Mae govannen!
Apologies for the long lull in updating, Life is a great distraction...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!
Essi's mouth always grew impossibly wide when she yawned. Jaskier often wondered if she was part Venus flytrap. "I think I am heading for home." She rose to her feet with a languid stretch, such as one a cat would make. "Jask, do you want a lift?"
Jaskier gazed up sleepily from Yennefer's exceedingly comfy armchair. The thought of moving made him want to whine, but he scrubbed a hand over his face and manfully gave it a go.
He was half out of the chair when Yennefer said, "You can stay, if you want. All of you- there's enough bedding. Those two were already not planning to leave." She gestured elegantly to Ciri, who was sat on a couch with Filavandrel's head in her lap, fingers gently teasing through his hair. The elf seemed to be deeply asleep.
Essi let out a deep groan of thanks. "You're an angel, Yennefer... you really don't mind?"
"Not at all."
"Hang on-," Jaskier said slowly, feeling like his mind was stretched thin from fatigue. "How come Geralt didn't stay?" Damn, he was so screwed. It had only been a hour and a half, and already he missed the witcher like he would miss a limb. It would have been ridiculous had he not felt that he needed said limb to feel whole.
Yennefer smiled. "Geralt's a really shy kind of person. He doesn't like intruding on anyone. He never stays over."
Geralt- shy?
Now Jaskier had heard it all. Though, come to think of it, maybe the silences that came from the white-haired witcher weren't thickheadedness. But rather tongue tying shyness?
God.
Whoops.
I think I owe Geralt an apology...
And then the final blow:
Fuck. I really am an insensitive bastard.
"I don't need to have 'the talk' with you, do I, Jaskier?"
He looked up sleepily. "Huh?" What was Yennefer referring to? What talk could possibly-
Oh.
OH.
"Yeah, I've been meaning to ask you the same thing," said Ciri from the sofa. "Fil has too, actually."
"As have I," added Triss.
Well, thought Jaskier. Thank god that the elf was asleep. He'd rather not have an attack from four sides. Three parties was quite enough for him at present, thank you very much.
"That's funny," mused Essi now, a devilish look in her large blue eyes. "Because I've been meaning to have a chat with Geralt about the same thing..."
"Essi," groaned Jaskier, his cheeks coloring like a new rosebud. Sometimes she was just too much. Though said times were few, he'd admit, you knew when they had arrived.
"What?" She looked unfazed. "Geralt seems like a great guy, but I still have to do my duty."
"Well said," approved Triss, toasting her with a wineglass. Her red hair had become even more wild from the static blankets. It made her resemble a small tornado. Or perhaps one of those other things...what was it...firenados.
Yes, that was it.
Jaskier summoned all the remaining strength left to him and sat up, meeting Yennefer's gaze with his own. "You can have 'the talk' with me if you want, but I don't think it's necessary. I'd never hurt Geralt."
"Good." She lay back and drew a nest of blankets up over her small form. "That's settled then."
Triss nodded her agreement. Ciri was still watching him curiously.
"Can I ask a possibly intrusive question, Jaskier?"
He shrugged nestling back into his warm knot of blankets. "Sure." What was the worst she could do?
"Have you and Geralt kissed? He never tells me anything- he's shit with details."
Yennefer laughed. "True."
The only sound of agreement from Triss was a soft snore. All Jaskier could see of her was that bush of red hair peeking out from under a thick duvet. Her feet, clad in penguin socks, were sticking out the other end, propped up on the couch's armrest. He had to hold in a laugh at that.
Thinking it over, Jaskier decided that as intrusive questions went, it wasn't that bad. Take what you can get, that sort of thing. So he nodded. "Yes. We have."
Ciri giggled. "I've never seen my brother blush before, you know. Or smile that much. Unless he's with us, I mean. He really likes you."
A warm feeling, not unlike downing a mug of hot chocolate, grew in Jaskier. Now he was blushing. He knew- his ears felt warm. That was a telltale sign of the pink flush taking over his cheeks.
Huffing, he lay back down, a happy smile curling his lips.
"Do you realise what kind of danger you have put us in?"
Geralt said nothing as Vesemir turned to face him. He had been brought to the black-marble training room, the door bolted behind him. It made the wish to run shiver up his spine. Geralt hated being trapped inside places. He had had enough of that thanks to his father. It was hard, even now, to keep his hands from shaking as Vesemir turned that cold look on him for the first time.
Geralt hadn't told his fellow witchers the full extent of what he had suffered at his parents' hands. He didn't think he'd ever tell anyone. This was why. He hated that people could cow him just by exploiting his weakness.
"Jaskier's promised not to say anything to anyone," he said, voice hoarse from worry.
"You know full well that we can't trust humans," snapped Vesemir. "Gods, they forget promises in the blink of an eye."
Geralt flinched at the whip in the head witcher's tone. Not all humans were bad...just because Vesemir had his grievances didn't mean that they all did.
"Vesemir..."
"That's enough!" snarled the old witcher.
Geralt fought it, he really tried, but the anger in those golden eyes... the rage in the curl of the lip...had him lowering his head and holding his tongue. Inwardly he seethed, berating himself for being so weak. No wonder your father walked all over you, sneered a little voice at the back of his mind. You can't stand up to anyone.
Vesemir noticed all this, and yet, to Geralt's shock, he continued to press his advantage. Something ugly and barbed coiled around his heart at that. A snarl of wire, twisting pain.
"You will stop seeing this singer, White Wolf." The head witcher's tone was hard and final. The sheer fury and command in it drove Geralt stumbling against the wall, not even trying to fight back. Vesemir advanced, and Geralt shuddered; trying to block out the phantom pain that flickered over his body everywhere that he had a scar from his father's ministrations.
"Lambert!" shouted Vesemir, and in an instant the witcher was there. His bearded face closed off and unreadable.
Geralt saw it in his eyes, however. He had always been good at picking details from people. The betrayal stung, but he kept the pain to himself, snarling as his 'brother' edged closer to him.
"Stay away from me," he spat.
Hurt flashed in Lambert's eyes, but he halted, hands raised placatingly. "Geralt..."
Coën was the next into the training room, powerful arms lifting the wooden bar with ease to bolt the door again.
"Is it done?" Vesemir asked.
Coën nodded. He looked displeased over something, but said naught of it.
"Is what done?" demanded Geralt, breath spiking as the three of them exchanged a look loaded with things he didn't want to even imagine. His pulse, normally four times slower than that of a human, picked up it's pace. His pupils slit like a cat's, a low rumbling growl starting in his throat.
"I called on the Chapter," said Vesemir flatly. "Asking them to perform a memory wipe."
Geralt seemed unable to get enough air into his lungs. Surely...surely, he had heard Vesemir wrong? He tried to back away, but Lambert and Coën suddenly had him by the arms, holding him as he struggled. "Gods, Vesemir, No! Please!"
No match for his older brothers' strength, Geralt was forced to his knees, voice breaking as he pleaded to the old, white-haired witcher. Vesemir's mouth was a thin line, eyes hard. He was as unmoving as the walls around them.
Shock had Geralt kneeling submissively in stunned silence. Voices faded to a blur. His breath coming in great shuddering heaves, almost like sobs.
What had made him think that he could have something like everyone else? That he could love and be loved in return. Destiny was showing him his hand now, fuck it. He had dared to want for something, and now he was to loose it again.
To loose Jask...the thought tore him up like knives. Not until this moment did he truly realise just how far he had fallen for the singer.
"Just relax, Geralt," said Lambert softly. "It'll all be over in a while."
Then all Geralt could see was red. A mist that gathered on the edge of his vision, blurring his pounding heart and thrumming blood into a snarl of pure rage.
He tore himself free from his brothers, casting Aard deftly. His sword shimmered into sight, slung across his back, and it sung from its sheath just in time to knock Coën's pole away from its intended trajectory: his head. Geralt spun back tightly on himself, weight poised on his right leg. He relaxed into a stillness that spoke of death, sword never wavering as he waited. Golden eyes blades of anger.
"Geralt," said Vesemir, a warning deep in his tone. He halted Lambert with a hand on his arm. "Don't do this. Be reasonable."
"Fuck. You." Geralt's voice was a low rumbling thunderstorm. He bared his teeth, the slightly sharper canines catching the light.
Lambert whipped his arm forwards, a sharp hissing singing through the air. Geralt stumbled back with a cry as a burning pain erupted across his face, the knife carving a gash from the corner of his mouth to his hairline.
Half-blinded by the blood, his head spinning, Geralt heaved the bar from across the door and bolted out into the corridor. His face burned like hell, nausea rising like a vice in his throat.
His own brother.
Lambert had flung the knife.
He charged into his room, slamming and bolting the door behind him. His enhanced hearing could tell that they weren't far behind.
Fuck.
Geralt pressed a shaking hand to his mouth, trying to choke off a sob. His chest heaved, eyes burning.
Not now.
Never again.
Breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
His body shook, wracked by silent fits of sorrow.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Geralt hefted his steel sword off its hook by the fireplace, slinging it over his shoulders. With both blades a comforting weight between his shoulder blades, he hefted the small hardwood chest from his shelf. Inside, the vials clinked and rattled, whispering arcane secrets. He slid the chest into a leather bag, along with his phone, clothes and some other small things.
Then he broke the window.
When Jaskier ambled up to his front door on the following morning, the last thing he expected to see was Geralt's bike parked in his driveway.
He also had not thought to find the witcher asleep under the baby willow tree that grew by the door.
Geralt's white hair was tangled, pale face crusted with blood from a gash across the left of his face. He lay there- shivering in the snow, his black, silver-studded leather clothes rumpled and creased. Like he had been for a late-night tumble in a laundromat.
Anxiety made Jaskier's breath short as he hurried to the prone form, dropping down beside it. "Geralt? Hey!" He shook him, hard. "Fuck, what happened to you? Geralt!"
A groan. Golden eyes fluttering open, confusion turning into a slow, bleary realisation. Geralt's throat contracted as he swallowed, seemingly with some difficulty. His voice, when he at last managed to speak, was hoarse and raw. "...Jask?"
Jaskier's slender fingers gingerly probed the slash on the witcher's face. It would scar, but it wasn't dangerously deep. He let out a soft sigh of relief. "You okay?"
"M'fine." Geralt tried to sit up, but fell against Jaskier. His body was shaking in earnest now. "Just...cold."
"Shit." Jaskier stood, heaving on the larger man. "Okay, Geralt, I can't do this without help. Get up. Come on."
Soon enough, the witcher was standing, leaning heavily against the singer. Jaskier unlocked his front door, heaving his boyfriend inside. The witcher's leather bag and swords went on the dining table with a clatter, and said witcher in question went on the sofa.
Again.
"What happened?" asked Jaskier as he gathered a small flask of alcohol, a clean dishcloth, a small first aid kit, and a bowl of hot water. He struggled to keep his voice calm, but seeing Geralt in this state made him want to hit something.
Geralt squinted at him. "Hmm?"
"What happened?" Jaskier wet the dishcloth and gently pressed it to the bloody side of Geralt's face. The witcher let out a weak hiss, but lay still. "You look like a butcher's been at you with a fucking carving knife."
"He w'sn't pleased..." mumbled Geralt, wincing as the singer worked the wet fabric over his wound, coaxing the blood away from his chilled skin. "Got 'nto a fight..."
"With who?" demanded Jaskier, shocked.
"Vesemir," said Geralt, mouth twisting into a tortured line. "He wanted me to leave you."
"Oh."
It came out small and hurt. Didn't the witchers trust him? He never gave away people's secrets. He shook himself as Geralt spoke again. His voice was growing clearer.
"Vesemir just doesn't trust humans. Ciri, Eskel and I do."
Jaskier set the cloth aside now, peering at the wound. It was neat save for the part bisecting Geralt's pale grey eyebrow. "This might need a few stitches..." He gently cupped the witcher's face with a hand, before letting a steady trickle of the alcohol run into the wound.
"Fuck!" coughed Geralt, teeth bared as the liquid no doubt burnt its way into his skin.
"Sorry!" Jaskier pressed a kiss to his boyfriend's brow, then popped the lid of the medical kit and withdrew a roll of surgical thread and a small curved needle.
"You trust me to do this?"
Geralt gave a nod. "Hmm."
"Oooookkkaaaayyyy then."
Taking it slowly, Jaskier deftly set to work closing the gash. Thanking the gods that it had missed carving out Geralt's eye. It took seven stitches in all. Three in his cheek, and four through his eyebrow.
Then Jaskier stirred up some coffee with cream and whiskey. Geralt made no complaints, just drank the scalding brew, hands shaking on the mug. Jaskier said nothing. He knew that Geralt would talk in his own time. He sank down beside the witcher, watching the snow idly falling outside. It was a grey morning- dreary after the cheer of yesterday's Christmas festivities.
"They were going to erase my mind."
Jaskier spun at the low rumble that he loved so well, shock and horror on his face. "Please tell me you're joking. Erase it of what?"
"You."
Jaskier spluttered, a flush appearing on his cheeks. Now he really wanted to hit something. "Hang on- you got home last night to that bombshell?"
"Hmm," agreed Geralt, leaning back against the sofa. "They tried to stop me..."
"What did you do?"
"Broke a window."
Jaskier laughed, pulling Geralt into a hug. "Fuck, witcher... remind me never to mess with you."
"I don't mind you messing with me," mumbled Geralt into Jaskier's coat.
The singer ran a hand through the tangled white hair, smiling. God, he was hopelessly in love with this man.
"Love you too," said the witcher, startling the singer.
"How...what the fuck?" Jaskier pulled back, squinting at Geralt. The golden eyes looked back, confused. "Can you read minds?"
"No." Geralt looked baffled.
"So how...what...?"
"Guessed," said the witcher smugly. "Was I right?"
"Hmm." Jaskier hugged him again, grinning.
"Use your words, Jaskier."
"Oh, shut up."
A comfortable silence fell over them, and Jaskier tugged the knit blanket up over their forms. Novigrad winters were nasty. Especially in the weeks following Christmas. The singer let his mind wander, then frowned. "Geralt...what now? You can't think I'm going to let you run off to sleep under a bridge."
"Who said anything about a bridge, Jask?" Geralt looked amused. "Look, I'll be fine. I'll find a place-"
"You most certainly will not," said Jaskier in a tone of blatant finality. "You're staying here. With me. No arguments."
Geralt chuckled, his voice back to its rich rumble. "Jask..."
"No arguments."
"Dimeritium doesn't work on witchers!" insisted Schirrú. The half-elf's large green and gold veined eyes were full of derision, his dark hair tied back out of his face.
"Try not to believe all that you read, Schirrú." Rience trailed his fingers along the steel bars, etching arcane symbols into the steel. A glowing net of eerie flame. The sorcerer's clean-shaven face was creased in an unsettling half-smile.
"Witcher signs aren't like your spells," snapped Schirrú, though the half-elf flinched as the sorcerer snapped his fingers at him.
"Cool your tongue, varh*." The sorcerer waited, no doubt wanting to see if Schirrú still wanted to fight.
The half-breed remained silent.
Brehen watched them bicker, saying nothing. It mattered not what they thought. Only that the plan came together when the time was right. A faint smile curled the man's lips.
His time was near.
The White Wolf had left Kaer Morhen.
There was no one to protect him now.
* varh- Elder Speech for Dog or Mutt