The thigh between his legs is definitely welcome, and Jaskier does rut against it, especially when Geralt tells him he has, indeed, sucked cock before. And isn't that a wonderful mental image? The witcher on his knees, mouth full of dick? A whore's dick, he realizes, which means Geralt has paid to fuck them, which also means he does know what to do with a man's ass and Jaskier won't have to do any explaining when the time comes and he pushes a vial of oil into the witcher's hands.
(Thank goodness for that, because explaining periods had been weird enough.)
The one who has explaining to do at the moment is Geralt, who starts with it's not what you think and wow, yeah, Jaskier is wincing too. Yikes. Definitely not a good start. He does, however, recognize the expression on Geralt's face - he's struggling with something and talking about it is hard. So Jaskier waits patiently for his lover to find the words he needs, his hand rubbing one of the witcher's arms to remind him that I'm here, you can tell me anything.
Geralt is a man of action rather than words, but still takes Jaskier by surprise when his hand is suddenly grabbed and taken to the witcher's neck. There it is, the feeling of Geralt's pulse under his fingers - it freaked him out a little bit the first he heard it all those years ago, but he's used to it now. Especially after he's spent time cuddling against Geralt's chest, the slow beat of his heart has become a safety blanket, a sign of being in the arms of his dear wolf. In fact, he could swear he knows it well enough by now to tell that it may be going a little faster, perhaps? Could it mean...?
The explanation finally comes and Jaskier's eyes widen, a gasp escaping his lips. Of fucking course, how didn't he think about that? To think he's supposed to be the educated one here!
"...oh." Blink, blink. "Oooooh! So you are enjoying this. Me. Us."
Jaskier smiles, relief exuding from every muscle of his body as tension and nervousness instantly fade away. If Geralt is having a good time, then that's all that matters. The rest? Witcher bullshit. And Jaskier has had twenty years to learn how to deal with all of it.
Something else does offend him, though, so get ready for the now classic dramatic indignation and wagging finger in Geralt's face.
"Let you finish on your own? I would never! What kind of lover do you take me for!" A huff as his hands move to his own waist then, any similarities to a scolding housewife are a mere coincidence. Witcher bullshit indeed - not only the heartbeat, but the low self-esteem. And the bastard being his dumb noble self by telling Jaskier he doesn't need to keep up with him. How does Geralt manage to keep on giving him reasons to love him so much? "So you're a slow raiser - big deal! That only means I get to play with you for longer. Am I supposed to be sad at the prospect of long sessions of love making? Because then you don't know me at all, you big oaf. Foreplay, my dear witcher, is what transforms a nice orgasm into an explosion."
He grabs Geralt's face then to kiss him sweetly - not teeth, no tongue. Just a tender kiss filled with affection, not meant to arouse but to reassure.
"I love you, Geralt of Rivia." He says as he makes their foreheads touch. "If your body didn't turn me off when it was spilling its guts on my hands through a bruxa injury, then nothing will."
If anything, it makes Jaskier more sure of his plan to, some day, get Geralt lying down between his thighs on the bed and kiss every scar, massage every muscle, worship every inch of pale skin until he accepts the fact his body makes the fucking gods jealous. Better seal this promise with a kiss...
Which gets interrupted when the door is slammed open.
You got to be kidding him.
"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!"
Jaskier suddenly finds hinds himself pushed to the floor because of course Geralt doesn't hesitate to stand up (pants buttons undone and everything) and grab his sword, ready to jump into action. Whatever is at the door, the bard can't possibly give a damn, he just has one thing to say about it.
The explanation, for once in Geralt's stupid, verbally-deficient life, is enough. Jaskier understands, and better still, doesn't care that Geralt's physiology has been so drastically altered in this arena. It's-- a relief? Like finally setting down a heavy burden that he'd carried so long he'd forgotten the weight of it.
Jaskier kisses him tenderly, presses their foreheads together, and Geralt feels that vice-like thing twist up his chest again. It's been happening so much more frequently around the bard, and a part of him hates it-- this sign that he's been botched badly enough to have some feeling left, but not so badly that he can return Jaskier's love as purely and truly as it's given. An echo of his sentiment is a poor way to repay two decades of devotion, but Geralt is selfish.
"I'd have no one else's hands putting my guts back in me," he replies, half a joke and half honest truth, tilts his head to meet Jaskier's lips, and--
And the fucking door bursts open. Geralt is on his feet in an instant, ignoring the bard's indignant screech, his sword already in his hand.
"Hey, Geralt, when we told you to make friends, we didn't mean another--"
The figure in the doorway steps inside, nearly as tall and broad as Geralt, but with brown hair instead of white and the same gold witchers' eyes. A grin breaks across his scarred face, pulling up to reveal teeth on the side that's been damaged.
"Oh, you have been making friends, huh? Put that sword down, brother, and," he makes a lazy gesture at Geralt's unbuttoned pants, "put that one away too, yeah?"
"What the fuck are you doing here, Eskel," Geralt growls, sheathing the sword and hastily buttoning up his pants. Fuck, there shouldn't be anyone this far down the mountain this late in the year. And the timing couldn't be more rotten. Is he cursed? Geralt is seriously considering getting himself checked for curses.
"The wyvern have been acting up, so I came down to deal with it. You're welcome, by the way." Eskel made his way over to the cabinets, pulling out another bag of jerky and tearing into a piece. "I saw Roach and decided I'd say hello. Didn't realize you'd be, y'know, getting friendly. You usually show up alone. And now you've brought a kid and a bard, all in one year!"
Eskel nods towards Jaskier, acknowledging the bard. "Hi, by the way. Let's not feed me to the bloody basilisks, if it's all the same to you."
Jaskier sits up and untangles his limbs from all the blankets and furs, ready to run and hide as soon as the noise of blades crashing and limbs falling to the ground begin... except they never come. He looks up, relieved yet confused at the lack of fighting, to find just a man at the door.
Except it's not any man.
Yellow eyes. Two very scary looking swords. Wolf medallion.
Another witcher.
Finally, after so many years! And it's not any witcher, oh no, it's one of Geralt's brothers. Eskel, he can guess by the scars and the lack of being a dick before Geralt says his name. Suddenly his sexual frustration is easily forgotten, Jaskier is fascinated by the scene in front of him, and he watches them interact closely, with all the curiosity and attention of the artist he is.
Eskel is nearly as big and fit as Geralt (to be expected) and quite handsome as well (fuck these hot witchers, does that come with the mutagens as well?). His attitude is more carefree it seems, but the body language, while not as closed up as Geralt's, Jaskier recognizes as the same. It's a witcher thing, he supposes, the way they move around a room and make sure their surroundings know they are not to be fucked with.
He's also chatty, and quite funny - he makes Jaskier chuckle a couple of times. So not all witchers are part-time mutes, huh? The best part is seeing him tease Geralt, just like brothers would do. There's a sense of family here, and it warms Jaskier's heart to see Geralt does have someone beside his freaking horse.
It's the sudden acknowledgment thrown his way that makes him snap out of his thoughts. Jaskier hurries to stand up, brushing off and fixing his clothes to look presentable. Eskel probably won't care, but he has an image to keep, especially if this is going to be his first official 'meeting the in-laws'. There's still a bit of a tent on his pants showing, and Eskel has probably already smelled it anyway, but better not to make things worse. So he closes Geralt's cloak around him, the wolf brooch a clear symbol on his chest.
As he comes closer, he goes through a thousand different things to say, charming words, maybe an apology. But one look at Geralt reminds him these are witchers, and they don't care for his courtly manners. They like people being direct, honest and, judging by the previous short exchange, maybe with a sense of humor too?
"I would apologize for thinking you were Nilfgardiaan soldiers and wishing you a very slow and agonizing death, but to be fair, that's what you get for interrupting." Okay, so maybe he is still a bit sexually frustrated. He has no shame, may as well use it - it's clear that he's joking anyway. With a friendly smile and his chin high, he extends his hand for Eskel to shake if it pleases him. His eyes never glance away, they meet this new pair of golds with the same determination he's always met Geralt's, silently telling him I'm not afraid. "Hi. I'm Jaskier, but you already knew that, did you not?" A kid and a bard, he said after all. "It's nice to meet a witcher that knows words that aren't just 'fuck'."
Sorry Geralt, but this is too good not to make fun of his beloved white wolf as well.
Eskel takes the bard's offered hand, giving it a brief but amiable shake. Those gold eyes meet the bard's with curiosity, and he might notice the flared nostrils and quick intake of breath that's very similar to how Geralt scents the air. Not a lick of fear. Eskel approves-- when Geralt had brought the little princess, she hadn't been afraid, either. Geralt has a knack for picking up companions who never learned to fear witchers.
"Trust me, if I'd known, I-- well, I'd have come in anyway, it's fucking cold out there. But look at the bright side, bard, now Geralt and I can keep you warm from both sides."
"Eskel--"
Geralt's voice is a low growl, the verbal equivalent of a warning. It's a noise that would've made lesser men run in fear, but Eskel only laughs at it, putting up both his hands in a conciliatory gesture.
"I'm joking! It's a joke, Geralt," he says, then turns back to Jaskier and mouths 'grouchy' at him. "We've heard all about you, though, and not just because of that song I couldn't get out of my head for three weeks. But apparently there are a few things we haven't heard about--"
Eskel's eyes stray down to the bard's chest, where that wolf brooch is pinned. Geralt doesn't seem any more pleased that the topic of conversation has strayed into these waters, and tries to bring things around to neutral ground. Something that won't inevitably end with his asshole of a brother digging into things that he doesn't want to talk about or divulging things that he'd said to him when drunk off his ass on white gull, for instance.
"Are the paths ahead still clear?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah, they're good enough, even for the horses. We're expecting the first big storm of the season by the end of the week, though, so a few more days and you would've been out of luck." Eskel spies the vodka bottle, then meanders over and swipes it up from the floor. "Your child surprise'll be happy to see you. Vesemir's been making her read bestiaries, I think she's about ready to crawl out of her own skin."
The flared nostrils are definitely noticed, and Jaskier knows he's passed some sort of test, which fills his chest with pride... and something else, because Eskel's next joke puts a very specific mental image in the bard's head, one that Geralt wouldn't appreciate at all. Jaskier takes a deep breath, trying to get his body under control, praying to all the gods he knows that none of his senses betray him.
(Oh, but what a lovely mental image it is.)
Luckily, Eskel has more to say, and that helps distract Jaskier from having any more dirty thoughts about his lover's bloody brother. The mention of his song has him grinning from ear to ear -"you're welcome", he tells Eskel- and his eyes widen once more when his mind catches up with the rest of that sentence. All about you. His scent fills the room with the sweetest aroma as he turns to Geralt, eyes sparkling with mirth.
"You've talked about me?"
Sadly, Geralt is determined to change the subject, but Jaskier makes a mental note to ask him about it later - hell, he should ask everyone in the fucking keep about it. This promises to be a winter filled with wonderful stories.
Eskel's attention on the bottle reminds Jaskier of the blanket nest they left in front of the hearth. He sighs when he realizes they won't be having any cuddling or orgasms to the warmth of the fire, and decides to pick it all up to take it back to the beds. (Two of them, he notices, will Geralt allow Jaskier to hug him in his sleep while his brother is on the bed across them?)
"Poor princess." He comments as he throws the bag of jerky they had abandoned on the floor back to Geralt. "Stuck inside with a extremely strict tutor and-- has your other brother arrived yet? Lambert, wasn't it? The prick." The question is directed at Eskel, but he glances at Geralt with amusement at the old memory of being explained how to identify the other two wolves in the wild. "You could've at least entertained with some stories of your heroics - it sounds to me like you aren't as stingy as Geralt when it comes to the details. Which reminds me!" He pauses his folding of blankets to wag a finger in Eskel's direction. "I want to hear it all about that wyvern."
Jaskier has only been in the presence of one of Geralt's brothers for all of three minutes and the witcher regrets everything. The fact that they get along immediately isn't surprising; Eskel has always been friendly for a witcher, chattier than Geralt and not a prick like Lambert. And that's fine, this would be a rough winter if at least one of the other witchers didn't like his bard. But there are miles of difference between liking Jaskier and gossiping with him about Geralt like bored schoolgirls, and considering that he has known Eskel since he arrived at Kaer Morhen as a child? The other witcher has a veritable fountain of stories to entertain Jaskier with.
Geralt only has so much dignity.
He frowns when Eskel steals the vodka bottle and takes a swig out of it-- there goes the bottle he'd tried to save. Even if he hides it again, his brother knows it's here and will search the damn place top to bottom to find it. Geralt catches the bag of jerky that's tossed to him, putting it back in the cabinet as Jaskier pulls the blankets off of the floor.
Eskel laughs, probably at the accurate description of their youngest witcher brother. "Yeah, Lambert's already there. Got somebody new, too-- a Griffin, goes by Coën. You two are the last ones up the mountain this year."
"Coën?" Geralt shakes his head. "Never met him before. Lambert bring him along?"
"No, he says he used to travel with Clovis. Came here with his medallion, to bring us the news."
One less of them. Most wouldn't even get this much-- at least Clovis had someone who would bring the news back to Kaer Morhen.
"Hm."
"Yeah. Anyway!" Eskel is moving on from that quickly, trying to keep the mood from going too maudlin. There'll be time for that later, at the keep with the rest of their brothers. Not in a cold hunter's cabin with nothing better than old vodka to raise a glass to their fallen kin. "Let me tell you about the wyvern. Might not be a good enough story for a song, but if you do write one, make sure you mention my good looks, yeah?"
Eskel is a far better storyteller than Geralt; he doesn't skimp on the details, knows how to tell an actual story rather than Geralt's concise descriptions that are more like reports rather than narratives. The wyvern ought to be in hibernation by now, with how cold the weather is, but this one must have been roused from its slumber-- could be for a number of reasons, Eskel mentions, from being disturbed by beasts to simply being too ill-prepared to sleep through the whole winter-- and had been seen periodically in the skies for several days, each time circling closer and closer to the keep. Lean and driven mad from hunger, it was practically a mercy to put it down before it did something drastic and dangerous.
Jaskier is already by the beds when he hears the news, but instead of putting down the blankets, he ends up dropping them rather suddenly when he hears-- To bring us the news. He should concentrate on the details that would usually call his beloved attention - the fact a witcher had a traveler companion, a fellow witcher even. Does it mean what he thinks it means? It puts a big sign of BULLSHIT on all the excuses Geralt had given through those two decades of traveling together for sure - witchers must stay alone, his ass.
Yet that's not the heaviest thought in his mind at the moment. No, it's the thought of maybe of finding himself in Coën's place one day. Of having to grab the medallion and make his way alone to Kaer Morhen...
"I'm sorry for your loss." He says as he chases those thoughts away, but Eskel quickly changes the subject, and Jaskier has to sigh. Yeah, he can see the similarities with Geralt there, god forbid they deal with his feelings. Silly witchers.
Eskel's tactic works, however, giving the bard the perfect distraction. Jaskier starts patting down his clothes under the cloak, trying to find the little notebook and pencil he always keeps with him in case inspiration strikes. Ugh, which of these hundred of layers did he put it in?
"Tsk tsk tsk, the bard decides what makes a good song, the witcher only shares-- Ah-ha!" That last bit is an expression of triumph at finding his notebook, and Jaskier quickly sits on the edge of the bed to start taking notes. The little comment about good looks doesn't go unnoticed, and Jaskier can't help glancing at Geralt, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. It's not like he can stop the bard from continuing to be a playful flirt from now on, but this is his brother, and that makes it weird even for Jaskier's standards (which are usually low when it comes to flirting - he's had a threesome with a pair of twins after all). "Worry not, no song of mine will ever fail to praise a witcher's mighty mien."
That is neutral enough, he hopes, although his heart and scent may give away how excited he is about this whole deal. Eskel is an excellent story teller and Jaskier soon finds himself caught up in his adventure, tongue peeking out in concentration as he fills the pages of his notebook with that fancy handwriting of his.
"This. Is. Brilliant. At this rate I'll have songs written for all of you by the end of month! No, make it end of the week! Fixing the reputations of the whole wolf school - and a now a griffin too! I'll have material to last me all winter! Oh, don't worry-" He turns at Geralt and winks at his lover. "--you're still my favorite."
Unaware of what he just did in front of company, Jaskier returns to his notes, reviewing them one last time in case he's forgotten to ask for any particular detail. It's different, having a witcher sharing the story so easily and without Jaskier having to do any stitches first.
...wait a minute.
Jaskier puts his pencil down and inspects Eskel from head to toes, eyes squinting and judging.
"A wyvern mad from hunger. Eskel, are you hiding any injuries?" That's a stupid question, he realizes. Experience tells him a witcher that doesn't want to be nursed isn't going to suddenly admit it because the bard wants him to - at least not for a couple of years. He turns to Geralt while pointing at Eskel, calling for back-up. "Geralt! Is he hiding any injuries?"
Because if he is, then Geralt's nose would be able to tell, he hopes.
Geralt leans against the wall near the fire, watching Jaskier as he excitedly pats through his pockets until he finds his notebook, ready to write down everything that Eskel tells him about the wyvern. He does this thing every time he's concentrating on composing or taking notes where his tongue juts just a little bit past his lower lip, and it's... a thing. That he does. Geralt only notices because he's observant, of course.
There must be something in his expression, though, because Eskel looks up briefly during his storytelling and catches his eye, tossing Geralt this knowing look that sets his features immediately back into sullen brooding mode. And then Jaskier has to go and make it worse by calling him his favorite, and he could see the shitty response written all over Eskel's face--
Until the bard interrupts that by asking about his injuries. Eskel stares at him for a moment, gobsmacked, like he has no idea how to respond to someone asking after his well-being in a genuine manner. In all fairness to him, he probably hasn't had anyone care about whether he was hurt or not for the past year, and even then, only from his fellow witchers. Eskel could probably count on one hand the number of times that a human has cared whether or not he got hurt in the process of slaying a monster.
"I-- what, no, I'm fine. It was just a wyvern--"
But Jaskier wants a second opinion, and Geralt sees an opportunity. Eskel wants to get buddy-buddy with the bard? Well, he gets all of the irritations of that association, too. Geralt sniffs once or twice-- and yeah, there it is, underneath the smell of dirt and reptile, the copper tang of blood-- then huffs through his nose like he's trying to clear the smell from his sinuses.
"Right arm."
Eskel has the gall to look affronted, like Geralt has betrayed him.
"I thought we were brothers!" he says, and Geralt just shrugs in response. "It's nothing. Remember that part where I stabbed it through the roof of its mouth? I got grazed by a tooth, it's barely a scratch."
The reaction to such a simple question breaks his fucking heart and it makes Jaskier extra glad he's asked, letting Eskel know that hey, someone cares, you dumbass. To think Geralt thought Jaskier would get bored at Kaer Morhen! Not only he has a whole lot of lore and stories to learn, plus a cub to tutor, he'll have his hands full working on the self-esteem of a bunch of witchers.
Eskel, of fucking course, denies any kind of wounds at all and, once again, Jaskier finds it super interesting and ironic how different yet similar he's to Geralt. He's more chatty and more expressive, but Jaskier recognizes that level of denial bullshit every day. Luckily for him he doesn't need to argue, his boyfriend comes to the rescue.
"Ha! I knew it!" Notebook forgotten on the mattress for now, Jaskier stands up and claps his hands twice. "Sleeve off, chop chop! I need to retrieve my salves from the supplies we left with the horses, but when I come back I want to see that arm!"
His tone leaves no room to discussion, but his voice softens when, on his way out, he pats Geralt's arm and whispers thank you, my dear, forgetting about the fact Eskel can hear him anyway. On top of that, both witchers can hear him complain all the way to the stables, because not even the snow can keep his mouth shut.
"I'm fine, Jaskier! It's just a scratch, Jaskier!" Is his tone mocking? Maybe a little bit. "Pertinacious pack of wolves, all of them! Not taking good care of themselves! And the princess will pick up these ludicrous habits of theirs, Melitele save us all!"
His babbling comes to a pause when he sees Roach and Pegasus have company. Of course, Eskel has a horse too! Jaskier spends a moment introducing himself to their new black friend and offering pats for all of them before returning to the hut with a leather satchel in his arms.
"Eskel, your horse has the most beautiful obsidian shade! What is its name?"
The bard leaves after making demands of Eskel, a fact that startles the witcher just as much as Jaskier's concern had. While there are perks to Jaskier's fearlessness around their kind, there are also downsides-- he doesn't have a single qualm about ordering them around or talking back to them. He can't be intimidated, he just laughs and pats your arm or takes your ale right out of your hand and tells you to get into the outfit that he, for whatever reason, just so happened to have in your size. Geralt knows this firsthand, he's tried to glare the bard into submission and just ended up at a wedding banquet for his trouble.
Both witchers hear his complaining as he goes all the way out to the stable.
"Is he always like this?"
Geralt grunts in reply. Eskel, having literally grown up with this walking communication disaster, is well versed in the nuances of grunting, and recognizes this one as an affirmative.
"And you rolled right over for him. We knew it was bad from all your moping last year, but wow."
Despite his complaining, Eskel unlaces his clothes and pulls his arm out of the sleeve of his jacket and shirt, revealing the full extent of the injury. It's just a graze, sure-- by a witcher's metric, anyway. By that, he clearly meant a good six inch gash along his bicep, stretching from elbow to shoulder. No longer bleeding, of course, his accelerated healing had taken care of that, but deep enough that it would benefit from stitches.
"Fuck you, Eskel."
"I think your bard might have something to say about that--"
The door opens again, bringing in a burst of cold air and snow, and one annoyed bard. His mood seems to have improved, though, simply from making the acquaintance of a new witcher's horse.
"Isn't he a sight? He was a knight's mount, I got him by law of surprise. I call him Scorpion."
And he seems quite pleased about it, his pretty stallion warhorse. But a good steed is as valuable to a witcher as his swords, just ask Geralt.
"Scorpion. A very befitting name." Yet for some reason, it amuses the hell out of him. "Scorpion and Roach. The law of surprise. I'm starting to see quite unexpected patterns here."
Apparently wolf witchers name their animals after other animals and don't know how to ask for rewards that aren't coin, so the law of surprise it is. Jaskier had expected matching training and habits, but these little things are taking him by surprise. It's delightful, and it adds to the pile of reasons why running from Nilfgaardian soldiers and dealing with the cold is worth the hassle (the first one being Geralt himself, of course).
Jaskier drags a chair to sit by Eskel's side, looking smug at the fact this new wolf has done as he said... but the smugness only lasts one second, because the sight of the injury brings all the indignation back. There goes his scent, filled with worry and frustration, and he hopes these idiots freaking choke on it.
"Bloody hell, Eskel!" His inner scolding housewife comes out as he takes out the salve and a cotton rag that he starts using to clean the gash. "This is not a graze! An actual graze wouldn't need stitches! By the gods, I should hit you both with a dictionary."
His words are harsh, but his touch is gentle, not different from how he treats Geralt's own injuries. Well, except for the part where his eyes don't linger with pining for the witcher in front of him, no words of affection thrown in his direction. (But what would've happened if destiny had put Eskel in his path first, he can't help but wonder.)
"Just because you can endure it doesn't mean you should. Needle." The last word is spoken as a heads-up as he shows Eskel his little tool before he starts stitching. He isn't that dumb, alright, he knows better than put sharp metal objects against a witcher's skin without warning. The tip of his tongue peeks out again as he concentrates on his hands movements, and for once, Jaskier falls silent as he closes Eskel's wound. He's done this thousands of times by now, having left any squirmish feelings with his younger self thanks to Geralt pushing him into the real world. But even after all these years, he's still extra aware of the fact he's handling a man's pain in his mere musicians hands. So he takes it very, very seriously.
Once he's done, he leans back and admires his work with a tilted head and hands on his waist.
"See? Not the end the end of the world. Move your arm, tell me if it pulls too badly so I know if redoing them or wrapping you up." With a sigh, he turns to Geralt, looking at him with his best puppy eyes. "Is there any vodka left?"
For himself, not for the injured. Not the worst witcher injury he's treated by far, but now having two wolves that won't care of themselves is definitely an I NEED A DRINK occasion.
"Won't do me any good, I was always a shitty student. Geralt's the bookworm."
The aforementioned witcher tossed another look Eskel's way, but it wasn't so heated this time. Mild annoyance at most. Most times, Eskel wouldn't trust another person to do up his wounds, but this is Geralt's bard-- the only person on the Continent less likely than your average witcher to let someone clean them up after a hunt. And he trusts this bard with a needle to his skin, knowing that a poorly stitched wound could be worse than one that was just let to heal on its own. If Jaskier's good enough for Geralt, he's good enough for anyone.
He's even considerate, giving Eskel a warning before he starts putting the needle into him. It's also for his own good, though-- a startled witcher might lash out in any number of ways, none of them pleasant. But he just grimaces a little and lets the bard do as he would, staying so still while he stitches that it might almost seem like he doesn't feel the pain of it at all. (Ask certain sources, and they would say that witchers don't feel pain properly, anyway, so it hardly matters if you're gentle when you treat them.) He does, of course, but the minor prick of a needle is far below the kind of pain that he felt when he got the wound, and he had handled the greater hurt just fine. Jaskier's stitches are neat and even from practice, and when he's done, the gash is just a thin line.
Eskel moves his arm as directed, testing his range of motion.
"Seems fine to me," he says, examining the neat stitching for himself. "Hey, you do pretty nice work. They teach you this in barding school, or did you pick it up on the road?"
While Eskel is examining his injury, Geralt fetches the vodka bottle for Jaskier; the bard likes to have a drink after he deals with the worst of Geralt's injuries, as a way to unwind. The really bad ones, the ones that seem like they might test even a witcher's constitution-- they tax him greatly, both because of the work involved and because of the stress and worry. Geralt isn't sure he'll ever get used to that, to the way that his actions have such a consequence on someone else.
"Mind it," he says, half teasingly. "We won't slow down if you have a headache tomorrow morning."
"A bookworm." He says, laughing. "That's adorable."
And it makes lots of sense - twenty years later, Jaskier still remembers that first review (if it can be called that) from Geralt. They don't exist. He's always been annoyed by lore inaccuracies in tales and songs, but Jaskier had blamed it on witcher pride. This is one hundred times better. Maybe he should start buying books for Geralt when he gets poetry for himself? Not a bad idea, and now the mental image of them cuddling in front of a fire, reading together, won't leave his mind.
There'll be time for that in the future.
Eskel compliments his work and Jaskier preens, pride swelling in his chest, his scent sweet as it can be. He's a sucker for praise in general, but having a witcher -and one he just met, at that- allowing him to patch him up and then complimenting him for it is doing wonders for his ego. It also pleases the romantic in him that wants to impress the in-laws.
"Thank you. It's nice to have someone that appreciates my work." He glances at Geralt when he says that, an expression on his face that says he's just being a little shit. "A little bit of both, actually. I learned to sew back in Oxenfurt to take care of my clothes, but anything healing related you can thank your brother and his lack of self-care for. I spent a whole night holding his bloody guts and he still wouldn't call me a friend!"
When Geralt approaches with the vodka, Jaskier lets their fingers brush for longer than needed as a little affectionate gesture to make up for all the teasing going on. He instantly regrets it, however, when Geralt fires back. The bastard!
"Oi! Don't act as if you didn't know my drinking limits as well as your own, you big oaf! At least I'm not the one meditating instead of sleeping!" He takes a pretty deep sip of vodka before passing the bottle back to Geralt and turning to Eskel again, this time to bandage the wound. "You can take turns with him from now on, right, Eskel?"
He's trying to sound as indignant as he can but there's an edge of begging to his voice - it breaks him that his lover hasn't slept in so long, Geralt deserves to fucking rest.
"Sounds about right," Eskel says, because if there's anyone who would refuse to acknowledge a relationship with someone even after that person had literally held their guts in, it's Geralt. And, gods, when had that happened? Eskel's going to need that story, if only to find out how Geralt had made so big of a mistake. But he's not surprised that his brother had been so distant because, as Eskel is very aware of, Geralt is, in fact, an idiot. He's very good at what he does, and he's surprisingly knowledgeable about a range of practical subjects, but he's still an idiot. A man that you trust to literally hold you together when you're coming apart at the seams is a friend, like it or not.
And, really, with the way that they both smell? Not just the fact that Jaskier's scent is all sunshine and light whenever Geralt looks at him, but also the fact that Geralt smells like floral oils and the bard's lute stuff, and his hair is neat and tidy and his face goes stupidly soft whenever Jaskier isn't looking at him? Any witcher would come to the same conclusion within five minutes of looking at these two assholes-- and not just the conclusion that they're friends. Also the conclusion that they're fucking smitten.
Eskel makes grabby hands for the bottle of vodka, but Jaskier hands it back to Geralt instead when he's done with it. Geralt, the bastard, doesn't take any sort of pity on his wounded brother and keeps the liquor for himself, rather pointedly taking a long swig of it.
"Cock," he says, and Geralt just drinks again. Eskel huffs but holds his arm out obediently for the bard to start bandaging. "Hm? Oh, yeah, we can take shifts. It'll only be about two days 'til we get back to the Keep, anyway. You're not far."
"I'm fine," Geralt replies, putting the vodka back into the cupboard. "Witchers don't need to sleep as often as humans, Jaskier."
Eskel says nothing against it, doesn't try to contradict Geralt-- it's not technically untrue, really, what he'd said. Witchers could go without sleep or food or water for longer than humans, though there's a difference between what can be done when there's no other option and what's good for them. Meditating in place of sleep can, in a pinch, let a witcher maintain his functionality while remaining vigilant and aware of his surroundings. It's not the same as sleep, and he can't do it forever. A witcher can go weeks and weeks with little to no food, too, but that doesn't mean that he won't eventually starve.
"All done." Jaskier says as he ties the bandages with a cute little bow, then pats Eskel on the shoulder a couple of times. "That's a good wolf."
Look, if they insist on behaving like feral puppies, Jaskier is going to treat them as such.
(They're adorable.)
He starts putting his things back in the leather satchel but pauses when Geralt replies, making a show of rolling his eyes and groaning in protest. Eskel doesn't back him up this time, and Jaskier knows he's coming face to face with another layer of witcher bullshit. Unbelievable! There's two of them now, one would think taking shifts would be the most natural thing to do - don't witchers like being practical?
"Oh, don't give me that pile of horseshit!" Here comes the indignant housewife back with his hands on his waist. "A week or so I could begrudgingly accept, but you haven't slept since fucking Gors Velen! And since then you've fought-" One hand is suddenly raised to start counting with his fingers. "Nilfgaardian soldiers, a werewolf, a hoard of nekkers, and then Nilfgaardian soldiers again."
Jaskier decides to stand up then, only to be able to poke at Geralt's broad chest. There's a frown on his face and he obviously sounds frustrated as hell, but the worry is most noticeable in his scent. "So don't tell me you're fine, my dear witcher." More terms of endearment in front of the brother, but hey, better get them used to that asap. "Be grateful I said shifts at all, because I actually should be asking Eskel to take one for the team and let you sleep the whole night through."
Eskel watches with some amount of bemusement as Jaskier puts his hands on his hips and starts arguing with Geralt like... well, like he's arguing with any old person, not a witcher with decades of combat experience and a severe disinclination towards sociability. It's a level of familiarity that he hasn't seen anyone share with Geralt since... well. Since Kaer Morhen, the few remaining wolf school witchers.
There are so few of them left, and it's a number that's only ever ticking down.
Geralt bears the bard's complaints and the finger that he jabs into the witcher's pectoral muscle with a sour face, his mouth twisted up in an annoyed expression and about an inch away from saying something like shut up, Jaskier. But he had promised the bard that there would be no more repeats of the mountain, no more callous disregard for him.
Also, Jaskier is assuming that he slept before he reached Gors Velen. A more accurate statement is that he hasn't slept much since he left Kaer Morhen the last time, to go look for him. But the bard can't yell at him for something that he doesn't know about.
"We're two days out and Eskel is injured," he says. "I'll sleep at Kaer Morhen."
"Hey, don't bring me into this," Eskel says, flopping back onto the bed that, apparently, he has now claimed. "And what's with the werewolf? Where did you hunt a werewolf?"
"Oxenfurt."
"...what? Why was a werewolf in Oxenfurt?"
Geralt shrugs. "Didn't ask it why."
"Maybe you should've, I want to know why there was a werewolf in the middle of Oxenfurt."
"Indeed, don't bring Eskel into this. I bet if I had ask a couple of moments ago, you would've also thought it was just a scratch."
Jaskier isn't dumb - Geralt had helped him in order to annoy Eskel, not because he genuinely thought his brother needed the attention. Witcher hypocrisy at its finest!
Speaking of Eskel, he isn't the only bemused one at the moment. Because see, Jaskier recognizes what happens next: sibling bickering. Which is delightful, and helps him feel less annoyed at them. At moments like this, it's hard to see them as dangerous witchers, he's expecting one of them to say I'll tell Vesemir any minute now.
"Geralt barely talks to people and you expect him to talk to a werewolf?" He asks between chuckles. Seeing as Eskel is getting himself comfortable, Jaskier thinks it's time for them to do the same. He sits on the edge of the other bed and points at the pillows while giving Geralt a poignant look that clearly says lie down, you big oaf, time to rest and cuddle, and I'm not taking a no for an answer.
"There were drowners in the sewers too, I forgot to add those to the list. You should visit Oxenfurt some time, Eskel. You'll be well received there." He won't be a superstar like Geralt, but a more positive welcome towards witchers will still be a thing. And that's when curiosity and his ego hit Jaskier like a rock - he worries his lower lip for two seconds before tilting his head and going for it. "May I ask you something? About the Path." It's not like he actually needs permission, nosy little shit he is, but being polite and friendly goes a long way to get people to open up to you. "After you started hearing Toss a coin, were there any changes around you?"
Has your life improved?, he wants to know, but he better word it as neutrally as possible. If improvement hasn't been a thing for Eskel, better not rub it on his face that it has for Geralt.
Jaskier points at the pillows as though Geralt is a dog who will just do whatever he asks, and... like a dog, Geralt does exactly what he asks. Eskel watches him the whole time, just gives him the most shit-eating grin as the big bad witcher, the Butcher of Blaviken, sits on the edge of the bed next to his bard. And he hadn't even slept with him yet, though not for lack of trying.
"Drowners barely count," Geralt huffs, pulling at the pillows under the pretense of rearranging them for sleep.
Then Jaskier says he has a question about the Path, and both Geralt and Eskel go still, listening. Humans don't ask about the Path, but, of course, Jaskier isn't just any human. After two decades of following Geralt up and down the Continent, he knows more about what the Path is like than anyone else who isn't an actual witcher--
Geralt sighs. Should he have expected more from Jaskier than taking this opportunity to ask about his own songs? Probably not.
Eskel, at least, laughs. "You mean aside from me nor anybody else being able to get the damn thing out of our heads? Yeah, there were a few things. I went into a town and they actually wanted to pay me the agreed upon price, in full. The innkeeper let me stay for free. Somebody bought me an ale."
He shakes his head, as though still marveling at the experience even though it was years ago. "Thought the whole damn town was cursed."
So there it is-- right from the witcher's mouth. Toss a coin did more than just make money for Jaskier, it lined the pockets of other witchers, too. Made the world a little softer towards them, for a little while.
"It wasn't like that in every town, but enough. Kinda been dyin' down lately, though."
A year of not singing the praises of witchers would do that. Humans had short memories, after all, and they might forget about tossing coins to their witchers if it's not stuck in their heads.
Pulling at the pillows, huh? Geralt is obviously buying time, and Jaskier wonders for how long he could keep that up. He's tempted to tease him for, call him shy in front of his brother, but then Eskel is laughing and his attention is somewhere else. Oh, how easy it is to talk to this new witcher who doesn't hesitate to answer any question thrown at him. A pity that, as far as he understands, the third brother waiting for them isn't the same.
Nobody being able to get the song out of their heads is already a huge compliment for a singer and composer, but Eskel keeps going and... gods, Jaskier thinks he could cry. Hands going to his chest in over-dramatic gesturing, his scent becomes overwhelming sweet again, only gaining a bitter edge at the end for obvious reasons.
"Ah, well, yeah, it's been-- honestly, you can thank Geralt for that." He nudges Geralt's foot with his own, letting him know he's not one hundred percent serious but he still wants to shit on him at least a little bit for the whole mountain fiasco. "But worry not, my new witchering friend!" Yep, Eskel has been adopted already. The bitterness in his scent already disappearing, Jaskier opens his arms, feeling incredibly empowered. Geralt has become his lover and other witchers are also benefiting from his songs - his ego couldn't be happier. This is his legacy, built without Pankratz money. "After winter has passed, this humble bard will be singing the ballads of the White Wolf again! And this time, he'll be joined by his pack!"
And just like that, hands still in the air as he pictures his future performances, Jaskier flops down on Geralt's lap, head and shoulders finding those thick thighs very, very comfortable. And warm as well, but that's not the priority here.
"Come spring, not a wolf shall leave their home without at least three songs with their names in it! Every tavern across the Continent will sing the praises of witchers' heroics once more, every inn will remember to treat them with the respect and kindness they deserve!" The honesty in his words is deep and raw, probably also kinda naive - not even traveling for two decades with Geralt has managed to completely kill his romantic view of the world. "You have my word as a bard, Eskel of Kaer Morhen, that I shall not step back from my mission to fix witcher reputation ever again!"
A pause. His hands fall to his stomach.
"...unless Geralt decides to be a blundering pillock again, but I'd like to think that's out of the question from now on." He winks up at Geralt, a smitten smile on his face.
Jaskier decides to take up Geralt's entire lap, just dramatically draping himself over the witcher's thick thighs as though they were his personal property. Geralt expression immediately twists into annoyance, and though he seriously considers the ramifications of shoving the idiot bard right onto the floor, he decides against it-- but only because they're in a very small cabin with no escape from his complaining.
The bard natters on about how he's going to write them all a hundred songs that will bring them eternal fame and glory or whatever rot he's got going on in his head this time, and Geralt shoots Eskel a long-suffering look. See what he has to deal with, Eskel? Do you see his suffering? The endless chatter, the ceaseless histrionics, the incessant attention-whoring. Somehow, Geralt of Rivia had managed to pick up the biggest romantic on the entire Continent in a shitty tavern in Posada, and the bastard had the nerve to grow on him. Like fungus.
Then he mentions the Many Fuck-Ups of Geralt of Rivia, and it's Eskel's turn to light up.
"Oh, what did Geralt do this time?" he asks, and by his face, it's like his birthday and every holiday just came early.
Geralt grabs one of the pillows from the bed and puts it over Jaskier's entire head.
"Shut up, Jaskier."
It's not held firmly enough over his face to cut off oxygen, he wants the little shit to still be alive by the time they get to Kaer Morhen, but it's enough to muffle anything he could say.
"He means nothing by it, he's just talking. He seldom does anything else."
Bloody hell, this is a whole new level of Geralt being an ass. It's kinda playful at the same time, and he'll admit that later, but right now Jaskier is incredibly offended by this turn of events. Oh sure, the asshole gets to abandon him on the mountain but Jaskier doesn't get to whine about it? Like hell he'll stay silent about that!
(To be fair, he doesn't stay silent about most things.)
As his legs kick the bed in protest, Jaskier starts pushing the pillow to get it off him, cursing all the way through (which is impossible to understand but hey the spirit is there at least!). Of course he doesn't have enough strength to push off motherfucking Geralt of Rivia, but as with everything else in this relationship, Jaskier eventually gets what he wants by fearlessly wearing Geralt down.
"You bloody brute! Using my own weapon against me!" To prove his point, he grabs the other pillow and hits Geralt's shoulder with it. "Unbelievable! Remind me why I love you again when you only insist on committing crimes against an innocent bard's treasured voice!"
Jaskier struggles underneath the pillow, which is to be expected, and swears expansively, which is also to be expected. It's muffled enough that it's hardly intelligible, though, even to a witcher's ears, so that's fine. If the bard would just stop kicking up a fuss, everything would be even more fine, but Geralt doesn't get to have nice things.
Eventually, Jaskier's pushing and thrashing gets Geralt to lift the pillow a bit, if only to make sure that the bard is still able to breathe. He is, and demonstrates this by using his lungs to their highest capacity to yell. And he also grabs a pillow and swings it at Geralt's shoulder, which functionally does nothing but it seems to be rapidly becoming his favored manner of scolding him.
Every time that Jaskier says that word, Geralt's chest squeezes up, like something's clawing up his chest and trying to choke him. Eskel's grin freezes on his face, his expression a little confused as though this is a joke that he doesn't quite get. Geralt doesn't quite know what to do about this, because if he tries to tell him to shut up again, he's sure that his voice won't be nearly as strong as he wants it to be.
Geralt puts the pillow back over Jaskier's face.
Eskel shakes his head, flopping down onto the bed. These antics? They just got weird. They got weird and he's too tired and cold and not liquored up enough to deal with this particular brand of Geralt's Shit.
"Just try to keep it down over there, okay? I'll wake you up in a few hours, Geralt."
The pillow goes back over his face, but this time, Jaskier doesn't fight or thrash. He's distracted, thinking about Eskel's expression and body language. Leaving the grin aside for a moment, the rest he recognizes: it's the same as Geralt when he closes up, when he's going through an emotional turmoil he doesn't know how to deal with. Did the l-word cause it? Even when it hadn't been directed at him? The fact a witcher is receiving love at all is enough to cause such a strong reaction... It breaks his heart.
Mental note: find an opportunity to hug Eskel some time in Kaer Morhen.
For now, he can only offer the one thing he's good at and is powerful enough, in his opinion, to share: his words. He pushes the pillow down more easily this time (Geralt is probable having A Moment too) and turns to his new friend with kind eyes and a soft voice.
"Thank you, Eskel."
There's a weight in his words that say Jaskier isn't only thanking him for taking the shift, or even for answering his questions and telling him the wyvern story. It's a thank you for everything you do, and he hopes it comes across, because he knows that saying it aloud would only make the witchers get weirder.
Which means the only thing left for them to do is finally going to bed. Jaskier leaves Geralt's lap to put the pillows back in place, then fixes the cloak around him to create his now usual cocoon. He lies down on his side and by the edge of the bed, leaving room for certain wall of muscles to take the main spot on the mattress, a spot that Jaskier can jump on to cuddle once is taken.
He pulls at Geralt's arm and mouths a very simple sentence at him. Let's rest.
Eskel just makes a vague, affirming noise when Jaskier thanks him, his body relaxed but his mind ready. His own two swords are propped up at the foot of the bed, within easy reach should something happen, though it was unlikely that anyone or anything would be out tonight. Not someplace so remote, and with the weather set to dip quite cold.
Jaskier puts the pillows back and assumes his usual sleeping position, leaving a large portion of the mattress available for Geralt to take up. It doesn't really matter, though, because the bard's just going to roll over and tuck himself up against Geralt's chest anyway. But he's ready to sleep, and he's not going to rest until he's got a witcher in bed with him. Might as well just not fight it.
Geralt gets into bed behind him, pulling the furs and blankets up over them to keep the bard warm. Even with the fire, it'll be cold, and Jaskier's fragile human body will need all the heat it can get. The witcher opens his arms to him, to let him get as close as he wants for tonight.
And once Jaskier has gotten himself settled, Geralt presses his nose into his hair, breathes deep and slow, and tries to sleep.
Geralt accepts to lie down without a fight - not only that, he opens his arms to him as well. Jaskier is surprised, he thought he'd have to insist more because of their audience. But hey, not gonna complain. It is better if Geralt gets used to this anyway, because there's no way he'd be able to completely cut PDA from their lives in Kaer Morhen even if he tried.
Eskel has already seen the wolf brooch anyway, and Jaskier is determined to keep it there for the rest of the ride, including when they finally make it to the keep. He's not going to hide his message when the wolves themselves are the ones that need it the most.
I'm not afraid of you. I welcome you in my life.
Without wasting any time, Jaskier tucks up himself against that incredibly warm body of Geralt's, his arms moving around the witcher's waist and his head resting on his chest. His smile grows when Geralt breathes against his hair. As far as he is concerned, he shall never use pillows again. (Well, unless Geralt is being an ass, but that's a different pillow use.)
He sleeps deeply and peacefully, feeling safe in his lover's arms. So it's good luck to have two witchers to bother him early in the morning this time, because if it was up to him, he would stay where he is a few hours more. Winter is coming, though, and he understands the need to hurry. There will be plenty of time to cuddle when they arrive to their destination.
(Eskel has a lot of teasing to do when he finds them so pressed against each other, but Jaskier doesn't mind. In fact, he kind of enjoys it - it sounds like approval.)
'The trail' (or 'The Killer' as Eskel kindly informs him) is as harsh as Geralt had told him, and Jaskier would've never been able to go though it alone - hell, he probably wouldn't have even been able to find it. He tries his best to memorize the way, but snow is already around them, making it hard to identify any land marks without witcher eyes. No wonder it's earned that nickname. Roach and Scorpion seem to be familiar with their surroundings, though, and Jaskier hopes Pegasus can pick up at least one tenth of that knowledge - they are definitely coming back some day, that's for sure. These wolves are his family now, whether they like it or not.
Conversation is difficult to keep up even for Jaskier. He exchanges anecdotes with Eskel a couple of times, but for most of the trip, they are too tired or too cold (or both!) to chat. Some times they aren't even riding side by side, and Jaskier doesn't have enhanced ears to hear whatever they say while being sandwiched in line between them (which is incredibly sweet of them, by the way, to protect him like that - look at this the songbird, safe in the center of the pack).
There is no stopping the inspiration that hits him, however, when the keep comes into view. Kaer Morhen lies on the mountains as if it had grown out of them naturally, and neither the pass of time nor the horrible siege had done anything to keep it from being impressive and intimidating. This is no lord's castle, this is the witchers' home, and such title is carved in every stone.
"On top of the mountain for hundred of years, watching the valley below-" He starts reciting as they come closer, clear awe in his voice. "-guarding the souls of the living down there, seeing them prosper and grow."
Fuck, his bones are freezing and they've barely reached the place properly yet, but Jaskier's fingers are already itching for his notebook. If this is enough to get his muse going, he looks forward to a winter filled with stories to last him for days.
When they finally make it to the entrance, Jaskier makes Pegasus slow down, dying to hop down and explore but keeping himself in check for now. There is something he still isn't sure how it'll work out yet, and he turns to Geralt to ask him exactly that. "Should I... wait here until you talk to Vesemir?"
Do I need permission to step inside, it's what he means. He doesn't want his arrival to start with the wrong foot.
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(Thank goodness for that, because explaining periods had been weird enough.)
The one who has explaining to do at the moment is Geralt, who starts with it's not what you think and wow, yeah, Jaskier is wincing too. Yikes. Definitely not a good start. He does, however, recognize the expression on Geralt's face - he's struggling with something and talking about it is hard. So Jaskier waits patiently for his lover to find the words he needs, his hand rubbing one of the witcher's arms to remind him that I'm here, you can tell me anything.
Geralt is a man of action rather than words, but still takes Jaskier by surprise when his hand is suddenly grabbed and taken to the witcher's neck. There it is, the feeling of Geralt's pulse under his fingers - it freaked him out a little bit the first he heard it all those years ago, but he's used to it now. Especially after he's spent time cuddling against Geralt's chest, the slow beat of his heart has become a safety blanket, a sign of being in the arms of his dear wolf. In fact, he could swear he knows it well enough by now to tell that it may be going a little faster, perhaps? Could it mean...?
The explanation finally comes and Jaskier's eyes widen, a gasp escaping his lips. Of fucking course, how didn't he think about that? To think he's supposed to be the educated one here!
"...oh." Blink, blink. "Oooooh! So you are enjoying this. Me. Us."
Jaskier smiles, relief exuding from every muscle of his body as tension and nervousness instantly fade away. If Geralt is having a good time, then that's all that matters. The rest? Witcher bullshit. And Jaskier has had twenty years to learn how to deal with all of it.
Something else does offend him, though, so get ready for the now classic dramatic indignation and wagging finger in Geralt's face.
"Let you finish on your own? I would never! What kind of lover do you take me for!" A huff as his hands move to his own waist then, any similarities to a scolding housewife are a mere coincidence. Witcher bullshit indeed - not only the heartbeat, but the low self-esteem. And the bastard being his dumb noble self by telling Jaskier he doesn't need to keep up with him. How does Geralt manage to keep on giving him reasons to love him so much? "So you're a slow raiser - big deal! That only means I get to play with you for longer. Am I supposed to be sad at the prospect of long sessions of love making? Because then you don't know me at all, you big oaf. Foreplay, my dear witcher, is what transforms a nice orgasm into an explosion."
He grabs Geralt's face then to kiss him sweetly - not teeth, no tongue. Just a tender kiss filled with affection, not meant to arouse but to reassure.
"I love you, Geralt of Rivia." He says as he makes their foreheads touch. "If your body didn't turn me off when it was spilling its guts on my hands through a bruxa injury, then nothing will."
If anything, it makes Jaskier more sure of his plan to, some day, get Geralt lying down between his thighs on the bed and kiss every scar, massage every muscle, worship every inch of pale skin until he accepts the fact his body makes the fucking gods jealous. Better seal this promise with a kiss...
Which gets interrupted when the door is slammed open.
You got to be kidding him.
"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!"
Jaskier suddenly finds hinds himself pushed to the floor because of course Geralt doesn't hesitate to stand up (pants buttons undone and everything) and grab his sword, ready to jump into action. Whatever is at the door, the bard can't possibly give a damn, he just has one thing to say about it.
"Feed them to the bloody basilisks, Geralt!"
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Jaskier kisses him tenderly, presses their foreheads together, and Geralt feels that vice-like thing twist up his chest again. It's been happening so much more frequently around the bard, and a part of him hates it-- this sign that he's been botched badly enough to have some feeling left, but not so badly that he can return Jaskier's love as purely and truly as it's given. An echo of his sentiment is a poor way to repay two decades of devotion, but Geralt is selfish.
"I'd have no one else's hands putting my guts back in me," he replies, half a joke and half honest truth, tilts his head to meet Jaskier's lips, and--
And the fucking door bursts open. Geralt is on his feet in an instant, ignoring the bard's indignant screech, his sword already in his hand.
"Hey, Geralt, when we told you to make friends, we didn't mean another--"
The figure in the doorway steps inside, nearly as tall and broad as Geralt, but with brown hair instead of white and the same gold witchers' eyes. A grin breaks across his scarred face, pulling up to reveal teeth on the side that's been damaged.
"Oh, you have been making friends, huh? Put that sword down, brother, and," he makes a lazy gesture at Geralt's unbuttoned pants, "put that one away too, yeah?"
"What the fuck are you doing here, Eskel," Geralt growls, sheathing the sword and hastily buttoning up his pants. Fuck, there shouldn't be anyone this far down the mountain this late in the year. And the timing couldn't be more rotten. Is he cursed? Geralt is seriously considering getting himself checked for curses.
"The wyvern have been acting up, so I came down to deal with it. You're welcome, by the way." Eskel made his way over to the cabinets, pulling out another bag of jerky and tearing into a piece. "I saw Roach and decided I'd say hello. Didn't realize you'd be, y'know, getting friendly. You usually show up alone. And now you've brought a kid and a bard, all in one year!"
Eskel nods towards Jaskier, acknowledging the bard. "Hi, by the way. Let's not feed me to the bloody basilisks, if it's all the same to you."
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Except it's not any man.
Yellow eyes. Two very scary looking swords. Wolf medallion.
Another witcher.
Finally, after so many years! And it's not any witcher, oh no, it's one of Geralt's brothers. Eskel, he can guess by the scars and the lack of being a dick before Geralt says his name. Suddenly his sexual frustration is easily forgotten, Jaskier is fascinated by the scene in front of him, and he watches them interact closely, with all the curiosity and attention of the artist he is.
Eskel is nearly as big and fit as Geralt (to be expected) and quite handsome as well (fuck these hot witchers, does that come with the mutagens as well?). His attitude is more carefree it seems, but the body language, while not as closed up as Geralt's, Jaskier recognizes as the same. It's a witcher thing, he supposes, the way they move around a room and make sure their surroundings know they are not to be fucked with.
He's also chatty, and quite funny - he makes Jaskier chuckle a couple of times. So not all witchers are part-time mutes, huh? The best part is seeing him tease Geralt, just like brothers would do. There's a sense of family here, and it warms Jaskier's heart to see Geralt does have someone beside his freaking horse.
It's the sudden acknowledgment thrown his way that makes him snap out of his thoughts. Jaskier hurries to stand up, brushing off and fixing his clothes to look presentable. Eskel probably won't care, but he has an image to keep, especially if this is going to be his first official 'meeting the in-laws'. There's still a bit of a tent on his pants showing, and Eskel has probably already smelled it anyway, but better not to make things worse. So he closes Geralt's cloak around him, the wolf brooch a clear symbol on his chest.
As he comes closer, he goes through a thousand different things to say, charming words, maybe an apology. But one look at Geralt reminds him these are witchers, and they don't care for his courtly manners. They like people being direct, honest and, judging by the previous short exchange, maybe with a sense of humor too?
"I would apologize for thinking you were Nilfgardiaan soldiers and wishing you a very slow and agonizing death, but to be fair, that's what you get for interrupting." Okay, so maybe he is still a bit sexually frustrated. He has no shame, may as well use it - it's clear that he's joking anyway. With a friendly smile and his chin high, he extends his hand for Eskel to shake if it pleases him. His eyes never glance away, they meet this new pair of golds with the same determination he's always met Geralt's, silently telling him I'm not afraid. "Hi. I'm Jaskier, but you already knew that, did you not?" A kid and a bard, he said after all. "It's nice to meet a witcher that knows words that aren't just 'fuck'."
Sorry Geralt, but this is too good not to make fun of his beloved white wolf as well.
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"Trust me, if I'd known, I-- well, I'd have come in anyway, it's fucking cold out there. But look at the bright side, bard, now Geralt and I can keep you warm from both sides."
"Eskel--"
Geralt's voice is a low growl, the verbal equivalent of a warning. It's a noise that would've made lesser men run in fear, but Eskel only laughs at it, putting up both his hands in a conciliatory gesture.
"I'm joking! It's a joke, Geralt," he says, then turns back to Jaskier and mouths 'grouchy' at him. "We've heard all about you, though, and not just because of that song I couldn't get out of my head for three weeks. But apparently there are a few things we haven't heard about--"
Eskel's eyes stray down to the bard's chest, where that wolf brooch is pinned. Geralt doesn't seem any more pleased that the topic of conversation has strayed into these waters, and tries to bring things around to neutral ground. Something that won't inevitably end with his asshole of a brother digging into things that he doesn't want to talk about or divulging things that he'd said to him when drunk off his ass on white gull, for instance.
"Are the paths ahead still clear?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah, they're good enough, even for the horses. We're expecting the first big storm of the season by the end of the week, though, so a few more days and you would've been out of luck." Eskel spies the vodka bottle, then meanders over and swipes it up from the floor. "Your child surprise'll be happy to see you. Vesemir's been making her read bestiaries, I think she's about ready to crawl out of her own skin."
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(Oh, but what a lovely mental image it is.)
Luckily, Eskel has more to say, and that helps distract Jaskier from having any more dirty thoughts about his lover's bloody brother. The mention of his song has him grinning from ear to ear -"you're welcome", he tells Eskel- and his eyes widen once more when his mind catches up with the rest of that sentence. All about you. His scent fills the room with the sweetest aroma as he turns to Geralt, eyes sparkling with mirth.
"You've talked about me?"
Sadly, Geralt is determined to change the subject, but Jaskier makes a mental note to ask him about it later - hell, he should ask everyone in the fucking keep about it. This promises to be a winter filled with wonderful stories.
Eskel's attention on the bottle reminds Jaskier of the blanket nest they left in front of the hearth. He sighs when he realizes they won't be having any cuddling or orgasms to the warmth of the fire, and decides to pick it all up to take it back to the beds. (Two of them, he notices, will Geralt allow Jaskier to hug him in his sleep while his brother is on the bed across them?)
"Poor princess." He comments as he throws the bag of jerky they had abandoned on the floor back to Geralt. "Stuck inside with a extremely strict tutor and-- has your other brother arrived yet? Lambert, wasn't it? The prick." The question is directed at Eskel, but he glances at Geralt with amusement at the old memory of being explained how to identify the other two wolves in the wild. "You could've at least entertained with some stories of your heroics - it sounds to me like you aren't as stingy as Geralt when it comes to the details. Which reminds me!" He pauses his folding of blankets to wag a finger in Eskel's direction. "I want to hear it all about that wyvern."
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Geralt only has so much dignity.
He frowns when Eskel steals the vodka bottle and takes a swig out of it-- there goes the bottle he'd tried to save. Even if he hides it again, his brother knows it's here and will search the damn place top to bottom to find it. Geralt catches the bag of jerky that's tossed to him, putting it back in the cabinet as Jaskier pulls the blankets off of the floor.
Eskel laughs, probably at the accurate description of their youngest witcher brother. "Yeah, Lambert's already there. Got somebody new, too-- a Griffin, goes by Coën. You two are the last ones up the mountain this year."
"Coën?" Geralt shakes his head. "Never met him before. Lambert bring him along?"
"No, he says he used to travel with Clovis. Came here with his medallion, to bring us the news."
One less of them. Most wouldn't even get this much-- at least Clovis had someone who would bring the news back to Kaer Morhen.
"Hm."
"Yeah. Anyway!" Eskel is moving on from that quickly, trying to keep the mood from going too maudlin. There'll be time for that later, at the keep with the rest of their brothers. Not in a cold hunter's cabin with nothing better than old vodka to raise a glass to their fallen kin. "Let me tell you about the wyvern. Might not be a good enough story for a song, but if you do write one, make sure you mention my good looks, yeah?"
Eskel is a far better storyteller than Geralt; he doesn't skimp on the details, knows how to tell an actual story rather than Geralt's concise descriptions that are more like reports rather than narratives. The wyvern ought to be in hibernation by now, with how cold the weather is, but this one must have been roused from its slumber-- could be for a number of reasons, Eskel mentions, from being disturbed by beasts to simply being too ill-prepared to sleep through the whole winter-- and had been seen periodically in the skies for several days, each time circling closer and closer to the keep. Lean and driven mad from hunger, it was practically a mercy to put it down before it did something drastic and dangerous.
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Yet that's not the heaviest thought in his mind at the moment. No, it's the thought of maybe of finding himself in Coën's place one day. Of having to grab the medallion and make his way alone to Kaer Morhen...
"I'm sorry for your loss." He says as he chases those thoughts away, but Eskel quickly changes the subject, and Jaskier has to sigh. Yeah, he can see the similarities with Geralt there, god forbid they deal with his feelings. Silly witchers.
Eskel's tactic works, however, giving the bard the perfect distraction. Jaskier starts patting down his clothes under the cloak, trying to find the little notebook and pencil he always keeps with him in case inspiration strikes. Ugh, which of these hundred of layers did he put it in?
"Tsk tsk tsk, the bard decides what makes a good song, the witcher only shares-- Ah-ha!" That last bit is an expression of triumph at finding his notebook, and Jaskier quickly sits on the edge of the bed to start taking notes. The little comment about good looks doesn't go unnoticed, and Jaskier can't help glancing at Geralt, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. It's not like he can stop the bard from continuing to be a playful flirt from now on, but this is his brother, and that makes it weird even for Jaskier's standards (which are usually low when it comes to flirting - he's had a threesome with a pair of twins after all). "Worry not, no song of mine will ever fail to praise a witcher's mighty mien."
That is neutral enough, he hopes, although his heart and scent may give away how excited he is about this whole deal. Eskel is an excellent story teller and Jaskier soon finds himself caught up in his adventure, tongue peeking out in concentration as he fills the pages of his notebook with that fancy handwriting of his.
"This. Is. Brilliant. At this rate I'll have songs written for all of you by the end of month! No, make it end of the week! Fixing the reputations of the whole wolf school - and a now a griffin too! I'll have material to last me all winter! Oh, don't worry-" He turns at Geralt and winks at his lover. "--you're still my favorite."
Unaware of what he just did in front of company, Jaskier returns to his notes, reviewing them one last time in case he's forgotten to ask for any particular detail. It's different, having a witcher sharing the story so easily and without Jaskier having to do any stitches first.
...wait a minute.
Jaskier puts his pencil down and inspects Eskel from head to toes, eyes squinting and judging.
"A wyvern mad from hunger. Eskel, are you hiding any injuries?" That's a stupid question, he realizes. Experience tells him a witcher that doesn't want to be nursed isn't going to suddenly admit it because the bard wants him to - at least not for a couple of years. He turns to Geralt while pointing at Eskel, calling for back-up. "Geralt! Is he hiding any injuries?"
Because if he is, then Geralt's nose would be able to tell, he hopes.
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There must be something in his expression, though, because Eskel looks up briefly during his storytelling and catches his eye, tossing Geralt this knowing look that sets his features immediately back into sullen brooding mode. And then Jaskier has to go and make it worse by calling him his favorite, and he could see the shitty response written all over Eskel's face--
Until the bard interrupts that by asking about his injuries. Eskel stares at him for a moment, gobsmacked, like he has no idea how to respond to someone asking after his well-being in a genuine manner. In all fairness to him, he probably hasn't had anyone care about whether he was hurt or not for the past year, and even then, only from his fellow witchers. Eskel could probably count on one hand the number of times that a human has cared whether or not he got hurt in the process of slaying a monster.
"I-- what, no, I'm fine. It was just a wyvern--"
But Jaskier wants a second opinion, and Geralt sees an opportunity. Eskel wants to get buddy-buddy with the bard? Well, he gets all of the irritations of that association, too. Geralt sniffs once or twice-- and yeah, there it is, underneath the smell of dirt and reptile, the copper tang of blood-- then huffs through his nose like he's trying to clear the smell from his sinuses.
"Right arm."
Eskel has the gall to look affronted, like Geralt has betrayed him.
"I thought we were brothers!" he says, and Geralt just shrugs in response. "It's nothing. Remember that part where I stabbed it through the roof of its mouth? I got grazed by a tooth, it's barely a scratch."
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Eskel, of fucking course, denies any kind of wounds at all and, once again, Jaskier finds it super interesting and ironic how different yet similar he's to Geralt. He's more chatty and more expressive, but Jaskier recognizes that level of denial bullshit every day. Luckily for him he doesn't need to argue, his boyfriend comes to the rescue.
"Ha! I knew it!" Notebook forgotten on the mattress for now, Jaskier stands up and claps his hands twice. "Sleeve off, chop chop! I need to retrieve my salves from the supplies we left with the horses, but when I come back I want to see that arm!"
His tone leaves no room to discussion, but his voice softens when, on his way out, he pats Geralt's arm and whispers thank you, my dear, forgetting about the fact Eskel can hear him anyway. On top of that, both witchers can hear him complain all the way to the stables, because not even the snow can keep his mouth shut.
"I'm fine, Jaskier! It's just a scratch, Jaskier!" Is his tone mocking? Maybe a little bit. "Pertinacious pack of wolves, all of them! Not taking good care of themselves! And the princess will pick up these ludicrous habits of theirs, Melitele save us all!"
His babbling comes to a pause when he sees Roach and Pegasus have company. Of course, Eskel has a horse too! Jaskier spends a moment introducing himself to their new black friend and offering pats for all of them before returning to the hut with a leather satchel in his arms.
"Eskel, your horse has the most beautiful obsidian shade! What is its name?"
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Both witchers hear his complaining as he goes all the way out to the stable.
"Is he always like this?"
Geralt grunts in reply. Eskel, having literally grown up with this walking communication disaster, is well versed in the nuances of grunting, and recognizes this one as an affirmative.
"And you rolled right over for him. We knew it was bad from all your moping last year, but wow."
Despite his complaining, Eskel unlaces his clothes and pulls his arm out of the sleeve of his jacket and shirt, revealing the full extent of the injury. It's just a graze, sure-- by a witcher's metric, anyway. By that, he clearly meant a good six inch gash along his bicep, stretching from elbow to shoulder. No longer bleeding, of course, his accelerated healing had taken care of that, but deep enough that it would benefit from stitches.
"Fuck you, Eskel."
"I think your bard might have something to say about that--"
The door opens again, bringing in a burst of cold air and snow, and one annoyed bard. His mood seems to have improved, though, simply from making the acquaintance of a new witcher's horse.
"Isn't he a sight? He was a knight's mount, I got him by law of surprise. I call him Scorpion."
And he seems quite pleased about it, his pretty stallion warhorse. But a good steed is as valuable to a witcher as his swords, just ask Geralt.
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Apparently wolf witchers name their animals after other animals and don't know how to ask for rewards that aren't coin, so the law of surprise it is. Jaskier had expected matching training and habits, but these little things are taking him by surprise. It's delightful, and it adds to the pile of reasons why running from Nilfgaardian soldiers and dealing with the cold is worth the hassle (the first one being Geralt himself, of course).
Jaskier drags a chair to sit by Eskel's side, looking smug at the fact this new wolf has done as he said... but the smugness only lasts one second, because the sight of the injury brings all the indignation back. There goes his scent, filled with worry and frustration, and he hopes these idiots freaking choke on it.
"Bloody hell, Eskel!" His inner scolding housewife comes out as he takes out the salve and a cotton rag that he starts using to clean the gash. "This is not a graze! An actual graze wouldn't need stitches! By the gods, I should hit you both with a dictionary."
His words are harsh, but his touch is gentle, not different from how he treats Geralt's own injuries. Well, except for the part where his eyes don't linger with pining for the witcher in front of him, no words of affection thrown in his direction. (But what would've happened if destiny had put Eskel in his path first, he can't help but wonder.)
"Just because you can endure it doesn't mean you should. Needle." The last word is spoken as a heads-up as he shows Eskel his little tool before he starts stitching. He isn't that dumb, alright, he knows better than put sharp metal objects against a witcher's skin without warning. The tip of his tongue peeks out again as he concentrates on his hands movements, and for once, Jaskier falls silent as he closes Eskel's wound. He's done this thousands of times by now, having left any squirmish feelings with his younger self thanks to Geralt pushing him into the real world. But even after all these years, he's still extra aware of the fact he's handling a man's pain in his mere musicians hands. So he takes it very, very seriously.
Once he's done, he leans back and admires his work with a tilted head and hands on his waist.
"See? Not the end the end of the world. Move your arm, tell me if it pulls too badly so I know if redoing them or wrapping you up." With a sigh, he turns to Geralt, looking at him with his best puppy eyes. "Is there any vodka left?"
For himself, not for the injured. Not the worst witcher injury he's treated by far, but now having two wolves that won't care of themselves is definitely an I NEED A DRINK occasion.
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The aforementioned witcher tossed another look Eskel's way, but it wasn't so heated this time. Mild annoyance at most. Most times, Eskel wouldn't trust another person to do up his wounds, but this is Geralt's bard-- the only person on the Continent less likely than your average witcher to let someone clean them up after a hunt. And he trusts this bard with a needle to his skin, knowing that a poorly stitched wound could be worse than one that was just let to heal on its own. If Jaskier's good enough for Geralt, he's good enough for anyone.
He's even considerate, giving Eskel a warning before he starts putting the needle into him. It's also for his own good, though-- a startled witcher might lash out in any number of ways, none of them pleasant. But he just grimaces a little and lets the bard do as he would, staying so still while he stitches that it might almost seem like he doesn't feel the pain of it at all. (Ask certain sources, and they would say that witchers don't feel pain properly, anyway, so it hardly matters if you're gentle when you treat them.) He does, of course, but the minor prick of a needle is far below the kind of pain that he felt when he got the wound, and he had handled the greater hurt just fine. Jaskier's stitches are neat and even from practice, and when he's done, the gash is just a thin line.
Eskel moves his arm as directed, testing his range of motion.
"Seems fine to me," he says, examining the neat stitching for himself. "Hey, you do pretty nice work. They teach you this in barding school, or did you pick it up on the road?"
While Eskel is examining his injury, Geralt fetches the vodka bottle for Jaskier; the bard likes to have a drink after he deals with the worst of Geralt's injuries, as a way to unwind. The really bad ones, the ones that seem like they might test even a witcher's constitution-- they tax him greatly, both because of the work involved and because of the stress and worry. Geralt isn't sure he'll ever get used to that, to the way that his actions have such a consequence on someone else.
"Mind it," he says, half teasingly. "We won't slow down if you have a headache tomorrow morning."
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And it makes lots of sense - twenty years later, Jaskier still remembers that first review (if it can be called that) from Geralt. They don't exist. He's always been annoyed by lore inaccuracies in tales and songs, but Jaskier had blamed it on witcher pride. This is one hundred times better. Maybe he should start buying books for Geralt when he gets poetry for himself? Not a bad idea, and now the mental image of them cuddling in front of a fire, reading together, won't leave his mind.
There'll be time for that in the future.
Eskel compliments his work and Jaskier preens, pride swelling in his chest, his scent sweet as it can be. He's a sucker for praise in general, but having a witcher -and one he just met, at that- allowing him to patch him up and then complimenting him for it is doing wonders for his ego. It also pleases the romantic in him that wants to impress the in-laws.
"Thank you. It's nice to have someone that appreciates my work." He glances at Geralt when he says that, an expression on his face that says he's just being a little shit. "A little bit of both, actually. I learned to sew back in Oxenfurt to take care of my clothes, but anything healing related you can thank your brother and his lack of self-care for. I spent a whole night holding his bloody guts and he still wouldn't call me a friend!"
When Geralt approaches with the vodka, Jaskier lets their fingers brush for longer than needed as a little affectionate gesture to make up for all the teasing going on. He instantly regrets it, however, when Geralt fires back. The bastard!
"Oi! Don't act as if you didn't know my drinking limits as well as your own, you big oaf! At least I'm not the one meditating instead of sleeping!" He takes a pretty deep sip of vodka before passing the bottle back to Geralt and turning to Eskel again, this time to bandage the wound. "You can take turns with him from now on, right, Eskel?"
He's trying to sound as indignant as he can but there's an edge of begging to his voice - it breaks him that his lover hasn't slept in so long, Geralt deserves to fucking rest.
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And, really, with the way that they both smell? Not just the fact that Jaskier's scent is all sunshine and light whenever Geralt looks at him, but also the fact that Geralt smells like floral oils and the bard's lute stuff, and his hair is neat and tidy and his face goes stupidly soft whenever Jaskier isn't looking at him? Any witcher would come to the same conclusion within five minutes of looking at these two assholes-- and not just the conclusion that they're friends. Also the conclusion that they're fucking smitten.
Eskel makes grabby hands for the bottle of vodka, but Jaskier hands it back to Geralt instead when he's done with it. Geralt, the bastard, doesn't take any sort of pity on his wounded brother and keeps the liquor for himself, rather pointedly taking a long swig of it.
"Cock," he says, and Geralt just drinks again. Eskel huffs but holds his arm out obediently for the bard to start bandaging. "Hm? Oh, yeah, we can take shifts. It'll only be about two days 'til we get back to the Keep, anyway. You're not far."
"I'm fine," Geralt replies, putting the vodka back into the cupboard. "Witchers don't need to sleep as often as humans, Jaskier."
Eskel says nothing against it, doesn't try to contradict Geralt-- it's not technically untrue, really, what he'd said. Witchers could go without sleep or food or water for longer than humans, though there's a difference between what can be done when there's no other option and what's good for them. Meditating in place of sleep can, in a pinch, let a witcher maintain his functionality while remaining vigilant and aware of his surroundings. It's not the same as sleep, and he can't do it forever. A witcher can go weeks and weeks with little to no food, too, but that doesn't mean that he won't eventually starve.
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Look, if they insist on behaving like feral puppies, Jaskier is going to treat them as such.
(They're adorable.)
He starts putting his things back in the leather satchel but pauses when Geralt replies, making a show of rolling his eyes and groaning in protest. Eskel doesn't back him up this time, and Jaskier knows he's coming face to face with another layer of witcher bullshit. Unbelievable! There's two of them now, one would think taking shifts would be the most natural thing to do - don't witchers like being practical?
"Oh, don't give me that pile of horseshit!" Here comes the indignant housewife back with his hands on his waist. "A week or so I could begrudgingly accept, but you haven't slept since fucking Gors Velen! And since then you've fought-" One hand is suddenly raised to start counting with his fingers. "Nilfgaardian soldiers, a werewolf, a hoard of nekkers, and then Nilfgaardian soldiers again."
Jaskier decides to stand up then, only to be able to poke at Geralt's broad chest. There's a frown on his face and he obviously sounds frustrated as hell, but the worry is most noticeable in his scent. "So don't tell me you're fine, my dear witcher." More terms of endearment in front of the brother, but hey, better get them used to that asap. "Be grateful I said shifts at all, because I actually should be asking Eskel to take one for the team and let you sleep the whole night through."
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There are so few of them left, and it's a number that's only ever ticking down.
Geralt bears the bard's complaints and the finger that he jabs into the witcher's pectoral muscle with a sour face, his mouth twisted up in an annoyed expression and about an inch away from saying something like shut up, Jaskier. But he had promised the bard that there would be no more repeats of the mountain, no more callous disregard for him.
Also, Jaskier is assuming that he slept before he reached Gors Velen. A more accurate statement is that he hasn't slept much since he left Kaer Morhen the last time, to go look for him. But the bard can't yell at him for something that he doesn't know about.
"We're two days out and Eskel is injured," he says. "I'll sleep at Kaer Morhen."
"Hey, don't bring me into this," Eskel says, flopping back onto the bed that, apparently, he has now claimed. "And what's with the werewolf? Where did you hunt a werewolf?"
"Oxenfurt."
"...what? Why was a werewolf in Oxenfurt?"
Geralt shrugs. "Didn't ask it why."
"Maybe you should've, I want to know why there was a werewolf in the middle of Oxenfurt."
This could go on for a while.
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Jaskier isn't dumb - Geralt had helped him in order to annoy Eskel, not because he genuinely thought his brother needed the attention. Witcher hypocrisy at its finest!
Speaking of Eskel, he isn't the only bemused one at the moment. Because see, Jaskier recognizes what happens next: sibling bickering. Which is delightful, and helps him feel less annoyed at them. At moments like this, it's hard to see them as dangerous witchers, he's expecting one of them to say I'll tell Vesemir any minute now.
"Geralt barely talks to people and you expect him to talk to a werewolf?" He asks between chuckles. Seeing as Eskel is getting himself comfortable, Jaskier thinks it's time for them to do the same. He sits on the edge of the other bed and points at the pillows while giving Geralt a poignant look that clearly says lie down, you big oaf, time to rest and cuddle, and I'm not taking a no for an answer.
"There were drowners in the sewers too, I forgot to add those to the list. You should visit Oxenfurt some time, Eskel. You'll be well received there." He won't be a superstar like Geralt, but a more positive welcome towards witchers will still be a thing. And that's when curiosity and his ego hit Jaskier like a rock - he worries his lower lip for two seconds before tilting his head and going for it. "May I ask you something? About the Path." It's not like he actually needs permission, nosy little shit he is, but being polite and friendly goes a long way to get people to open up to you. "After you started hearing Toss a coin, were there any changes around you?"
Has your life improved?, he wants to know, but he better word it as neutrally as possible. If improvement hasn't been a thing for Eskel, better not rub it on his face that it has for Geralt.
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"Drowners barely count," Geralt huffs, pulling at the pillows under the pretense of rearranging them for sleep.
Then Jaskier says he has a question about the Path, and both Geralt and Eskel go still, listening. Humans don't ask about the Path, but, of course, Jaskier isn't just any human. After two decades of following Geralt up and down the Continent, he knows more about what the Path is like than anyone else who isn't an actual witcher--
Geralt sighs. Should he have expected more from Jaskier than taking this opportunity to ask about his own songs? Probably not.
Eskel, at least, laughs. "You mean aside from me nor anybody else being able to get the damn thing out of our heads? Yeah, there were a few things. I went into a town and they actually wanted to pay me the agreed upon price, in full. The innkeeper let me stay for free. Somebody bought me an ale."
He shakes his head, as though still marveling at the experience even though it was years ago. "Thought the whole damn town was cursed."
So there it is-- right from the witcher's mouth. Toss a coin did more than just make money for Jaskier, it lined the pockets of other witchers, too. Made the world a little softer towards them, for a little while.
"It wasn't like that in every town, but enough. Kinda been dyin' down lately, though."
A year of not singing the praises of witchers would do that. Humans had short memories, after all, and they might forget about tossing coins to their witchers if it's not stuck in their heads.
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Nobody being able to get the song out of their heads is already a huge compliment for a singer and composer, but Eskel keeps going and... gods, Jaskier thinks he could cry. Hands going to his chest in over-dramatic gesturing, his scent becomes overwhelming sweet again, only gaining a bitter edge at the end for obvious reasons.
"Ah, well, yeah, it's been-- honestly, you can thank Geralt for that." He nudges Geralt's foot with his own, letting him know he's not one hundred percent serious but he still wants to shit on him at least a little bit for the whole mountain fiasco. "But worry not, my new witchering friend!" Yep, Eskel has been adopted already. The bitterness in his scent already disappearing, Jaskier opens his arms, feeling incredibly empowered. Geralt has become his lover and other witchers are also benefiting from his songs - his ego couldn't be happier. This is his legacy, built without Pankratz money. "After winter has passed, this humble bard will be singing the ballads of the White Wolf again! And this time, he'll be joined by his pack!"
And just like that, hands still in the air as he pictures his future performances, Jaskier flops down on Geralt's lap, head and shoulders finding those thick thighs very, very comfortable. And warm as well, but that's not the priority here.
"Come spring, not a wolf shall leave their home without at least three songs with their names in it! Every tavern across the Continent will sing the praises of witchers' heroics once more, every inn will remember to treat them with the respect and kindness they deserve!" The honesty in his words is deep and raw, probably also kinda naive - not even traveling for two decades with Geralt has managed to completely kill his romantic view of the world. "You have my word as a bard, Eskel of Kaer Morhen, that I shall not step back from my mission to fix witcher reputation ever again!"
A pause. His hands fall to his stomach.
"...unless Geralt decides to be a blundering pillock again, but I'd like to think that's out of the question from now on." He winks up at Geralt, a smitten smile on his face.
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The bard natters on about how he's going to write them all a hundred songs that will bring them eternal fame and glory or whatever rot he's got going on in his head this time, and Geralt shoots Eskel a long-suffering look. See what he has to deal with, Eskel? Do you see his suffering? The endless chatter, the ceaseless histrionics, the incessant attention-whoring. Somehow, Geralt of Rivia had managed to pick up the biggest romantic on the entire Continent in a shitty tavern in Posada, and the bastard had the nerve to grow on him. Like fungus.
Then he mentions the Many Fuck-Ups of Geralt of Rivia, and it's Eskel's turn to light up.
"Oh, what did Geralt do this time?" he asks, and by his face, it's like his birthday and every holiday just came early.
Geralt grabs one of the pillows from the bed and puts it over Jaskier's entire head.
"Shut up, Jaskier."
It's not held firmly enough over his face to cut off oxygen, he wants the little shit to still be alive by the time they get to Kaer Morhen, but it's enough to muffle anything he could say.
"He means nothing by it, he's just talking. He seldom does anything else."
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Bloody hell, this is a whole new level of Geralt being an ass. It's kinda playful at the same time, and he'll admit that later, but right now Jaskier is incredibly offended by this turn of events. Oh sure, the asshole gets to abandon him on the mountain but Jaskier doesn't get to whine about it? Like hell he'll stay silent about that!
(To be fair, he doesn't stay silent about most things.)
As his legs kick the bed in protest, Jaskier starts pushing the pillow to get it off him, cursing all the way through (which is impossible to understand but hey the spirit is there at least!). Of course he doesn't have enough strength to push off motherfucking Geralt of Rivia, but as with everything else in this relationship, Jaskier eventually gets what he wants by fearlessly wearing Geralt down.
"You bloody brute! Using my own weapon against me!" To prove his point, he grabs the other pillow and hits Geralt's shoulder with it. "Unbelievable! Remind me why I love you again when you only insist on committing crimes against an innocent bard's treasured voice!"
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Eventually, Jaskier's pushing and thrashing gets Geralt to lift the pillow a bit, if only to make sure that the bard is still able to breathe. He is, and demonstrates this by using his lungs to their highest capacity to yell. And he also grabs a pillow and swings it at Geralt's shoulder, which functionally does nothing but it seems to be rapidly becoming his favored manner of scolding him.
Every time that Jaskier says that word, Geralt's chest squeezes up, like something's clawing up his chest and trying to choke him. Eskel's grin freezes on his face, his expression a little confused as though this is a joke that he doesn't quite get. Geralt doesn't quite know what to do about this, because if he tries to tell him to shut up again, he's sure that his voice won't be nearly as strong as he wants it to be.
Geralt puts the pillow back over Jaskier's face.
Eskel shakes his head, flopping down onto the bed. These antics? They just got weird. They got weird and he's too tired and cold and not liquored up enough to deal with this particular brand of Geralt's Shit.
"Just try to keep it down over there, okay? I'll wake you up in a few hours, Geralt."
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Mental note: find an opportunity to hug Eskel some time in Kaer Morhen.
For now, he can only offer the one thing he's good at and is powerful enough, in his opinion, to share: his words. He pushes the pillow down more easily this time (Geralt is probable having A Moment too) and turns to his new friend with kind eyes and a soft voice.
"Thank you, Eskel."
There's a weight in his words that say Jaskier isn't only thanking him for taking the shift, or even for answering his questions and telling him the wyvern story. It's a thank you for everything you do, and he hopes it comes across, because he knows that saying it aloud would only make the witchers get weirder.
Which means the only thing left for them to do is finally going to bed. Jaskier leaves Geralt's lap to put the pillows back in place, then fixes the cloak around him to create his now usual cocoon. He lies down on his side and by the edge of the bed, leaving room for certain wall of muscles to take the main spot on the mattress, a spot that Jaskier can jump on to cuddle once is taken.
He pulls at Geralt's arm and mouths a very simple sentence at him. Let's rest.
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Jaskier puts the pillows back and assumes his usual sleeping position, leaving a large portion of the mattress available for Geralt to take up. It doesn't really matter, though, because the bard's just going to roll over and tuck himself up against Geralt's chest anyway. But he's ready to sleep, and he's not going to rest until he's got a witcher in bed with him. Might as well just not fight it.
Geralt gets into bed behind him, pulling the furs and blankets up over them to keep the bard warm. Even with the fire, it'll be cold, and Jaskier's fragile human body will need all the heat it can get. The witcher opens his arms to him, to let him get as close as he wants for tonight.
And once Jaskier has gotten himself settled, Geralt presses his nose into his hair, breathes deep and slow, and tries to sleep.
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Eskel has already seen the wolf brooch anyway, and Jaskier is determined to keep it there for the rest of the ride, including when they finally make it to the keep. He's not going to hide his message when the wolves themselves are the ones that need it the most.
I'm not afraid of you. I welcome you in my life.
Without wasting any time, Jaskier tucks up himself against that incredibly warm body of Geralt's, his arms moving around the witcher's waist and his head resting on his chest. His smile grows when Geralt breathes against his hair. As far as he is concerned, he shall never use pillows again. (Well, unless Geralt is being an ass, but that's a different pillow use.)
He sleeps deeply and peacefully, feeling safe in his lover's arms. So it's good luck to have two witchers to bother him early in the morning this time, because if it was up to him, he would stay where he is a few hours more. Winter is coming, though, and he understands the need to hurry. There will be plenty of time to cuddle when they arrive to their destination.
(Eskel has a lot of teasing to do when he finds them so pressed against each other, but Jaskier doesn't mind. In fact, he kind of enjoys it - it sounds like approval.)
'The trail' (or 'The Killer' as Eskel kindly informs him) is as harsh as Geralt had told him, and Jaskier would've never been able to go though it alone - hell, he probably wouldn't have even been able to find it. He tries his best to memorize the way, but snow is already around them, making it hard to identify any land marks without witcher eyes. No wonder it's earned that nickname. Roach and Scorpion seem to be familiar with their surroundings, though, and Jaskier hopes Pegasus can pick up at least one tenth of that knowledge - they are definitely coming back some day, that's for sure. These wolves are his family now, whether they like it or not.
Conversation is difficult to keep up even for Jaskier. He exchanges anecdotes with Eskel a couple of times, but for most of the trip, they are too tired or too cold (or both!) to chat. Some times they aren't even riding side by side, and Jaskier doesn't have enhanced ears to hear whatever they say while being sandwiched in line between them (which is incredibly sweet of them, by the way, to protect him like that - look at this the songbird, safe in the center of the pack).
There is no stopping the inspiration that hits him, however, when the keep comes into view. Kaer Morhen lies on the mountains as if it had grown out of them naturally, and neither the pass of time nor the horrible siege had done anything to keep it from being impressive and intimidating. This is no lord's castle, this is the witchers' home, and such title is carved in every stone.
"On top of the mountain for hundred of years, watching the valley below-" He starts reciting as they come closer, clear awe in his voice. "-guarding the souls of the living down there, seeing them prosper and grow."
Fuck, his bones are freezing and they've barely reached the place properly yet, but Jaskier's fingers are already itching for his notebook. If this is enough to get his muse going, he looks forward to a winter filled with stories to last him for days.
When they finally make it to the entrance, Jaskier makes Pegasus slow down, dying to hop down and explore but keeping himself in check for now. There is something he still isn't sure how it'll work out yet, and he turns to Geralt to ask him exactly that. "Should I... wait here until you talk to Vesemir?"
Do I need permission to step inside, it's what he means. He doesn't want his arrival to start with the wrong foot.
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