For All the Things We Wished We'd Done - Chapter 4

[gwyllion]

Title: For All the Things We Wished We’d Done
Author: gwyllion
Genre: Canon era
Pairing: Geralt of Rivia | Geralt z Rivii/Jaskier |Dandelion
Rating: R
Words: 41,668
Warnings: Rape/non-con elements. Mind control. Implied/referenced mind control. Implied/referenced homophobia. Canon-typical violence.
A/N: For All the Things We Wished We’d Done was written for The Witcher Big Bang 2020. Please see Chapter 1 for additional notes.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading!



“The witcher has returned,” Jaskier said, stretching out a bandaged hand to greet Geralt.

“And in one piece. Did you sleep well?” Geralt asked. He tried to put a positive tone in his voice for Jaskier’s sake. He sat on the bed beside Jaskier and took his hand.

“I haven’t slept well in weeks. It may surprise you to learn that I usually don’t sleep well when you’re away. This time was more difficult than some of the others I can remember though,” Jaskier said, turning his head to look out the window. “I imagine Yennefer told you about it?”

The drapes had been opened to let the afternoon’s rays into the room. A fire had not yet been lit in the hearth, but it was unnecessary. A warm breeze wafted through the window, fluttering the gossamer drapes so they billowed softly.

“She told me that you hadn’t slept well while I was gone, but that you had finally fallen asleep. That’s why I didn’t greet you immediately when I returned,” Geralt explained. “You need your rest.”

Jaskier pursed his lips. The bruising on his face had nearly healed and he looked more robust than he did the last time Geralt saw him. Despite the wrapped hands and the convalescent state, he looked almost back to his old self.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Jaskier said sadly.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted. “I remember that one time when I couldn’t sleep.”

“And we found the djinn,” Jaskier said wistfully. “How was the hunt? Any good stories to tell?”

Geralt smiled softly, grateful that Jaskier changed the subject to something less polarizing. Jaskier loved hearing every detail of a hunt so he could work it into one of his songs. In happier days, he’d try out the rhymes and sing a tune while strumming on his lute. What Geralt wouldn’t give to be camped out in the quiet forest with Jaskier, instead of watching over the injured bard in Yennefer’s guest room. He hoped that someday, they could get back on the road together.

“I have a new scar to show for it,” Geralt said, pulling back the sleeve of the clean tunic Yennefer had provided for him.

With the wound revealed, the unimpressive new scar seemed inconsequential when compared to what Jaskier had suffered.

Jaskier craned his neck to get a better look at the scabbed slash that ran across Geralt’s bicep.

“I’ve seen you suffer worse damage than that,” Jaskier said with a grimace.

“Indeed, you have,” Geralt said. Jaskier had patched Geralt up often enough that the sight of a healing wound was nothing new to him. There weren’t many wounds that a witcher couldn’t recover from adequately. Winding down after a potion, maybe needing some stitches, he’d be repaired and good as new after the worst of a contract. Right now, Geralt needed to occupy himself with Jaskier’s healing and whatever he could do to help speed it along, but Jaskier looked distressed.

“It’s a shame that it’s your… uh… sword… arm,” Jaskier said, making little grunts of displeasure as he tried to get comfortable.

“Why the face?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier shook his head. “My back…”

Geralt’s eyes widened. “It’s uncomfortable as the flesh heals,” he said knowingly.

“Mmm,” Jaskier murmured as he fidgeted on the bed. “There’s a salve on the table that the ladies have been using. We can call for them—”

“I can apply it for you,” Geralt said quickly, seizing the opportunity to help when it was presented. There was no need to bother Yennefer’s maidens when Geralt had two capable hands, even if one of them was compromised a bit by his healing wound.

“If it’s not a bother,” Jaskier said hopefully.

“I may not be as lovely as a handmaiden,” Geralt said, “but I’d be honoured to help.”

With that, Jaskier smiled warmly. “You’ll do, I suppose,” he said, teasingly.

Geralt went to the table that held all manner of medicinal supplies. Extra bandages for wrapping Jaskier’s fingers, sleeping draughts, various potions, salves, ointments, and herbs that Yennefer had prepared for Jaskier.

“Is this it?” Geralt asked, holding up a bottle.

Jaskier nodded, “The one in the dark yellow bottle. It has the image of a succulent on the stopper.”

Geralt inspected the stopper and confirmed that a succulent was etched into the cork. He strode back to the bed where Jaskier had managed to sit up for himself. Geralt noted that Jaskier’s muscle tone was improving so that he no longer needed a helping hand to manoeuvre himself upright.

“I’ll need some help with this,” Jaskier said, grasping at the hem of his tunic. It looked as though he could move his fingers better than he could only a few days earlier.

“Of course,” Geralt replied. He set the bottle of salve on the bedside table and sat gently on the bed.

Jaskier had pushed the blankets out of the way, so now all that Geralt needed to do was to grip the hem of Jaskier’s tunic and lift it off him. He reached for the edge and tugged upward.

Jaskier helped by raising his arms in the air. Fortunately, the tunic was loose enough that Geralt didn’t have to struggle too much. He carefully removed the garment and set it aside on the bed.

Geralt schooled his expression before returning his attention to Jaskier. He could sense Jaskier’s heart racing. He respectfully presumed it was from the change in temperature and not from being half-naked in the presence of… how did Yennefer put it?... Jaskier’s favourite mutant.

“Should I make a fire first?” Geralt asked.

“No, I’m still warm from my nap,” Jaskier said. “It’s a nice day, and besides, this won’t take long.”

“Hmm,” Geralt assented. He let his eyes rove over Jaskier’s thickly furred chest. The bruising that he remembered from Jaskier’s first night at Yennefer’s had healed as much as the bruises had that once marred Jaskier’s face.

“I’ll need to turn around, or you can get in behind me,” Jaskier said.

Geralt, flush from admiring Jaskier’s chest with its rosy nipples, sprang into action. He got to his knees and crawled across the feather-stuffed mattress. He sat so his back rested on the headboard of the bed. With his legs splayed wide, one on each side of Jaskier, he could work on the abrasions while Jaskier did nothing but offer encouragement. He reached for the salve and settled behind Jaskier.

“Are you comfortable, sitting like that?” Geralt asked, noting the way that Jaskier leant over with his chin almost touching his knees.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier said, stretching out his muscular arms and leaning further forward.

The bard was certainly fit, Geralt mused. He uncorked the bottle of salve and set the stopper aside.

“Oh, and you’ll want to wipe your hands off after you’ve finished,” Jaskier said, reaching for his discarded tunic. “The salve is quite sticky. You can use this. I have other tunics in the cabinet. I do miss my doublets, but Yennefer thought it would be best to have loose-fitting clothing while my injuries are healing.”

“It seems she has thought of everything,” Geralt said, observing the angry criss-crossed pattern of scabbing on Jaskier’s back.

“Where the fuck are my clothes, anyway?” Jaskier asked with a laugh.

Geralt dipped his fingers into the thick salve. It smelled of mint and rosemary. He smeared a dollop of it across a long line of crusted blood that ran diagonally across Jaskier’s left shoulder.

“They were falling off you when I brought you here,” Geralt said as he worked to trace the lines of each healing lash mark with the pads of his fingers. “Don’t you remember?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Geralt thought better of it.

Jaskier inhaled sharply.

Geralt’s fingers stilled on Jaskier’s back. “Fuck,” he said, the scent of blood, mud, and semen, invaded from his memory. “We don’t need to talk about it right now.”

Jaskier reached back for Geralt’s wrist. His bandaged fingers made to grasp him, but he was unable.

Geralt caught Jaskier’s hand and held it still.

“It’s alright,” Jaskier said, his voice broken. “We should talk about it.”

“Hmm,” Geralt murmured, in no position to agree or disagree. The bard had babbled about every topic imaginable in the years that he followed the witcher on the Path. Geralt had little chance of stopping him now, if Jaskier wanted to talk.

“It’s weird how it’s the kind of thing that’s hard to talk about,” Jaskier said, his voice wavering. “Singing songs about your kind of monsters—the strigas and drowners and nightwraiths, that’s easy. But when it comes to dangerous men, the terror they conjure is always a bit too close to home.”

Geralt wanted nothing more than to take Jaskier in his arms to console him. Jaskier was altogether too damn delightful to have been subjected to such abuse. Instead of holding him, not wishing for Jaskier to feel restrained, Geralt lowered his head and pressed a soft kiss to the one smooth spot between Jaskier’s shoulderblades where the skin was perfectly unmarred, save for the dark hairs scattered there.

“It must have hurt,” Geralt whispered, his breath echoing back to him from Jaskier’s back.

“It did,” Jaskier said. “I remember that much.”

“I’m so sorry, Jask,” Geralt said. “This was all my fault—”

“It’s not your fault,” Jaskier said, turning his head so Geralt could see half of his face, his profile illuminated by the autumn sun that shone through the window.

Geralt closed his eyes. He was not worthy of Jaskier’s forgiveness, although it had been offered.

“Hey,” Jaskier said. “I got myself into that mess. I could have just as easily found myself in trouble without your help.”

“No,” Geralt said.

“Yes,” Jaskier insisted, bumping Geralt with his elbow.

Geralt huffed out a grunt of disbelief.

The room was quiet, except for the peaceful trickle of the stone waterfall.

“That felt nice, by the way,” Jaskier said.

“The salve?”

“That, too, but no. I meant your lips on my back.”

“Hmm,” Geralt murmured. He was overcome with the alien feeling of what he could only describe as affection for Jaskier. The sleep-warmth of his skin, the softness of his voice, the words that made him believe that he could be absolved of the guilt he had been carrying for weeks on end.

“I think this is a case where kissing something to make it feel better is highly underrated,” Jaskier said confidently.

Geralt said nothing.

Leaning to the side, Jaskier pushed himself to his knees and turned around so he faced Geralt. He nudged at Geralt’s chin with a bandaged hand.

Geralt tried to keep his eyes lowered, but Jaskier’s beckoning was irresistible. He followed the motion dictated by Jaskier’s hand and met Jaskier’s eyes with his own. He was overwhelmed by the urge to comfort Jaskier. He wanted to show him how much he cared for him, no matter how he had been trained as a witcher and no matter how the need to remain emotionless had been instilled in him.

Jaskier licked his lips. The cracks and splitting that were present when Geralt first brought him to Yennefer had healed. His lips were supple and plump and inviting, although Jaskier, like Geralt, had now fallen silent.

“Is that what you want?” Geralt asked, gathering his wits enough to speak. He wished there was an easier way than asking outright if Jaskier wanted him to kiss him better. This was torture. He knew he couldn’t expect Jaskier to love him, no matter what Yennefer said. He was a witcher. He needed no one, although he wanted to kiss Jaskier more than a weed wanted to feel the sunlight. Besides, it was his fault that Jaskier ended up so damaged, no matter how insistent the bard was that it was not Geralt’s fault. Jaskier couldn’t possibly—

“Kiss me," Jaskier said.

Jaskier smelled of wildflowers, honey, and a hint of spice. This was a scent Geralt knew well from his many years of travelling with the bard. The scent of Jaskier’s arousal was as familiar to Geralt as his own–and a far cry from the juniper scent of Jaskier’s fear.

Geralt could not deny Jaskier. Nor could he deny himself any longer. He pressed his palms to Jaskier’s cheeks. His lips hovered over Jaskier’s, as if he were still undecided. He intended to move slowly, unrushed. But Jaskier pushed him over the edge. Geralt felt Jaskier’s bandaged fingers at the nape of his neck, pulling him forward. His witcher medallion was pulled askew by Jaskier’s clutching fingers on the chain. Then a soft touch of Jaskier’s lips against his own.

For a moment, Geralt was enveloped in warmth. He felt wanted, and at peace.

Jaskier’s mouth was soft and sweet, but it also possessed a hunger that became evident when Jaskier sucked on Geralt’s bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth and teasing it with his tongue. Slow murmurs of pleasure flowed from Jaskier’s throat.

Geralt let his hands slide to Jaskier’s neck, his thumbs soothing the last vestiges of the bruising he suffered there. He felt Jaskier’s hands move down his arms. The damaged fingers couldn’t grasp, so it was hard to tell whether Jaskier wanted to pull him closer or whether he was trying to push him away. The gentle brush of Jaskier’s knuckles against the healing drowner slash made Geralt feel like Jaskier cared for him. Jaskier’s palm, pulling on the back of Geralt’s upper arm reassured Geralt that Jaskier wanted him closer.

This was everything Geralt had wished for, although he was never able to give his desire a voice. It was comfort, when none was needed. Forgiveness, when he thought he was undeserving. A companion, where none had been required for the journey. Kissing Jaskier, he found love, when he never considered himself worthy of such a gift.

When the kiss ended so Jaskier could catch his breath, they did not move apart. Needing no pause, because of his witcher-enhanced lungs, Geralt pressed his forehead to Jaskier’s and waited.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked. “Are you alright?”

Geralt shook his head. He was not alright. Not by a long shot.

Jaskier’s heart raced beneath his skin.

Geralt lay his hand over Jaskier’s heart. The soft hair of Jaskier’s chest tickled his fingers and sent his imagination to places that were inappropriate to go with a friend, no matter how close. Although that friend thing had been usurped by this… this… whatever this was, in the moments that had just passed.

“I never realized, all this time,” Geralt struggled for words. “I’ve watched you. Fuck, I can’t take my eyes off you. You’re so smart and funny and talented—and it’s not difficult to look at you all day with your garish outfits and your ridiculous hair, your beautiful eyes, and the flashes of your skin that sometimes tempt me so much that I can’t look away.”

Jaskier smiled. He kissed Geralt again, his smile pressing against Geralt’s lips.

Geralt was certain that he sounded like an idiot. “Understand that this is a lot for a witcher to say, so I hope you know that I mean it. My mutations… I don’t think and feel the exact way that a human does, but I do think that I feel the same way you do. I have for a long time.”

“And you chose now to tell me all this?” Jaskier asked. “Of all the inopportune times—when I’m laying abed with broken bones and bruised flesh?”

Geralt knew Jaskier was right. He should have told Jaskier how he felt years ago, if only he realized the difference it would make in his life. Why now? Why not twenty years ago? A year ago? A month ago? Only now did it seem that the time was right. With Jaskier on the verge of death, suffering a beating that he would not have experienced if Geralt hadn’t been such an arse to him on the mountain. The moment to confess his love had come.

Geralt, in his exasperation, huffed out, “I thought we were having a moment—”

“It was quite a moment,” Yennefer said from the doorway.

Geralt leapt up.

“Fuck,” Jaskier said. His arms that once held the witcher were empty.

“Yennefer?” Geralt asked, shaking his head.

It always surprised Geralt when Yennefer appeared out of nowhere. His witcher medallion should have been vibrating madly at her intrusion. But Yennefer could easily get past his witcher senses by using her gods-be-damned mage powers. It was unsettling. Jaskier’s final words were apparently coherent enough that they brought a tear to Yennefer’s eye. She dabbed at it with her index finger, careful to not ruin her make-up.

“I was just stopping by to see how Jaskier was doing,” Yennefer said. She shifted her gaze from Geralt to Jaskier and said, “It looks like you’re doing well, bard?”

“Much better, now that I’ve gotten some sleep,” Jaskier said. “Thank you.”

Geralt could feel the self-consciousness that drove Jaskier’s cheeks into a furious blush. But Geralt was more disgruntled over Yennefer’s sudden appearance than being caught declaring his most jumbled thoughts to Jaskier.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Yennefer said, turning on her heel and closing the door behind her.

Geralt turned from the door to Jaskier who had collapsed in a fit of giggling. He raised an eyebrow to the bard, who caught his breath and exclaimed, “She’s going to kill us.”

Geralt sat on the bed and rested a hand on Jaskier’s bare shoulder. He could only believe that Yennefer saw this coming and said, “I don’t think it will come to that.”

“She could turn us into toads,” Jaskier said.

“I’ll talk to her, Geralt said.

Jaskier insisted, “I’m coming with you.”

~

By the time Jaskier had donned a fresh tunic, Yennefer had wandered outdoors. Geralt found her in the rear garden of the sprawling manor.

The last of the tiger lilies had bloomed, filling the gardens with the spirit of autumn. In a few short weeks, the blossoms would hibernate and the lush greenery would have to suffice as a frame for the view of the countryside.

Geralt noticed Yennefer standing at the edge of a waist-high stone wall that looked as if it had once been a ruin. The rocks had been painstakingly chiselled and pieced back together like a puzzle. Beyond the wall, the expanse of peaceful meadows spread out before the mage like an ocean of autumn wheatgrass.

Jaskier shambled along beside Geralt, who occasionally reached for Jaskier’s arm to steady him as he walked.

Whether Yennefer saw their approach out of the corner of her eye, or whether she used magic to sense their presence, Geralt could not say. She turned to face them before they reached the stone wall.

“Yennefer,” Geralt said, needing to say something to gain his mental footing.

“Jaskier,” Yennefer said, ignoring Geralt. “You are looking well today.”

“I owe my health to you, my good lady,” Jaskier said, giving a little bow.

Geralt could have kissed him for being polite to the mage, but it was kissing that had put him onto this uncomfortable ground in the first place.

Yennefer looked Jaskier over, as if considering whether to turn him into a toad as Jaskier had speculated. Instead, she removed the shawl that was wrapped around her and draped it across Jaskier’s shoulders.

“You need to take care of him,” Yennefer said, with a look of admonishment at Geralt.

“I didn’t think it was very cool outdoors,” Geralt said. And since when was Yennefer going to tell him how to care for Jaskier?

“I’m not cold, Yennefer,” Jaskier said. “But thank you, anyway.”

Yennefer looked at Jaskier with fondness.

“About what happened back there…” Geralt began. He gestured toward the manor, but he knew not how to continue. He wasn’t about to apologize for kissing Jaskier, nor was he about to offend Yennefer by taking advantage of her hospitality. There was nothing he could say without feeling the burn of either friend’s disappointment.

“There’s no need,” Yennefer said, pressing a finger to Geralt’s lips. She then turned to Jaskier and nodded. “I apologize for entering your room without warning.”

“It’s your home,” Jaskier said, leaning against the wall. “There’s no need to apologise.”

Yennefer closed her eyes. “I have many regrets,” she said. “Some more bothersome than others. I need to give you and Geralt some privacy, now that it seems you’ve found each other.

Jaskier blushed.

Geralt thought Yennefer was going to bring up the way she manipulated Jaskier during the fiasco with the djinn, but she let that matter lie.

“We’re all together in this,” Geralt said, struggling to find the words that would make his thoughts clear. “What’s important is that Jaskier heals well.”

“You’re a good friend, Yennefer,” Jaskier said. His voice was as heartfelt as Geralt ever remembered hearing it.

Geralt kept his thoughts to himself. As Yennefer’s former lover, there was nothing he could say to sum up the situation so it would be amenable to any of the three who stood at the wall.

“Come over here,” Jaskier said, stretching one arm wide. Yennefer’s shawl, a black woollen wrap shot through with threads of silver, hung open like an invitation.

Yennefer took two steps and settled her bottom against the wall beside Jaskier.

The meadow filled with birdsong. Woodlarks and finches chirped in the afternoon breeze.

Jaskier, with his bandaged hands and shaky posture, pulled Yennefer into a one-armed embrace.

Geralt raised an eyebrow. Clearly these two had shared some kind of bond that he was not privileged to know about. The two of them had apparently grown close in the days that he was hunting the drowners. They seemed to have come to a kind of friendly agreement, but that wasn’t all. Geralt had suspected Yennefer’s affection for the bard when she exhibited so much concern for him after he began his recovery. Whatever Jaskier felt for the mage seemed to have evolved into similar concern, despite Jaskier’s wariness about her vengeful side.

“You’re not going to turn me into a toad, are you?” Jaskier asked hopefully.

“Not after all I’ve done to heal you,” Yennefer said with a wave of her hand. “That would be such a waste of my efforts.”

A soft breeze swept across the meadow, ruffling Jaskier’s hair.

“No, you care too much for people,” Jaskier said, using a splinted hand to drag the hair from his eyes.

“Only certain people,” Yennefer said, her arm wrapped around Jaskier’s middle.

“Those who are struggling,” Jaskier said. “Those who can’t fend for themselves.”

As Geralt listened to Jaskier’s words, things became clearer. He remembered the infant daughter who was killed when Yennefer tried to protect her mother against a husband who demanded a son. Yennefer herself was an unwanted child, sold by her parents for a pittance. And now she embraced Jaskier, having tended to his injuries as lovingly as any mother.

“The broken, and the suffering, these are the souls you care for the most,” Jaskier finished.

Yennefer rested her head on Jaskier’s chest. “You’re right. I’m happy for the opportunity to care for you,” she said.

“I want you to know that I truly appreciate all you’ve done for me,” Jaskier said.

There was truth to Jaskier’s kind words about Yennefer, but if Jaskier appreciated Yennefer this much now, just wait until she gave him the lute. Geralt would lose whatever scrap of affection Jaskier could spare him.

“There’s something in it for her,” Geralt said, unable to keep quiet any longer.

Yennefer raised her head from Jaskier’s chest.

Jaskier raised an eyebrow at Geralt.

“She hasn’t healed you out of the goodness of her heart,” Geralt spat out. “She expects something in return.”

Yennefer tensed in Jaskier’s embrace.

“But I am healing pretty well, considering,” Jaskier said. “If there’s some reward you’ve promised her, I can’t argue that she’s not deserving.”

“He did promise me something that I bartered for,” Yennefer said, her shoulders shaking.

“What did you promise her, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, holding Yennefer more closely.

Geralt wished he hadn’t said anything. When the spark of jealousy over Jaskier and Yennefer’s friendship ignited inside him, he lost his bearings. An hour ago, he had all but confessed his love to Jaskier and now his only operating brain cell told him that Yennefer was going to fuck everything up. Of course, he did what seemed best at the moment. He blurted out the first contemptuous thing that sprang to his mind. It was not unlike the time when the three of them took in a similar view of a different landscape. Today, the rolling meadows of Novigrad’s wheatgrass replaced a desolate mountainside in Barefield. His harsh words had driven Jaskier away then. And now he had practically threatened to renege on his promise to introduce Cirilla to Yennefer—something he knew would hurt Yennefer deeply. He’d drive both Jaskier and Yennefer away, if he didn’t learn to cherish the people who cared about him.

“Fuck,” Geralt said.

“You’re going to keep your promise, aren’t you, Geralt?” Yennefer asked.

“What was it?” Jaskier asked, giving Yennefer’s shoulder a shake.

Geralt reined in more harsh words before he could utter them. He pleaded for their sharpness to die on his tongue. “Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry if you thought I would consider doing otherwise.”

Yennefer visibly relaxed.

“What did he promise?” Jaskier prodded. “Something exciting, I hope.”

“Something important,” Yennefer answered weakly.

With a furrowed brow, Jaskier looked at Yennefer in search of an answer, but the mage remained silent.

“What could you possibly want? You have everything anyone could ever desire,” Jaskier said, using his free hand to gesture at the manor and the beautiful countryside. Even the foliage that surrounded this peaceful garden evoked a sense of happiness.

“Not everything,” Yennefer said, solemnly.

Geralt sighed. This was not his place to speak. He’d do well to keep his mouth shut.

Jaskier urged Yennefer on with a “Hmm? Do tell me.”

Jaskier’s voice, gentle with concern, always had a persuasive edge to it. He had won Geralt over with it many times. This was the voice he used to gain the favour of his audience, be they a peasant or a royal courtesan or a queen.

“I want to be needed,” Yennefer muttered, turning to Jaskier. “To have meaning in someone’s life, to be important to someone.”

Jaskier sighed. “Well, you’re important to me,” he said with a tightening of his embrace.

Tears welled in Yennefer’s eyes.

Geralt looked away.

Yennefer let out a shuddery breath and seemed to collect herself.

“Without you, I’d never have been able to heal as well as I am,” Jaskier added.

“He promised me that I could meet his child of surprise,” Yennefer said, matter-of-factly.

“Geralt! That sounds wonderful,” Jaskier said with a gasp.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Yennefer said.

“How in Melitele’s perfumed-scented bath did you ever get him to agree to that?” Jaskier asked of Yennefer.

Yennefer looked at Jaskier and shrugged. “It was what he promised me for healing you.”

“Oh, oh, oh, Geralt,” Jaskier chuckled, wagging a bandaged finger. “You are not going to blame me for setting the wheels in motion that will force you to finally meet that child. It’s something you should have done long ago, irrespective of my involvement—or Yennefer’s. It’s high time you paid a visit to the Cintran court. Of course, I’ve performed there a number of times over the years. You might say I’ve kept an eye on your little surprise, but have you ever asked me about her? I could have told you that Princess Cirilla is a polite young lady. That she can dance a jig as well as she can play knucklebones—”

“He didn’t even know she was a girl when I asked about the child,” Yennefer interrupted.

Geralt grimaced at both Yennefer and Jaskier.

“It was a brilliant idea for you to negotiate that as part of the deal to restore me to health. Just brilliant!” Jaskier said, smiling widely. “He should have visited the girl years ago.”

“He argued against it,” Yennefer said.

“Of course he did,” Jaskier said. “I can hardly believe he cared about me enough to agree to your proposal.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. The discomfort of being called out by the people he cared for the most in the world was worse than the bite of a striga.

“It took some convincing,” Yennefer said.

“It didn’t take too much convincing,” Geralt objected. He jutted out his chin at Jaskier and added, “You weren’t meant to know about it.”

Jaskier winked at Geralt and said, “And yet, here we are.”

The meadow’s birdsong went quiet.

“Come here,” Jaskier said, throwing open his arm that was not embracing Yennefer.

Geralt knew when he was defeated. He sulkily stepped toward the wall and turned so Jaskier could wrap his other arm around him.

“Now, I am feeling a chill,” Jaskier said. “And I need the both of you to help me get back to the manor.”

“You’re in pain?” Geralt asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

“I wouldn’t describe it so much as pain…” Jaskier said.

“He likes to be dramatic,” Yennefer quipped.

Geralt sighed. “I noticed,” he said.

“Oh, you both know me too well,” Jaskier said, stepping away from the wall.

Geralt slipped an arm under Jaskier’s to support much of his weight. “I could carry you,” he said, fully prepared to hoist Jaskier over his shoulder and swiftly return him to the manor so he could get some rest.

Yennefer laughed. “No! I forbid it. His back is nearly healed. I don’t want him jostled about. His seams could rip open.”

“Hmm,” Geralt murmured. He’d have to settle for accompanying Jaskier back to the manor by walking alongside him.

The trio stepped over the rough cobblestones, Geralt on one side of Jaskier and Yennefer on the other. Behind them, a golden sunset washed over the meadow.

With his hand at the small of Jaskier’s back, Geralt’s dearest wish was that he and Jaskier could pick up where they left off when Yennefer had interrupted them. It was too much to ask that Jaskier return the love that bubbled up inside Geralt whenever he thought of the bard, but kissing seemed to be acceptable to Jaskier before their conversation with Yennefer, and he hoped it would be acceptable after.

Still, Geralt worried that he had ruined his chances of kissing Jaskier again. He hated himself for having so little control over the harsh words that rose from him when he felt the pressure to speak out. Perhaps with practice, he could learn to think before he spoke when the feelings of those who cared for him were at stake.

~

In the following days, Geralt spent most of his time sharpening his swords and replenishing his potions while Jaskier slept. In good weather, Geralt took Roach for a ride along the forest roads that led from the manor. It was only a matter of time before another contract became available, so he did his best to stay alert and remain ready to take on whatever challenge came his way. The upcoming trip to Cintra, too, weighed heavily on his mind. He could not imagine undertaking such a journey without Jaskier at his side.

When he wasn’t honing his witcher skills and managing his weapons and potions, Geralt spent his time caring for Jaskier. Geralt treated the bard gently, massaging his fingers when they ached, smoothing the salve on his back so the lashes were a distant memory. If the day was pleasant, and Jaskier felt strong, they walked outdoors.

His worries about losing Jaskier’s affection were alleviated by the bard himself on the same day of their conversation in the rear garden. Geralt learned that Jaskier loved to kiss.

At first hesitant, and a bit nervous, Geralt practiced kissing Jaskier whenever he could. He trailed kisses along Jaskier’s jawline and down his neck, listening for Jaskier’s little sounds that told him what the bard liked best. Geralt discovered that a firm application of lips to Jaskier’s neck, just below his ear, elicited a soft moan and made the bard’s useless fingers flutter with excited movement.

As for Geralt, he liked kisses best when his bare chest was pressed against Jaskier’s while the bard was still in his sleep clothes. With his enhanced witcher senses, he could feel the softness of Jaskier’s chest hair that lay beneath his tunic. Geralt had never lain with a man before and he found the idea of it thrilling, especially when he thought about the prospect of making love to Jaskier. The bard had won Geralt’s stony heart before the witcher even knew he had one to offer.

They’d lie together for hours, mouths pressed together, seeking comfort in each other until their chests heaved with lust and they’d have to stop, lest things go further than either was ready for. Five minutes later, they’d be at it again with soft murmurs and gentle touches, their lips finding joy in exploring each other’s mouths.

When they slept, Geralt wrapped himself around Jaskier. He let one sword-calloused hand rest on Jaskier’s warm belly. His nose buried in the dark locks of hair at Jaskier’s nape.

The bard smelled of honey and wildflowers, never fear, never sadness. Not anymore.

Geralt woke every morning to Jaskier’s beautiful blue eyes, sparkling in greeting to him before he began each day. The warmth of Jaskier’s body against his, grounded Geralt in a world that would have seemed surreal to him only a few months earlier.

And Jaskier was exceptionally good at kissing. Geralt relished the sweet little moaning sounds he made. It sounded as if Jaskier were taking sips of pure happiness from Geralt’s mouth into his own.

Geralt sometimes wondered if Yennefer would say anything untoward about it when he joined her for a meal or passed her in a hallway with his lips swollen and red from Jaskier’s attentions. Fortunately, Yennefer had the good sense to refrain from commenting.

One morning, not long after their conversation in the rear garden, as they lay wrapped around each other, Jaskier said, “I didn’t mean to embarrass you that day with my remarks about you not yet meeting your child of surprise.”

“Hmm,” Geralt murmured. He wasn’t offended by Jaskier, who had simply behaved as he usually did, embracing light-heartedness where he found it.

“I’m sorry if you found my attempts at humour in any way humiliating,” Jaskier said, his bandaged fingers stroking Geralt’s palm.

“I didn’t mind,” Geralt said. And it was the truth. If anything, he was pleased that Jaskier had recovered enough from his injuries so he could find joy in a conversation with friends.

Geralt was most relieved that Jaskier had ignored the harshness of his words when he asserted that Yennefer had healed him for her own gain by choosing the meeting with Cirilla as payment for helping Jaskier. The bard never mentioned it again. Instead, he continued to ply Geralt with the sweetest of kisses at every opportunity.

But the other harsh words Geralt had spoken to the bard still weighed him down like a waterlogged kikimora, dragging him beneath the inescapable depths of despair.

“What are you thinking?” Jaskier asked, when Geralt remained silent.

Geralt often thought of one thing in particular while Jaskier slept, and he took the time for meditation. He couldn’t help but remember how they had gotten to this point—the cruelty on the mountain still gnawed at him and made his insides clench with hatred for himself.

He turned the words over in his mind, If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands…

What kind of man said that to a cherished friend? He truly was a monster, unworthy of Jaskier’s friendship, undeserving of his love, contemptible to Jaskier and to everyone decent and good.

“Nothing,” Geralt said, but the quaver in his voice told Jaskier it was a lie.

Geralt opened his eyes wide against the morning light that filtered through the gossamer drapes. He blinked a half-dozen times to clear away any moisture that had gathered there before Jaskier could turn to see his face.

Witchers had no emotions, and they certainly didn’t cry.

“What is it, Geralt?” Jaskier asked.

Jaskier’s sleepy question fluttered into his ear, his voice only a soft whisper.

Geralt would regret those hateful words until he drew his last breath.

If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands…

“It’s nothing,” Geralt whispered, not wanting to worry Jaskier with concerns about his own shortcomings.

Jaskier freed himself from Geralt’s hold and turned in his arms to face him.

“It’s something,” Jaskier said.

Jaskier’s bandaged hand found its way beneath the covers. He pressed his palm to Geralt’s taut belly, ragged with scars from battles of the past.

The warmth of his fingers soothed Geralt. He cherished Jaskier’s gentle touches on his skin that told him of Jaskier’s desire to be close.

“Tell me?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt shook his head and leant forward to kiss Jaskier. He had learned this was a most pleasant way to get Jaskier to stop talking. But as much as Geralt wanted to remain silent, he found Jaskier’s soft touch and gentle kisses deserving of an answer.

“These… feelings,” Geralt stuttered when he drew back. “Emotions… or whatever you want to call them.”

They made Geralt ache.

Still, Geralt relished the warmth of Jaskier’s body as he lay in his arms, never far away from his body or his mind. Being this close to Jaskier made the world around him disappear. He wanted this peaceful feeling always, for the rest of his days, although he never could feel worthy of such a treasure.

Geralt averted his eyes, unwilling to let Jaskier see them, shining wet over the gold.

Jaskier raised a hand to Geralt’s face and used his thumb to brush a tear from Geralt’s eye.

“And they say witchers don’t have emotions,” Jaskier said softly. It wasn’t a question, nor was it ridicule. Jaskier’s voice was full of wonder, more than anything else.

“That’s not entirely true,” Geralt said.

“I could have told you that,” Jaskier said. He leant forward and pressed his forehead to Geralt’s while he gently stroked the witcher’s cheek. “You, my love, are one of the most deeply-feeling creatures I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

Love… Jaskier called him his love… Geralt too often recalled the hatred directed toward him because he was a witcher. The disdain, the stone throwing, the spitting. Sometimes, he wished it didn’t hurt so much.

Of course, Jaskier’s songs of heroic praise did much to remedy the mistreatment his kind faced, but still the sorrow for being cast out lingered. Rivers of sadness ran deeply within Geralt and rarely came to the surface.

But they sometimes did.

Memories of his mother sometimes edged their way into Geralt’s thoughts, and when they did, they were always accompanied by a certain horror. The depth of hatred that must have existed for a mother to abandon her child was unimaginable. Geralt only had to look at Yennefer’s yearning for a child to understand that not all parents behaved as his mother did.

Any child would be fortunate to have Yennefer to dote upon them. Geralt’s mother must have been so unlike Yennefer, to simply abandon him. And despite Geralt’s pain, he had done nearly the same to his own child of surprise.

Jaskier was right, it was time that he met Cirilla. He needed to show some concern for her, at least as a poor substitute for a parent—and not as the monster who had been absent from her life for all of her early years. He owed Yennefer some gratitude for helping him to understand parenthood through her feelings about motherhood. But most importantly he owed thanks to the man in his arms. Jaskier’s love had turned Geralt into something more human again, whether he liked it or not.

And he hated it.

“Why does it hurt so much to have feelings?” Geralt closed his eyes and asked.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier said.

Geralt felt Jaskier’s arms tugging him closer. He embraced Jaskier, holding him gently so he didn’t disrupt any healing ribs or broken bones.

Jaskier peppered his face, his eyes, with kisses, before finding his mouth. With warm and sensuous kisses, he made Geralt believe that he was well and truly forgiven for the chaos that had brought to them both during this stage of their journey together.

Both men were damaged in their own ways. Only by seeking each other for the healing they craved, could they begin the work of repairing what had been done to their fragile selves.

But at the moment, Jaskier had other ideas.

“You know,” Jaskier whispered, taking a moment to catch his breath. “If we continue to kiss like this…”

At Jaskier’s silence, Geralt opened his eyes that had been closed at the feel of Jaskier kissing him.

Jaskier’s brow was furrowed and he looked pained.

“What is it?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier’s cheeks took on a rosy hue. “It’s just that all this kissing has given me so many ideas for poems and songs and uh… well… other endeavours,” Jaskier said.

Beneath the covers, Jaskier slightly thrusted his hips forward, his erect cock nudging Geralt’s muscular thigh.

“Oh,” Geralt groaned, understanding full well what Jaskier was hinting at.

Indeed, in the hours that passed at Jaskier’s side, Geralt had willed his own cock to remain unobtrusive when faced with his needs. Sharpening his swords, meticulously crafting his potions, and taking Roach for a ride through the countryside only helped quell his desires so much. A deft hand, when Yennefer was away from the manor and Jaskier was asleep, helped to satisfy Geralt’s baser urges. But now it seemed that Jaskier was ready to address the matter of his own, with some help from Geralt.

Jaskier met Geralt with a harder thrust and Geralt did nothing to stop him. Instead, he pushed Jaskier onto his back and kissed him deeply as he ground his hips into Jaskier’s thigh.

Jaskier panted breathlessly, his eyes blown wide.

“You may be human,” Geralt said fondly, “but you’re not so different than I am… in at least one aspect.”

Jaskier laughed. “It’s all this kissing. It’s reminding me that I have a serious problem.”

“Problem?” Geralt asked, worried for the bard’s health.

Jaskier waggled his bandaged fingers in the space between them. “I can’t really use these well enough to help myself, if you know what I mean,” Jaskier said with a grin.

“Hmm,” Geralt said, taken aback. He would give anything to touch Jaskier or, by the gods, to feel Jaskier’s hands on him. The thought of it made him grow harder with no hope of relief, not while Jaskier’s fingers were still healing.

“Well?” Jaskier asked.

“I may be willing to help you with that, if you’d like me to,” Geralt said smugly.

“I was hoping you would,” Jaskier said, tracing Geralt’s chin with his nose.

Geralt bit his bottom lip. Jaskier had been so horribly abused. He considered it an honour that he trusted Geralt enough to touch him… there. But he needed to know that Jaskier would have no regrets about this. Of course, he would stop touching Jaskier the moment that the bard objected.

“Are you sure?” Geralt asked, taking his time to watch Jaskier’s face. He searched for any sign of hesitation, but Jaskier only nodded eagerly.

Geralt was hopelessly aroused by Jaskier’s antics. He took a deep breath.

“Proceed, witcher,” Jaskier said with a flourish. He used his arms to raise the covers from his chest.

Geralt laughed. Whatever he expected when considering Jaskier’s self-proclaimed prowess in the bedroom, this was not it. He stopped smiling when Jaskier simply looked at him with longing in his eyes and whispered, “Please?”

Geralt accepted the invitation and slipped his hand beneath the covers. His fingers roved over Jaskier’s tunic, savouring the feel of the soft hair that lay underneath. He found Jaskier’s waistband and dared not take his eyes off Jaskier’s face as he explored the soft skin of Jaskier’s belly and the coarse hair that touched his fingers as he found what he needed. With a firm palm, he pressed against Jaskier’s warm erection.

With a soft gasp, Jaskier arched into Geralt’s touch.

Geralt kissed Jaskier’s lips, his tongue delving into the bard’s mouth, tasting the fire of passion that burned inside him. The scent of Jaskier’s arousal and the feeling of his cock, warm and hard in Geralt’s hand, combined as if it were the most wondrous thing Geralt had ever experienced in his exceedingly long life.

Jaskier moaned into the kiss and thrust his hips upward to get more friction against Geralt’s palm.

Geralt had never held a cock, besides his own, in his hand. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do with it, but he knew what he liked for himself. He gave Jaskier’s cock a squeeze and used his thumb to trace the edge of Jaskier’s foreskin where the head of his cock peeked out, ripe for the taking. He swiped the droplets of anticipation from its head.

Jaskier threw his head back and mumbled, “This is not going to take long.”

“That’s fine,” Geralt whispered, pushing his nose behind Jaskier’s ear as he breathed in the scent of his sex. “Take as long as you need.”

Jaskier moaned happily and Geralt followed along, paying attention to the things Jaskier indicated he liked. He moved his hand lower to stroke Jaskier’s plump balls, rolling them between his fingers, but that only made Jaskier whine with dismay, although he still looked adoringly into Geralt’s eyes.

“Alright, then,” Geralt murmured, moving his hand back to gently squeeze Jaskier’s cock.

Jaskier smiled and made little pleased sounds from somewhere deep in his throat.

Geralt’s cock was hard and leaking slick. He wanted nothing more than to take himself in hand, but this experience was all for Jaskier. Even if the bard could reciprocate, Geralt would refuse. This was all about Jaskier’s pleasure and Geralt was not going to degrade the privilege he had been granted by taking something for himself. If he could convince himself that he might do a decent job of it, Geralt considered diving beneath the covers and using his mouth on Jaskier. He clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut, such was the pleasure of thinking about how Jaskier would taste in his mouth. But any effort toward that direction would have to wait until next time, because on the very next stroke of Jaskier’s cock, the bard had turned into a shuddering mess.

“Oh… fuck… Geralt…” Jaskier panted.

Geralt felt Jaskier’s entire body go tense. He continued to stroke Jaskier’s cock as the bard enjoyed his release for the first time in weeks.

“You have undone me,” Jaskier gasped, his fingers gripping uselessly at the sheets.

Geralt was rather pleased with himself that he was able to help Jaskier get some relief.

“Melitele’s secret dildo collection, shared with her loyal fucking worshippers,” Jaskier blurted out.

“Shh,” Geralt laughed. He gently bit down on Jaskier’s neck, in the place that gave him so much pleasure earlier.

“Fucking cock!” Jaskier shouted, all the air leaving his lungs as his shudders grew more subdued.

Geralt shook his head. Leave it to Jaskier to chatter away the entire time that Geralt stroked him to completion. But had he really expected Jaskier to behave any differently? Geralt found it completely endearing. He stilled his hand and kissed Jaskier’s mouth. When he drew back, Geralt basked in the sight of Jaskier’s eyes, glazed over in bliss.

“I’ve made a mess of these sheets, not to mention your hand,” Jaskier said lazily. “Yennefer’s handmaidens will deserve proper compensation for the extra cleaning tasks they will bear.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Geralt said, resting his head on Jaskier’s shoulder. He wiped his fingers, slick with Jaskier’s spend, on the sheets.

“Nngh,” Jaskier said, futilely making a gesture at Geralt’s groin.

“I’ll be fine,” Geralt said. “Don’t worry about me.”

Geralt lay with Jaskier in his arms. He tried to calculate how many monsters he had killed during the past year—anything to take his mind off his swollen cock. There were the recent drowners, that made six. There was another drowner problem back in the spring, but there were only two in that case, so a total of eight. The ghoul in Aedirn, nine. They thought there was a werewolf in Redania, but it was really a nightwraith… ten….

“That feels nice,” Jaskier murmured.

“Hmm?” Geralt questioned.

Jaskier bumped Geralt’s hand with his chin.

Geralt hadn’t realized that he had slipped his hand down the wide neckline of Jaskier’s tunic and he had been tracing little whorls with his fingertips into Jaskier’s chest hair. He stopped the motion of his fingers and reached for Jaskier’s hand.

Although the bones of Jaskier’s fingers had been making some progress in healing, Geralt wished he could do something more to help him heal faster. The lute that Yennefer had packed away for him would cheer Jaskier, but he needed to be able to move his fingers more to play. If only there were a way…

“I think I have an idea,” Geralt said.

“Don’t strain yourself, dear witcher,” Jaskier said sarcastically. “What kind of idea?”

“Something to help with your fingers,” Geralt said.

“Already trying to get out of touching my cock again, I see,” Jaskier said.

“No, idiot,” Geralt said with exasperation, “It’s something that might enhance your healing. I had thought of it when I first brought you here. It was too dangerous then, but now that you’re stronger, it might work.”

“What is it?” Jaskier asked. “One of your witchery potions?”

“Exactly,” Geralt said.

Geralt knew that Jaskier would love to play the lute again, but he was hesitant to speed up the healing process for a number of reasons. For one thing, there was the very real danger that the bone-mending witcher potion, even in its diluted form, could have an adverse effect on Jaskier.

There was also the issue of the lute itself. Jaskier would undoubtedly be thrilled when he learned that Yennefer had procured a lute for him—and from elves, no less.

He’d be grateful to her for such a gift.

He’d probably write songs for her.

He might even want to follow her from town to town as she served as a mage to the masses.

He’d be her bard, her companion.

Geralt felt the flicker of jealousy ignite in him, but at least this time he knew he needed to stave it off before he could do any damage because of it. He clenched his jaw and told himself that if Jaskier wanted to worship Yennefer for giving him an elven lute, then so be it. He needed to trust that Jaskier wanted him in his life and in his bed, no matter how improbable it was that his companionship under the covers would be desired for the long term. If Jaskier loved Yennefer more than him because she got him a damn lute, it was a risk Geralt needed to accept. Besides, it would make Jaskier so happy to play an instrument again.

“Uh, Geralt?” Jaskier prodded.

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathed. “I didn’t dare suggest it when you were near death, but now you may be strong enough to give it a try.”

Jaskier turned his hand over in Geralt’s palm. “But won’t it kill me? I’m no witcher. I’m just a man,” he said.

“Not if I dilute the potion enough,” Geralt said. “When you were first injured and so very weak, yes—it might have been toxic. But now that you’ve gotten some of your strength back, a potion might be able to help your bones heal more quickly.”

“Can Yennefer be there, if we try it?” Jaskier asked tentatively.

“Of course. She might be able to offer her expertise if we need help.” Geralt didn’t dare suggest that something could go horribly wrong. There was no need to worry Jaskier unnecessarily. But it was a good idea to involve Yennefer, despite everything.

“Geralt?” Jaskier began. “I know we haven’t discussed it, but do you think I’ll ever be able to play the lute again?”

Geralt stroked Jaskier’s hand tenderly. “I don’t know,” he said, pressing kisses to each of the bard’s fingers. “But I hope that we’ll find out soon.”

~