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ahh-fxck · 4 years ago

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Warrior’s Blues Chapter 8: I’ve Met Your Idiot

Greetings and salutations, beautiful denizens of Tumblr! Here it is, the much-awaited next chapter of Warrior’s Blues. In which we finally meet one of Geralt’s mysterious family members, Geralt gets a dressing-down in a hospital, and angst is to be had by all. Please enjoy, and if you like it, comment and reblog! Toss a smile to your author!

Big huge amazingly large thanks to @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog who is the co-creator and beta of this fic. This chapter especially was influenced and shaped by them. So if you like it, go check out their ao3 here!

As always, please let me know if you’d like to be (un)tagged from the tag list. This story updates approximately once every two weeks, which gives me adquate time to research and edit each chapter. Lil slow, but worth it? Definitely.

@astouract @smolpoe @yes-im-the-violin-girl @ladyknight-keladry

“Geralt!” They turn to look as a small woman in an impeccable black suit, white blouse, and classic jewelry snaps to her feet. Her dark, curly hair is gathered with a clasp at the back of her head, and her light brown complexion is highlighted by impeccable makeup. She advances on them with a stormy expression on her elegant face, violet eyes flashing. Geralt goes as stiff, the little color he has in his pale complexion draining away while Jaskier looks on in shock.

She squares up with Geralt and locks eyes with him, a folder with x-rays partially sticking out of it clutched in her delicate looking fingers. Geralt gives her a lost, mortified look, then suddenly ducks as she reaches up and smacks him harmlessly (albeit noisily) across the head with the folder.

“Geralt Rivii! What the bloody fucking hell is wrong with you? What happened to you? Where the fuck have you been?” She hollers in a burst of fury, her small body shaking with the force of it. “Your shite showed up on my doorstep with no explanation! I had to track you halfway across the bloody globe! It’s been two weeks since your last appointment and I’ve been ripping this bloody fucking city apart looking for you! Why the fuck didn’t you call me? I thought you died!” Pulling back, she smacks him with the folder again passionately. “Why the fuck did you make yourself so hard to find?” Smack! “Do you have any idea what you’ve put me through?” Smack!

Chapter 8: I’ve Met Your Idiot

After that, the days pick up a rhythm. Jaskier makes coffee and breakfast in the mornings and gets Geralt set up for the day. They talk over breakfast, sharing small personal details and discovering mutual interests, slowly getting to know and like one another. Jaskier talks about events at the bar from the night before, and Geralt listens with cautious interest, becoming enamored with the tales he brings home despite his misgivings. Geralt in his turn reveals small stories about himself, favorite childhood treats and places that he’s seen as he’s traveled. Then they clean up the dishes together and Jaskier leaves to go about his daily activities.

Geralt putters around the house, carefully avoiding the attic except to retrieve his clothes, unable to cope with the memories that swarm around the boxes stored up there. He drinks wine, watches television, and naps until Jaskier returns for dinner. They eat together, talk more, Jaskier goes to work, and when he returns, he always retrieves Geralt from the couch and takes him to bed. When they wake, they make love, shower, and have coffee, the cycle beginning again.

The morning of the appointment, they wake and couple one last time, tangling together. They sink into each other, hungry mouths and seeking hands, soft cries and deep groans, collapsing in a sticky, happy knot of satiation at the end. Then they rise, get clean, eat breakfast. Geralt dons his outdated clothing and they head out the door together to Jaskier’s car in the early morning heat.

When they park, the morning air outside the car is heavy and sticky. They walk side by side, already starting to move in the subtle sync of lovers, so much more comfortable with one another than they were on their last visit to the hospital. The air conditioning inside is a welcome contrast to the sticky heat of the outside. Geralt’s follow up is in a different wing of the hospital than the emergency department, so they venture cautiously into the maze of a building. After being pointed to the correct location by a woman at a desk who gives Geralt an inexplicably odd look, they make their way to the waiting room. It’s quiet, too early for many people to be there. As they push through the door, Geralt scans the room. Halfway through the door he stops dead in his tracks, Jaskier colliding into his back.

“Ow, Geralt, what?” Jaskier complains mildly, stepping out from behind his lover just as a woman’s shout breaks the silence, startling the few people in the waiting room.

She rifles through the folder, pulling out the x-rays and flourishing them in his face. “And what the bloody fuck is this? Are you insane? Did you get into a fight? I can’t believe you!” She reaches up and whacks him resoundingly across the head with the x-rays this time, eliciting a satisfying ‘thwap’ sound. He grimaces guiltily as she hits him, seeming more chagrined than alarmed by this whole display. Despite the onslaught his body language toward her is gentle, as if he is patiently waiting her out.

Jaskier, behind him, has recovered from his shock and steps out to try and herd the woman away from him. “Oh, hey now,” he exclaims, stepping forward with his hands held out to try and stop her. “That’s-”

“Who the fuck are you?” She rounds on Jaskier, her violet eyes dark with fury.

Jaskier steps back quickly, his back hitting the doorframe and his heart beginning to hammer. She looks slight, but he has the sensation from the way she moves that she is perfectly capable of breaking his arm without batting an eye. “I’m-”

“Yen,” Geralt groans, mortified. “Leave him alone.”

“Who the hell is this, Geralt?” The woman, Yennefer, turns back to him with her eyes flashing. She’s so upset that she finds herself slipping into her native tongue of Hebrew, English temporarily lost. <<What the fuck have you been doing? Have you been doing this idiot?! Two! Weeks!>> She hits him about the head and shoulders with the x-rays, which wobble and pop with every strike. She pauses for a moment, riffling furiously though the folder, takes out one piece of paper in particular, and hits him across the head with it, too. <<And I'm so glad,>> she snaps, <<that you don't have any sexually transmitted infections! Good to know finding that out was more important than calling. Your. Family!>> She stuffs the paper back into the folder, then punctuates the end of her sentence with several more harmless but noisy wobbling blows from the x-rays.

Geralt ducks awkwardly as her strike lands. Yennefer had a tendency to be very passionate when she was upset, but she would never actually harm him. He gives her an embarrassed look, rounding his shoulders and allowing the blows to land without complaint. “Yen-” he starts, but she cuts him off.

<<Don’t you ‘Yen’ me, Geralt,>> she snaps. <<I’ve been worried sick about you! Where have you been? What happened to you?!>> And just like that, she gathers him into her arms with all the passion she had been using to yell. She crushes him against herself, pressing her cheek to his and rocking him fiercely, her eyes suddenly burning. The solid warmth of him makes her heart hammer with relief, her hands finally knowing what her eyes can see; that Geralt is safe. That he’s alive.

Jaskier looks on at this display in dismayed shock, watching the fierce woman Geralt in her arms. She is petite, but she moves with surety and strength. He can see Geralt relaxing into her, and he realizes that whatever is happening here, they must be very close. Then he sees it. On her left hand is a ring, a stylized lilac flower set in amethyst and diamond winking in the light. Below it is a wedding band, plain smooth gold encircling her delicate finger. He swallows, getting a sinking feeling.

Geralt leans into her with a soft noise, a forgotten breath rushing out of him. The scent of lilac and gooseberries enfolds him, and at last, he knows he’s found home. It has been four years since he’d last had her in his arms, and as she gathers him close it hits him all in a rush. <<Forgive me,>> he groans into her shoulder, arms coming up jerkily to wrap around her slight frame. <<Neshama shelì, please forgive me.>> His throat closes back up, a hard knot burning where his voice should be. This is who and what he’d been running from, and now that he’d been found, he felt like his world was collapsing around him all over again. Behind him, Jaskier clears his throat nervously, his back still up against the frame of the door.

“Ah,” he starts, and the woman turns to him again, her expression murderous.

“Back off, Skippy.” Yennefer snarls.

Jaskier startles, wishing his back wasn’t already against something solid so that he could back away more. Every instinct in his body is telling him that this woman would eat him alive if given the chance, and he isn’t interested in finding out if that’s true.

“I’ll deal with you later,” She threatens. Then she turns, her body language softening as she looks at Geralt. “Kochany,” she says, giving him a gentle pull. “Come with me.” She gives the receptionist a pointed glance. The receptionist gives her a knowing smile in return and nods towards a room in the back. They’d talked earlier when Yennefer had come in to wait for Geralt, so none of this display was a surprise to her. She’d already given Yennefer permission to use the room if Geralt actually showed up.

Without further ceremony Yennefer leads Geralt into the exam room, leaving Jaskier dithering in the waiting room. Nearby, an older gentleman shoots him a sympathetic glance over his magazine. Jaskier squirms nervously, then glances at the receptionist. She gestures with her thumb towards the room they are in and mouths, “Wife.”

Jaskier curses internally, grimacing. He’s still standing in the doorway; he could leave, just get out of here before this whole shitty mess lit on fire. When he was younger, that’s precisely what he would have done; fled. There’s years of hard work between him and that flighty young man though. As he’d aged, Jaskier had come to value honesty and reliability. Being a business owner, being a teacher, had forced him to grow deeper roots.

Besides, despite the short time he’d known him, he had become deeply fond of Geralt. Maybe even dangerously so. Certainly far more than he’d expected to on their first meeting. No matter how angry his wife had looked, Jaskier couldn’t just leave Geralt here. He’d rather face the music than abandon him. Body singing with trepidation, Jaskier pushes off of the doorjamb and finds himself a seat in the waiting room.

Meanwhile, inside the exam room Geralt sits with his elbows on his knees. He settles in and gets comfortable. Yennefer had been quiet until she’d gotten him settled gently in the chair, but then she had turned to look at him and her jaw had stiffened, her eyes flashing. At that point, a twenty-two year friendship’s worth of experience told him that he had better buckle down and get ready for the storm. Yennefer had a way of needing to holler things out when things got too big, and his discharge and subsequent disappearance was… big didn’t even begin to describe it. It was a catastrophic change in their lives. He watches as she drops the folder and begins pacing, starting to list off the many ways in which he’s upset her recently.

His body feels distant and numb as he sits there, Yennefer’s terrified, angry tirade washing over him like water. He is swimming in re-awakened shock, the pain he’d been in on the day he’d left Fort Morhen coming roaring back to life with a vengeance. He hadn’t ever expected to see her again, much less find her here at the hospital while he was in the company of a lover. If there was a way he could crawl out of his body and just vanish to escape everything he’s feeling, he’d do it in a heartbeat. Instead he sits, elbows on his knees, hands coming up to grip the back of his neck as he floats in a haze. Foggily, he realizes she’s switched from Hebrew to Polish, his own first language, something she only yells in when she’s really upset with him.

She shouts about how hard she had to search for him after the boxes of his things arrived. He wasn’t in Somalia, wasn’t at the army base he’d been dumped at, storage unit empty, all papers sent to his P.O. box. She’d been searching the city block by block for him, checking the morgues, checking the hospitals. No phone call. No letter. Nothing! Every now and then he tries to apologize, or explain, but every time he does so she just ups the volume, becoming more and more agitated.

Geralt nods occasionally, eventually giving up on speaking. The scolding feels well-deserved, his pain becoming focused and raw as it is lanced by the heat of her words. And he’s handling it, he’s fine, until her voice takes on a hysterical edge and he looks up to see that there are tears running down her face. Yennefer shouts frequently, but she almost never cries, and the sight terrifies him. His heart feels like it drops to the floor and shatters at the sight of her tears, his own eyes beginning to burn.

“I don’t know what I would have done if you died, Geralt! I thought you were dead!” She weeps, voice raw with grief and fear. He reaches his arms out to her and she flies into them, settling into him for only a moment before peppering his chest and shoulders with light blows. He soaks them up without comment, accustomed to her passion, accepting it. His eyes burn harder as her tears drop onto his shirt, and soon tears are spilling down his own cheeks unbidden.

As the first one splashes on her arm she stops, stilled by shock. She rarely cries, but Geralt weeping is unheard of. Shaken, she presses her face to his and wraps her arms fiercely around him. Their tears mingle as they begin to cry in earnest, crushing one another close in the little plastic chair. The years since they’d last touched seem to melt between them, washed away in the hot flood of tears.

Some time later their grips begin to loosen. He nuzzles into her cheek and neck damply, sniffing, and she strokes his face, wiping away the tears and smoothing some of the sadness away. Swallowing hard, he turns and presses his face into her hair, comforted immediately by the feeling of her curls against his nose and lips, sinking into the smell of lilac and gooseberry. She allows this, pressing her face into his shoulder. Eventually she heaves a shuddering sigh, sitting back and wiping mascara from under her eyes with sharp motions, clearly embarrassed to have been seen with tears on her face.

He swallows down the lump in his throat, drinking her in as she sits there wiping her tears away. Her hair surrounds him in a cloud of soft scent. It was a smell he’d come to associate with safety, love, home. He never thought he’d get to see her again, or smell the sweetness of her hair. Grimacing, he says, “Yen… I know I should have called-”

“Shut up,” she replies fondly, cutting him off. “Just… oh, you are such an idiot. Be quiet, I’m still too angry with you right now.” She presses kisses to his forehead, to his cheeks, to his nose, then starts wiping his face clean and dry with a handful of tissues. “I’m so angry I could just kill you, do you know that?” Flicking the tissues aside, she continues, “All I want is to know that you’re safe, mój drogi. I can’t believe you were too stupid to even call me.” She brings her hands up to cup his cheeks, looking into his eyes. “Always call me. I’ll always pick up the phone.”

“I know,” he replies thickly, taking her hands in his own as best he can. He looks down and kisses her fingers, ashamed and heartsore. “I’m a fucking idiot, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Hush,” she snaps, but there is no real heat in it as she gazes at him, a sad smile starting to play at the corner of her full lips. “I’m the only one who gets to call you that.” She presses another kiss to his forehead, and stops as she hears a knock on the door.

“Not now, we’ll be ready in a few minutes,” she calls, when the doctor asks if they’re ready to be seen. Then she turns back to Geralt, her expression softening further.

“Now. Who was that you came in with?” She runs small graceful fingers across his hair, stroking it. As she does so she notes with concern how much longer than usual it already is. It’s not like Geralt to let his hair go like this, even with a hand injury. He’d kept his hair the exact same length for the entire time she’d known him. An uneasy prickle crawls over her back.

“He’s… uh. Jaskier,” Geralt says lamely, and Yennefer is shaken from her unease by the astonishing sight of him reddening visibly when he says Jaskier’s name. She can count on one hand the number of times he’s cried, and in he only very rarely blushes. She tilts her head to the side and ponders this, taken aback.

“Just a friend?” She asks. There is a gently teasing lilt to her question.

Geralt is surprised by her tone of voice, and his eyes flick up briefly to hers, full of hopeful but apprehensive. “No. Maybe. I… I don’t know. It’s complicated,” he stammers, then grimaces and cuts a glance at the door.

Yennefer’s lips quirk, and she turns him back with a finger on his chin so that she can study his face. Now this was interesting. Had he found himself a lover?

“Has he been good to you? Are you safe?” She presses, looking into his eyes. He gives her a mutinous look and she lets him look away again, a knowing smile playing about her lips. Once she lets him go, he nods. A flicker of relief crosses her face, followed by worried curiosity.

“Good. Is that where you’ve been this whole time? With him?” He nods again, starting to twist away from her, but she grabs his shoulders and steadies him. “Hey. No, Geralt. Of all the many things I am…” she sighs, eyeing him with fond exasperation, “absolutely furious about, you finding a man isn’t even on the list. You could work on your timing.” A smile cracks her expression, and Geralt huffs softly, a small smile of his own crinkling the corners of his eyes. “But it’s ok. It’s okay. The being with a man part is ok. I’m scared that you didn’t call me, and later you can tell me why. But for now I’m just glad you’re safe, mój drogi.” She pulls him in and kisses his forehead, squeezing him against her. “Have you been intimate?”

“Yen.”

“I have a right to know,” she presses, cocking her head to the side and looking down at him.

He grumbles quietly, shame churning in his stomach. Yennefer knows he prefers men in his bed and has always supported him, but he’s never stopped being afraid to talk about it. When he realizes she’s not going to relent until he answers though, he reluctantly nods his head.

Yennefer’s stomach does a little flip. It’s not a terrible thing in and of itself, but it’s not like her deeply closeted husband to jump into bed with a stranger without fleeing immediately afterwards. Much less allow them to do something as intimate as take him to the hospital. The worry that she’s been feeling sharpens in pitch, and she takes his face in her hand, tilting it up.

“Did he stop you from calling me?” She eyes him seriously, keeping him from looking away.

He flickers a tired almost-smile and shakes his head. That was Yen, looking out for him whether he wanted her to or not. “No. That was all me. He didn’t know. Wouldn’t have told him even if he asked.”

She gives him a skeptical moue, but smiles when he tips his head up and fully meets her gaze. The eye contact is reassuring. “Fine,” she hums. “I believe you.” The gnawing ache that’s been in the pit of her stomach since the boxes arrived at her apartment finally begins to ease. Geralt is here, he is safe. Whatever he’d been up to with the man out in the waiting room, he seemed to be more or less in one piece.

Then, she remembers something they’d discussed many years ago and an impish light comes into her eyes. Stroking his cheek warmly, her smile becomes a smirk. “Is he your boyfriend?” she teases ever so lightly. “Did you go and finally find yourself a boyfriend?”

Geralt grits his teeth, rolling his eyes back in his head. “Yen, I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

She can tell by the flush creeping up his neck how embarrassed he is. Years of experience in reading him tell her that what he’s hiding is a ‘yes,’ and her smirk widens into an impish grin. “He is! Oh, Geralt, we have got to talk about your timing kochany.” She chuckles quietly, straightening the collar of his old shirt.

“He’s not my boyfriend, Yen. I barely know him,” Geralt protests, mortified. Once Yen got started, though, she was hard to stop.

“Did he stick his hands in your pants?”

“Yen…”

“Did you live in his house while he had his hands in them?”

“Yen!” he groans, appalled. She arches her eyebrow at him, waiting for him to cave. He glares at her, but it doesn’t take long for his willpower to buckle under the weight of her playful, knowing gaze. “Yes,” he admits, sighing.

“Well then, if he hasn’t made you his boyfriend he should have, and I think I’m going to go make his life a living hell as payback,” she teases, grinning wolfishly.

Geralt’s eyes widen in horror. “No, Yen-”

“I told you if you ever got a boyfriend I reserved the right to terrorize him a little…” she says with her eyes twinkling. “This is even better. I think I’ll go do that while you’re getting your hand looked at.”

“Yen…” he pleads, eyes widening in dismay. “Please don’t…”

“Hey! I am your wife. I get to show newcomers who’s boss,” she replies lightly, smiling down at him as she stands. Geralt presses his lips together and glares at her, but this is an old argument. Deep down he knows that he’d already lost it over a decade ago. After a moment he shrugs, unable to summon a counter-argument strong enough to deter her. Saying ‘That’s none of your business’ to an investigative reporter was like waving a red flag in front of a bull, and he knew better by now.

Pleased by his concession, she arches her eyebrows and gestures towards the door. “I’ll be out in the waiting room.” She pauses, fingering the strap of her purse. “We need to talk when you get out. I have a hotel room, will you come back to it with me?”

He frowns as she asks him the question, thinking it over. In the roughly two weeks since he’s met Jaskier he has gotten accustomed to his company. Profoundly enjoyed it, to be honest. The warm solace he’d found in Jaskier’s arms had been one of the most profound things he’d ever experienced. He doesn’t want to just uproot from his house and bed. But Yennefer is his home, his safe place. It had been four years since he’d last held her, and his heart was raw with the pain of it.

He’d been running from her because he wanted to protect her, protect his whole family from his shameful behavior and all of its fallout. In one fell swoop he’d lost his job, his ability to vote, even his right to own a firearm. It felt like he’d lost his right to fatherhood years ago, and after this last mess he felt like he’d lost the last of his remaining right to be a husband, too.

Despite everything, Yennefer had flown across an ocean and spent weeks scouring the city trying to find him. If that wasn’t love, then nothing was. Now that she has found him he knows he can’t run anymore, no matter how badly he wants to avoid confronting his mistakes. Holding her in his arms after so many years had gotten him by the roots of his soul. He would rather be with her than anywhere else in the world. He nods cautiously. “I’ll come.”

“Good.” She strokes his cheek fondly one more time, then pulls a compact out of her purse and flicks it open. After inspecting and repairing her makeup, she says. “I’ll see you in a little moment, kochany. I won’t kill him, I promise.” Her eyes glitter with laughter as she closes it with a click and stuffs it back into her bag. “Not much, anyway.”

“Yen,” he grumbles again, but she turns on her heel and leaves, giving him no chance to argue, stepping lightly to the side as the doctor returns to check on them.

“He’s all yours,” she says, sounding satisfied. She breezes around the bemused doctor and heads out to the waiting room, leaving the two men to their business.

“This water tastes like plastic,” Yennefer complained, grimacing at her mug. Beside her, her companion grinned.

“Better than tasting like having a runny ass at two AM when you’re out in the field,” he rejoined easily, flicking through a stack of photos.

“The tea isn’t any better,” she replied, not about to be dissuaded. “It tastes like old shoes. What the bloody hell did they do to it to make it taste like old shoes?”

“Probably from the old boot tongues we put in it for flavor,” a dry voice came from over their shoulders. Geralt leaned against the wall, eyeing the corridor outside the door impassively. Yennefer’s companion snorted and shook his head as she gave Geralt a dirty look.

“No one asked you, Lieutenant Boot,” she groused over her shoulder. Geralt shrugged, unphased. Yennefer returned to her thick binder, taking out pages, rearranging them, making notes, placing them back in. It was late, but there was too much work to be done to sleep just yet.

“How about you make yourself useful and bring some of that awful bloody coffee you Americans drink?” she said, after a long silence.

“Not my job,” Geralt replied calmly, not budging an inch. She lifted her head to glare at him.

“You’re not good for anything else, I don’t see why not,” she grumbled idly, flicking a page back and forth as she compared two different sets of notes. Again, he didn’t budge.

But the next day at breakfast, when she turned away for a moment to speak to her companion, she turned back and found two boxes of apple juice at her elbow. Geralt was across the room by then, quietly getting himself another cup of coffee. Her companion nudged her and smiled, and she shifted to get a better look at the young soldier’s broad back, eyeing him speculatively. Maybe not so useless after all.

Out in the hallway, Yennefer composes herself. Now that Geralt is safe for the moment she can focus on this new development. Right now she is more intrigued than upset by this mystery not-a-boyfriend, but bubbling underneath is a deep well of suspicion and protective anger. She’d spent a great deal of her life watching over her big idiot, and she knew he had a tendency to get entangled with people who didn’t respect his boundaries. Given that, she wants to find out what kind of man this Jaskier is. As a veteran investigative reporter she’s certain she has the skills to find out anything she wants. She adopts a cold, stormy expression of displeasure before entering the waiting room, striding up and standing over Jaskier.

Jaskier leans back as she approaches, a look of deep worry crossing his face as she looms over him. Here we go, he thinks apprehensively, taking in her glare. This bit with the angry spouse? This was his least favorite part of being accountable for his actions. Some traitor voice in the back of his head notes wryly that at least he’s had practice, though. And good thing, too; the woman’s glare made him want to turn tail and run, and it takes a conscious will of effort to stay put.

“Yennefer Rivii.” She introduces herself with a voice like a steel knife, sticking out her hand. “Geralt’s wife.”

Jaskier tentatively shakes it. Her skin is cool, and she has a surprisingly strong grip, confirming his earlier impression about the ease with which she could break him. Yikes. What had he gotten himself into this time?

“Come with me.” She gestures to the far corner of the waiting room, around the other side of the reception desk. There is no one over there, and there is a nook full of chairs behind the large fish tank that is buzzing and humming quietly away. A little box of children’s puzzles and books sits in the corner. They should be able to have a quiet discussion there without being overheard.

Jaskier hesitates until she glares at him, then rises uncomfortably and allows himself to be herded to the nook. As he grimaces and ruffles the back of his head nervously, he wishes he either had better taste in men or more common sense, preferably both. He sits cautiously in the seat that she indicates, watching for any sudden movements. She sits crisply in the chair across from him, eyeing him up and down. Jaskier squirms under her silent gaze as her violet eyes rake over him, taking in his scruffy, comfortable red tank top and worn denim jean shorts. He finds himself desperately wishing he was better dressed to meet his lover’s wife. Good grief.

“So. Who are you and what the hell have you been doing with my husband?” She inquires, her tone icy. “I haven’t heard from him in weeks, and somehow you’re involved. I damn well better get the whole story, you little tosser, or we’re going to have a problem.”

Jaskier gives her a guilty look. “Look, I-”

“Name first, please,” Yennefer cuts in crisply. “Then apologies.”

Jaskier gulps awkwardly, taken aback. “Uh,” he dithers. His fingers dance and flicker, pulling at the hems of his shorts. “My name is Jaskier-”

“Buttercup? I don’t think so. Try again.” Yennefer interrupts him coldly, watching with pleasure as he flinches. She had learned from years of experience in her job that if you could keep them off balance, they’d tell you almost anything.

Being called on his name two times in one month was something Jaskier had never experienced before, and he didn’t like it. He grimaces, then reluctantly says, “Julian Alfred Pankratz.” He throws up his hands, exasperated, and continues. “And if you tell anyone I’m going to give you a problem right back! There are some things that just shouldn’t be said aloud and my godawful middle name is one of them.”

Yen’s lips quirk as she conceals a smile, then she narrows her eyes at him. “Fine. Now you tell me why Geralt is with you out here in east nowhere, New England.” She cocks her head. “And before you start, let me just say- I’ve been an investigative journalist for over twenty years, so believe me when I tell you I can find out if you’ve lied.”

Leaning back into his seat, Jaskier eyes Yennefer uneasily. She glares back at him, delicate and fierce as a bird of prey. He wasn’t intending to lie in the first place; the idea of pissing this woman off any further is giving him cold sweats. This, he thinks furiously to himself, is why you ask questions before the pants come off, idiot. You know better than this, why did you do this again? His stomach flutters and spins as he watches her sitting across from him. It takes him a long moment to decide where to start.

“I ah… run a gay bar down near the docks, close to Fort Morhen,” he begins cautiously. “The Pegasus. I met your husband on Pride. The parade had just gone by and this…” he drops his face into his hands, mortified, “Absolutely gorgeous man comes walking up the street.” He moans through his fingers. “Oh lord. And so I offered him a popsicle.”

Yennefer smirks at the top of Jaskier’s bent head, enjoying his discomfiture. As long as he is no threat to Geralt she isn’t going to terrorize him forever, but right now seeing him squirm is extremely entertaining.

“And ah. I noticed he had hurt his hand. He seemed…” he waves his hands anxiously, trying to describe the situation clearly. “He seemed a little dazed, so I brought him into the bar and got him some water. Um. Fixed up his hand for him.” Jaskier sits back and pauses, picking his next words carefully. “The last year and a half or so has been really bad in terms of... I’ve seen a lot of soldiers struggling since Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. A lot of guys coming off of the army and navy bases with this, ugh, this really awful lost look on their faces. A lot of them don’t do very well. The army just kind of dumps them on their ass and it’s really unfair.” Jaskier has watched too many men pass through his part of town looking haunted, and then vanish. It’s unsettling to him, and it makes him unspeakably angry and sad that he has no way to help most of them. He gropes for words, trying to make Yennefer understand.

“When I see them now, I try to help. At least a little bit,” he says lamely, feeling his throat closing up on him as he looks up and sees that her glare take on a whole new heat.

“So, what. You’re running a fuck and release program?” Yennefer asks sharply, a note of distaste entering her voice. Was he a predator? Not only was he here with Geralt when he had no business being here, but it sounded like he may have taken other soldiers home like this before. If he preyed on broken men in desperate circumstances, he was about to find out he’d bitten off a whole hell of a lot more than he could chew.

Jaskier flinches, shaking his head as understanding flashes across his face. He hadn’t meant to imply that he’d been taking them home with him, but it clearly had sounded that way. By the look on her face she was now well on her way to hating him. He scrambles to explain, burning with embarrassment. “No, nothing like that! I don't usually take s… strange soldiers home off the street. I swear to god, he’s the only one I’ve brought home. To my house. I meant nice like… like free sandwiches at the bar. Not- Oh god,” he buries his face in his hands and groans, then takes a deep breath and tries again. “If I’m going to take someone home with me I’m usually…” he blushes, gesturing his hands illustratively, “Uh. Pretty up front. I promise that’s not what it was about.” He shoots her a desperately uncomfortable look, praying that she will understand.

She relaxes slightly as she hears that, mollified. He looks nervous as hell, but he isn’t dropping any tells that he’s lying as far as she can see. Instead, he is giving her an earnest look, clearly frazzled by the whole conversation. “All right,” she muses. “What did you mean, then?”

Jaskier blows out a slow breath, and worries at his lip for a second. Then he says, “He just seemed really… I’ve never seen. I’ve rarely seen a man look so devastated. So I thought, I don’t know. I’ll feed him some lunch, make sure that his miserable fucking day has a little bright spot in it. I felt like it was the least I could do.”

Yennefer nods, settling back to listen. Her heart aches to think of Geralt lost out there alone, probably too ashamed to call home. Maybe he’d been lucky to have someone catch him before he could fall through the cracks. She studies Jaskier carefully, listening with the full weight of her attention.

“So…” Jaskier hesitates, eyeing her nervously. Then he sighs, sensing he’d better be complete in his retelling. “When he finished eating he looked like he was about to fall off the stool. He looked like hell. I felt bad for him. I had to open soon and I thought he might get overwhelmed…” He shoots Yennefer a pleading glance, hoping what he’s about to say next doesn’t come across the wrong way. “Um. I thought it would be cruel to kick him out when he was in such a bad way, so I put him in my office instead, there’s a little…” he pinches the bridge of his nose between one hand and waves the other. “A little camp bed back there I use when I stay too late with the books.” He holds up his hands rapidly in a warding gesture as she draws back, about to say something. “I promise I’m not a predator. It wasn’t like that! Just to sleep! I swear I left him in there and he fell asleep. I figured he’d do better after a rest and then I could, I don’t know, send him on his way.”

Yennefer brings her fingers to her lips, giving him a considering look. “That doesn’t explain how he’s still with you two weeks later,” she points out. This was the part that made her the most uneasy. If Geralt ever got up the courage to be intimate with anyone, he usually fled immediately afterwards. Staying would lead to the danger of discovery, and Geralt had spent his life protecting himself and his family fiercely from the kind of attention that would bring.

“Uhm.” Jaskier squirms, feeling put on the spot. “Well. About that. He uhm. Let me backtrack a little bit, he.” Sucking in a deep breath to quell his stammering, he closes his eyes. Something about the way the woman is looking at him makes his blood freeze, and he is having trouble thinking. Groaning, Jaskier shakes his head and tries again.

“Okay. So, what happened is that I had to fire my bartender during the rush. It’s a long story. But I got back to my office, and he… Geralt was sitting there watching me try to find a backup on Pride, and he just… offered to help. And I was…” he spreads his hands out expressively in front of him, “I didn’t think he could do it, but he’s…”

“Surprising,” Yennefer finishes, her lips quirking into the slightest of smiles. “Yes. He is. He’s quite the master cocktail maker.” She allows the smile to widen slightly, examining her nails. “I suppose at least something came out of all the time he spent glued to those damn mixology manuals. It’s something of a special interest of his.” Her eyes twinkle. Glued was an understatement. Geralt had a growing collection of the manuals, and had memorized the measures in every one of them. “He makes a mean Metropolitan.” She comments, flicking her gaze back up. “Continue.”

“He does,” Jaskier says weakly, feeling rather like she’s looking right through him. “Uhm. I was a little at loose ends and I thought… why the hell not.” He flings his hands up. “The worst that was going to happen was getting shut down, and that was already a possibility anyway after the fuck up from the man I fired, so I just… ah, sent him to it. Stuck him behind the bar with my bar back and let him at it.”

Another secretive little smile flickers around Yennefer’s lips. “How did he do?” She inquires.

“He was… amazing.” Jaskier shakes his head and gives a breathless little chuckle. “Ah, he had a little trouble at first, but I never had to step off the door to get involved. And by the end of the night he had his sea legs under him,” he breaks off, waving off the poor phrasing, realizing he is speaking to an Army wife, “So to speak, and uh.” He laughs. “He got quite a few tips. I was impressed.”

Yennefer smirks, looking obscurely pleased by this. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re here now,” she presses.

“Um, no. You’re right, it doesn’t. So.” Jaskier scrubs his face again, feeling his whole body surge with nerves. “So. After the other employees left, he’s still sitting there in my bar, and I realize he probably doesn’t have a safe place to go for the night. A lot of the soldiers who end up homeless around here they… that’s how it started. Getting kicked off base and having no place to go. And he’d just done me a good turn. So. Um.”

"So you took him home and did him a good turn?" She replies dryly, her voice still pitched under the hum of the aquarium so that the other occupants of the waiting room can’t hear them.

"Oh! God, no. I have a private loft above my house. Got it's own key and everything! I promise it wasn't like that. I mean. Oh god. He's beautiful please don't misunderstand me but-" Jaskier babbles, caught off guard. Of all the impressions he would have hoped to make on a lover’s family, this is not it. He’d hoped that the next family he met would be at a nice little brunch or something pleasant, not another round of dealing with an angry spouse.

"Stop!" She cuts him off with a curt gesture. "Stop babbling. Get to the point."

Frazzled, Jaskier grimaces and nods, gathering his wits. "Right. Point was. I took him home and sent him up to the loft. By himself! And um. I have plenty of space in my house. So I just thought I'd let him stay until he got his legs under him. I liked him, please don’t misunderstand me, but I wasn’t.” He knuckles his eyebrows, grimacing, trying to keep his thoughts gathered. “It wasn’t about trying to get laid. It really wasn’t. And he um. He broke his hand. So that's how we got to the hospital." He trails off, his voice abandoning him under the heat of Yennefer's gaze. His throat bobs visibly as he swallows.

"I see." She says, icily. "And he's just… what, stayed in the attic these last few weeks?"

Her violet gaze pierces Jaskier, making him feel like he is being dissected. "Well, no-" he squirms uncomfortably.

"Explain." She says, cutting him off again.

"Oh, god. Um. Do I really need to-"

"I have friends who can help me hide the body. Please try me."

“All right,” he grimaces, feeling a rush of shame and discomfort. “I’m sorry, all right, um. Can I just say that I am very stupid and very sorry, before I tell you the rest of this story?” A brief huff escapes Yennefer, and he can’t quite tell if she’s amused or if she’s angry.

She shakes her head at him and gestures for him to keep talking. Internally, she’s torn between being alarmed and being amused. The more she watches this man, listens to him, absorbs his body language and tics, the less she worries that he is lying to her or hurting Geralt. He is like a big awkward colt, all long limbs, nervy movements, and honest terror at her presence. This sounded more and more like a horny idiot story about to happen. She suppresses a smile, watching as he squirms.

“All right. So. Oh god. So the next night after I helped him empty out his storage unit, I cooked him dinner. And maybe I had a little too much wine while I was making it. Um. And he’s really… oh god. I mean, you know, you married him. He’s really charming.”

Yennefer watches coolly as Jaskier vibrates with nerves, trying to keep his voice steady. Internally though, she smirks. Called it.

“I walked him to the door so that he could go back to the loft. He. Ugh,” he stops and scrubs his face again, missing her growing expression of pleasure at his embarrassment. His stomach aches and rolls mercilessly, but he forges onward. Better to get it all out in the open now, rather than force her to drag it out of him. He gets the strong sense she will happily do so if he makes her.

“I think I kissed him first. I don’t know. We kissed. Things snowballed. We had sex… oh god. Clearly I should have asked more questions first. Um. I’m really sorry I didn’t ask more questions first-”

Yennefer puts up her hand. “Stop.” She commands, then goes quiet, eyeing Jaskier up and down. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?” Aside from the initial upset at the beginning of the conversation, nothing he’d said had particularly alarmed her. Bit by bit, she begins to relax. Had Geralt really just found a nice man?

Jaskier blushes. “I offered him a job as a bartender. He um. He’s still thinking about it,” he mumbles. It’s only now as he says it in front of Yennefer that he realizes how it might sound.

“Excuse me, you did what?” Yen says, sitting forward. “You… slept with my husband, and then offered him a job? Do you know how insanely unethical that is?” She feels a rush of exasperation. Trust Geralt to end up neck deep in some kind of lunacy the second his life got turned upside down. He could have come home to his family, but no, that would have been too easy.

She studies Jaskier again, watching how he deflates visibly under her gaze. Jaskier being in control of Geralt’s food, shelter, and income sounded like a recipe for disaster, but the more that she had watched Jaskier, the less she worried he had done any of it as a conscious manipulation. He came across as a genuinely sweet person, a kind heart with no brain whatsoever attached to it.

“I hadn’t thought about it too deeply, if I’m going to be perfectly honest,” Jaskier says through his fingers to the floor.

She can see by the tips of his ears that he is deep red with embarrassment. There it is, she thinks, exasperation deepening into a long-suffering chagrin. While Geralt himself was quite stable if left to his own devices, he had a tendency to let other people get him involved in more chaos than he was prepared to handle.

“I… He. I think I get a little stupid around him. Um. I’m really sorry.” Jaskier mumbles, internally kicking himself. Now that she’d said it he could see it, but he honestly hadn’t even thought about the ethics of the offer. He’d just seen a nice thing he could do for someone who could use a leg up and gone for it. While he’d never abuse the power he had over his employees, he could see why Yennefer was upset with him.

“Clearly,” she says wryly, leaning back into her chair and sizing him up. Turning the story back and forth in her mind, she examines him minutely.

“Well, you don’t seem very bright, but I don’t think you’re a predator.” She says, tilting her head and regarding him with sharp curiosity. If he really was just a kind idiot, then he might be around in her life for a while longer. Geralt had always needed someone, and she’d known from day one that the kind of love they had wasn’t going to be enough for him. “We’re going to have to talk later, you and I.” She glances briefly over her shoulder at Geralt’s exam room door. “I’m going to be taking Geralt back to my hotel room tonight. And tomorrow? You and I are going to sort some things out.”

Jaskier nods, stomach rolling as he glances up at her. What did she mean, sort things out? That didn’t sound hopeful. Most likely, it meant that they’d be coming to take Geralt’s things and he’d never see him again. The idea makes his heart ache, and he wraps his arms around himself uncomfortably. He didn’t want it to be over yet.

She looks coolly at him. He looks miserable, and as far as she is concerned, he deserves it. He might have been trying to be kind to Geralt, but what he’d actually done was set her husband up for a lot of potential heartbreak and she wanted him to stew on that a little bit. There would be time later to set him at his ease, but for now, she felt fairly pleased by how the whole conversation had gone. As she hears Geralt quietly approach, she stands. Geralt comes to a halt when he sees both of them looking at him, and he gives them a deeply worried look.

“Kochany.” Yennefer greets, reaching up to squeeze his shoulder warmly. “I’ve met your idiot now.”

“Yen…” Geralt groans, mortified. “His name is Jaskier.”

“No, it isn’t, but we’ll waive that point,” she says with the slightest lilt of amusement. “How is your hand?” Geralt lifts it and flexes it gingerly, showing them both that the splint is off.

“Should be fine if I don’t punch anything else,” he rumbles uneasily, still eyeing the two of them. “Take a few more weeks to heal the rest of the way but the splint is off.”

“Well then!” Yennefer says brightly. “Don’t punch anything else, or you might not be able to take your idiot up on his job offer.” Geralt rolls his eyes up towards the ceiling as if he is praying for strength, and she gives his arm a little squeeze.

“Jaskier.” She says, turning her gaze back to him, curled around himself near the fishtank. “’I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.” Gently but firmly, she takes Geralt by the elbow and gives him a light nudge. Geralt puffs uncomfortably, looking torn as he gazes down at her then over at his lover, who is still beet red.

“Jaskier-” he starts, but Jaskier cuts him off by raising a hand.

“Not now, Geralt,” he sighs. “Just. I’ll talk to you soon. I need to go home right now. Have a good day with your wife.” He drops his head back into his hands and scrubs at his face one last time, trying to gather himself. Geralt gives Yen a frustrated look. She smiles back at him, unphased. Geralt might be free to choose his lovers, but as far as she was concerned, she was equally free to harass them a little on the first meeting. As a treat.

Geralt hesitates. As much as he wants to reconnect with Yen, he doesn’t want to leave Jaskier alone like this. He is angry with Yen for embarrassing his very nice if somewhat thoughtless lover so thoroughly, but he can see by the look on Jaskier’s face that now is not the time to deal with it. “I’m sorry... “ he says quietly, fiddling with the folder he is holding. “Um. Tomorrow, right.”

“Right then. See you tomorrow.” she says pleasantly, then turns and gently walks with Geralt out of the waiting room. Geralt shoots one last shameful look over his shoulder at Jaskier hunched in the corner, before allowing himself to be guided out of the door by a soft hand at his elbow.

They made their way up a dirty, crowded street. In the distance was someone singing on a corner, and nearer, a bustling market swarmed with people dressed for the desert heat. Yennefer weaved her way through the crowd with a determined look on her face, holding her bag strap firmly against her shoulder. Beside her was her companion. He was a big, lithe man with a dark beard which concealed terrible pockmarked scarring. He was wearing fatigues, and over his shoulder he carried a large black bag. Right behind them was Geralt, also dressed in fatigues. His serious golden eyes scanned the street continually, his posture stiff and alert.

As they entered the market, the bustle and roar of the people closed over them. Geralt moved closer to Yennefer, getting up near her side and body blocking a man who got too close as they weaved among the stalls. She glanced briefly up at Geralt, lips thinning, then ducked into an alleyway off of the main thoroughfare. It was quieter here, and there were a few children playing some sort of ball game nearby. Stopping in front of a wooden door in the clay face of the building before them, she adjusted the bag on her shoulder and neatened her head scarf before rapping on it.

The door opened, and she stepped down into the little room, flashing a brilliant smile and greeting a tired-looking older man. He gestured them inside, but hesitated when he saw Geralt. Geralt eyed him back seriously, then looked around the little room, scanning for danger and seeing none. Yennefer lifted her head.

<<He doesn’t have to be in here, but my camera man stays,>> she said, already pulling her notepad out of her bag. She jerked her chin at the door and Geralt nodded. His gaze returned to the older man and he eyed him fiercely for a moment, then stepped back into the doorway and assumed a guarding position. The older man hesitated again, then nodded, conceding the arrangement, and retreated into the relative cool of the dark clay room.

As Yennefer’s companion arranged his equipment, Geralt settled into a watchful silence in the doorway. The main part of his attention was on the room around Yennefer, scanning for dangerous interruptions. The other part was on the street, carefully tracking the sounds of the people bustling at the head of the alley and the children scrapping over the ball.

As the interview was wrapping up, Geralt’s head suddenly snapped up as the ball flew past him out towards the head of the alley. A young boy followed it at breakneck pace, laughing so hard it sounded like he was about to be sick. He careened into the crowd, retrieved the ball deftly, and heaved it back into the alley. Geralt ducked out of the way as the ball whistled past him, meeting the little boy’s sudden look of worry with a genial wink. The boy flashed a smile and zipped back the other way, returning to the seething pack of children at the back of the alley.

A moment later, as Yennefer and her companion were exiting the building, the ball flew past once more. The same child shot after it, ducking and weaving amongst the crowd as he attempted to retrieve it. He lost his balance, bounced off of one man, and landed at the feet of another, who kicked him absentmindedly out of the way.

The child cried out in pain, twisting in the middle of the street, landing himself under yet another man’s feet as he attempted to dodge away from the blow. This man stepped back from the child as if his ankles had been burned, and he shouted at the child, berating him. Geralt stiffened, eyes narrowing. The older man who Yennefer had interviewed closed the door behind her and her companion firmly, leaving them in an uncertain knot in the alley.

Out in the street, the man had begun kicking the child, shouting imprecations and curses as his foot struck over and over again. As he reached down to grab the little boy’s hair and pull him up, Geralt broke from his position and dodged forward into the street.

“Hey!” He shouted, his deep voice startling against the backdrop of relative quiet in the alley. <<Stop!>> The man ignored him, tightening his grip viciously in the boy’s hair and beginning to beat him about the head and shoulders with the flat of his hand. The boy began to scream in terror and pain, kicking and struggling, tears leaking from his eyes. Geralt closed in rapidly, looming over the smaller and much older man gripping the boy’s head. In the background, Yennefer and her companion tensed, but as she made to follow Geralt into the street, her companion blocked her and shook his head.

<<Hey! Asshole!>> Geralt snapped, eyes flashing. The other man’s grey head came up and he met Geralt’s gaze, eyes dark with anger, tightening his grip on the boy’s hair.

<<Hey asshole yourself!>> he snarled, shaking the sobbing child. <<This little shit has been getting underfoot for weeks. This is none of your business! Back off!>>

<<Touch him again and I’ll make it my business, you motherfucking son of a bitch!>> Geralt barked, leaning in closer. The grey-haired man’s beard wobbled as he puffed and glared at Geralt, but he was also slowly beginning to shrink back in on himself as Geralt squared up on him, a look of mounting fury in his golden eyes. Geralt stepped into his body space, carefully maneuvering himself so that, as the man’s hand began to loosen, he was putting himself between him and the weeping child still squirming to get away.

As Geralt closed the distance between them, the boy finally twisted loose. Geralt immediately swept him up behind his back, now firmly between him and the angry, sputtering man.

<<Fuck off!>> Geralt snarled, holding the boy’s head against his leg as little hands fisted his fatigues, feeling him tremble like a little bird. The other man stepped back, startled by the heat in Geralt’s voice.

<<I… you... !>> he sputtered back at Geralt, at a loss for words. Geralt bared his teeth and made as if to lunge towards the man, and the man jumped back.

<<Fuck you!>> he cried, finally backing away. Then he turned his venomous gaze to the little boy. <<If I ever catch you around here ag->>

<<One more goddamn word and I”ll kick your motherfucking ass!>> Geralt roared back, cutting him off. <<If you fucking touch him another goddamn time you’re going to have one hell of a headache, motherfucker, just try me!>> The little boy shrank against his leg, frightened by the shouting, and Geralt tightened the pressure of his hand on him just slightly, trying to reassure him.

The man gave one more angry sputter, shook his finger at Geralt, then backed away into the crowd, tossing his hands into the air in a final gesture of displeasure as he went. Around them, the market bustled on, mostly uninterrupted by the shouting match. Aside from giving the little scene enough berth to stay out of range, the passersby seem to be carefully ignoring the whole incident.

As he watched the man vanish into the crowd, Geralt’s body hummed with angry tension. He didn’t relax until he saw the grey head vanish around a corner. When he was sure that he was gone, he turned his attention to the rest of the street, scanning it until he was reassured that the passerby were not a threat. Then and only then did he turn his full attention to the child clinging to his leg.

Gently, gently, as softly as if he was handling a little bird, he pried the child’s fingers off of the leg of his fatigues. Then he led him into a safe place near the mouth of the alley and knelt down, making himself small. His eyes softened as he knelt, and he made reassuring noises as he looked the child over, inspecting him for serious injury. The child was scraped and bruised, streaked with tears and trembling as he gulped back little sobs, but he was otherwise unharmed.

Nearby in the alleyway, Yennefer watched curiously as Geralt began to chat quietly with the young child, who couldn’t have been more than six. He was easy with the little one in a way she rarely saw people be with children. He was more relaxed with the child than she'd ever seen him be with any adult, either. His face was calm and kind, and lit up with delight a moment later as the boy said something that made him laugh.

She’d never seen him look this soft before, his manner totally transformed by his proximity to the child. She nibbled the inside of her lip speculatively, re-evaluating her opinion of the lieutenant yet again. He might come across as stupid, stiff, and arrogant, but there were clearly hidden depths she hadn’t given him credit for. She turned to her companion.

“What do you think, Coën?” She asked, leaning against the side of the building.

“I think you should ask him out for a drink, Yenna.” Coën replied with a big grin, teasing. “He’s good company. You’d be surprised.”

“Oh, what, you get drunk with the idiot once and now you’re bonded?”

“Yup. That’s how it works,” Coën’s green eyes were merry as he eyed his partner, who had her arms crossed doubtfully. “He’s a funny little fucker.”

“I somehow doubt that,” Yennefer said, but she turned her thoughtful gaze back to Geralt. By now he had retrieved the child’s ball from the market stall where it had finally come to rest and was handing it back to him, along with a little piece of fruit he’d purchased from the stall’s owner.

“Your loss,” Coën said with a shrug, adjusting the big bag on his shoulder. He raised his camera and took a few discreet shots of Geralt and the child, smiling to himself. Then, he cocked his head at her.

“Ready to head back?” She nodded, eyes still on Geralt’s back. Falling into step, they slowly approach the mouth of the alleyway. The child scrambled off with the ball as they approached, his cheeks bulging with fruit, and Geralt straightened back to his full height. Coën clapped him on the shoulder genially, smiling, and Geralt gave a soft, awkward smile in return. Together, they all turned to the market and merged into the crowd, heading back the way they came.

Geralt is curled along the length of her black-clad leg, face pressed into her hip as she idly strokes his short hair. His breathing is finally easing back into a slow, steady cadence as he rests his head on her. She is leaning back against the headboard of a hotel bed, pillows arranged comfortably under her back, a glass tumbler of brandy in her other hand. Her own heart is beginning to slow, and the alcohol helps soothe the ragged edges of frustration and sadness that she is feeling.

The air conditioning unit rattles and hums in the corner, keeping the crisp looking hotel room cool even in the soggy summer heat. It’s a small blessing in an otherwise raw and painful day. The sunlight peeking through the curtains has mellowed, taking on the penetrating gold of an early summer evening. They've been there for hours, trying to talk and getting nowhere, and now they are in another lull. Her fingers run firmly along the backs of his ears, along his neck, over his forehead, slowly but surely soothing away some of his stress. It’s good to have him back, but it frightens her deeply that he is being so reticent. She’s used to him being taciturn, but this is a whole new level of lock-out.

For his part, he hates how she has been needling him to talk about what happened to him. The things she has been asking him to divulge are so painful that they feel like they burn to touch, sear when he tries to speak, so he’s been fighting to escape her attempts to dig at them. But on some level, he knows she’s right to pry. She has a right to know. He is finally accustoming himself to the idea that he can’t run from her or this conversation any longer.

Taking a sip from her tumbler, she says, “Are you ready to talk now?” Against her leg, he nods, reaching up to tangle his fingers delicately amongst the soft curls spilling over her shoulder. He rubs them between his fingers, watching them spring back as he releases them. The feeling of them running through his hand is like coming home.

She may be many things, but most importantly, she has always been his safe harbor and closest ally. Always steadily at his back in a world where few people have cared for him. He is still angry about how sad and frazzled Jaskier looked, and he finds himself missing the sweetness of the other man’s presence. But despite that, he suspects that he is right where he should be. Now that he can’t run anymore, despite his shame and fear, he finds that he is deeply grateful to sink into her love.

“All right, kochany.” Her finger rubs up the back of his ear, running along the delicate shell of it firmly, just so. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks as he heaves a deep sigh. For the first time since he was arrested the feeling of being in free-fall is easing, and he is reluctant to break the peace of it. He knows that he has to, though. Steeling himself against the ugliness of his feelings, he clears his throat.

“What do you want to know?” he murmurs into her hip reluctantly. She smiles down at him, eyes sad and soft.

“What do you think I want to know, moj drogì?" She rejoins gently, pressing her hand against the side of his head, holding him close. Words are hard for him, she knows, but if there was ever a time to pry it is now. She takes another sip of brandy and eyes him, her expression kind. He turns and buries his face in her leg.

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“You promised.”

He heaves a heavy sigh into the soft, exquisitely tailored leg of her pants and nods. “I did,” he admits unhappily.

“It worries me that you won’t even tell me who it was, mój drogi. You didn’t get a dishonorable discharge all by yourself. I asked some rather pointed questions when the Army couldn't tell me where you were.” She tilts her head, more curls spilling over her shoulder which he reaches for. The corner of her lip curves up in a melancholy smile as she watches him play with them. Her anger had been spent some hours ago, and now she is able to be patient, holding a gentle space for her husband to find his words. After almost twenty-two years of knowing him, she knows they are slow to come when he speaks on difficult feelings, if indeed they come at all.

“It wasn’t his fault,” Geralt repeats quietly, burning with shame. “I should have stopped him.”

“You’ve said already. I’ll ask you again. Whoever this mystery idiot was, did he start it?”

Geralt groans. “That’s not the point. The point is, I knew better and I shouldn’t-”

“Stop. We’ve been around this circle all afternoon. I have the time, I’m not letting you go until you tell me the rest, kochany.”

He sinks back into silence. Anyone else might think he was sulking, but Yennefer knows that he is struggling uphill inside, trying to force words through a mouth that just does not want to move. She swirls her fingers along his scalp again, white hairs tickling under her fingertips. He leans into the good feeling, using it to help bring him back to himself. Inside of him the untold story burns like hot lead in his chest and throat, searing away at his insides.

Eventually he says, “We had just gotten out of the field.”

“The field? Since when have you been getting out of the office?”

“I hate the office.”

“I know, but that’s not the point. The point is, you trapped yourself into one by being too competent to avoid that damn promotion,” she teases gently, finally getting a pained little smile out of him.

“True. But…” he shrugs uncomfortably. “I guess that’s why they sent me back out into the field. I’m good at my job. Uh. Was good.” He frowns, turning his face into her leg, feeling a rush of guilt and anger.

“It’s ok, kochany. I know. So, what. You went out into the field, got shot at…?”

He nods, turning up to see her. He drops his hand to rest on her stomach, idly beginning to play with the white silk of her shirt. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “Almost died. He almost died. We… it was stupid. We got back to base and it…” he heaves a sigh. “I don’t know. I felt so numb that I just wanted to feel something. And he always pushes, and I just… let him. This time I just let him.” Even talking about it burns. He feels like the air is slowly being eaten out of his lungs as he speaks, and his fingers tighten on her shirt as if it could somehow protect him.

Her lips thin, and she nods. “There’s only one person I know who you talk about like that, kochany. Was it…”

“Eskel,” he mumbles into her hip, nodding. “Yes. It was Eskel.”

“That barmy prick,” she says, her quiet voice full of an old anger. “I told you if you kept on with him something like this was going to happen.” Her face is carefully neutral, but he knows if he looks up, he will be able to see the angry flash in her eyes.

“I know, Yen,” he mumbles into her leg, feeling a hot rush of embarrassment twist his already aching heart. “It was stupid. It's always been stupid, but I just… I needed to feel something. It's always been like that with him." Shame creeps up after the embarrassment, an old and constant companion. He rubs his thumb on the button of her shirt, focusing intently on it, trying to stay present.

“Bet you felt something when you were being court martialed, idiot,” she points out, irritation sharpening her voice. He flinches, but nods, the shame deepening into a hot, quiet pain. She presses her lips together as she sees the expression which crosses his face, fingernail tapping on her glass. She takes another sip, then smoothes her hand out across his hair again.

“I’m sorry, kochany. I’m angry. I shouldn’t have said it quite like that,” she apologizes, realizing that humiliating him isn’t going to help him talk to her right now. Her own stomach twists with guilt as she gazes down at him. Normally he doesn’t mind her sharp tongue, but she’s known him long enough to know that there’s a time and a place, and this just isn’t it. He grumbles something indistinct into her leg, but by the cadence of it, she can tell it isn’t meant to be heard.

“So at least now I know who to bury,” she says mildly, a little smile playing about her lips. “What happened then? You must have been very ashamed.” He nods, tentatively reaching up for her curls again, seeking an anchor. She tips her head, allowing him easy access to them. While he gathers his voice he fingers them softly, reveling in the soft texture and sweet smell of lilac and gooseberry. The sensations help orient him as he navigates the storm of feelings that he is experiencing, groping for the words to explain something unspeakably painful.

“I just… I knew I couldn’t come home,” he explains, his voice rough with misery. “They dumped me at Fort Morhen with that fucking truck and whatever I could fit into my backpack. The rest of my shit got shipped back to England.” She can see the tip of one of his ears from where she is sitting, and she runs her finger gently over it, trying to soothe away some of his shame.

“I know, kochany. I almost had a heart attack when it showed up on our doorstep. Why did you think you couldn’t come home? You know I’ll always take you no matter what. You’re safe with us.”

He shakes his head vehemently, face closing up. He pulls away from her abruptly and sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and putting his back to her. She eyes his back, then, without comment, stands and walks around to the little counter near the mini fridge. This is an old dance, and she has the time to do the steps today. She can see he needs a moment, so she finds a way to give him one. Quietly, she pours him his own glass of brandy and brings it back to him, pressing it into his hands without forcing eye contact. When he takes it, she strokes his shoulder lightly before returning to her nest of pillows.

He turns the glass tumbler back and forth in his hands, watching the light play through the dark amber liquid. The questions make him feel an irrational surge of anger, and he allows himself to quietly seethe for a moment. Then, as quickly as it came, the anger fades, washing back to leave a deepening shame in its place. He takes a huge swallow of the brandy, shakes his head, and says, “I’ve never been any good for you three. At least I used to be stable. But I couldn’t bring myself home just to be a wreck. It wouldn’t be fair.” he shrugs. “Besides, the way I was discharged? Cirilla doesn’t need to know I’m…” He trails off into choking silence, his throat closing, and he shrugs painfully.

Yennefer’s heart sinks. This isn’t the first time she’s heard Geralt talk like this, and she has a good guess about what the end of that choked off sentence was. “Oh, love. Are you worried about what she’ll think if she finds out that you’re gay?” Yennefer asks gently. If she hasn’t missed her guess she knows the answer, but she presses him anyway, trying to get him to finally talk about it. He’s spent years refusing to fully engage, and she is secretly hoping that at least now he will begin to process his feelings about himself. That way at least something good could come out of this awful mess.

He shrugs angrily, glaring at his brandy. “I don’t want to talk about that, Yen.”

“You brought it up-”

“Stop!” He barks, glaring over his shoulder at her. She stares back at him coolly, not about to be deterred this time.

“You can say the word ‘gay,’ Geralt.” She presses on, holding his gaze. “There’s no one here but me, and I’ve known for a long time. The least you can do is be honest with yourself. Or if not yourself, with me. We’ve been through hell together, we have a daughter together… It’s about time we talked about it for real.”

Geralt scowls at her stiffly, his expression getting flatter by the second. “Don’t make me talk about this.” He says, turning away from her and squaring his shoulders against any further intrusions on the subject. Exasperated, Yennefer rolls her eyes, then presses her drink glass between her hands, using the cool heaviness of it to keep her calm.

“Oh for the love of- Geralt. Kochany. I was there helping you find call boys to bang! Who are you trying to fool, here?" She nudges him lightly with her foot, determined to press. "Have you fucked any women since me?”

“Have you fucked any men?" He growls back, cutting her another sharp look over his shoulder.

"No, but I haven't fucked much of anyone since you. You know that. You're avoiding the question."

He shrugs, mutely. His shameful silence is answer enough.

“Twelve years without a woman, Geralt…” She heaves a heavy sigh, then swallows back the last of her own brandy before continuing. “If there’s one blessing to come out of this bloody mess, it’s that you have no career to protect any more. The cat is out of the bag. You can at least say it in private, with the person who knows you best.” She nudges his back gently again with her bare foot. “Besides, who do you take me for? You think I raised our daughter to hate people like you? Do you really think I would do that?”

As his shoulders slowly droop, she sets her glass aside and comes to sit behind him, wrapping her arms around his thick waist and pressing her cheek to his back. “I’ve never been ashamed of you, mój drogi. The way you are has never been wrong to me. And I’ve never regretted the life we’ve shared.” She kisses softly at the back of his neck, her breath tickling his hair. “You are better than you give yourself credit for.”

His already stiff body tenses further and he idly pulls away from her, but doesn’t fight it when she keeps her arms wrapped around him. Her gentle words make his heart plunge, and he shakes his head. The love feels so good, but so misplaced, and he can barely stand to experience it. It feels like it doesn’t belong to him. Every fiber of his being wants to push it away, to keep his family from all of the ugliness boiling inside of him.

“Yen… stop. I’m not a good father. All I do is hurt Ciri. I can’t make her happy… Besides… She shouldn’t have to have a father she can’t talk about in public.” He pauses, the muscles in his jaw working as he gropes painfully for his next words. “And… She has you, and she has Coën. Fuck, Yen! He's been a better father to her than I could ever fucking be. He’s been there with you raising her, not me. Just tell her I fucking died. It would be better.” The words spill out of him like hot acid, leaving him feeling like he’s vomited fire in their wake. He’s heard them repeated in his own head so many times, but they feel new and awful all over again as he feels her stiffen behind him.

“Geralt!” Yennefer snaps, shocked. She can feel her heart beginning to race with fear as she realizes exactly how deeply his poor self esteem has plunged since they last spoke in person. “You take that back right now! Our child is very proud of you, and rightly so!” Gently, she gives him a little shake, trying to rattle some love into his stiff body.

“Besides, I would never, ever lie to her like that. I know you’ve struggled with her, kochany. But you’ve never given yourself the time to learn what Ciri needs from you.” She squeezes him, pressing her hands across his heart, seeking to ease even a little of his pain. “She doesn’t need you dead, Geralt. She needs you to give yourself a chance to try.” She nuzzles into the back of his shoulder, keeping him ferociously close.

“Besides,” she murmurs quietly against the back of his ear with a wry smile, “Coën would kill you if you died. You promised you would step up when you retired, kochany. You know he’s going to hold you to that.”

He grumbles quietly, heart feeling like it is burnt to ashes, but he allows her to begin to rock him. Sensing the enormous pain he’s in, she seeks to soothe it by easing him into his natural rhythm. She feels the sudden release of tension when she hits the right cadence and his own motion takes over. They sway softly together, there on the edge of the hotel bed, Yennefer's cheek pressed to his shoulder where she can hear the beat of his heart. The rocking motion is as much part of him as his breath, and she has learned long ago to help him find it in times of deep distress.

After a while he slows, then stills. His body is relaxed now, breathing and heart rate steady and slow. The pain is still gnawing the inside of him to pieces, but he feels more himself than he has in weeks. He sets his glass aside on the bedside table and brings his hands up to cover hers, cradling them against his chest, grateful for the care she is taking. His throat burns hotter as he sits with her cool hands cradling him, his eyes beginning to water as he tries to process the sheer amount of agony he’d been hiding from himself. She feels a wet drop on her hand and her head comes up, eyes widening. Then she squeezes him mutely closer, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder.

“I don’t know how to do any of this, Yen. I don’t know what to do. I couldn’t call you because I didn’t know what to do,” he says thickly. “I’m just… I shouldn’t be here. There’s nowhere I fit, and I don’t want to drag you three down with me, neshama shelì. You deserve better than that.”

Her heart twists inside of her as she listens to him, her hold around him becoming fierce. Her small frame is wiry, containing considerable strength, and she uses all of it to crush him against her. She brings her head up and brushes her lips against the soft skin behind his ear, loving him, wanting to be certain that he hears her.

“You belong right here, Geralt Rivii,” she murmurs ferociously. “I’m never going to let you forget that, no matter how hard you try.” Her heart hammers and she feels nauseous. She knew he was depressed, but this is a whole new level that she’s never seen him sink to before, and she is deeply worried about his safety.

He shakes his head, wetness dripping down his cheeks. His burning throat squeezes shut and he can’t get any more words out, so he just leans into the ferocity of her embrace without speaking. Her head whirls as she presses herself against him, searching for the right words to say. Geralt has been a constant in her life for over two decades, and the idea that she might lose him to this is unbearable. She begins to rock him again, and this time he moves with her almost right away, his body taut with misery as they sway.

As he stills again some time later, her delicate fingers come up to wipe the tears from his face and smooth his cheeks, stroke his hair, worried. She covers him with affection and he leans into her hands needfully, soaking up the gentleness like a sponge.

After a long silence in which her hands work to soothe him, her mind churning, she comes to a conclusion. Geralt’s depression is something she feels out of her depth to deal with all in one go. She will have to circle back around to it after more thought, so she changes the subject.

“Tell me about Jaskier, kochany.” She prompts, smiling into his shoulder as he gulps and gives a soft painful chuckle, lowering his face into his hands.

“Oh, I don’t even know where the fuck to start with him,” he says damply into his fingers, wiping the remaining tears from his face. His stomach flips to even talk about Jaskier, to hear his name on her lips. Shame and gnawing fear and deep desire all tangle together as he remembers blue eyes and soft hands and kindness. “I’m so fucking confused, neshama shelì. I’ve never met anyone like him before.”

She laughs at this, leaning back as he shifts to lean back against the headboard of the bed, stealing some pillows from her nest. Graciously choosing not to mention anything, she brings the rest of them along, arranging them so that she is supported while she lies along his side and places her head over his heart. He wraps his arms around her lightly and brings one hand up to start stroking her hair again, delicately working a tangle out when it snares around his finger. He is obscurely relieved to change the subject, but he isn’t honestly sure that he likes this one much better.

“So tell me how you met, that’s a good place to start. He mentioned that you were dazed when he first met you, what happened?” Yennefer prompts. She has concerns about Jaskier’s grasp of boundaries, but at the same time she can see that Geralt is very fond of him. She hopes talking about him will help lift his mood.

Geralt grimaces, then shrugs and nods, deciding to be forthcoming for once in his life. “I was… upset when I left the base. And that damn truck overheats in the summer, so I had to run the heater at full blast to try and keep it from shutting down on the middle of the highway.” His big hand runs over her head, and he presses his nose into her hair softly. He takes a deep inhale, eyes fluttering closed as he sinks into the peace of the smell. After a moment, he continues, his deep voice rumbling under her ear.

“The highway was a parking lot all the way from the base to the city. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the uh… Pride march thing had blocked traffic for fucking miles. It must have been over a hundred in the direct sun, and I didn’t have enough water. By the time I got off the fucking highway, I’d been out there for more than two hours and I was starting to get heat exhaustion.” He presses a kiss to the top of her head, thinking back on the day, a little furrow appearing between his brows.

“I was… It was too much, I got overwhelmed. I was feeling too fucking much. So when the truck broke down, I just… I lost my shit. Beat the fuck out of the tree I parked next to, fucked up my hand. I was so fucking angry.”

“I know you know better than to punch trees when you’re mad, Geralt.” Yennefer points out, drawing a soft circle on his chest around the buttons of his white shirt. “Were you having a meltdown?”

Hearing this, Geralt’s face goes blank and hard. He cuts Yen an angry look. “No.” He replies flatly. “I just lost my shit.” Yennefer had a nasty habit of trying to draw parallels between him and his daughter’s difficulties, and he wasn’t having any of it.

Internally, Yen finds herself biting her tongue. This was another thing he didn’t like talking about, and now wasn’t the time to argue with him about it. She heaves a quiet sigh, for once letting it go by. “So what happened next?”

He eyes her for a long moment, making sure that she’s not going to argue with him before he continues. Then he relaxes minutely, deciding to continue telling his story. “I stumbled into the Pride parade,” he reluctantly reveals, uncomfortable. “And had a fucking episode. Totally blanked out.”

“Again? That seems to be happening to you way too often, kochany. Last time we spoke on the phone you said you’d had more than the month previous. It’s getting worse.” She frowns, adding that to her list of worries. Geralt had been showing signs of worsening PTSD for years, and it had moved from a background concern to a full-blown worry for her in the last few months.

“Hmm. Yeah…” he heaves a heavy sigh, frowning. Beneath her, he shifts side to side uneasily for a moment before re-settling. “I lost track of my feet… when I looked up, I was a long way from where I had been, and my hand hurt…” he shifts slightly to get more comfortable, feeling a rill of nerves as he recalls seeing Jaskier for the first time. It was rare for him to share things like this with Yennefer. It felt weirdly naked. He swallows hard. “Jaskier was there. He was kind.” His voice trails off as he feels his chest tighten, making it hard to speak.

Yennefer smiles, taking in the way that Geralt’s face is already softening as he remembers Jaskier. This is a side of him she rarely sees. “He told me you let him bandage your hand, kochany. You barely even let me touch you when you’re hurt. You must have really liked him,” she teases gently, trying to keep him talking. To her delight, a bashful smile flits across Geralt’s face, there and gone again in a heartbeat.

“I… did. Yeah.” He replies awkwardly, avoiding her eyes. She doesn’t press, letting him find his way through. She is rewarded a moment later as he continues.

“He’s really… Hmm. I didn’t know what to do with it.” Shaking his head, he fidgets her hair uncomfortably.

“Really what?” She nudges him. “Hot? Beautiful? Terrifying? What are you trying to tell me?”

Geralt tilts his head to give her a frustrated look, but she smiles back at him and he relaxes a little bit. This is an old habit of hers, trying to get him to be more forthcoming, more specific. Embarrassed, he squirms.

“He’s really beautiful, Yen,” he admits, very quietly. A bemused look comes over him, the expression out of place on his usually stoic face. She laughs, cupping his cheek and running her thumb over it.

“I love how you look when you say that, mój drogi.” Yennefer sighs, feeling bittersweet. “I don’t know if you’ve ever looked that way before, talking about someone. It’s good.” And it is. Geralt has never allowed himself much in the way of happiness, and she likes how it looks on him, regardless of how it came to him.

Geralt grimaces, embarrassed, pulling his face away from her hand. She lets it drop back to his chest, where he holds it softly against his breastbone, needing the warmth of her close. The touch on his face was too much, but her hand near his heart feels about right.

Seeing how uncomfortable he is, she lets the subject drop. “And then… what? Lunch?” She’s rewarded with another faint flicker of half-smile.

“Yeah. Good food, too.”

She gives him a soft look, squeezing his hand very gently. “Then a nap?”

Grumbling softly as his embarrassment deepens further, Geralt nods. Yen waits, and he eventually realizes she expects him to keep talking. Reluctantly, he continues. “I slept for a while. I woke up at night and he…” Geralt shrugs and heaves a quiet sigh, “came in very upset not long after.”

“You didn’t like seeing him that way, did you?” Yen asks gently, studying Geralt’s face as she questions him, privately fascinated. It feels odd to see him open up. Unexpected, but good.

“No,” he admits, fidgeting with her fingers as he cradles her hand against his chest. Groping for words, he feels like his throat is closing up on him again.

Yennefer knows him well enough to expect this and slightly changes the subject again, hoping to keep drawing him out. “How did you like being behind a bar for real? I remember back in Tel Aviv you used to talk David into letting you back behind the counter after hours to see what he did and where he put everything… I swear I don’t know how he used to put up with you bothering him so much.”

Geralt laughs, the expression throwing light across his drawn features. “He appreciated having someone to talk to who didn’t want to argue about the football match, Yen. I wasn’t bothering him.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “I find that hard to believe. You were like a little child getting to see a fire engine last time I saw you back there with him. It was very sweet,” she smiles, her eyes twinkling with a tease, “But it personally would have driven me bloody well insane. I would have thrown you out.”

“Lucky for me he wasn’t you, then,” Geralt says, nudging her gently with his elbow, causing her to smile again. She nudges him back in the ribs, pleased to see him warming up and relaxing.

“So. Real night behind the bar. I heard you even made tips, hmm?”

“I did,” he admits, his face clearing, looking younger than she’s seen him look in years. “I… it was fun, Yen. It was challenging. I don’t think I got a thought in edgewise the entire night because I had to hustle so hard.” He tips his head back against the headboard, studying the swirls in the plaster of the hotel ceiling. “I loved it.”

She relaxes against him, enjoying his happiness. “I thought you might have.” He looks down at her and smiles, and she squeezes his hand. She lets the conversation rest for a moment, letting the warmth of the exchange sink deep into both of them. It’s a rare treat to see Geralt smiling about something like this, and she wants to savor it.

Eventually, he lifts his hand to begin playing with her curls again. She sighs comfortably and shifts against the pillows, loving the gentle touch. Their eyes drift closed, and he hums softly in contentment as the silky ringlets slide between his fingers. After a while, she cracks open an eye.

“I’m glad it went well, mój drogi. You’ve always wanted to do that.”

“It’s stupid,” he replies, suddenly uncomfortable. “But yes. I did.”

She sighs, frustrated. “It’s not a stupid thing to enjoy, Geralt. You’re allowed to have fun, kochany. Don’t let ghosts take away your joy.”

He grimaces, but nods, conceding the point. It’s an old argument, and he is too emotionally exhausted to fight over something he knows he probably shouldn’t even be defending. The ugly words inside of him from years of pain are always there, ready to be spoken again and again. Yennefer has never had the patience for them, though, pushing back when he spoke ill of himself or the things he loved.

She chews the inside of her lip lightly, wondering how to approach the next part of the conversation. She knows she needs to be delicate, because she doesn’t want to shut him down. Cautiously, she says, “You must have been tired by the time you were done.”

He eyes her, reluctant to be drawn into conversation about Jaskier, worried that she will say something unkind about him. She eyes him back, feeling a little guilty as she sees his worry. Sitting up, she pats his chest. “I’m going to get a refill. Would you like some?” She grabs her glass and rolls off of the bed. When she turns to look at him, he extends his empty glass to her and she takes it without further comment.

She walks to the counter and sets the glasses down, filling them each with a generous measure of brandy. When she returns his glass to him, his face is closed, and he pulls the glass in close against his chest. Sitting on the end of the bed near his feet, she cocks her head and looks him over. He looks haggard and uncertain, wrung out by the last few weeks of his life.

She reconsiders her approach, and ventures, “Are you worried about what I’ll say if you talk about going home with him?”

Startled, his eyes come up to meet hers, and he reluctantly nods.

Taking a sip of her brandy, she rolls it over her tongue as she considers this. “Kochany… We need to talk about this.” She holds up her hand as he goes to speak, a gentle but firm gesture. “So for once, I’ll try and hold off on telling you what’s on my mind. I just want you to tell me what’s going on.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and brings the glass to his mouth, taking a swallow. “You must really be worried if you’re willing to bite your tongue, Yen.”

She laughs at that, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I don’t know if worried is the right word, but yes. I think it’s very important that you feel safe to speak right now, so I am going to be very careful with the words I choose. Ok?”

He shifts uncomfortably, rubbing his shoulder against the headboard as if to scratch an itch, but when he settles, he nods. “Ok,” he says, muffled by the tumbler as he takes another sip. They sink into an uncomfortable silence together, wreathed in the scent of brandy and exhausted stress. She watches him out of the corner of her eye, noticing that his body language closes down and becomes more stiff and unreadable as the minutes tick by. It has been a long day, and they are both worn out.

As she gets to the bottom of her tumbler and tosses back the last of her brandy, she comes to a conclusion. Reaching out slowly so as not to startle him, she grabs Geralt’s ankle and gives it a gentle squeeze. “You know what? I’m hungry. I’m going to order us some dinner.” His face is shadowed by exhaustion and guilt as he looks up at her, and he mutely bobs his head once to show that he’s heard.

After they decide what to eat and place the order, she retreats to the shower. She washes off her makeup, combs out her hair, and tries to rinse some of the stress off of her skin. When she feels as settled as she is going to get, she shuts off the shower, dries off, and gets on her silk pajamas. It’s been a truly exhausting day, and she hopes that dinner will help both of them recover.

The dinner itself is a quiet affair. They eat together in strained but companionable silence, listening to the whine and hum of the air conditioner. Geralt has made his way through most of the bottle of brandy by the time they finish, and the food and drink seem to have mellowed his mood considerably. He even smiles as she brings out his favorite soft sleeping shirts, which she brought from their family apartment in England. They smell of her and their daughter Cirilla, of their home, and he dons one of them tenderly as they get ready for bed.

Yen turns out one bedside light and Geralt turns out the other before they slip under the sheets and curl around one another in the dim evening light. She wraps her arms around his waist, cradling his hips against her own, and presses a kiss to his back. Heaving a deep sigh, he leans back into her, starting to relax. They lay curled together like that for some time, hearts beating together.

“He gave me a safe place to stay, Yen.” Geralt volunteers suddenly into the twilight of the room, his deep voice quiet. She tilts her head back to listen, stroking her hand down his side to show him that she heard him. He subsides back into a stifled silence, overwhelmed, and she lets him. If he’s volunteering information like this, then she knows to give him time. More will come.

A while later, he speaks again. “His house is nice.”

“Do you like it there?” She asks quietly, smiling as he nods.

After another long silence he adds, “He bought it because his friends were dying.” She sits up on one elbow, curious, peeking over his shoulder at him. He avoids her eyes, but recounts the story that Jaskier had told about Fire Island, about his experience of the queer community’s devastation during the 80s, his voice rough and quiet. Sliding down behind his back, she begins to stroke his hair as he tells the story, letting it wash over her as she lays behind him. When he finishes, she squeezes his shoulder gently with her small hand.

“That sounds terribly lonely,” she observes, her voice quiet. He shrugs, glad to be facing away from her so that he doesn’t have to see her eyes. It’s her turn now to grope for words, and it takes her a moment to pick her way forward. The story made Jaskier sound very kind, but it also underscores some of her concerns about his boundaries. She chews the inside of her lip, studying Geralt’s broad back in the darkness.

“Have you felt safe in his home?” She asks, finally. He stiffens, and she grimaces, hoping he won’t shut down. The silence stretches for a long painful moment before he replies.

“Always.” He says, with a firmness that surprises her. “And don’t ask if we’ve been safe. It’s been fine. He’s fine.” The way he bites out the words, she can tell that he’s embarrassed. She frowns, opens her mouth to speak, pauses, then tries again.

“I’m always going to ask you if you’re being safe, Geralt. You know that.” She chides. He growls and turns away from her, flattening himself to the bed on his stomach. Shaking her head, she follows him, laying across his back to provide pressure and comfort. She shakes loose her hair, allowing it to spill down over his shoulders, and smiles when his hand comes up to tangle in her curls even as he grumbles.

“You’ve been intimate with him. Have you been using condoms?” She presses. He shakes her gently, trying halfheartedly to dislodge her, but she doesn’t budge. After a moment, he nods.

“Good.” She sighs, relieved and scared and sad, feeling like everything is a little out of her depth right now, a little too far out of her control. Sinking down against his back, she squeezes him close.

“Has he ever pressured you?” She asks into the worn fabric of his t-shirt, reluctant to upset him more but determined to ascertain if he is genuinely safe.

“No. He offered to stop.” Geralt grumps into his pillow, the answer so quick it surprises Yennefer again. She relaxes slightly. She can feel the gentle tugs as Geralt works his fingers in her hair, rubbing the damp curls and allowing them to spring back, the sensation as familiar and comforting to her in its own way as it is to him.

“I’m glad to hear that, mój drogi,” she says, feeling some of the tension beginning to leave her body. Turning her head, she kisses the back of his neck. “You’re precious to me. If I have to share my husband, I want him to be treated like a prince.” She chuckles, and Geralt huffs a quiet laugh under her, relaxing minutely.

“Did you take the time to get to know him any?” She asks softly into his skin. “Did you talk?”

“We lived together for two weeks, Yen. Yes, we talked.” Geralt replies, mildly exasperated.

“Oh?” She presses, circling her fingers on him.

“Oh what?” Geralt grumbles, but she nudges him, not about to be deterred. He sighs and says, “He likes some of the same books I do. He plays music but he’s shy about it. Told me some great stories about the bar. Um. He asked about my childhood and I told him about candy I liked, stuff I did on base with the other kids. Told him a little about my career. Some of the crazy places I’ve been, people I’ve met. You know. We talked, it wasn’t just…” Lifting one shoulder in an uncomfortable shrug, he trails off.

“Not just sex?” Yennefer inquires.

“Right,” Geralt replies, running his fingers through her curls again tentatively. He can feel her smile against his shirt.

Yennefer feels her body relax a little, relieved that Geralt had at least taken some time to get to know his idiot while they were diving in headfirst. She eyes the back of his head intently, her reporter’s instincts tingling. The next question she’s going to ask might just shut him down, but she suspects for once that it won’t, so she seizes her moment.

“Do you like him?”

A ringing silence follows her words, and she can feel Geralt’s whole body go rigid under her own. His hand stops, and he drops it out of her hair and back to the bed. Sighing, she leans into him, providing as much gentle pressure as her body weight will allow.

It’s a very personal question, which Geralt rarely handles with any kind of grace, but she wouldn’t be who she is if she didn't ask questions like this. It’s one of the things that he values most about her, but also one of the things he hates. Especially since the answer to this particular question makes him feel so very naked. Swallowing, heart beginning to hammer nervously, he clears his throat. Then he admits, with extreme slowness, “I don’t think I’ve ever liked anyone more, Yen.”

A lopsided smile spreads across her face and she squeezes him again. “I think the way you met him is absolutely insane, mój drogi, but I also think it’s very sweet that there is someone you like that much. Do you want to keep seeing him?” She lifts her head and watches with amusement as the back of his pale neck reddens. Geralt isn’t a big blusher usually, but talking about Jaskier seems to be bringing it out in spades. Her smile widens as he nods into his pillow, the blush making its way rapidly up what she can see of his cheeks.

“Geralt…” she says knowingly, nudging his back.

“Okay,” he groans, years of resistance finally crumbling. There wasn’t anywhere to hide anymore, not after everything that had happened recently. “I’m gay. Are you happy now?” Even saying it aloud frightens him to his core, makes his heart hammer and his palms sweat. It feels like one of the most dangerous things that he has ever said. The feeling is awful, but also oddly freeing.

“Oh, Geralt… yes.” Shocked, she tries to keep her voice calm. This is huge, but she doesn’t want to startle or embarrass him. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say it aloud, mój drogi. That’s a big step. I’m very happy.” She grins as he growls into the pillow, hiding his face from her.

“You deserve happiness, Geralt. I’m glad you’re starting to be able to talk about this.”

“I hate it.”

“I know, kochany, but it’s important.”

He snorts into the pillow, idly trying to shake her off again. She just tightens her thighs around his hips, laughing quietly, relief coursing through her in rushes. If he can stop dying on that hill, she thinks there’s at least a chance that he can make it through everything else.

Changing the subject again, she says, “You mentioned he bought that house and re-fitted it. That takes a lot of money, especially for someone as young as you say he was at the time.” He shrugs, but she can tell from the way he turns his head that he’s listening. “He said his last name is Pankratz. Any relationship to Pankratz Enterprises?”

“Why?” Geralt asks, turning his head enough to eye her suspiciously.

“Well, because it would explain the money,” she says. “They’re an investment firm. One of my coworkers did a story on some of the business they were doing over in Japan… Mostly electronics. Nothing exciting.” She sits up and starts knuckling up and down his back, kneading at the tense muscles and trying to reassure him that she isn’t about to start on some tirade. To be fair, this is something she frequently does when investment firms are a subject of conversation, so his wariness is well justified. Eventually, as she continues not to comment on it, he relaxes.

“He mentioned the company in relation to his family.” Geralt admits finally.

“Well then. You really have landed on your feet,” she laughs. “Your idiot is rich, handsome, and he seems very kind.”

“He’s not an idiot, and he’s not mine,” Geralt complains, gathering the pillow up under his head.

“He’s a little bit of an idiot, kochany,” she replies wryly, digging her knuckles carefully into a knot. He wheezes and grumbles but allows it, enjoying the touch. “He fucked you and then offered you a job. The ethics there are a little blurry, Geralt.” She pauses and cocks her head to the side. “Are you going to take it?”

“Yen…” Geralt groans, rubbing his face into the pillow, surging with embarrassment. “I don’t know. Maybe? I think I want to, I just…” He heaves a sigh into his pillow. “I don’t know.”

Yen blinks slowly and then reaches up to smooth her hand across his face and hair again, her cool fingers soft. “It’s good that you waited to say yes, then.” She reassures. “It sounds like you have a little sense left after all.” Leaning down, she kisses his cheek. “It sounds like fun, but it could also be a bit much for you right now, hmm?” Geralt hunches his shoulder as her hair tickles his ear, nudging her face away from him, but she can feel him shake with a brief, silent chuckle.

“Maybe,” he admits. The night at the bar had been one of the most exhilarating of his entire life; he’d felt safer and more alive there than he had ever felt anywhere else. But it was also such a culture shock that he was still shaken by it, still processing everything he’d seen and heard and felt. He isn’t sure yet if he can handle being so out among queer people. To be immersed in a whole community where everyone knew. Even though the idea was thrilling, some deep old fear gripped him every time he thought about committing to that level of vulnerability.

“Well. We’ll keep it in mind as we’re figuring out how to pick up all the pieces then, okay kochany?” Yennefer says, sitting back up and resuming work on the knot near his spine. She smiles to herself at the idea of him perched behind some bar serving leather men and drag queens. He was too afraid to admit it to most people, but she knew he loved watching queer people perform and express themselves. Someday, the job might even be good for him. But right now, they’d have to take everything one thing at a time.

He nods, hiding his face back in the pillow, and sinks into silence as she continues to knead him. Some time later he mumbles, “I really like him and I don’t know what to do, Yen.”

Yennefer pauses and sighs, hands coming to rest on his shoulders. “Have you considered going on a real date with him, kochany? You know… get to know him properly? Maybe talk about… boundaries?” She tickles the back of his neck lightly, causing him to growl and swat lightly at her hand. Laughing, she rests her hand on his back again. He shifts under her, subtly moving back and forth as he tries to sort his way through feelings he’s never really had to deal with before. She drapes comfortably on him, resting, feeling the shifts and tics as he processes.

“No,” he admits finally. “I hadn’t.”

Yennefer sighs, feeling sorrow twist her heart. “Did it even occur to you?” She asks gently.

“No,” Geralt mumbles, feeling the raw ache in his own heart. He was afraid to be seen in public with a love interest, much less go on a date. Until very recently, there had been too much hanging on the risk of getting caught. He could have lost his job, his reputation, even potentially complicated his right to custody of his daughter should something happen to Yennefer.

It didn’t change how much he wanted to do it though. To be able to walk out with someone just like any other couple, without the fear of one’s whole life collapsing around their ears. Instead… The muscles in his back give a little shiver as he remembers some of the things he’s seen. Risking death to hold a lover’s hand in public had always seemed like a bad deal to him. Until now, he’d never put himself in a position where he’d have to worry about it.

Yennefer lifts her head and watches what she can see of his face, feeling the longing and fear radiating off of him. Geralt didn’t seem to think he had a right to be happy, and he’d consistently avoided situations where he might have too much joy. It was heartbreaking to watch, and she thought she might burst if she saw him do it to himself even one more time.

She worries at her lip for a moment, then reaches out and uses her thumb to rub gentle circles into Geralt’s jaw, loosening some of the deeply held tension there. After a while, he turns his head, giving her access to the other side. Bit by bit, she can feel him relaxing. She mulls for a while longer, then says, “It’s all right to want him, you know.”

Geralt turns his face back into the pillow, the tips of his ears burning. She withdraws her hand, but remains on his back, a gentle weight on him that his touch-hungry body anchors to and finds solace in. “I know,” he admits after a long moment. He’d been on a long journey to even get to the point of being able to say that aloud, but his family had finally gotten him there.

Homosexuality had been decriminalized in England while Yennefer had been in college, and she’d grown up in a culture that by and large had room for homosexuality. By the time that she and Geralt had actually met she’d long been accustomed to the idea that it was all right to be queer. She’d been the first person to really talk with him about it, to try and convince him that there wasn’t anything wrong with him. When Yennefer had clued Coën in, much to Geralt’s surprise he had joined in supporting him without batting an eyelash. Coën had grown up with a queer cousin, and they had remained close as adults. To him, Geralt’s sexuality had been normal, unremarkable even.

Over the years, they had finally gotten him to concede that he at least had the theoretical right to want who he wanted. It hadn’t been easy for him, though, and this was whole new territory. Wanting Jaskier was one thing, but seeing him romantically was another entirely. That was before even taking into account that his daughter was currently living in another country.

Yennefer can practically hear the gears in Geralt’s brain grinding. She snorts softly, biting his shoulder. “Stop,” she says dryly, chuckling as he gives a little jump. Then she grins lopsidedly at him. “Do you want to date him, kochany?” She feels him stiffen again, but this time she just watches him fondly as he works his way through it. Sure enough, a long moment later, he nods.

Her heart does a twisting swoop, and she smoothes her hands over his shoulders. She feels deeply torn as she considers the situation in front of her in all its complicated glory. Geralt, freshly found after being discharged from the Army, frighteningly depressed and possibly in love. Her daughter and best friend overseas in England waiting for news, waiting for their family to come back together. And herself, caught in the middle of it, trying to make sense of what to do next.

On the one hand, it felt like the sensible thing to do was go back to England. Forget about the whole affair here, get Geralt grounded where she had social resources to get him stabilized, bring him back to everything that was familiar to her. Not to mention, being gay was legal in England, at least in private.

On the other hand, she had never seen Geralt so desperately in need of happiness, of reasons to stay alive. Everything he’d built his life around had shattered out from beneath him all in one go. The military hadn’t just been his adult life; the man who had raised him had started training him to be an Army officer as soon as he could walk. There had never been any other options for him. She couldn’t imagine the pain he was in. Who was she to take away the little spot of hope that had come from his discharge?

And just like that, she knew the answer; no one. She was no one to take away his bright spot when he needed it most. As attached as she was to London, even she had never lived there for any length of time. Her career demanded she and Coën were on the move constantly, and her homeschooled daughter was well adapted to the routine of packing up and moving to new places. It was worth at least considering the possibility of giving Geralt the chance to try reaching for joy, for once.

“Well then…” she sighs, leaning into him softly. “I used enough miles to rent the room for a month. I thought I might just get them refunded, but…” she hesitates, worrying, then plunges on. “If you want to take a little more time to get things figured out here, I would be willing to consider staying.” Beneath her, Geralt goes very quiet and still, wary but interested in what she has to say next.

“It sounds like you made a special connection with that lover of yours, kochany. That doesn’t happen every day. If you wanted to explore seeing him, I would support you.” She runs her fingers delicately down the back of his neck, knowing how best to soothe him. Feeling the wariness singing in his muscles, she caresses him softly.

Geralt stares at the headboard as his mind churns, feeling just as torn as Yennefer does. As bad as things had gotten before he left home, he knew he should return to Ciri and Coën. Even the idea of lingering here to pursue a potential love interest feels dangerously selfish. Especially given how much shame it might bring on his innocent daughter, who hadn’t asked to be dragged into his mess of a life. Unlike Coën and Yennefer, she couldn’t walk away. What gave him the right to pursue joy at her expense?

“What about Ciri?” he asks, eventually. “I can’t just make decisions like that for her.”

“Decisions like what? Taking a little time for yourself after a devastating life change? Hush. You’ve never needed to care for yourself more than you do now. Let me worry about Ciri for a moment.” Yennefer chides. “When it comes to making important decisions like moving her, we make those choices together. As a family. But this?” Smiling sadly, she smoothes her hand across the back of his head. “This isn’t that. You’re a grown man, you get to have a lover. That’s a choice you are making for you, not her.” She leans down and places a kiss on the back of his head. “And you know what? I support you. I’ve got your back. You really do have time, Geralt. I had already planned to be gone at least until the end of July, just in case I needed the time to track you.” She snorts fondly and tweaks his ear. “Which I’m still angry you made me do, by the way.”

The awful, tense mood he is in cracks slightly and he lets out a painful little chuckle. He feels weirdly light. “Sorry, neshama shelì,” he rumbles.

“Good,” she sighs, exasperated. “You should be.” She sits up, giving him some room to breathe and think. “This is one of those situations where you really do get to choose, kochany. Think about it. I’m right here.”

Beneath her, Geralt nods. Slowly, he begins to mull his options. His life feels like it’s been exploded, and the world lay wide open in front of him. Granted, most of it would be full of closed doors; a gay veteran, nearly a retiree, with what amounted to a felony conviction on his record… that kind of man wasn’t going to get far. But it was still far more choice than he’d ever had in his life. There was no one left to impress except his family. No more sword hanging over his head; it had already fallen.

And Jaskier… as stupid and complicated as it was likely to be if he tried to date him, he couldn’t shake the aching desire to be back in his arms again. He’d never had the pleasure of sweet, slow mornings in a lover’s embrace before. Quiet hours talking, unafraid of interruption or judgment. The peace of knowing a lover was coming home to him, to wrap him in safety and peace.

“I know it probably won’t work out…” Geralt hedges, “But what if it does? What then? You all have lives in England.”

“Well… if it does go well, then we’ll figure out what then,” Yennefer replies firmly. The whole mess is giving her a bad case of the nerves, but she meant it when she said she would back him up. “Even if it does, we can figure something out. There are two major metropolitan areas nearby that have branches I can work out of. Besides, you know how many times we’ve moved. This wouldn’t be too different.”

She pauses, chewing the inside of her lip as she watches his gears begin to grind again. “Normally,” she adds, her voice softer, “I would be the first to insist you go home and see your daughter right away.” He nods, evidently relieved she’s brought it up. “But,” she continues. “Nothing about this is normal, Geralt. Not a single, bloody thing. The playbook’s been torn up. There’s no right answers here. And if there’s anything good that can come out of you being discharged like this? Then I think you should take it in both hands, kochany. This isn’t some situation where you would be abandoning us.”

Oddly, a rush of relief accompanies those last words. On some level, that had been precisely what he was worrying about but hadn’t been able to put voice to. Every time he’d left his daughter, he’d felt like he was abandoning her, over and over again. He couldn’t do that to her in yet another way, especially not over something as frivolous and shameful as a lover. He’d been selfish long enough. But Yennefer didn’t ever encourage him if there wasn’t hope. It wasn’t in her nature. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice husky and quiet.

Seeing that he needs the reassurance, Yennefer bites down on a surge of impatience and nods. Normally she doesn’t have this much bandwidth for when Geralt dithers, but tonight is special, and she’s sure as hell going to make some allowances for him. He has a right to be frightened and unsure about this.

“I’m sure,” She says firmly. “You’re stuck with us, Geralt. Wherever you go now, we’ll follow you. You won’t be able to get rid of us anymore,” she very gently teases, sliding down to hug him tightly again as she sees the ghost of a smile twitch his lips.

“Promise?” he murmurs, turning his head to look over his shoulder at her. His heart warms as he sees her violet eyes twinkling over his shoulder.

“Promise,” she assures him. If she had it her way, he wasn’t ever getting out of their line of sight again.

He shifts under her, feeling a rush of hope wash over his confused, stressed out body. Flicking his fingers nervously, he says, “Okay.” Then, “Is it really ok to try?”

Yennefer huffs quietly. “If I have to tell you one more time, I’m going to write it on your forehead,” she grumbles affectionately. “You really want to do this?” Beneath her, there is another long, stiff hesitation. Then, a nod.

“Good. Then tomorrow, I’m going to have one more talk with him. A proper one, this time. Just like we agreed.”

“Yen… you’re meddling,” Geralt grumps, making a very idle attempt to toss her off. She just tightens her thighs and stays put.

“I am,” she agrees with a little smile. “You promised I could interview any new boyfriends before we even got married. I know it was a long time ago, kochany, but I haven’t forgotten.”

“Worst thing I’ve ever agreed to,” Geralt grunts irritably, but there’s no heat in his tone. Yennefer smirks.

“Mój drogi, I’m here to back you up, but I still get to be myself,” she reminds him dryly. “You met a man at long last, now I get to have my fun.”

“Didn’t you harass him enough at the hospital?”

“Mmm, no. I don’t think I will ever have harassed him enough,” she teases, eliciting another groan from the general region of the pillow. “Seriously though, Geralt, I have a few more questions to ask him. And I have some concerns about his boundaries that I want to be clearer about before I get out of your way… It’s not normal to bring a man into your house and bed so quickly, love. What if there’s something really wrong?”

“He’s fine.” Geralt snaps, becoming irritated. “Will you lay off?”

“Would you?”

He hesitates, then subsides with a bubbling grumble, conceding the point. If the circumstances had been flipped and he’d had to hunt Yennefer down, he knows he would have been even worse to the person he found her with.

“Fine.” He groans, pressing his face into his forearms. “So tomorrow you’re going to go harass him some more?”

“Well…” She sighs, relenting. “Only a little. Mostly I want to have a real adult talk with him… if he really wants to date you, then I need to know who he is first. Besides, he and I need to have an understanding. He needs to know I’m not going to just go away if he starts dating you.”

Geralt frowns. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t have to. When she had agreed to marry him, they had ended up having long talks about what would happen if one of them fell in love someday. If she was going to marry him, to share rearing a child with him, then they had both agreed she had the right to get to know who he was bringing into their lives and vice versa. “Okay, Yen. Fuck. Fine, you can harass him a little more. But then it stops. I need some fucking peace and I don’t want you two to be having pissing matches around me all the time.” He growls irritably.

Yennefer laughs, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “You’re taking all my fun away,” she pouts, then dodges as he swats ineffectually at her, laughing. “Fine. Fine, I’ll tone it down after tomorrow.” She nudges him. “Unless he tells me something really concerning, I’ll support you, ok?”

Geralt hesitates, then nods. He reaches up, groping until he finds her hand, then he squeezes it gently. She squeezes back, falling silent. They sit there in the dark, breathing quietly, the muscles in Geralt’s back occasionally jumping as he relaxes by inches. A long while later, his low voice breaks the quiet.

“I want him, Yen. It’s… stupid… I know it is. But…”

“Don’t be ashamed for wanting a beautiful man, Geralt. You’re allowed,” she reassures him, squeezing him tightly. “Don’t let ghosts take away your joy. I certainly won’t.”

He swallows hard and nods. When she was pregnant with Cirilla, Geralt had been a wreck. Vesemir, his adopted father, had been dead for some years at that point. Despite that, Geralt had been plagued by fears of what Vesemir would think of the way Geralt’s daughter had come into the world, much less what he’d think of the way Geralt had acquired his wife. Coën had seen his terrible fear, tried to help him work through it, and eventually had gotten sick of it. ‘You can’t let ghosts take away your joy, man.’ He had told Geralt, exasperated. For some reason, the words had stuck with him. Had stuck with all of them. It was certainly a bad habit that Geralt had. Over time, it had become a familiar turn of phrase in their little family when he was struggling.

“Well then,” she says, after a moment. “Sounds like that’s decided. Give me his address and I’ll go see him again tomorrow. If he’s going to be dating you, he gets to run the gauntlet first,” she chuckles. “He’s lucky Coën isn’t here yet or he’d be in double trouble.”

“Oh god, Yen, please tell him to lay off of Jaskier, this is bad enough as it is…”

“Never gonna happen, kochany,” she laughs. “If you really get settled here, we’re all going to follow you. Jaskier’s never going to get a moment’s peace.”

“At least I won’t be alone with you crazy fuckers anymore,” Geralt grumbles, gently trying to dislodge Yennefer one last time, without any serious effort.

“That’s right, love. You know what else I’m going to do tomorrow?” She hums pleasantly, leaning into him again.

“What.” He inquires flatly, worn out and ready to be done with talking.

“I’m going to save you a trip to the store for new clothes, kochany. I know how badly you hate shopping. I will get you some nice civilian outfits…” She kisses the back of his neck. “And some clothes for dates.”

He hesitates for a long moment, finding that his throat has suddenly closed on him. The way Yennefer is doting on him right now isn’t unheard of, but he usually avoids putting himself in positions where she has the opportunity to do so. He doesn’t feel like he deserves any of this. Not even a little bit. But the love is reaching him nevertheless, and as painful as it is, he finds to his embarrassment that he is also grateful for it.

“Sound good?” she prompts gently. It has been a long day, and he’s spoken to her more, on more emotional things, than he has in years. When he nods, she kisses the back of his head again. “Ok, mój drogi. Let’s get some rest.”

Slipping off of his back, she gathers her hair back into a braid for the night. Then she curls along his side. He rolls, turning and gathering her underneath his chin, nuzzling softly against the top of her head. She hums contentedly, tangling her fingers in his soft shirt. It has been a long time since she’s had him in her bed, and the peace of it makes her feel heavy and safe. They drift off to sleep together curled in a tight knot, taking solace from being together again at last.

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