt at one point or another is all the common ground they needed to become thick as thieves. He’s come to accept that if the two of them are in a room together, Geralt will be the butt of every one of their jokes.

He's letting their conversation wash over him, ignoring the muted whispers from the room adjacent to theirs with his empty bowl in his lap and his belly full. He’s warm. Content.

“Ah!” Jaskier’s soft cry catches his attention. Once, it may have scared him to hear such a noise, but he’s grown accustomed to the way his omega’s hand jolts to his side when the pup decides it’s time to move.

Yen, however, is on her feet before Jaskier can assure her he’s fine. “What’s wrong?” She’s gone pale beneath the dark blue wool gown she’s wearing—the nicest thing she’s worn since coming to the keep. “Do you need me to fetch Triss?”

Jaskier chuckles and sinks back into his pillows. “No, no. She’s just fidgety. Kicked me in the ribs. She’s rather fond of potatoes, I think. Can’t stop wiggling every time I have them. Which is frequently, by the way. Why these witchers grow so many tubers is beyond me—”

Geralt rolls his eyes and takes Jaskier’s bowl when it’s done. As he rises and takes their dishes to the tray on the table by the door (Vesemir will come fetch it soon, or Yen will take it with her when she leaves), he’s aware of Yen’s trouble gaze. She sat back down when it became clear Jaskier wasn’t going into labor at that very moment, but there’s still a frown resting firmly between her brows.

“Would you like to come feel?”

Geralt’s spine goes straight. His back is turned so he can’t see the look on either of their faces. He’s afraid to look and break whatever moment of intimacy the two of them may be having.

This is big, he knows. Though her ascension had changed her much the same way the Trials had changed Geralt, Yennefer is all alpha. She masks it with the coyness of her eyes and light perfumes that soften her scent, but it’s clear to anyone with half a brain what she is. Jaskier is in his own nest that he shares only with Geralt. Even when Triss comes in to examine him, she’s taken to easing him into one of the lounge chairs they’ve brought from the library instead of joining him on the bed. To invite Yen near, to touch him, is a massive test of faith.

He still can’t see Yennefer’s face, but he hears the tremble in her voice when she asks, “Are you certain?”

There’s a puff of air from the nest—the sound most commonly paired with Jaskier’s award-winning eye rolls. “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t. Come.”

Geralt tries to give them privacy, he really does, but the closer Yen’s footsteps get to his nest, the more tense his shoulders grow until they’re raised nearly to his ears. He bites down on a growl and spins, gripping the table behind him to keep from lashing out.

Yen’s smart enough to know not to enter the nest. She merely leans over and reaches out a hand, waiting for Jaskier to grab her wrist before touching him.

Jaskier’s face is passive, as neutral as it can be, but Geralt feels his apprehension as if it’s his own. Much of their arrangement hinges on how well Yennefer gets along with Jaskier and the pup. If he doesn’t trust her around his child, or if she isn’t willing to protect them both, then her training will fail before it ever truly begins. Geralt may have agreed to train her, but Jaskier is his first priority. If he’s uncomfortable or unhappy, or there’s even the slightest chance this could lead to him or the pup getting hurt, Geralt is pulling the plug. If they’re to travel the Path together, the four of them, as a unit, this needs to work.

Jaskier pulls her hand until it rests on the swell of his stomach over his shirt. He shifts her around, brow furrowed, until the pup gives another kick. He grins triumphantly as Yennefer jolts in surprise. Her eyes dart from her hand to Jaskier’s face, then back again half a dozen times in a few short moments.

“Do you—that doesn’t feel comfortable?” It’s the most unsure Yen has ever sounded.

Jaskier laughs, relaxing minutely and letting go of her wrist. “Sometimes I can ignore it. Every now and then she’ll get particularly rowdy and decide to pick a fight with my liver or what have you.”

Yennefer’s hand lingers for a moment before she finally steps away. “Sounds like she’ll make a fine witcher one day.”

The tension that had left Geralt when she stepped away from the nest returns in force. Jaskier’s eyes go wide then snap in Geralt’s direction for the first time since he walked away. The bard shrinks into the bed. His hand curls under the swell of his belly.

“No,” Geralt finds himself saying through gritted teeth. “Not that.”

Jaskier stares at him, his scent going sour in the air. He doesn’t speak.

Now a few paces away from the bed, Yennefer twists her hands together. “I’m… sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

Geralt glares at her. “You did, though.”

For the first time since he’s known her, Geralt watches Yennefer of Vengerberg drop her head. “I’ll leave you be.” Then she’s gone, the door left open in her haste.

Geralt is back in the nest in an instant. “She’s wrong.” Jaskier’s still looking at him oddly, so he continues. “I don’t want the pup to be a witcher. She needs a proper childhood. She doesn’t need to be able to wield a sword before she can climb a tree on her own, or hunt before she’s learned how to read. I don’t want her to grow up the way I did—”

He’s rambling, he knows. It’s something he’d never done before he met Jaskier. Just another one of the countless ways this man has changed him.

The man in question reaches out for him, halting him mid-tirade. “It’s fine, dear heart. Just Mumma brain going a bit wild.” He pulls on Geralt’s arm until he relaxes beside him, letting Jaskier curl up against him. “I don’t mind the idea of her witchering one day, once she’s grown.” When Geralt only blinks in surprise, he laughs. “What, did you think the idea was completely foreign to me? Of course I’ve thought about it. While she’s sure to have my share of musical genius and blinding wit, if you’re raising her, she’s bound to be tough. If it’s what she chooses, I have no qualms. Well, okay. I have several qualms, but they’re not too qualmy so as to be an obstacle.”

He's not lying. Geralt would know if he was. Still, it’s impossible to imagine. What parent would want their child going into a profession marred with blood and disgust of others? Geralt, for one, does not want this child to face what he’s had to face. He’s been beaten and bloodied, left at the brink of death for nothing but sheer luck to bring him back. He’s been scorned from entire cities, spat on, and cursed. And before the Path, he’d suffered grueling training and the horror of the Trials. The pain still haunts him sometimes, the screams of his dying brothers ringing in his ears long after he wakes.

A finger jabs between his eyebrows, poking without mercy. “Stop that,” Jaskier tells the frown on his witcher’s face. “You’ve said it yourself. You witchers are making your own rules now. You’re bending them for Yennefer, and you’ll bend them again if one day our child decides this is what she wants, too.” His finger moves down the striga scar bisecting Geralt’s eyebrow that’s long since healed. “I know you’ll protect her, just as you’ve protected me. There’s no one I’d trust more with her.”

Geralt sighs and drops his head to his omega’s shoulder. His scent is stronger here, thicker. It grows more honeyed each day. It’s all he can do to keep from curling up and keeping his nose pressed right here all day. “You’re a fool,” he tells the bard.

“I know.” Jaskier’s reply is lacking the mirth Geralt had expected. “But it’s true. I’ve never trusted anyone the way I trust you. I’d let you lead me blindfolded over a pit of vipers if you promised we’d make it to the other side.”

“You have my full permission to push me in if it ever comes to that.”

The bard snorts, but before he can reply further, someone raps on the open door.

Eskel steps in, one hand covering his eyes. “You decent?”

“No,” Jaskier says. “But we are clothed, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Eskel peeks between his fingers like he’s afraid Jaskier is lying, then drops his hand when he sees they are indeed clothed. Geralt rolls his eyes. “We have a surprise for you,” Eskel says.

“We?” Geralt asks.

As if summoned, Triss appears at Eskel’s side, draping a hand around his elbow. “We’ve got a present for you next door.”

Jaskier looks to him. Geralt shrugs and peels himself from the nest, reaching for Jaskier’s hands to help him up as well. It takes a moment to get him upright, mostly due to Geralt making sure he’s not rising too quickly.

Triss and Eskel lead them to the room next door—the one they’d initially put Jaskier in before he moved in with Geralt, the one Geralt had thought Triss and Eskel to be making very creative love—and as they do, the rest of the keep’s inhabitants appear in the hall. Yen still looks chagrined, but she’s smiling just the faintest where she stands against the wall between Vesemir and Lambert.

Triss stands before the closed door. “We’ve all been working on this for the past few weeks.” She turns to smile at each of the people gathered in the hall. “Vesemir had the idea, and everyone else has pitched in to make it happen.”

“Enough with the pomp and circumstance!” Lambert cries. “Just open the bloody door.”

With an eyeroll to rival even Jaskier’s, Triss opens the door and steps aside to let them enter.

Geralt eases Jaskier in front of him, letting him be first, and he’s glad he does. The second the bard steps inside, he gasps and falls back into Geralt’s chest. He catches him, prepared to sweep him up if he’s fainted, but he’s merely staring at the room with shining eyes.

When Geralt looks up, he can see why.

The whole room has been aired out and scrubbed clean. It no longer smells of dust and stale woodsmoke as these unused rooms often do. The wooden pallet bed has been removed and, in its place, sits a crib, carefully constructed with stars and moons carved into the slats. A wooden hoop hangs above it, more stars and moons carved from wood and painted silver dangling from it as it spins slowly—likely magic, of some sort. By the fire, there’s a new rug woven from various shades of blue. Beside that is a rocking chair Geralt has never seen, already draped with cushions and blankets, ready for use.

“Oh.” Jaskier’s voice comes out small but he’s holding himself upright again, now merely holding onto Geralt’s arm for support. He turns in a circle about the room, reaching out to touch the hoop above the bed. “I had a mobile like this when I was a child. Did you make it?”

“Eskel carved the stars,” Triss says. She and the others stand at the door, letting Geralt and his omega explore the nursery for themselves. “Yen painted it. I cast the enchantments. It will spin on its own, and it glows at night. Lambert and Aiden brought the fabric for the rug. Vesemir helped put the rocker together.”

Jaskier’s hands drops and grips the edge of the crib. He gazes down into it, eyes shining.

Geralt swallows a few times to clear the lump in his throat. Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this.

“It’s not much,” Eskel tells them. There’s a meekness to his voice, like he’s embarrassed to have been caught doing something sentimental. “But we’ve never had a baby in the keep, at least not as far as Ves can remember.”

Geralt looks to his father, who’s still leaning against the wall in the hallway, letting the younger witchers watch the events unfurling in the nursery. The old wolf shakes his head. “The youngest boy we ever had just turned three when we got him,” he says. To someone who doesn’t know him, the bitterness in his voice would be unnoticeable. Geralt and his brother’s clock it immediately. “Besides, your girl deserves more than a musty cot in a drafty hallway.”

The lump in Geralt’s throat returns, and he tries to hide it by draping himself around Jaskier, holding onto his belly and scenting him gently. “What do you think?”

Jaskier turns to press his cheek to the top of Geralt’s head. “Gods, it’s perfect. I’ve never—I wasn’t expecting anything like this.”

Geralt knows what he was expecting. Before Oxenfurt, Jaskier had waxed poetic about a basketweaver he’d once met in Rinde who made baby baskets that could be carried on your back. He’d talked about them so much that Geralt had looked for anything remotely similar every time they were near a market. Jaskier never expected a full room for his pup. He’d only ever thought of a single basket with which to carry her.

A shudder works its way up Geralt’s spine, but it’s not wholly unpleasant. Guilt over not thinking of this sooner loses out to gratitude for this family doing it for him.

This is what Jaskier deserves. He deserves a room for his child to sleep and play and grow and be loved. He deserves a home. Not a tent or a bedroll or a room at an inn. A home.

And Geralt hadn’t been the one to provide it for him.

Jaskier turns in his arms, running his hands up Geralt’s back until he’s clutching his shoulders, pressed as close as they can be with the pup in the way. “It’s perfect,” he whispers again, muffled in Geralt’s shirt.

Geralt lifts his eyes to his family once more, all watching him with wide eyes.

He smiles at them and pulls Jaskier closer.

⚘⚘⚘

Jaskier manages to convince Geralt to let him test out the rocker for a few minutes before he’s herded back to bed. He’s been upright too long. His heart isn’t putting up a fight yet, but Geralt isn’t willing to even give it the chance.

But try as he might, he can’t keep Jaskier out of the nursery over the next few days.

They end up moving in his favorite chaise lounge so he can keep his bedrest and be able to take in the space at the same time. Triss and Vesemir warn against moving, but Geralt, perhaps, is the only one who understands. His own nesting is getting bad—he’s been stockpiling food and water, even though he knows they won’t run out, and he finds himself growling every time anyone is nearby. He can’t imagine how bad Jaskier’s is.

He hides it well. Their nest in the bed is only partially dismantled so he can have some of his favorite blankets with him in the nursery. He’s been rearranging everything frantically, even going so far as to sew up the holes in the blankets. But he does find his moments of peace between redecorating and complaining of the heat flashes he’s been having. At times, the pup stills and Jaskier can find some respite, which is usually when he decides to pick his lute back up or put his head in Geralt’s lap so his alpha can play with his hair and read him stories.

Geralt loves those moments of quiet.

Which is probably why the interruptions put his teeth on edge.

Yennefer means no ill will—she merely raps lightly on the door while Jaskier is snoozing and Geralt is watching the rise and fall of his chest, one hand in his bard’s hair and the other on his stomach. But still, Geralt glowers at her, seething as she motions for him to join her in the hallway.

Later, he will apologize for his sneer and thank her for not setting foot inside. Frankly, he’s fed up with his own territorialism, but he’s so focused on keeping Jaskier and his pup safe, he’s fine with being a prick to the people he loves.

He leaves the door open a crack so he can come if Jaskier calls.

Yen shifts on her feet and crosses her arms.

“What is it?” Geralt keeps his voice low. Jaskier doesn’t sleep through the night very well these days, so his naptime is precious.

Graciously, Yennefer knows to keep her voice down as well. She frowns at him. “When were you going to tell me he has magic?”

Geralt sighs and leans against the wall. He was afraid this was coming. “He doesn’t.”

“I’m not stupid, Geralt,” she says, a corner of her mouth twitching upward. “You don’t have to hide it from me. I felt it when he let me feel the pup kick. He practically zapped me with it.”

“It’s not his magic, we don’t think.”

“We?”

He nods. “Vesemir knows. Eskel and Triss as well. At this point, Lambert and Aiden probably do as well.”

“Oh, so I’m the only one left out of the loop then?”

She’s upset. She’s hiding it behind sarcasm and prickly words, but Geralt knows her well enough to know what it means when her scent sours, like wine left out in the sun for too long.

He takes a step closer (he’s no longer so on edge, with a mostly shut door between his nesting omega and an unmated alpha) and puts a hand on her shoulder. “Yen,” he says softly. “We didn’t leave you out intentionally. None of us really know what it means yet. We’ve hardly had the time to talk about it. And to be honest…” He lowers his voice more, so that on the off chance Jaskier is awake, he won’t hear. “I’m not sure he knows about it himself.”

She blinks. “Are you serious? How can he not know?”

Geralt shrugs and drops his hand but keeps his voice quiet. “He’s never mentioned it before and I know he wouldn’t… he wouldn’t lie to me about this.”

“He never spoke of a change? Odd things happening around him? A conduit moment?”

“Never.”

Yennefer frowns even harder. “That doesn’t make any sense. He’s, what, twenty?”

“There about.”

“Something was bound to have happened by now. People with that much chaos bouncing around inside them don’t just sit inert for two whole decades, Geralt.” She stops, her violet eyes widening. “What if someone put a curse on him? Some sort of binding to keep his powers at bay?”

The thought makes Geralt’s chest tighten. He glances into the nursery just to make sure Jaskier is still snoozing happily, curled up around a pillow. “Wouldn’t you be able to tell that sort of thing?”

“Not always, especially if it was put in place by a powerful enough mage who knew what they were doing.” She purses her lips in thought. “Does he have any enemies? Anyone who might want to control him?”

“I don’t know.” The thought scares Geralt enough to have him reaching for his swords out of habit—but they’re in the bedroom. He’s safe. Jaskier is safe. Kaer Morhen is safe. He shakes his head at himself. “He left his family when he conceived. I don’t know all his motivations, exactly, but I do know his family had… influence.”

She nods, like it makes any sense. “Then they would have had access to a mage, most likely in court somewhere. And wealthy families have a myriad of reasons to hide their sons’ magic. Control, fear, prejudice. Money. If he’s their only son, in some places… well, you can understand why they wouldn’t want their sole heir running off to Ban Ard.”

“Vesemir mentioned the pup’s magic is stronger than Jask’s, that they’re both protected by it. He said that’s why they’re both so healthy when male omega pregnancies don’t… don’t…”

Yen taps her fingers to her chin. “I didn’t see that, but… well, I only noticed it when I touched him, and that was brief. It could have been her magic, for all I know.” She must see something on his face, then, for she sighs and pats him on the arm. “It’s all speculation, Geralt. All that matters is that they’re both safe, right?”

“Right.”

“Then the rest of it can be resolved later. It’s not life or death.” She clearly says it with more cheer than she feels, but Geralt appreciates the effort, nonetheless.

“I should talk to him about this.”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling for the first time. “I think you have to.”

⚘⚘⚘

Geralt waits until Jaskier is well-rested and recently fed to bring it up.

They’re in the nursery again. Jaskier reclines on his chaise, scribbling in one of his notebooks, and Geralt, on the floor, has drawn the bard’s feet into his lap and is rubbing out the aches Jaskier has been complaining about. They’re silent, save for the scratching of Jaskier’s pencil on paper and the occasional sigh when Geralt digs the hinge of his thumb into his arches.

“Jask?”

The bard hums in acknowledgement but doesn’t look up from his writing.

“Have you ever—that is, I mean…” Geralt’s stuttering catches his omega’s attention. He’s never been particularly composed around him, but Jaskier knows he only trips over his words when he’s anxious. Which he is. Very. He’s trying to keep his scent calm, neutral, but even as he thinks it, he can smell his own nerves rising in the air.

Jaskier setts his notebook aside. “What is it, love?”

Geralt frowns and runs his hands up to Jaskier’s ankle to distract them both. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. It’s… something Vesemir brought to my attention, then Yen…”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, his voice a smidge harder than it was a moment ago. “You’re making me nervous. What is it? You know you can ask me anything.”

“Do you have magic?”

Geralt keeps his gaze on Jaskier’s feet (pale and simple, peeking out the bottom of his trousers) and continues the slow, soothing motions of his hands. It’s not doing much for Jaskier anymore, he knows, but he fears what will happen when he no longer has something to occupy his hands.

He needs the answer. They all do. But he’s never asked anything like this of Jaskier. He’s always let the omega set the pace of their relationship. He let him tell Geralt of his pregnancy in his own time, even though he’d already known. He revealed bits and pieces of himself gradually, let Geralt puzzle it all together until he truly knows Jaskier. The only things he’s ever withheld from Geralt are his real name—which Geralt is honestly content never to know if that’s what Jaskier wishes—and his true feelings for the witcher. But even then, while he’d never said the words aloud until Geralt did, he’d shown it in countless ways before then. His songs, the way he defended Geralt to other humans, the way he remembered Geralt’s fondness for honey-glazed doughnuts—it all told Geralt what he needed to know before the words “I love you” even grazed his lips.

Jaskier’s hand comes into Geralt’s line of sight. The inside of his middle finger is stained black from charcoal. His thumbnail is broken from where he’d let it get too long and it had gotten caught on his lute strings. Geralt could pick out those hands from a lineup, he thinks. At this point, he knows them better than he knows his own.

Those charcoal-dusted, lute-calloused fingers hook under Geralt’s chin and tip it upright until he’s looking up into those cornflower-blue eyes that have followed him for the better part of the past year. There’s a line between Jaskier’s eyebrows, but he’s not upset like Geralt feared. He’s only confused.

“Do I have magic?” He repeats the question like he hadn’t heard Geralt properly the first time.

“Yes.”

“Dear heart.” Jaskier blinks, shakes his head. “Don’t you think I would have told you by now if I did? Don’t you have some sort of, I don’t know, sixth witcher sense for that kind of thing?”

Geralt snorts. He lifts a hand to touch the wolf-head medallion resting just beneath his collarbones. “Just this. It vibrates when there’s strong magic nearby.” He doesn’t add, however, that witchers can sense certain types of magic themselves. His sense for it isn’t as innate as Vesemir’s or Eskel’s, but he’s had moments where he’s looked at someone and known they’re a mage before they even open their mouths.

“But it’s never vibrated around me.” Jaskier’s hand drops from Geralt’s chin to the medallion, stroking a finger over it. “Why do you ask?”

Geralt notes he hasn’t yet said “no.”

“Vesemir noticed when you arrived, then Eskel,” Geralt says. “Then Triss and Yen once they’d touched you. They say magic… it’s all over you, Jask.”

He frowns harder, brow scrunching in confusion. “But I—I don’t have magic. I couldn’t. I would have known by now, right?”

His confusion eases the tension in Geralt’s spine. He’s telling the truth. This is news to him, just as much as it has been to all of them. “Possibly,” Geralt says. “There are ways you wouldn’t though.”

“Such as?”

“Yennefer mentioned someone may have limited your ability to access your chaos,” he says, skipping around the word “curse.” If it had worried Geralt to hear, he can only imagine what it would do to Jaskier’s nerves. “Or, it could be something benign. Latent Elder blood, for instance, or a blessing placed on you by a priestess—any number of things. Or…”

“Or?”

Geralt shifts to sit beside Jaskier on his lounge. Jaskier makes room for him easily, flipping his blankets back to settle over Geralt’s lap once he’s settled. “The pup’s sire. You knew him well?”

Jaskier nods. He looks away, his cheeks tinting. “Yes. His family has worked for our—for my father—for decades. He and I were raised together.”

“Is there any chance he had magic?”

Jaskier laughs, sharp and sudden. He catches himself quickly, pressing his fingers to his mouth. “I’m sorry.” He glances at Geralt sheepishly, then chuckles again. “No. Odard? No.”

“Are you certain?” Geralt asks. “Ves says the pup’s magic is… significant.”

The bard’s mirth melts back into confusion. He presses a hand to his belly like he’ll be able to glean the answers simply from touch. “I suppose… it’s not wholly impossible. But I don’t know… why wouldn’t he have told me?”

“It’s all speculation, Jask. It might not be his magic. Or, if it is, it could be so well hidden even he hadn’t a clue.” He catches Jaskier’s hand as he senses him tipping from confusion to worry. “Listen. Vesemir said the magic—whoever’s it is or wherever it came from—is protecting you both. It’s not a bad thing. Something that has kept you both whole and healthy could never be a bad thing, in my book.”

Jaskier’s face softens, and he cracks a smile, tipping forward to rest his forehead on Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt makes room for him, moves his legs out of the way so Jask can cuddle up against him, and presses his cheek to the bard’s hair. They scent each other impulsively.

“I still want to know where it came from,” Jaskier murmurs after a few moments. Geralt had assumed they were done. “If this is something that could… help us or… harm us. I would like to know.”

Geralt hums. He agrees. Magic is something people kill and die for. Even latent magic has power that drives men mad. If what Vesemir said about magic attracting monsters is true, Jaskier and his pup could be in danger.

Geralt wonders what it says about him, that he’d been drawn to Jaskier like a moth to a flame.

“Is anyone in your family elven?”

Jaskier lifts his head. “I doubt it. My father…” He shudders and shakes his head. “He’s not the sort to keep the company of elves, even in his own family.”

“And your mother?” He’s never mentioned her, Geralt realizes. The handful of times he’s spoke of his family, it’s only ever been to complain of his father’s cruelty. Surely someone as kind and caring as Jaskier had a female influence on him growing up. He couldn’t have spawned from his dickbag of a father’s loins.

Jaskier’s scent sours and he drops his head again. “She… no. She wasn’t elven. My father would have… he wouldn’t have married her if she was.”

He speaks of her in the past tense. Geralt knows better than to pry. Instead, he kisses Jaskier’s hair and says, “Alright. Then it likely isn’t Elder blood. That’s one less avenue to explore.” He leans back into the chaise, pulling Jaskier with him until they’re both reclining again. “We’ll figure it out, Jask.”

Jaskier nods silently.

Neither of them speaks again for a good long while.

⚘⚘⚘

Over the next few days, something grows inside Geralt.

Not in the literal sense—Jaskier is the one doing all the growing, after all. But each passing moment sets Geralt’s teeth on edge. He’s not content until he and Jaskier both are in their nest and everyone else in the keep is far, far away.

He forgets that these people would rather fall on their own swords than harm Jaskier or the pup. He forgets they’re here to help. He forgets they spent the last few weeks preparing a special place just for Jaskier and their daughter. The second he hears footfalls in the hallway, he’s on his feet, steel sword in hand and ready to defend his pack.

It comes to a head when Triss comes to check in on Jaskier. She’s the only one Geralt will tolerate in the room with Jaskier. Aiden, even though he’s an omega, is too much of a threat even unarmed. Witchers are trained killers. Geralt would rather hurl himself off the parapets than let any of them close to Jaskier.

Jaskier is fed up with Geralt’s constant growling and pacing, but even he bristles when Triss enters. Still, he smiles at her and goes when she beckons him to leave the nest. Geralt places himself at the door, far enough away to not crowd them but close enough to intervene if necessary. It’s all he can do not to growl the entire time someone else is in the room.

Once Jaskier’s to his feet, Triss slips an arm around his waist to steady him. Looking back, Geralt knows the wince his omega lets out has nothing to do with Triss’ touch and everything to do with the pup’s weight pushing down on his bladder, but he can’t think of that in the moment.

Geralt sees red.

He can’t recall what happens next, only that he’s rushing forward, there’s a flood of snarling in his ears (only some of it his own), then Eskel’s shoving him up against the wall with an arm across his throat.

Geralt snaps his teeth and shoves his brother, not seeing him as anything other than a threat, an intruder, an unmated alpha when Geralt’s omega is right there—

“Enough!”

Geralt and Eskel both snap their heads to the doorway as Vesemir shoulders his way through. Geralt has no clue when either of them arrived. Vesemir pulls them apart, then hauls them to the hallway while Jaskier and Triss watch them go with wide eyes.

The cord in Geralt’s chest that ties him to Jaskier pulls as the door shuts between them. He lunges, trying to get back in, but Vesemir steps between it and Geralt. “I said enough,” the old wolf growls. “Back off, Wolf.”

Even with Geralt’s instincts screaming at him, he eases off at his father’s command. “But I—”

“No.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “Triss has him. You know she’d sooner pluck out her own eyes than harm your boy. I won’t let anyone inside. Go. Take a walk.” He turns to Eskel, who’s stopped growling under his breath but still hovers nearby. “And you. You have no right to be here.”

“But Triss—”

“Can handle herself. Go. Back to your work. I expect the north corridor to be spotless by dinnertime.”

Eskel huffs and sets off down the hallway, sparing one last glance to the closed bedroom door.

Once he’s gone, Vesemir sighs and looks at Geralt again with no small amount of exasperation. “What did I say? Go. Get some air. Your omega will be just fine. We’ll send for you if you’re needed, but right now, you’re just getting in the way.”

The rational part of Geralt’s mind agrees. He’s being ridiculous. Jaskier is safer in that room than anywhere on the Continent. They’re miles away from any other living soul. The keep is protected by five (and a half) witchers, two sorceresses, three layers of rock, an iced-over mountain, and a hefty handful of enchantments. If Geralt can’t leave Jaskier in this room, in this keep, with someone he trusts with his own life, where can he leave him?

He takes a deep breath, willing away his alpha rage as the air floods his lungs, and nods.

As Geralt leaves, Vesemir plants his feet and folds his hands in front of himself—a sentry pose. He’s not going anywhere.

Geralt relaxes just the slightest as he makes his way down the hall, to the stairs, then down to the Great Hall. Yennefer is sparring with Lambert—and losing horribly, based on the tang of bitterness on the air and the scrape on her chin—while Aiden keeps watch. They watch Geralt as he passes them and slips out the door and into the cold winter air.

It’s gotten even colder in the past few weeks. The mountain is quiet. Everything—from the birds and deer to the thin streams carving scars into the forest—has begun hibernating until spring.

Geralt won’t be able to stay out here for long. He didn’t bring a coat, and even witchers are capable of getting frost bite.

But, he’ll admit, the fresh air is nice. It stings his lungs on the way down, cleansing his pheromone-addled brain. He hadn’t realized how entrenched in Jaskier’s scent he’s become. He can still smell him, of course. Even if he hadn’t rubbed himself all over Geralt’s chest earlier in the day, he’d still be present in every pore of Geralt’s skin.

He wonders how much deeper that will go once they’ve bonded—if they bond, Geralt corrects himself. He still half expects Jaskier to come to his senses once the pup has arrived and realize he’d merely clung unto the nearest alpha able to protect him and his pup.

Geralt should give him more credit than that, he knows. Jaskier has no reason to lie to him about his feelings. And he does care for Geralt. You’d have to be blind and deaf and have no sense of smell to think otherwise. But can he truly want a future with a witcher? A man more than four times his age who’s likely to outlive him. A man trained from his youth to fight and kill and be only one step above the monsters whose lives he claims. A man unable to give him a home, unable to give him more children. He’d be a fool to want that.

He takes another deep breath and lets it go, watching it cloud out from between his lips.

Geralt would be a fool to let him go.

As long as Jaskier is willing to love him, he’ll take it. He can’t imagine his life without him anymore. He’d once thought of the Path as lonely, the quiet only interrupted by bloodshed and the occasional political spat he’s found himself in the middle of. Now it’s anything but lonely. The politics and bloodshed remain, but everything else has changed. Instead of loneliness, there’s Jaskier’s voice, writing epics about Geralt’s battles. Instead of pain, there’s Jaskier’s cool hands stitching him back up. Instead of the metallic tang of blood and the cloying stench of death, there’s Jaskier’s honey-sweet scent flooding Geralt’s senses.

Geralt touches the medallion at his chest, still warm despite the weather.

You’re making your own rules these days.

Jaskier had said that a few days ago, repeating something Geralt had once said to him before Oxenfurt. It’s true—once the witchers were held by a creed that forced them to live by the whims of men and die at the hands of monsters. Now that there’s no way for them to make new witchers, the humans couldn’t care less what they do. And there will always be monsters, more than a handful of mutated men can take care of themselves.

Who says they can’t write new rules? Who says the witchers have to be mutated versions of the boys they used to be? Why can’t normal people—courageous people, but normal—take up arms against the monsters hunting them in the night? If anyone can fall victim to them, why can’t just anyone learn to fight them?

Yennefer could be just the first of many. Sure, she has her magic and years of fighting to back her up, but she could be the beginning of a great experiment.

Witchers have long been isolated creatures, and not solely due to the unkindness of men. There’s enough knowledge within the walls of Kaer Morhen and the remaining Cat and Griffon keeps to equip the whole Continent with the tools they need to take care of monsters. If they only opened their doors to the public, lent their own wisdom to those tired of being driven from riversides by drowners and forced out of their cemeteries by ghouls—what would happen?

The door to the Great Hall opens then shuts behind Geralt but he doesn’t turn. He knows the boot falls approaching him like they’re his own.

Eskel sighs as he takes his place at Geralt’s side. “Remember that winter before the Trials we tried climbing the south wall in a blizzard?”

Geralt snorts. “Don’t you have a corridor to be scrubbing?”

Eskel ignores him then jabs an elbow into his side, grinning. “I thought Ves would skin us alive.”

“Guess he figured the broken bones were punishment enough.”

Eskel chuckles, a cloud of white forming in front of him. They both look up at the sky. Clouds gather on the horizon, dark and foreboding. They’re in for another storm. Based on Eskel’s comment about the blizzard, it’s not likely to be a light one.

“Can you feel it?” Eskel whispers, his humor from the moment before gone.

Geralt nods. He can. The wind picks up, carrying with it the scent of ozone and snow. “We should try one more hunt before it starts.” The kitchen and cellar are stocked with more than enough flour, vegetables, and dried fruits to get them through the winter, but they’ll be short on fresh meat for a while. Anything they can get now, skin, and preserve will only serve them in the coming months.

Eskel nods, and soon they’ve both gone back for their coats and weapons. Jaskier decided to lay down for a nap after Triss’ exam, a hot water bottle settled low on his belly, so Geralt only feels a small pang of guilt leaving him for a few hours.

The cold is much more manageable with fur-lined leather encasing him from head to toe. Eskel’s presence is a comforting one beside him, their footsteps nearly silent as they march through the snow.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Geralt says as they break into the tree line. He keeps his voice low and his ears open in hopes of catching any trace of animals. The deer will have bedded down for the winter, but rabbits and squirrels often stay out this far into the snow. If they’re lucky, they might even find a wild boar or turkey. “With Triss. I didn’t mean to harm her. It’s just when Jask winced, I thought—”

Eskel doesn’t let him finish. “I know.” He drops a hand on his brother’s shoulder as he steps over a fallen tree. It’s fresh, having given way under the weight of the snow they’ve already had. Doubtless this next storm will claim many more. “You didn’t hurt her. And I’m sorry as well. I shouldn’t have been there. It’s just the past few weeks, I feel like… like she’s a part of me. Like if I’m not in the same room with her, the sky will start crumbling.”

Geralt snorts softly. “I know the feeling.” He glances at his brother sidelong. His golden gaze is focused on the forest, searching for tracks, but there’s a softness to his face that makes no sense for a hunt. Geralt imagines his own face looks much the same. “So are you…”

“Yes,” Eskel says, not letting him finish. His cheeks darken just a shade or two beneath his scars. It’s good to know Geralt isn’t the only blushing witcher these days. “Before the end of winter, I’d guess.”

“I’m happy for you.”

Eskel turns, catches him looking, and grins. “And I for you, brother.”

A twig snaps nearby and they both fall silent.

Within two hours, the dark clouds have gathered overhead, rumbling steadily as the sky spits bouts of snow down on them. There’s a trio of squirrels hanging from Geralt’s belt and Eskel’s plucking the feathers off a turkey; it’s a bit scrawny, likely left behind when its family traveled down the mountain for the winter, but it’ll serve them well.

Geralt is about to suggest they go further south, try to flush out some rabbits before the snow worsens, when a sound echoes through the forest.

It’s not an animal sound—that would have thrilled him, given him a direction to look for food—or a monster sound—which would have had him reaching for his swords.

Those sounds are predictable, manageable.

This one makes his stomach turn in an instant.

It’s Yennefer. Yelling Geralt’s name.

It’s hard to run uphill through nearly two feet of snow but Geralt manages. They’d wandered quite a distance from the keep in search of game, so it takes him a few minutes to follow the sound of her voice.

She’s descending the hill in front of the gate, trying to follow in Geralt in Eskel’s footprints. She’s in only a cloak over her day clothes, which are soaked up to her hips. She’s shivering, but relaxes when Geralt comes into view, Eskel hot on his heels.

“Geralt! Come quick!” She rushes to him, stumbling over her own half-frozen feet. “It’s Jaskier.”

Geralt’s blood goes cold. No. No, no, no.

“What’s wrong?” he grits out, his voice scraping along his vocal cords like sandpaper. He shouldn’t have left him. He knew he shouldn’t have left him alone. Any number of things could have happened to him. Is he sick? Dying? Did something happen to the pup—

Yennefer reaches him and grips his arms, tipping her worried face up to him. “He needs you. He’s in labor.”

⚘⚘⚘ End of Part one of the Chains of Fate Series ⚘⚘⚘

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