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smolalienbee · 3 years ago

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This Must Be The Place

game!Eskel/Netflix!Jaskier // set in netflix!verse, canon divergent post the mountain hunt where Jaskier and Geralt never meet again // 5.6k words // gift fic for @sevdrag! happy birthday!

Jaskier, it seems, has a penchant for running into witchers. Decades after the unfortunate dragon hunt, decades since he’s last seen Geralt, he meets another man with a wolf medallion and two swords. He knows, instantly, that he’s in over his head.

(In which Jaskier has a home away from everything and Eskel takes a much needed week long vacation.)

read on AO3 here!

When he sees him, Jaskier’s first instinct is to bolt.

Silver and steel, two swords on the back of a broad-shouldered man walking down the street — Jaskier freezes as soon as his eyes land on him and he presses his basket of fresh fruit closer to his chest lest he drops it in shock.

It’s been decades since he’s last seen Geralt. Years since he’s last seen any witcher, although he’s run into a few of them even after he and Geralt went their separate ways as a result of what had happened on that blasted mountainside. Here, though, he’s not prepared for it. It’s a quiet town, forgotten by monsters and witchers alike — as though the coastline nearing it is the very edge of the world that few outsiders dare to approach.

To Jaskier’s relief, it’s immediately obvious the witcher in front of him isn’t Geralt. Apparently, though, that knowledge alone is not enough to stop the memories from flooding back in, to the point that Jaskier doesn’t even realize that minutes pass as he stands there, frozen in the middle of the way. Frozen for long enough that the witcher has the time to turn and notice him staring.

There’s a nasty scar running through the right half of his face, but that’s not what brings Jaskier out of his stupor. It’s the hurt that briefly flashes across the witcher’s face, the way he tilts his head the other way. Jaskier knows that look well — the look of someone exhausted of being feared and despised wherever he goes. It breaks Jaskier’s heart to see it.

(It breaks his heart even more to know that this time he’s the cause of it.)

Of course, the witcher is quick to school his expression into something more neutral and then he turns, about to walk away as if nothing had happened. It’s in that split second that Jaskier makes a decision — even though he’s fairly certain this isn’t something he should be doing, if the way his heart stutters is anything to go by.

“Wait —” he calls out and rushes forward.

The market isn’t crowded (it never is, the town is hardly big enough for it to be), but there’s still enough people around that Jaskier has to push past them to catch up to him. He keeps a hold on the basket with one arm, while with his other one, he reaches out towards the witcher and grasps his elbow once he’s close enough to do so. Jaskier’s touch immediately gets him to stop and when he turns his head towards him, it all clicks.

Now, up close, Jaskier takes proper stock of him — there’s the scar, yes, but there’s another thing that Jaskier takes note of. The wolf medallion.

“Eskel,” Jaskier gasps, recognition for a man he’s never met briefly flashing in his eyes. “You’re Eskel, right?”

He’s heard the tales. A witcher with a scar so hideous that people have likened him to a monster — excessive, that, Jaskier thinks to himself now that he gets to see him closely. The scar, startling as it might be, is hardly horrifying.

(He’s also heard about him from Geralt. Not much, of course, but enough to know how very close Eskel and Geralt always were.)

“How would you know?” the witcher — Eskel — asks and he seems equally surprised and intrigued. Jaskier grins at him, preening under the attention on an instinct before he realizes what he’s being asked and what he needs to say. His smile falters.

Letting out a steadying breath, he pulls his arm back and instead reaches up to fix his hair. In his rush to reach Eskel, some of the strands have fallen out of the loose bun at the back of his head and he pushes them out of his face, using it as an excuse to stall his response just a little bit.

(His hair is long, these days, and greying. The irony of wearing it similarly to how Geralt did is not lost on him.)

“Ah,” he lets out a soft noise, shuffles around until the basket he’s carrying is under his left arm and his right hand is free to be offered for a handshake. “I’m Jaskier.” There’s a glint of recognition there, but to Jaskier’s surprise, Eskel doesn’t interrupt him. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, retired bard, a man of many names and I… I used to travel with Geralt. Geralt of Rivia. I’ve heard about you from him.”

(He doesn’t think it wise to mention the other people he’s heard from about Eskel. After all, Geralt is the only one who’s only ever had good things to say about him.)

Eskel relaxes at his response. He hums and takes Jaskier’s hand, squeezing it tightly as he speaks. “So you’re the bard, then. Geralt’s told me about you, too.”

“Has he? Nothing particularly flattering, I’d imagine.” It’s a joke, it’s supposed to be a joke, but it comes out flat and Eskel seems to notice as much, too.

“No, the opposite,” he says. A small pause before he continues, “Did you really think he would talk badly about you?”

Jaskier hasn’t been expecting that sort of question. He opens and closes his mouth, gaze drifting away from Eskel. He’s really not making a good first impression, is he? Insulting Geralt right to his brother’s face the first time they meet.

“No. No, I — of course not,” he murmurs. It’s true — he’s had time to get over his bitterness and hurt, but there’s something about meeting Eskel that’s making him relive some of those long forgotten emotions. He doesn’t quite know how to handle it. He shakes his head — best to change the topic. “Not many witchers wander all the way out here,” he says. “Are you in a rush? Dealing with a contract?”

“Not in a rush. Just passing by.”

“I live nearby. I have wine, I can treat you to a glass. Or two.”

Eskel tilts his head as he considers it for a moment. “Wouldn’t be right to refuse local hospitality,” he says with a nod and a small smile tugging at his lips.

Jaskier throws a wide grin his way, feeling lighter than he’s had in ages. “Now that’s the spirit. Let’s go, then, witcher dear.”

In the end, there’s three of them that walk to Jaskier’s house — not just Jaskier and Eskel, but also Scorpion, Eskel’s horse. The witcher had meant to leave him in a stable in town, but it didn’t take much convincing before he changed his mind.

(“You might as well take him along,” Jaskier had said. “I have a small stable. There’s plenty of space, a bed — if you need somewhere to stay… folks around here don’t scare easily, they won’t mind a witcher, but you’ll save coin this way.” And so Eskel agreed.)

Along the way, Eskel tells him how he had gotten the horse — apparently through invoking the law of surprise. It’s when Jaskier promptly refers to it as a Horse Surprise that he learns the sound of Eskel's laughter, deep, just as his voice is, and with a pleasant ring to it that he doesn’t think he could ever grow tired of.

The entire time Jaskier tries to avoid thinking about why he’s decided to invite Eskel to his home. It’s just that he knows how unkind the world can be to witchers, he tells himself, and that he wants to make it a little easier for the ones he comes across. It’s not at all that he misses the company. It’s not that, even now, decades later, he still feels most at ease around someone who reminds him so much of Geralt.

(It’s not fair to Eskel, he knows. But he can’t help it, the way his mind naturally latches onto the similarities.)

At this point in their journey, Jaskier’s property comes into view — a picturesque wooden cottage with its surrounding land. There’s a garden, filled with vegetables and flowers and herbs; a stable with just enough room for three horses at most, a chicken coop — all things that Jaskier tends to mostly on his own.

(A home that decades ago he never would’ve thought he would want.)

“You have a… farm. I thought you were just a bard,” Eskel comments as they approach, tilting his head to look around.

“Retired bard, thank you very much. Some of us do grow old, you know. Unlike your lot.”

Eskel huffs a laugh. “The grey hair suits you,” he hums.

“Easy for you to say,” Jaskier mumbles. “You’ve never seen me before and I highly doubt Geralt’s descriptions were particularly… evocative. I used to be a dashing young man, I’ll have you know.”

“You’d be right, Geralt isn’t as good with words as I’m sure you are,” Eskel agrees with an amused smile. “But even then, I don’t think I’m wrong to say that you look lovely.”

Oh, but this is just rude. Jaskier feels his cheeks heat up at the compliment and he shakes his head, deciding to brush it off before he gets himself even more flustered.

(Because surely Eskel is not flirting with him. Why would he?)

“Well, you’re definitely far more smooth than Geralt, I’ll give you that.”

“Not trying to be,” Eskel mutters, glancing away. He raises the hand that isn’t holding Scorpion’s lead and idly rubs at the scarred side of his face. “Just calling things as they are.”

Jaskier doesn’t know Eskell well enough (doesn’t know him at all, truly) to be able to say for certain what it is that’s going through his mind. Regardless, though, he’s skilled enough in reading even complete strangers that he can tell when someone is uncomfortable, as seems to be the case with this witcher.

“Thank you,” Jaskier murmurs, accepting the compliment for what it is. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he then adds, winking at Eskel in an attempt to get him to lighten up.

And while his words do manage to get Eskel to huff a chuckle, he also rubs harder at his jaw, tilting his head as though instinctively trying to hide the scar.

(Jaskier’s fingers suddenly itch with a desire to touch it, to tilt Eskel’s head towards him and show him that he has nothing to be ashamed of. He does none of that.)

“There’s no need for the flattery,” Eskel mutters.

Jaskier smiles, echoing Eskel’s own words back at him. “Just calling things as they are.” He shrugs. “I happen to find scars rather charming, dear. Signs of a life well lived.”

Eskel laughs, properly this time, and Jaskier’s relieved to hear the sound of it again, having hoped he’d be able to ease some of the witcher’s discomfort.

“That’s one way to put it. Hard to forget you’re a poet when you say things like that.”

“Quite. If there’s one thing old age has not dulled, it’s my wit.”

By now, they have reached the stable and Jaskier gestures towards one of the empty stalls next to his own horse. “Scorpion, meet Pegasus, Pegasus, this is Scorpion.” He steps closer and gently pats the side of his stallion’s muzzle. “Behave, you old bastard,” he hums, voice dripping with affection. “I’m sure you two will be best friends in no time.”

Eskel snorts softly at his words but says nothing as he busies himself with leading Scorpion into the stall. Once the horse is settled, Jaskier is the first one to saunter outside. He spreads his arms out wide, doesn’t bother to check if Eskel is following as he continues towards the house.

“Here we are, then. My little… haven on this Continent. Garden’s over there, there’s chickens — introductions later, though, haven’t come up with this week’s names yet — then there’s…” he trails off as he hears a crunch of gravel behind him and bleating. Coming to a stop, he glances over his shoulder towards the source of the noise and sees Eskel being lovingly assaulted by his two goats. “...the goats, yes,” he finishes with a delighted note to his voice.

While the goats, curious as ever, circle around the visitor, Eskel carefully lowers himself to a crouch. Immediately, the smaller one, with a beige-white fur coat, pounces, her front hoofs landing directly on the side of Eskel’s back. Jaskier watches the whole scene, the soft smile on his face matching Eskel’s own as the witcher gently nudges the goat off and tries to keep it from bumping too much into the dulled spikes on the shoulder of his armor.

“The overly excitable one is Pippin,” Jaskier tells him, nodding towards the goat as it now tries to nibble on Eskel’s hair. “The other one,” He points out the second goat, this one with a black-white fur coat and considerably calmer disposition. “That’s Gertrude.”

“I had a goat once,” Eskel muses. Well, that’d certainly explain why he instantly seemed so comfortable with them.

“Geralt never mentioned pets.”

“Because we don’t usually have them. Too dangerous, for one, and it’s not like any of us have much time for it. I can’t even imagine some of us caring for one.”

“Apparently you did, though,” Jaskier points out, stepping away so that he can lean against the side of the house while he continues to watch Eskel. “Have a pet, I mean.”

“Yeah — well, Lil’ Bleater was just monster bait, at first. She survived, though, and kept following me around. So I —” He shrugs as he runs his fingers over Pippin’s back. “— brought her up to the mountains with me.”

Jaskier has always been aware that there’s a lot he doesn't know about the life at Kaer Morhen, about all the remaining witchers. There’s been stories, of course, ones that Geralt had told him during late nights around a campfire. But there’s always been details that were missing, things that perhaps Geralt hadn’t even thought to be noteworthy. Meeting Eskel is further proof of that and Jaskier isn’t sure whether to be happy that he gets to hear more or bitter that Geralt had always been so stingy with the details.

(Now, though, is hardly the time to try and figure out that whirlwind of emotion.)

“Lil’ Bleater?” he repeats, with a gentle grin that Eskel gets to see as he nudges the goats and stands up. “That was her name?”

“Yeah,” Eskel confirms. “She died some years ago. Old age, so nothing gruesome.”

“The only thing that will get us all,” Jaskier laughs, pushing himself off the wall. “Well, some of us. Not a bad way to go, though. Come on, let me show you the inside.”

Eskel, as it quickly turns out, fits perfectly into the calm landscape of Jaskier’s life.

The first day, he spent poking around the cottage, still a bit awkwardly out of place. With an amused fondness, Jaskier recalls that day and how the witcher had first discovered a miniature model of the cottage, situated on a shelf in Jaskier’s sitting room.

“Is that… a tiny stable?” Eskel had asked, a hand hovering in front of it, but never quite touching as though afraid to break it.

“Yes!” Jaskier had confirmed. “And there’s tiny horses inside. You know, as opposed to… horse-sized horses.”

Eskel had laughed loudly at that and the memory of it still warms Jaskier from inside.

It doesn’t take much longer after that for Eskel to find his own footing and rhythm in Jaskier’s space, amongst Jaskier’s daily habits. He likes to make himself useful, Jaskier notices, and quietly enjoys even the mundane and repetitive tasks. And so Jaskier goes through it all — shows him when and how to feed the chickens, teaches him how to care for the garden and, of course, the goats need no explanation.

(Eskel never says that he misses Lil’ Bleater, but Jaskier thinks that he must, if how much time he spends with Pippin and Gertrude is anything to go by.)

Despite being just a guest, Eskel never protests being asked to do these things. In fact, he appears to be revelling in the simplicity of it and in his usefulness that for once doesn’t hinge on killing monsters and protecting people.

It’s afternoon, when Jaskier returns from a short supply run to a nearby town. He had brought Pegasus with him as the weather has been all over the place lately — summer storms coming and going as they please and so his joints have been complaining, more than usual and enough so that he didn’t dare try to walk the distance.

The scent of fresh bread is wafting out from inside the house and Jaskier follows it directly to the kitchen. There he finds Eskel, apparently having just finished baking as there’s bread still cooling on the table. Jaskier smiles, unceremoniously dropping a linen bag onto a nearby counter before handing Eskel one of the apples he had bought while out.

“For your efforts, my homebody witcher,” he teases. Eskel rolls his eyes at him, briefly rubs at his jaw with one hand, but then takes the offered fruit.

“I don’t think there’s a single person on the entire Continent that would ever guess you’d be calling me your witcher,” he rumbles as he twists the apple between his fingers.

“Ah, yes, well,” Jaskier murmurs, going about unpacking his bags as though the implication of what Eskel had said is lost on him. Of course, it’s not, not at all. “Geralt had never truly been mine, had he?”

When he lifts his gaze from the bag, he sees that Eskel has frozen on the spot and is now looking at him with concern painting his features. Jaskier sighs.

“I — fuck, Jaskier, I’m sorry, I don’t know why—”

“No, Eskel, it’s alright,” he reassures him quickly. He abandons his groceries for the moment, instead turning fully towards Eskel before taking a step towards him. “It’s been a long, long time. It’s alright, I promise.” Eskel softens, but there’s still a crease of worry between his eyes and so Jaskier reaches out to gently smooth it out with his thumb. “Did he ever tell you I asked him to come to the coast with me?” he asks in a whisper, pulling his hand back.

“No,” Eskel shakes his head, eyes trailing after Jaskier’s hand. “I… never really figured it out, what happened between the two of you. He used to talk about you whenever we reunited for the winter, but then at some point he just stopped. I asked, but he wouldn’t tell me anything. He would tense up, storm out, whenever someone brought up you or your songs.”

Stepping away, Jaskier hums. “It wasn’t long after I asked that we parted ways,” he explains. Needing something to do with his hands, he turns away from Eskel and rummages around until he comes up with a knife and then makes his way over to where the freshly baked bread is. “He… he said some things to me. Bloody awful things. I’ve forgiven him, since, but I never thought it wise to seek him out and we just…” he trails off, frowning as he digs the knife into the bread.

For a moment, neither of them say anything. Jaskier focuses on the motion of cutting the bread into thick slices, listening to the rhythmic noise of the knife as it thuds against the cutting board below.

“I’d like to think moving here was some way of reclaiming what happened,” he continues eventually. “What with how close the coast is, but… it would just be another flowery lie, fitting material for a song, maybe.” He laughs softly. “I never really thought about it that much, about making a home here. It’s just peaceful. Nice for retirement. Few know I’m out here and really, I’m more of a Julian than a Jaskier to the people around here.”

Eskel’s eyes have never left him and he knows as much even without glancing at the witcher. He exhales, pausing the movements of his arm. It’s been so long since he’s last talked with anyone about what happened with Geralt… no, actually, he’s not sure if he’s ever told anyone the truth of what happened, save for a few curt words of explanation or metaphors shoved into lyrics he wrote while his heart was still freshly broken and aching. It’s a far duller feeling, now, and he suspects the only reason it’s still there at all is because of how much of his life he had really spent around Geralt.

(It hits him, sometimes, how he had grown up with Geralt at his side. It’s a strange realization to have, even at his age.)

“You know, he…” Eskel speaks slowly. “Each winter, when he talked about you, it got fonder and fonder. At first you were just — the bard. Then, Jaskier. Then… his friend.”

Jaskier doesn’t even realize when his grip on the knife slips. The clatter of it hitting the table startles him as much as it does Eskel and he stares at the witcher with wide eyes.

(It doesn’t startle him as much as Eskel’s words have, though.)

“Jaskier? Jaskier, what’s wrong?”

Eskel, confused and concerned, is at his side in an instant. Jaskier doesn’t dare move.

“He… he said I was his friend?”

“What? Yes, you —”

“He never told me.”

Eskel immediately closes his mouth at his words and meanwhile, Jaskier tries to blink away the sudden tears that threaten to spill. Why this is affecting him so much, he’s not sure. Perhaps it just so happens that Eskel’s peaceful presence and the specific words that he said are enough to dig up wounds that Jaskier hadn’t even realized aren’t fully healed.

“Jaskier…” the witcher murmurs. He steps closer and Jaskier looks over at him, one hand moving up to wipe the wetness off his own cheek.

“I should’ve looked for him,” Jaskier chokes out. He doesn’t resist when Eskel pulls him into a hug. “After the — I should’ve at least… tried.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Jaskier wants to believe him. He presses his face into the crook of Eskel’s neck and his fingers curl around the fabric on the back of his shirt.

“I know. I know, but I could have… he was hurting, Eskel.”

“You were, too.”

“I didn’t know,” Jaskier whimpers and Eskel holds him even closer.

A week into Eskel’s stay the weather finally clears properly and the nights get warm enough that the two of them can spend a late evening drinking on the back porch. When Jaskier steps out the door, a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other, he finds Eskel already seated on the wooden bench near the backdoor. Pippin sits by his feet and it makes for a charming picture, this intimidating witcher so relaxed and with a cute animal at his side.

Jaskier smiles to himself and comes closer, handing one of the glasses to Eskel before he takes a seat next to him. They’re both silent as he pours the wine and even as they sip slowly. Jaskier tilts his head back, taking in the night sky and the crisp summer air. There’s something comforting about the shared silence and so he doesn’t feel as though he needs to fill it in any way.

(Maybe it’s due to his age. Or maybe it’s that Eskel is particularly good at making silence feel natural.)

“Jaskier?” Eskel waits until a soft hum of acknowledgement answers him and only then does he continue. “Can I ask something of you?”

Jaskier glances over at him and nods. “Sure. What is it?”

“Could you —” Eskel hesitates. He scratches at his scar and by now Jaskier knows that it’s a nervous habit. The sight of it has him sitting up straight. “Could you sing me a song?”

Oh. Certainly not the kind of request he expected. “What?” he mutters, dumb-founded and still in the middle of processing the question.

Eskel rubs at his jaw a little more insistently, glances at Jaskier for a brief moment before taking a long sip of the wine. Jaskier waits because it’s all he can do and he knows Eskel is not ignoring him.

“I’ve heard so much about you, but I’ve never heard you sing,” he explains eventually.

“It’s — well, my voice isn’t exactly like what it used to be…”

“Can’t be worse than me on a good day,” Eskel says lightly. He doesn’t give Jaskier a chance to respond before he’s clearing his throat and breaking into a song. “De ole hen she cackled, she cackled on the fence.” It’s clear he’s not trained, his tone too flat for a song and off-key, but Jaskier finds that he doesn’t mind. It’s rather charming, how Eskel’s voice rumbles to a tune Jaskier is not entirely familiar with.

(And really, the reason why he’s doing it is even more charming.)

“Don’t really know any other songs by heart,” Eskel admits sheepishly once he lets the song die off on his tongue. “This one, my mom sang to me when I was young. The only thing I remember of her.”

Jaskier isn’t quite sure how to respond. He nods in understanding as his eyes meet Eskel’s. He already knows he won’t be able to deny him this.

“I’ll go get my lute,” he murmurs, handing his glass to Eskel as he stands up.

It’s not long before he finds it, tucked away in his bedroom. He doesn’t play often, these days, certainly not in front of an audience, despite the profound love he has for music, the love he’s always had and which is the basis for everything that he is. Last time he played, he remembers, it was when he couldn’t sleep at night. He had wandered out of his bed, down the hall, and then brought the instrument into his bedroom where he sat cross-legged and strummed, old and new melodies alike.

He inhales deeply as he picks it up, looking it over for a moment and checking the strings before he wanders back out and yet again joins Eskel on the porch outside.

“So what would you like to hear, hm?” he asks, glancing over at Eskel before he drops his gaze to the instrument as he double checks it’s in tune. “One of my old hits? Toss A Coin?”

“...maybe something that’s not about Geralt?” Eskel suggests gently, an amused lilt to his voice.

Jaskier laughs at how pointed the request is. “Tough ask, that,” he hums. “Not that I haven’t had the time to write about matters other than him, but, well… to this day, some of my best work remains that of him.” His muse, he had said once. He hasn’t found a better one since.

With a deep inhale, he straightens his back and plucks away at the strings. An improvised melody at first while he tries to figure out what to play. Eventually, the tune drifts off into a song proper, one of travels, of finding peace in solitude, morning dew and sunshine. His voice is rough at the edges and he’s well aware he doesn’t sing perfectly in tune, but he’s not singing for the coin right now nor for the sake of someone else’s good name. This time, it’s purely for himself and for Eskel, for this moment that they get to share in the tranquillity of the night.

Eventually, the song fades off into silence and Jaskier exhales softly as he catches his breath. His tongue swipes over his parched lips and as he looks up, his eyes immediately meet Eskel’s.

The witcher keeps silent even when there’s no melody filling the air between them. With no word said, he reaches a hand out and it’s only when his thumb brushes delicately under Jaskier’s eyes that he realizes that they have watered at some point during his little performance. He breathes out a chuckle, presses his lute a little closer to himself only so that he can reach out as well. He doesn’t touch at first, though, a hand hovering near Eskel’s left cheek, right above the scarred skin.

“May I?” he whispers.

Eskel nods and Jaskier smiles fondly, corners of his eyes crinkling with it. Gingerly, he trails a finger over the length of the scars, exploring them like they’re a river carved permanently into Eskel’s skin. At no point does Eskel shy away from the touch, allowing Jaskier to take in not just the look, but also the texture of it, all with a gentle sort of reverence. After a moment, Jaskier moves his hand further until he’s cupping Eskel’s cheek in the palm of his hand, tips of his fingers now brushing the strong lines of his jaw.

When he leans in, his movements are careful and he makes a point to meet Eskel’s eye, to give him enough time to pull away if he so chooses. He doesn’t, though, in fact Jaskier can feel him gravitating closer and so he doesn’t stall it any longer. His lips meet the witcher’s and he hums as he feels cracked skin against his.

The kiss is a chaste thing, though they both linger there for a while, breathing in each other’s air as their lips move lazily. Jaskier doesn’t think either of them minds how gentle and unhurried it is. He knows, in his heart of hearts, that they might not get a chance to be this close ever again. As kind as Eskel has been to him, deep down Jaskier knows that witchers don’t stay.

This time, though, he finds that he’s prepared for it. Rather than despair, he smiles into the kiss.

“So I suppose it’s about time we part ways,” Jaskier calls out as he steps out the back door.

It’s early morning and Eskel stands near the stable door as he attaches his bags to Scorpion’s side. While it’s not a surprise to see him getting ready to head out, Jaskier still feels a gentle pang in his chest at the sight — curse his overly loving heart and his penchant for falling for people who can never stay.

At the sound of Jaskier’s voice, Eskel raises his head and nods, though he waits until the bard is closer before he speaks. “I can’t stay off the Path for too long.” He sounds so apologetic about it that Jaskier can’t help, but smile, despite the painful feeling in his heart.

“I know,” he assures gently. “I know you, witchers. Won’t rest as long as there’s monsters in the world, noble heroes that you are.”

Eskel scoffs and shakes his head, looking away as he focuses on making sure the bags are properly attached. As though he doesn’t want to accept the compliment behind Jaskier’s gentle teasing.

“I’d say spending over a week at the coast, in the middle of summer, has been plenty of rest,” he murmurs, casting a quick glance towards Jaskier.

Jaskier hums softly. He doesn’t feel like arguing with Eskel over it — try as he might to point out how settled Eskel has been at his cottage, he knows he wouldn’t be able to stop him from heading back out. Jaskier doesn’t want to be what holds him back.

“If you ever… change your mind,” he says slowly, leaning his side against one of the stable walls. “If you want to get away from it all. Or if you decide to retire, before you slow and get yourself killed… my doors are open for you.” Realizing how gravely serious he sounds, he continues on before Eskel can react. “Just keep in mind I’m not getting any younger. The longer you put it off, the more wrinkles I’m gonna get.”

“They’re charming. The crow’s feet.”

Jaskier laughs heartily at that. He pushes himself away from the wall and saunters over to Eskel, reaches out so that he can place a hand on the small of his back.

“You should go already, darling,” he hums. “The longer you keep saying these things, the more you’re gonna break my heart once you’re gone. And at this age, I’m not sure I could survive it.”

When Eskel turns to him, there’s a gentle frown adorning his forehead. Jaskier just smiles at him and rubs his hand over his back in quiet reassurance. He doesn’t need Eskel feeling bad for leaving. Eskel says nothing and simply leans in closer, presses a small kiss to Jaskier’s forehead which leaves the bard smiling even wider than before.

They allow themselves a minute or two of this closeness before they finally pull away from each other. Eskel climbs onto Scorpion, though he doesn’t ride away immediately. Instead, he looks over at where Jaskier stands.

“When I get back to Kaer Morhen… do you want me to… should I…”

“Tell Geralt I said hi,” Jaskier cuts him off. He’s not sure if that’s really what Eskel was getting at, but he supposes it doesn’t matter. “Tell him… tell him that he’s welcome here, too.”

“I will.”

“Thank you, Eskel. Stay safe.”

“You, too, songbird.”

Jaskier chuckles at the pet name. He runs a hand over Scorpion’s fur, then steps back to let Eskel ride away. As he does, Jaskier’s eyes trail after him for as long as he can see him and when the sound of the horse hooves is no more, he closes his eyes.

He closes his eyes, smiles towards the sun and he feels as though some weight has been taken off his chest. And as he carries on through the rest of the summer, he often thinks of Eskel, of Geralt and of the past and for once, those thoughts aren’t tainted by pain.

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