Chapter Text
“Why are we still going to Murivel?”
Jaskier asks as they’re crossing the river, and Geralt is glad to have the distraction from Roach’s skittishness. Even when there’s a bridge to cross, she’s not a fan of going over water. Axii can only do so much.
“You’ll need supplies for Kaer Morhen,” Geralt answers, steering them around a wagon in the middle of the bridge with a broken wheel.
“Don’t you usually get supplies in Ard Carraigh?”
“I do, and we’ll stop there as well,” Geralt agrees. “But your favorite luthier is in Murivel, right?” He wonders for a moment if he’s gotten it wrong – he tries to keep track of Jaskier’s ramblings, he does. It’s just difficult to keep track of all of the different names and places that he jumbles together as if they’re mere days from one another when they’re on opposite sides of the Continent.
When he glances to the side, Jaskier is looking up at him with a softness in his eyes that squeezes Geralt’s heart. It’s not an altogether unfamiliar feeling, but it is slightly uncomfortable, so Geralt looks away. That expression on the bard’s face is answer enough, he supposes.
“She is,” Jaskier finally answers. “What supplies will we need?”
Geralt waves a hand and waits to answer until they’ve finally crossed the bridge and are approaching the gates of Murivel. He dismounts from Roach and pretends he doesn’t see when Jaskier feeds her some sugar cubes. “I’ll worry about supplies for surviving the winter. Just make sure you have what you’ll need to live at Kaer Morhen until the snow clears.”
“Alright,” Jaskier agrees with an easy nod. “Will we be staying for the night?”
“Yes.” Geralt gestures toward the inn just inside the gates, and the stable next to it. “I’ll get a room.”
Jaskier smiles, and Geralt can tell he wants to reach over, to hug him, but he refrains. Geralt is grateful for the restraint, though it’s more because of the public setting than anything else.
Despite what the bard may think, Geralt stopped being bothered by his affection for its own sake a long time ago.
“I’ll meet you, then,” he says, and gestures to the city at large. “I have some errands to run before the sun is gone, since I assume we’ll be leaving early tomorrow?”
“You assume correctly, bard,” Geralt says. “Go on.”
He watches, for a moment, as Jaskier’s colorful form disappears into the usual crowd that mills around towns at midmorning, then turns toward the inn. He has a few things he needs to do, himself, so it would be best to get their board settled as quickly as possible.
Geralt has finished with his errands, as well as his dinner and the usual weapon maintenance by the time Jaskier returns to the inn. The sun has been set for nearly two hours.
He wasn’t exactly worried, but he was slightly concerned. Jaskier is known to get into all kinds of trouble when left to his own devices, after all.
But Jaskier returns unscathed, if a little flushed and clearly tipsy. “I believe I have what I’ll need,” he says, and sets a new bag down alongside his lute. Geralt can only guess at what might be in it; oils and such to care for the lute over the winter, definitely, but what else could be making it bulge like that is lost on him. He supposes if he needs to know, Jaskier will tell him.
“And you had the coin for all of that?” Geralt asks, though it’s hardly any of his business. Jaskier didn’t use his coin for it.
Jaskier nods, and starts stripping out of his finery, a little clumsily. “I got – oh,” he trips over his own hosiery and giggles, and Geralt finds it endearing despite himself, “a very good deal.”
Geralt snorts because he knows what that means. Jaskier either threatened it out of someone with the dagger he’s just tossed onto the bed, or he made up the difference with his talents in bed. Judging by his state of intoxication, it’s likely the latter, though Geralt supposes he could have gotten the drinks after, to celebrate. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s seen it.
He finds he’s staring at the bard, and he has no idea what his expression might be revealing, so he looks away.
“I see you did some shopping of your own,” Jaskier continues, gesturing over to Geralt’s own new bag.
“I did,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate. Jaskier will probably go through the bag himself at some point, so there’s not much reason to discuss it. Surprisingly, he doesn’t do it immediately. Instead, he collapses down onto the bed, narrowly missing his own dagger – Geralt rolls his eyes and moves it for him – and sprawling wide.
“We are sharing this bed, you know,” Geralt points out.
Jaskier chuckles. He sounds sleepy, now, and Geralt knows he’s got about a minute, maybe a minute and a half before the bard is out cold until sunlight hits his face in the morning. He rolls his eyes again. “Yes, I figured as much,” the bard drawls. “Move me as you see fit, Witcher, you’re strong enough for it.”
Geralt can’t help himself with a third eyeroll, and even though Jaskier has already dropped off into his usual drunken coma, mutters, “Annoying bard,” before doing just that.
They reach Ard Carraigh just after the first snow. It’s bitterly cold this far north, and they’ve hardly seen another living person since Murivel; they’ve been camping, despite the cold, to save coin for supplies.
Jaskier has been surprisingly accommodating about it. Though that probably has a lot to do with his rather intelligent purchases in Murivel, one of which is an enchanted cloak that repels water. Even Geralt is a little jealous of it, alongside being both delighted and a little shocked at the bard’s foresight.
When they reach the city, it’s almost overwhelming. There’s a market going on, likely the last proper one before spring. Geralt is glad that they made it in time. Getting supplies is much easier when everyone selling is gathered in the square all at once.
“Okay, so what do we need?” Jaskier asks as soon as Roach has been stabled. They won’t be staying the night, but there’s no reason to try and lead her through the market, and she could use the rest and pampering before the hike up the mountains.
“Let me worry about it, Jaskier,” Geralt says, for probably the fifth time since they could see Ard Carraigh on the horizon.
“No,” Jaskier replies, petulant. Geralt really didn’t expect anything different. He rolls his eyes.
“Fine.” He surrenders. No point in arguing now that they’re here; no time to waste, and all of that. Jaskier probably has a more specific, flowery phrase that would fit better. Geralt doesn’t ask. “The most important is some kind of wagon. Something to carry everything we need, but small enough for Roach to pull it up the mountains.”
“Makes sense,” Jaskier nods. “What else?”
Geralt goes over the list with him. It’s something he has memorized at this point, after decades of stopping in the city to stock up. Jaskier nods along and agrees verbally at some points, but for the most part doesn’t add to or criticize Geralt’s list. Apparently, he’s aware of how much he doesn’t know. For once in his life.
“Well, we’ll want the wagon first,” Jaskier decides, and Geralt doesn’t contradict him because he’s not wrong. “I suppose you know where to go?”
Geralt nods. “I do.”
“Well, how about this,” Jaskier looks up at him with those blue eyes wide and begging, as if Geralt wasn’t already going to listen to his suggestion willingly. Geralt carefully schools his expression – he’s not sure which would be worse, right now, laughing at the bard or letting himself smile like the complete sap he’s become – and nods for Jaskier to continue. “We’ll split up. The salted meats and preserves should be easy enough for me to carry myself, and once you have the wagon, we can move on to the rest.”
Geralt considers for a moment. “Yes, that’ll work.” He gives Jaskier some money.
Jaskier beams, and Geralt has to ignore that squeezing sensation in his chest once more. It’s getting more common. The bard is clearly restraining himself from a hug, again, but he does bump pointedly into Geralt’s side before he darts off. Geralt watches him for a moment, mostly for his own comfort, then turns to go find the woodworker.
As he approaches, he sees a familiar figure, and he can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. When he sees that familiar figure is speaking to another, even more familiar figure, the grin widens. He quiets his steps and cuts around, so that he’ll come up behind them. Neither seem to notice.
He grabs Eskel around the shoulders and pulls him back, laughing at the indignant sound the other Witcher makes and catching his arm before he can reach for a weapon. Lambert, for his part, scowls until he realizes it’s Geralt, then laughs along with him at Eskel’s continued squawking. Geralt only lets go when Eskel lands a good elbow to his gut, too close to the almost-healed bruising from Brenna.
“Seems we all had the same idea,” Lambert says, once Eskel has recovered his breath and he’s received his own form of almost-unwelcome physical greeting from Geralt, which was a vicious rubbing of his scalp and a headlock.
“We always do,” Eskel says, “though not usually at the same time. Where’s Roach?” He tips his head to the side, where Scorpion is standing next to a chestnut gelding. The gelding is probably Lambert’s, then.
“Stabled for now.” Geralt points back toward the stable.
“You spoil your horses, Geralt,” Lambert mutters.
Geralt snorts. “And my horses live for it, Lambert,” he retorts. “How many horses have you been through since last winter, hm?”
Lambert answers that with a glare, which is all Geralt needs. He grins and shoves the other Witcher, standing firm when Lambert tries to shove him back.
Eskel rolls his eyes at the exchange. “Alright, alright,” he says. “Come on, we’ll all need wagons.”
They’re all standing together, catching up as they wait for the woodworker to double check the wheels of their wagons, when Jaskier finds them.
Geralt notices him first, and automatically checks for anything different or wrong; Jaskier looks fine, and Geralt feels a certain tension leave his shoulders. The bard is carrying a sort of rucksack over his shoulder and casually flipping his dagger in his hand as he walks. Geralt’s eyes narrow.
“Eskel, Lambert,” he interrupts their debate on the best way to take down a wyvern – in his opinion they’re both wrong, but that doesn’t matter – and gestures toward Jaskier. “This is – ”
“Jaskier,” Eskel says, voice booming and cheerful, at the same time that Lambert hisses, “You’re bringing the bard to Kaer Morhen?”
Geralt turns away from Jaskier to look at his brothers. Eskel doesn’t pay him any mind, striding forward to greet Jaskier like an old friend – what the fuck? – but Lambert is glaring at him, when he’s not glancing over to Jaskier like he’s expecting to be attacked.
“What?” he asks, sort of just to the world at large. He doesn’t get an answer.
“Calm down, Lambert, I’ve no reason to use my dagger on you, yet,” Jaskier teases, and Geralt turns to look at him incredulously instead. Eskel has taken the rucksack from Jaskier’s back, and Jaskier is leaning casually into his side; Eskel looks quietly pleased about that.
Geralt’s never seen Eskel this comfortable with anyone except himself. It’s almost like an out-of-body experience to witness it. Instead of any of the dozens of questions clamoring for space in his head, what tumbles out of Geralt’s mouth is, “What were you using your dagger for?”
Jaskier grins at him. “I got quite the deal on these,” he says brightly, jerking a thumb toward the rucksack Eskel is holding.
Geralt resists the urge to rub at his temples, but only barely. “Jaskier, please do not get us in trouble here. I – we have to stop here every year.”
Jaskier just waves a hand dismissively. “I didn’t do anything that terrible, Geralt, calm down. Anyway, did you succeed in getting a wagon? Or did you three just bicker about monsters for an entire half hour?”
“We’re just waiting for – ” Lambert starts to explain. He’s interrupted by the woodworker shouting, “Finished, Witchers!” He scowls and opens his mouth again, but Geralt stops him with a shove to his shoulder.
“Don’t,” Geralt warns him. “Not here.”
Lambert looks as if he might still say something, but stops in his tracks when Jaskier says, in a falsely sweet voice, “Mind yourself, Lambert.”
Both he and Geralt turn to look at the bard, Geralt in confusion and Lambert in – is that unease?
“What?” Geralt asks, again. Luckily, he’s not really expecting an answer, because he still doesn’t get one.
Lambert fidgets uncomfortably for a second, but finally just nods, and Jaskier beams at him, like he does when he’s proud. Usually when he’s proud of Geralt for asking for help or expressing his emotions, and – oh, suddenly this is starting to make a little sense.
He’s still going to be asking Jaskier – and his brothers – quite a few questions, later, but the puzzle is beginning to come together in his head. He thinks that maybe, he should feel jealous that he’s not the only Witcher Jaskier seems to have – well, adopted, he thinks is the best word. But he searches his emotions and finds that he’s just…not. He’s not quite sure what he’s feeling, if he’s honest, but he can tell that jealousy doesn’t have anything to do with it. He frowns to himself and files that away to examine later.
Probably with Jaskier’s help.
His frown deepens.
“Geralt?” It’s Eskel who speaks. Jaskier and Lambert have gone back over to the woodworker, probably to do their own inspections on the wagons. When Geralt looks up, Eskel is standing close, a crease in his brow that speaks to worry.
“I’m fine,” Geralt says, and it’s not exactly a lie. It’s also not exactly the truth. He’ll definitely need Jaskier’s help puzzling through this, then.
“Are you sure?” Eskel murmurs, stepping even closer. His voice is so low that no one except maybe Lambert can hear it, besides Geralt, and he’s earnestly trying to keep eye contact. “I know he’s – your bard. He just – ”
Ah. Geralt understands Eskel’s concern, now. “He’s his own person,” Geralt corrects. Eskel’s eyes widen, just a bit, and Geralt wonders why that’s a shock. Another thing to discuss later, he thinks. “It’s fine, Eskel. We’ll discuss it when we reach the keep.”
Eskel looks unconvinced, but he nods. He claps a hand against Geralt’s back and then steps away, just in time for Lambert and Jaskier to come back to them, both smiling, though Lambert’s looks a little forced, still.
“Everything’s good,” Jaskier declares. “I assume we’ll be travelling together from here on, then?”
“No reason not to,” Eskel agrees. “Might be a little safer going up the mountain as a group, too.”
“Unless you do a shit job of securing the wagon to Scorpion again,” Lambert says with a snort. Eskel turns and smacks him, none too gently.
“That was once,” Eskel huffs.
Jaskier’s eyes are lit up, clearly wanting the story, and Geralt bites back a groan. “Alright, alright,” he half-shouts, interrupting a new argument between his brothers. “Later. Let’s finish getting supplies so we can go.”
Eskel grumbles but nods his agreement and, once he’s handed Jaskier’s rucksack back, wanders off. Lambert takes one look at Jaskier, snorts, and promises to tell the bard the story later, then does the same.
Once they’re alone – or, as alone as they’re going to get during a market, at least – Jaskier turns to him. “Are you alright?”
Geralt shrugs. It’s the best answer he has. “Come on,” he says. “Supplies, and we can talk when we camp for the night.”
Jaskier looks at him for a long moment, a mix of consternation and fondness in his eyes. “Promise?” he finally asks.
Geralt doesn’t roll his eyes. Instead, he puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and squeezes, then murmurs, “I promise.”
He’s sure he isn’t imagining the tears that spring to Jaskier’s eyes, but the concern they’d usually cause is drowned out by Jaskier directing that beaming smile at him, again.
“Now.” Geralt jerks his head toward the market. “Supplies. C’mon.”
Once they’ve purchased all of the supplies they can afford and carry, they leave Ard Carraigh as a group.
Jaskier walks ahead of Geralt and slightly behind Lambert and Eskel, singing and chattering the whole way. A few times, Lambert throws a look back at Geralt, an eyebrow raised and a smirk pulling at his lips. Geralt just shrugs back.
Based on his earlier reactions, Lambert knows exactly what the bard is like, and has absolutely no reason to judge Geralt. Not when he’s clearly got no power against Jaskier, either.
Despite the wagons and the weight of the supplies they carry, they make good time. They’re almost to the base of the mountains, about two hours hike away from entrance of the pass, when they make camp. It’s almost entirely for the sake of the horses and Jaskier – the horses because they need rest, having to pull so much weight, and the bard because he can’t see in the dark nearly as well as a Witcher.
They camp in a small copse of trees butted up against a cliff. It’s decently defensible, and because of the cover of branches, no snow has made it to the ground yet. Jaskier continues his chatter while they make camp, though it doesn’t stop him from making himself useful.
Geralt snorts when he sees that it shocks Eskel and Lambert both, but keeps his humor to himself. No reason to offend Jaskier. His brothers, he can tease privately later. When everything is finally set up, with a fire in the center, Eskel volunteers to try some hunting. Lambert, for his part, refuses to be left out and follows him.
It leaves Jaskier and Geralt at the campsite. Jaskier is fiddling with some vegetables, and Geralt is, ostensibly, tending to his swords.
Really, he’s watching Jaskier.
He’s got that enchanted cloak on, even though he’s sitting nearly close enough to the fire to burn. It swamps his figure and hides all but his face in dark fabric and shadow, and Geralt finds that he sort of misses being able to see Jaskier’s ridiculous, peacock-like finery. Or even his plainer clothes; really, Geralt misses being able to see all of Jaskier.
“So,” Jaskier says, without looking up from his vegetables, “you promised we would talk.”
“I did,” Geralt agrees, but doesn’t continue. He’s not really sure how; even with the time and relatively easy travel between Ard Carraigh and here to think, he hasn’t quite figured out his own responses from earlier, and he’s not sure how to present them to Jaskier so he can figure them out, either.
“When I asked if you were alright, you shrugged,” Jaskier offers, and finally looks up at him. Geralt nods. “You didn’t know if you were alright or not?”
Geralt shrugs again. “I…yes. And no. I thought maybe I should be jealous.”
“Of?”
“Eskel and Lambert.”
“And are you? Jealous?”
Geralt shakes his head. He knows that much. Jaskier hums and puts his vegetables aside, standing and coming to sit closer to Geralt. Geralt shifts to let him, holding himself rigid so he doesn’t shiver at the heat of Jaskier’s body pressed against his.
“Want to hear what I think?” Jaskier asks, looking at him with such softness in his eyes that Geralt has to look away.
“Yes,” he answers, because it’s the truth. He always wants to hear what Jaskier thinks, even though he pretends otherwise. He thinks the bard is funny, and smart, and that he provides rather useful insights most of the time.
He’s…not really sure why he’s never told Jaskier any of this. He is rather sure he wouldn’t know how, even if he tried.
“I think that at least part of you was relieved.”
Geralt blinks. “Why?”
“Because,” Jaskier’s voice softens, tone matching that look he’d had in his eyes, and Geralt has to squeeze his own shut to deal with the tightness in his chest. “If I already know your brothers, then they couldn’t put me off staying with you at Kaer Morhen. And I know you want me to stay, Geralt.”
That…is true, actually. As usual, Jaskier understands Geralt better than Geralt could ever understand himself.
“You’re right,” he says. The words still feel a little unfamiliar in his mouth, but he’s adjusting, slowly, to saying them. To admitting it.
His eyes are still closed, but he can hear that beaming smile in Jaskier’s voice when he says, “I’m glad.”
They’re quiet for a moment. In the distance, there’s a whoop – Lambert – and a loud curse – Eskel. Jaskier chuckles, and Geralt grins.
It fades, though, when he thinks some more. “Why did I feel like I should have been jealous?” he asks.
Jaskier pauses, and Geralt can feel the heaviness of it. “I could guess, Geralt,” he says, slowly. “But I think you’ll have to figure that one out on your own, for once.”
Geralt frowns, and opens his eyes. Jaskier is still looking at him, that softness still in his eyes, but there’s a sort of sadness there, too. “Why?”
Jaskier smiles, and it’s not that proud one, though Geralt knows even without that grin that Jaskier is proud of him for talking, like this. Knows it in his bones, like he knows his abilities as a Witcher. “Because I don’t want to confuse you with my guessing,” Jaskier answers, and Geralt…supposes it makes sense, in an abstract way.
“Hmm.”
Jaskier’s smile brightens a little, at that, gets less sad and more familiar. Geralt finds himself smiling back, just a little.
Something changed when he asked Jaskier to come to Kaer Morhen. He knows it, and he can tell the bard knows it. He’s still not quite sure what it was, but it had felt right, whatever it was. He hopes that he’ll figure it out, with or without Jaskier’s help, over the winter. For now, he just looks at the bard – and despite what he’d told Eskel earlier, he does call Jaskier his bard, if only to himself – and is very, very glad that he’s here.