Mae govannen!

Apologies for the long lull in updating, i've been sick and unable to write... I won't blab on: so here is the next chapter! ;)

again: WARNING: do not read if you don't ship Geralt and Jaskier- you have been cautioned ;)

Disclaimer: I own nothing of the WitcherVerse, all of it is the work of the amazing Andrejzi Sapkowski and brought to life by Netflix.

Please leave a review if you would be so kind!

Namarïe!

"Can I ask a possibly insensitive question?" yelled Jaskier over the rushing of the wind, as the black motorbike sped along the narrow, winding road that led up the hill.

"By all means!" Geralt shouted back, not taking his eyes off the street in front of him. "And better than anyone else I know!"

"Why the fuck aren't we wearing helmets?"

Geralt's laugh was torn away by the flailing air currents. The singer was clinging to his back with the tenacity of superglue, head buried in the witcher's shoulder. "I don't have any helmets!"

"How very like you..." moaned Jaskier. "Gods. I never wanted to die this young!"

"Try pleading to some different gods then, Jask!"

"Blasphemy..." joked the singer. Then his head jerked up. "That's the first time you've called me that!"

"What?"

"Jask!"

"Should I not have?"

"No," Jaskier nuzzled into the witcher's neck. "I've been waiting for you to do it."

Geralt affectionately bumped Jaskier's head with his, heart warmed. A small twinge of guilt however, still needled in his chest...he still hadn't told Vesemir. He knew he should, but could not bring himself to. For he knew what the old witcher would do. Knew what he would say...and perhaps Geralt was being selfish, but...the words stuck in his throat every time he meant to say them.

Let me have this happiness a little while longer... then I'll tell him...

They were flying along the Bronhill Forest Road- a narrow, serpentine stretch of paved gravel that wound deep into the forests outside Novigrad. They had been on Geralt's bike for the better part of the morning, the day a blaze of blue skies and clouds that reminded Geralt of candy floss. Since the night of Jaskier's surprise dinner, they had taken it in turns to surprise one another with outings. Three days ago, Jaskier had dragged the witcher down to a music festival on the docks by the lake. Too many people and far too much loud noise, but Geralt had weathered it grimly. The look of delight in Jaskier's eyes had been enough for him.

Now, it was his turn. Hence the outing on his bike. Jaskier had a map rolled and tucked under his arm, but after having nearly lost it to the wind seven times in the first ten minutes of the trip, he had given up. Lashed securely to the back of the black motorbike was the basket that Jaskier had brought with him. On second thoughts, Geralt was probably going to regret delegating the lunch duties to Jaskier...but it was too late now. At least the singer had never forced something truly foul on the witcher.

Well...then again...the caviar at the festival had been disgusting...

Jaskier clung tighter to Geralt as they sped over a bridge that had clearly seen better days. Far down below, the River Yurga snarled, flowing in a white torrent over rapids and boulders. "How much further?" he called.

"Ten minutes, maximum!" Geralt shouted back.

Jaskier let out a yell of shock as Geralt turned, skidding onto a gravel path nearly overgrown by brambles and Hollyhocks. Pebbles shot up all around them, the tires crunching and skidding. Jaskier's knuckles were white as he linked his hands about Geralt's waist. The witcher could hear him repeating faint f-bombs in something almost resembling prayer. It made him want to laugh.

Finally, the dusty track came to an end. Ringed in by trees, the small clearing was silent apart from distant calls of birdsong. Geralt thought he could pick out the sweet tunes of a nightingale. Not that he really knew much when it came to birds.

He roared with laughter as Jaskier sprang off the bike, and bent to press his hands to the dirt. A sigh left the singer, pebbles rolling in his fingers. "Never again," he swore fervently. "Fuck, never again."

"We still have to get back," said Geralt with some amusement. "Or are you going to walk ten miles on your own?"

Jaskier brushed his clothes off. "Damn you, witcher..." he grumbled.

It was a pleasantly mild day for a Novigrad winter, but Jaskier was looking like a reincarnation of summer in his pastel-purple polo shirt, splashed all over with leaves and bright violet flowers. This, paired with black leggings and shoes the same color as his shirt, made Geralt wonder just how large his boyfriend's closet was. Never, had he seen Jaskier wear the same outfit more than once. Maybe he just had a knack for swapping and changing things so no one noticed?

Geralt was dressed in his usual black, but it had grown too warm for his jacket.

While unloading the vittles from the bike, he felt Jaskier's hand on his muscled bare arm. Concern was in the singer's voice.

"Geralt, what...when did you get these?"

Confused, the witcher glanced down at the pale fingers, resting on the map of scars crossing his skin. He was so used to them by now that it took him a moment to realise what Jaskier meant. "Oh. Occupational hazards," he said with a smile.

He remembered his first wound from a monster. A rogue Kikimora down in the old flour factory. A slash along his chest. The burning pain of the healing elexir being poured over it by Vesemir. Witchers didn't have time for pain. Wounds were rubbed and then you were back on your feet.

"Jask, I'm okay, really. They're just old scratches." Geralt gently took the slender hand in his calloused one. The look of concern smoothed out a little on the singer's face.

"Your chest looked the same," muttered Jaskier, flushing. "When I bound the harpy wounds...just pale scars everywhere."

"Hey..." Geralt drew the singer into a tight embrace, resting his chin on the head of hazel waves. "Seriously, Jask, I'm fine."

A grin. "Alright, alright." Jaskier glanced about as the witcher led him towards a gap in the trees. He groaned. "Oh, Gods, now where are we going?"

"Not far," promised the witcher.

"Annnnndddd that's what he said this morning, ladies and gentlemen..." was the grumble to be heard from behind.

"You're such a drama queen." Geralt could hear at least one bottle of something (presumably wine) sloshing around in the basket.

"Well excuse me!" huffed the younger man, puffing along by his side. "I've been sitting on my arse all morning, certain I was going to die from either a pounding heart, or a stupid accident that could have been avoided if you owned a pair of helmets. Forgive me for being slightly verbal."

"You're forgiven," rumbled the witcher.

"Good. And one more thing— Oh my Gods..."

They had reached their destination.

Having left the trees at last, Geralt and Jaskier were standing on a narrow expanse of smooth grey rock, the granite warm from the sun above. The bite in the air was colder here, nearer to the crystal clear stream that bubbled along past the stone. Hardly two metres from them, the water rushed in a gleaming arc from the cliff, spray turning the air iridescent with broken rainbows. The waterfall and stream were surrounded on both banks by flowering shrubs and trees, the blossoms a kaleidoscope of colors.

"Oh," repeated Jaskier softly.

"I come here when I need time alone," admitted Geralt. "When things get hard...or when old memories are bothering me." It was easier somehow, telling Jaskier these things. Things that he usually only told Ciri, or Yennefer. Things he only shared with people that he trusted. Or loved. But for him, those things were often one and the same.

Jaskier nodded. "Thank..." He swallowed. "Thank you for bringing me here. You letting me in to your life...it means a lot."

"It's not like life's given me a bounty of friends," remarked Geralt dryly.

Before he knew it, Jaskier's deft hands were knotted in his shirt, and his mouth was on Geralt's. The singer's breath was warm, tasting of almond and strawberry, (Exotic toothpaste, no doubt) and Geralt had to hold in a moan as his knees threatened to give way under him. This feeling was intoxicating. Stronger than any potion he had ever taken in his life. Gods, he was drunk on Jaskier.

It was the singer who gave out first, and his weight overbalanced Geralt and brought him down atop the younger man.

"Fuck," said Jaskier with his usual eloquence. "Sorry."

Geralt chuckled, before drawing Jaskier close and kissing him again.

Tangled together on the warm stone, they gave no thought to time, nor anything save each other. Finally, though, breath ragged from little air, they broke apart. Jaskier dug into the basket and withdrew a multitude of cardboard boxes that turned out to hold sandwiches, cake and fresh green salads. Geralt's inner worry about the fare was dispelled. Jaskier had good taste. And not only had he brought wine, but a smaller flask of ale.

"I've never seen you drink anything else," he said, handing it to Geralt. "Do you? Ever have other things, I mean?"

"The odd whiskey," said Geralt. "Sometimes mead. And beer- but only if Lambert insists. I'm not that big a fan of it."

Jaskier snorted and drank straight from the wine bottle. "Beer is disgusting. Essi likes it though, so sometimes I have to go along with it."

"She knew, didn't she."

Jaskier knew what Geralt meant it seemed, because he gave a sheepish smile. "Erm...yeah. She did. Kept saying that she'd tell you."

Geralt smiled. "Fil said the same thing. Only he had no idea what you looked like, so I think I was safe."

"I liked him," said Jaskier. "Filavandrel."

Geralt said nothing for a while, drinking from the flask in silence. A leaf drifted past in the water and he plucked it out. It was beginning to decay, the fine tracery of veins in its walls of orange showing through like an x-rayed skeleton as he held it up to the light. "He has three years left to live."

"Oh." Jaskier scrubbed a hand over his face. "Oh. Oh gods, I...I'm so sorry..."

"Don't be. Fil's fine with it. He's always taken things in his stride." Geralt gave a sad smile. "Sometimes fate doesn't give you a choice."

"What was it you said the other day, at the party?" Jaskier squinted, trying to remember no doubt. "Destiny is a...beast, was it?"

"Yes."

A gentle breeze whistled over them, and Jaskier seemed to struggle with himself. Geralt opened his mouth to ask, but the singer blurted,

"Okay, look- you don't need to answer this at all...it's probably insensitive...but Filavandrel said that your parents were shitty ones. I never knew."

Geralt felt the familiar weight settle down upon his heart. But perhaps it would help to confide in another. After all, Jaskier cared. That in itself helped ease the burden of memory.

"My mother didn't like things to happen without her consent." Geralt let out a sigh as her angled face came to mind. Those sharp green eyes, and that tangle of red hair. "I...wasn't a model son...not for lack of trying. But she could never quite bring herself to be proud of me. She kept at me though. Said that if she was going to have me around, then I'd damn well have to turn out as something worthwhile..."

Jaskier looked like he was biting back anger. "And your father?"

Geralt shrugged. "Drunkard. I only ever saw him at night anyway. Became good at dodging fists...I suppose I have him to thank for my reflexes." He smiled ruefully. "I don't miss them. I haven't even been back that way to see if they're still there."

"They didn't deserve you."

Geralt looked long at the singer, his golden eyes warm in the sunlight, before he finally let out a huff of laughter. "I'm not quite sure that I deserve you, Jask."

The singer crossed his arms and smirked. "Well, tough, witcher. 'Cause you're stuck with me now."