can you help me unravel my latest mistake

by suzukiblu

Summary:

“It’s just a soulmark,” Geralt says, fist tightening. He feels like Jaskier’s about to get up and leave and he’ll never see him again, and he . . . “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Notes:

Okay I couldn’t actually leave this ‘verse hanging there, I have some mercy in me.

Alright, no I don’t, I am entirely willing to be merciless, but I thought of a sequel while I was doing chores the other day so y’all are getting a sequel. Everybody wins! \o/

Although, this is totally not the sequel I would’ve expected to write if I'd been planning one. It’s definitely structured differently than the first part, for starters. Also . . . lots of porn, and so much longer than the first part. Also-also, a few people made guesses about A Certain Thing in the comments of said first part, and . . . they were right! Good job, people!

Geralt wakes up with an alp leaning over him and puts his silver sword through her chest. She shrieks.

So does Ciri.

The alp slides off his blade, dead, and Geralt sits up. Ciri is sitting up in her bedroll, looking terrified, and the low-guttering fire’s been blown out by her shriek. Roach is visibly restless, trying to shake off her lead where it’s tied to a convenient tree.

“It’s fine,” Geralt says.

“She tried to kill you!” Ciri says, stumbling to her feet and rushing over to him. She gives the dead alp a wide berth. Geralt lets her look him over for injuries, but he really is fine. Alps prefer to put their prey to sleep, and no doubt this one was trying to put him further under than the light doze he’d been at.

Still, he didn’t know there were alps in the area. It might be best to keep moving through the night. He might not worry as much, but Ciri and the alp’s shrieks were definitely loud enough to have been heard by anyone—or anything—in the area.

“We need to move,” he says. “Pack up.”

Ciri gives him a nervous look, but nods and hurries back to her bedroll. Geralt gets out of his own and they pack up the campsite and Roach and get moving. Roach doesn’t like it, but Roach will live; Geralt puts Ciri on her back and leads them down the dark road.

“What was she?” Ciri says.

“An alp,” he says. “They’re a kind of vampire. They like sleeping prey. Their saliva causes nightmares.”

“That’s horrible,” Ciri says.

“Mm,” Geralt says. There’s worse things in the world, though obviously now is not the time to be mentioning that.

“I shouldn’t have screamed,” Ciri says, looking around anxiously. “Someone might’ve heard.”

“Even if you hadn’t, she screamed too,” Geralt says, shaking his head. “No helping it.”

“She didn’t have a soulmark,” she says.

“Vampires don’t, normally,” he says, and Ciri shudders, and they keep walking through the dark. Geralt doesn't mention that he doesn't have a soulmark either. He knows how that comes across to people.

Alps don’t show up for magical scanning, so he’s warier than usual. Ciri asks him a few more questions, and he answers them as honestly as he can without frightening her too badly. If he’s going to tell her scary stories, he’d rather do it in the daylight; make it a little easier on her. She’s still anxious, though, and keeps looking around as they walk. He doesn’t blame her, for obvious reasons.

Unfortunately, neither his nor her paranoia does either of them any good.

Turns out, there’s a lot of alps in this forest, and they find out when the damn things drop out of the trees overhead. Ciri shrieks again and Roach rears up, and she might be used to monsters, but she’s not used to a panicking rider. She throws Ciri, who hits the ground and gets the breath knocked out of her.

“Run!” Geralt barks as he draws his sword, hoping she isn’t injured, and Ciri scrabbles to her feet and staggers towards the trees. He throws himself at the alps.

They scream.

They scream loudly.

Geralt knows how to fight an alp, though, and even with their numbers, they’re not the most dangerous vampires he’s ever faced. He knocks down as many of them as he can and avoids their shrieks and wishes he’d had the time to swallow Black Blood, or at least get some vampire oil on his sword. He should’ve thought of it sooner; it was stupid not to.

And a stupid witcher’s a dead witcher.

He doesn’t die, though, somehow, and instead finds himself standing in the middle of the scattered alps’ bodies, gasping for breath. He counts the corpses, and his blood runs cold.

One’s missing.

He swallows a Cat potion and tears off into the trees the way Ciri went, cursing and cursing. Ciri left an obvious trail, which might be a blessing and might be a curse. An alp is better-suited to the dark than a witcher, even with the Cat potion, and far lighter on her feet too. He’s not going to be able to catch up in time.

He has to try, obviously, but he’s already dreading what he’ll find when he does.

Let Ciri have time to scream, he thinks. All she needs is time to scream.

Alps are notorious for not giving their victims time to scream.

Geralt runs faster than it’s smart to run in a forest, not bothering to try to be quiet or conceal his trail. Ciri’s own trail doesn’t end. Not yet. Not—

He sees guttering light ahead, and skids to a stop. There’s two figures standing in front of a low fire in the center of a small camp, both cast in dark shadow, but the Cat potion can see past that. It’s Ciri, gasping for breath, and a male human with his hands on her shoulders, saying something soothing to her.

A familiar man.

Geralt . . . blinks.

“Jaskier,” he says, and the man—Jaskier—startles, and looks away from Ciri.

“Oh,” he says. It’s not the first time Geralt’s run into him at a strange time or in a strange place, but . . .

“Geralt!” Ciri throws herself at him and throws her arms around him. He puts his free hand on her back, but keeps his blood-drenched silver sword in the other.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, looking wary. Geralt opens his mouth, not sure what he’s about to say, and then the last alp shrieks from the trees and he staggers under the force of it, barely keeping Ciri from being knocked over outright. The alp lands on his head. He shoves Ciri away and the alp sinks her teeth into his sword arm, and Geralt really regrets not drinking Black Blood.

He drops his sword: stupid. The alp bites his arm again, deeper and more painful, and a moment later he’s wrestling with her, struggling to get to his sword without getting any arteries ripped out. The alp tries to scream in his face, and he only barely jerks his head out of the way in time.

She’s so damn fast.

“Geralt!” Ciri cries. He doesn’t look at her, because he’s not that stupid a witcher, but he senses motion and the alp glances that way reflexively, like a true predator.

Shame he doesn’t have a silver sword to take advantage of that distraction with, he thinks.

Geralt dives past the alp and snatches his sword off the ground, slashing the back of her legs, and she screams. She spins around and throws herself down on him, her bloody hands clutching at his throat. He glimpses Ciri, but only for a moment before Jaskier’s grabbing her and yanking her behind himself. His throat burns, and the alp chokes him.

He puts his sword through her, just like all the others, and she dies, just like all the others.

Geralt shoves her body off himself, breathing heavily. It slumps to the side, limp and empty, and he gets to his feet covered in blood. Mostly the alp’s, but a not insignificant amount of his own.

“Put out the fire,” he says roughly. “We’re getting out of this fucking forest.”

They make it back to the road. Geralt whistles for Roach, and she comes, mercifully. He puts Ciri on her back again. They get out of the fucking forest.

Jaskier doesn’t say a word to him the whole time. Geralt should say something to him, probably, but . . .

Well. He doesn’t.

They find a town just before sunrise. Geralt’s still bleeding and his throat’s still burning, but Jaskier takes over and charms the innkeeper into letting them in and pays for a room and a bath. Geralt’s too tired to protest. He bathes, and he wraps up his wounds, and he comes back downstairs to find Jaskier and Ciri getting on like a house on fire over breakfast.

Geralt’s still too fucking tired to protest. He just sits down with them. Ciri pushes a piece of thick, grainy bread at him, and he devours it in two bites. It hurts to swallow, but he really doesn’t care.

“Are you alright?” Ciri asks tentatively. Jaskier, Geralt notices, did not ask.

“Fine,” he grunts. He doesn’t look at Jaskier. It’s been . . . not that long since he saw him, really, compared to how long it’s been some of the other times. Not that long, and yet . . .

He thinks about Jaskier talking about going to the coast, and then stops thinking about that.

“She choked you,” Ciri says.

“It’s fine,” Geralt says. “My throat’s just burning a bit.”

“Burning?” Ciri frowns. “From being choked?”

“Yes.” Geralt takes another piece of the bread. There’s plenty of it to go around.

“That’s not normal, is it?” Ciri asks worriedly. “Did you breathe something in?”

“Maybe.” He chews his mouthful of bread. He doesn’t remember inhaling anything, but he’d been in the dirt long enough that he easily could’ve.

“You’re not bruised . . .” She trails off, her eyes flicking over his throat. “Can we see?”

“See what?” Geralt cocks his head.

“Your throat,” Ciri says. “Open your mouth? Please?”

Geralt resists the urge to sigh. They did almost die. It’s no surprise she’s worried. He opens his mouth wide and Ciri and Jaskier both look at it. Ciri looks surprised, for some reason. Jaskier looks . . . odd.

“It’s a flower,” Jaskier says in a strange voice.

“What?” Geralt says.

“Oh!” Ciri says, visibly brightening. “It’s pretty! Is that a—”

“It’s a buttercup,” Jaskier says in that same strange voice.

“What are you talking about?” Geralt says.

“Your soulmark,” Ciri says. “It’s a buttercup.”

“My what,” Geralt says, and Jaskier digs a palm-sized mirror out of his pack and passes it over to him. Geralt looks in it and opens his mouth. He has to tilt his head a bit, but on the back of his tongue . . .

It’s a flower. A buttercup in full bloom, just like Jaskier and Ciri said.

Geralt stares.

“When did the burning start?” Jaskier asks. Geralt closes his mouth. He doesn’t think he ever wants to open it again.

“When you got between Ciri and the alp,” he says tersely. Jaskier stares at him.

“You’re joking,” he says.

“No, I’ve been choking on my own throat since the forest for fun,” Geralt says sarcastically.

“Choking on a buttercup, apparently,” Jaskier says.

“It’s you,” Geralt says. “Clearly.”

Jaskier stares at him for a long moment, then bursts into loud laughter. Geralt stiffens, his fingers curling around the mirror. He knows he’s no one’s idea of a soulmate, and he can’t imagine why the universe saw fit to give him one, much less give him one now, but . . .

“Don’t fucking laugh,” he snarls, and Jaskier just laughs harder and louder, to the point a few of the other patrons glance over. Geralt seriously considers punching him. He’s punched him for less. Jaskier’s far from the most sensitive soul he knows and Geralt hardly expects sympathy, but he’d have expected him to at least have the decency not to laugh, dammit.

“I don’t understand,” Ciri says with a frown. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Geralt says tightly, putting down the mirror. Jaskier’s laughter turns hysterical, and he puts his face in his hands. Geralt’s about to snarl at him again, but then he realizes Jaskier’s not laughing anymore.

“All this time,” Jaskier chokes, tears dripping past his fingers. “All this time, and all I had to do was be stupid enough to get in the middle of one of your damn monster hunts? That was it?”

“Jaskier!” Ciri looks upset.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, alarmed. Jaskier just keeps weeping, and doesn’t look at either of them.

“All this time!” he says roughly. “Twenty years, Geralt!”

“Usually you’re smart enough to be out of the way,” Geralt says, tense and unsure of just what’s wrong. He wouldn’t expect Jaskier to be pleased to find out he’s his soulmate, obviously, but he can’t figure out why he’d cry over it either. There’s plenty of one-sided matches in the world, and they’re hardly worth crying over. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it?!” Jaskier says, whipping his head up. He’s still crying. “You wanted me gone! You wanted to never see me again!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, fisting a hand against the table. “That’s not . . .”

“Not what?!” Jaskier demands. “Not what you meant? Not what you want to hear? What, Geralt?! After twenty years! You told me you didn’t have a soulmark!”

“I didn’t,” Geralt says stiffly. “Not before.”

“You did when I asked!” Jaskier says. “If it’s me—”

“It is,” Geralt says.

“Then you did! But what am I saying, you wouldn’t even care,” Jaskier says. “Not about destiny, right?”

“It’s just a soulmark,” Geralt says, fist tightening. He feels like Jaskier’s about to get up and leave and he’ll never see him again, and he . . . “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Of course! Of course you think that!” Jaskier wipes at his wet eyes, but it’s pointless; he’s still crying. “Who cares about a silly thing like a soulmark?!”

“My grandmother said they only mean what you want them to mean,” Ciri says tentatively, covering the back of her hand and the gray shadow of her own unfilled mark.

“Which is nothing,” Jaskier says scathingly. “Right, Geralt?”

“I didn’t say that,” Geralt says.

“You told me you wanted me out of your life,” Jaskier says, his voice bitter and cracked. “Don’t tell me some silly little flower’s changed your mind.”

“I . . .” Geralt trails off. It hasn’t, obviously. It’s just a soulmark. It doesn’t mean anything.

“You!” Jaskier snaps. He gets up from the table. Geralt grabs his arm, and Jaskier gives him a furious look past the tears. “What, Geralt?!” he demands. “What else could you possibly have to say to me right now?!”

“I was angry,” Geralt says. “I didn’t really want you . . . gone.”

“Damn well could’ve fooled me,” Jaskier says. Geralt looks at him. He doesn’t know how to explain how he feels. He doesn’t know what to say at all.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because it’s the only option he can think of. “I shouldn’t have said that to you.”

“Don’t say that,” Jaskier says, his face crumpling. Geralt pulls him back down to his seat, and he goes. Ciri looks back and forth between them worriedly. “I mean it. Don’t say things like that to me.”

“I didn’t know I had a mark,” Geralt says. “I didn’t lie to you.”

“That’s something, I suppose,” Jaskier mutters, rubbing at his red eyes. He looks miserable. Geralt still can’t understand why he’s so upset. Was Jaskier really this affected by what he said on the mountain?

Maybe he was, Geralt thinks uncomfortably.

“Are you alright?” Ciri says.

"I'm fine," Jaskier says, giving her a tired smile. "Just extremely emotionally compromised. And very weary after getting attacked by vampires and walking all night instead of sleeping. Which we really should do, all things considered."

"We don't have enough money to rent a room," Ciri says.

"I do," Jaskier says. He looks almost back to normal, if Geralt ignores his eyes. "Meaning I already did. Two rooms, to be more specific. Don't want to all be sleeping on top of each other, after all. Hardly decent, is it?"

". . . who's sharing with who?" Ciri says with a faint frown.

"That would, I think, be up to you," Jaskier says, smiling pleasantly at her. She looks at him, then back to Geralt. Geralt isn't sure what she's looking for, or what decision he wants her to make. He isn’t sure he and Jaskier should be around each other right now, but . . .

“You two should share,” Ciri says, her fingers curling against her unfilled mark. Jaskier’s smile turns a little strained, and Geralt’s stomach twists.

“Of course,” Jaskier says. “I’m sure you want some space to yourself for once.”

They finish breakfast, and they go to bed. Normally Geralt would just power through and stay up all day, but he really is exhausted and there’s nothing in this town for him to do, anyway. He could go to the whorehouse, probably, hide from Jaskier there, but it seems . . . he just doesn’t want to. Besides, he doesn’t like the idea of leaving Ciri alone for that long; what if she needs something?

What if someone catches up to her?

Yes. He’s staying at the inn.

The room Jaskier rented has one bed, big enough to share but still smaller than Geralt’s comfortable with. He supposes options were limited; it’s not that big an inn, after all.

He takes off his armor, and Jaskier draws the curtain and takes off his boots, and they both get into bed without undressing any more than that. Geralt would think it was by unspoken agreement, but then again, Jaskier rarely undresses around other people, at least not outside . . .

Well. A bedroom.

He supposes they are, technically, in a bedroom right now.

Jaskier lays down facing the wall. Geralt keeps his back to him and tries not to think too obsessively about the strange new fact of their relationship: Jaskier is his soulmate.

Soulmarks don’t matter to him; they’ve never been a concern in his life, and they only seem to cause trouble in other people’s. This isn’t a deviation from that pattern. He doesn’t know how to feel about this, though. Especially he doesn’t know how to feel about this so soon after destiny caught up with him in regards to Ciri.

Geralt doesn’t believe in destiny. It’s horseshit.

It’s in the room next door, and the other half of this bed.

Geralt . . . exhales, and closes his eyes. He tells himself he’ll sleep, but his mind keeps racing. He's never thought about soulmates. Not since he was very, very young, at least. He doesn't know how to process the idea that he not only has one, but he knows them.

Has known them for a very long time, and hasn't treated them as well as he could have.

It's . . .

Geralt doesn't know what it is.

Why would Jaskier be his soulmate, of all people? If he'd thought he could have one, he'd have expected Yennefer or someone like her. Someone powerful and dangerous who didn't need anything from him, and who would walk away whenever they wanted. Jaskier is none of those things. It's usually Geralt walking away from him, in fact.

It's just about always been Geralt walking away from him, in fact.

And now he finds out that all this time, he's been walking away from his soulmate.

There's . . . probably something appropriate about that.

Probably.

Geralt forces himself not to think about it. Whatever reason destiny saw fit to give him a soulmate for, saw fit to give him Jaskier for, it doesn't matter. He has bigger concerns right now, with Ciri to worry about. He's not even Jaskier's soulmate, so obviously it's not relevant right now, if it ever would've been.

Twenty years, and it only comes up now.

. . . he's not doing a very good job of not thinking about this.

Geralt grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut tighter. He does not think about this, or Jaskier crying, or any of it.

He doesn't understand why Jaskier would cry. He's never seen him do it before. Why now, of all times? Just because of what he said to him on the mountain? He knows it was unfair, but had it really affected him that much? Really?

Geralt's always cared too much about what Jaskier was doing and why, given their relationship. They're barely better than acquaintances most of the time; he's just a good source of material for Jaskier, and Jaskier's just . . .

They're barely better than acquaintances.

Jaskier shifts on the other side of the bed, and all of Geralt's attention snaps to him. He manages not to tense, but only just. He almost says something, but . . . doesn't.

Almost. But doesn't.

What the hell would he even say, anyway?

Jaskier settles. He doesn't move again. Geralt lies very, very still and doesn't say anything.

He tries to sleep.

He tries to sleep, but . . .

Jaskier sleeps. Geralt can hear him breathing, soft and steady. Imagines he can hear his heartbeat, this close. Imagines . . . nothing. Nothing at all.

He wonders why he isn't Jaskier's soulmate.

Stupid. Very stupid. He knows why. He's the kind of person who wishes to keep people who don't want kept and yells at people who don't deserve it and makes light of things he shouldn't at the worst possible time, a killer and a fool and not human and not—

Jaskier sighs in his sleep. Geralt's heart clenches in his chest. There's no good reason for it to do it, but it does.

Just because of the burn in his throat? Just because there's a flower on his tongue? Just because of this tiny, pointless thing?

He's not Jaskier's soulmate. And even if he were . . . what would be different, if he were? None of this. None of this at all. Destiny would still be horseshit and he'd still need to worry about Ciri first and he still wouldn't have time for this.

Twenty godsdamn years, and this is when his soulmark decides to fill in? Now? After everything? Over this?

He can't imagine a worse time, frankly.

It's . . . maddening.

It's maddening, and he can't believe it. Of all the times it could've been, this was the time his soulmark chose to be impressed? This was the moment? Why?

And why does he care so much? Why does this matter to him?

It's Jaskier.

He can't figure out any other reason for it to matter.

Geralt lays there for a long time in stillness and silence. He feels as though he's staking out a monster's lair. He feels as though he couldn't sleep in a thousand years. He feels—

"Are you still awake?" Jaskier asks, and Geralt stiffens. "Taking that as a yes. Really, Geralt, how can you possibly have the energy for this?"

"I don't," Geralt says roughly.

"And yet, here you are," Jaskier says. Geralt turns over, though he shouldn't. Jaskier looks back over his shoulder at him. The light coming in past the drawn curtain is dim and barely enough to see his expression by. There's not much expression there to see, though. "What's wrong?"

"You're my soulmate," Geralt says. The line of Jaskier's mouth sours.

"Yes, I'm sure that's terrible for you," he says dryly. Geralt grimaces. That wasn't what he meant. "Life just keeps throwing me in your path, doesn't it. Must be a real burden."

"I didn't say that," Geralt says.

"Oh?" Jaskier says. "Must've missed that, in all the shouting. Forgive me, you were being rather loud."

"Jaskier," Geralt says tightly.

"What?" Jaskier says. "Something to say?"

"Hn," Geralt says.

"So nothing," Jaskier says, and sighs. "Of course."

"Jaskier," Geralt says again, like an idiot. Jaskier raises his eyebrows.

"That's me, yes," he says. "Your very best friend and least favorite person in the whole wide world."

Geralt . . . he just doesn't know what to say. He has no idea at all.

He needs to say something, he knows. He's not an idiot. He needs to say something.

He has no idea what to say.

"You can't even say it, now?" Jaskier says scornfully, and Geralt snaps a hand out and grabs his wrist. Jaskier's eyes flare. "If life could give you one blessing—"

"Stop," Geralt hisses.

"Only if you start," Jaskier says, and Geralt doesn't even know what he means. He squeezes Jaskier's wrist tight, and Jaskier bares his teeth at him. It might be a smile; it's hard to tell in the dim.

"I didn't know," Geralt says roughly, and Jaskier laughs. Geralt is starting to hate his laugh.

"Would you have treated me any differently?" Jaskier says. "Really?"

"No," Geralt says, because he doubts he would have, and Jaskier laughs again. His teeth are still bared. Geralt still can't tell if it's a smile.

He's not betting on it, though.

"You're the worst thing that's ever happened to me," Jaskier says. Not spitefully, not cruelly; just as a statement of fact.

Geralt's not surprised to hear it.

He doesn't say anything, again. Can't think of anything that would matter to say; nothing that would be useful or help. Jaskier laughs again—Geralt hates it—and yanks his wrist free. Geralt barely resists the impulse to try and catch it.

"You never change," Jaskier says.

"Hn," Geralt says. Jaskier turns over and puts his hands on his chest, and Geralt . . . stills.

"Geralt," Jaskier says, practically tender. "You really are unbearable."

Geralt still doesn't know what to say. He catches Jaskier's wrist again, but he doesn't squeeze this time.

"And I'm your soulmate," Jaskier muses distantly, flattening his hands against his chest. "So what does that make me?"

Geralt is suddenly very, very aware of how close they're laying. Very aware of Jaskier's hands on his chest. Very aware of . . .

"I wonder," Jaskier says, and Geralt opens his mouth to answer and Jaskier kisses him. Geralt inhales sharply, and Jaskier presses in close against his body and deepens the kiss.

"Jaskier," Geralt says roughly, tightening his grip on his wrist after all. Jaskier kisses him again.

"I hate the way you say my name," he murmurs.

Geralt . . . kisses back. Jaskier makes a soft little noise, like he's actually surprised, and Geralt lets go of his wrist to roll on top of him and crush him into the thin mattress. It's a bad idea. He does it anyway. Jaskier wraps his arms around his neck and keeps kissing him, which is probably an even worse idea, but Geralt isn't going to be the man to stop him.

He's known Jaskier for years and they've never done anything like this. Never even approached it. Never . . .

Just never.

Never mind what Geralt might've thought about, once or twice or however many times. Never mind . . . anything.

Just—never mind.

"Don't stop," Jaskier breathes, pushing a hand into his hair.

Geralt hasn't even started.

He bites at Jaskier’s mouth, kisses him as roughly as he dares to, and Jaskier kisses back just that little bit rougher and digs his fingers into his hair. Geralt growls without quite meaning to and Jaskier makes a hitched, breathless sound. Geralt grinds their hips together, and Jaskier makes the sound again.

It’s much better than that miserable laughter.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” Jaskier says again, low and encouraging, and Geralt listens. He grinds their hips together again and puts his hands all over the other and Jaskier arches up into them and keeps kissing him. If that’s all it takes to make him kiss him, Geralt never will stop. “Fuck. Fuck, Geralt. More.”

Geralt listens. He pushes his hands up Jaskier's sides and their hips together, and Jaskier groans into his mouth. Geralt tugs at his jacket and Jaskier—hesitates, just for a moment, and then shucks it off. Geralt breaks off the kiss and mouths down his throat. Jaskier pulls at his shirt, and Geralt pauses just long enough to drag it off and throw it aside. His medallion dangles between them, and Jaskier catches it in his hand and just . . . turns it over. Geralt pauses, for a moment unsure of what he's doing, but Jaskier lets go of it a moment later and kisses him again.

"More," Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt can't deny him.

Or himself.

He wishes he could see Jaskier better. It's still daytime, but with the heavy curtain drawn and no lamps lit, the light's too dim for the details.

Stupid thing to care about, he thinks, and kisses the other again. Jaskier kisses back and runs his hands up his arms. Geralt bites at Jaskier's mouth again and pushes a thigh between the other's, and Jaskier moans and laces his fingers together behind his neck, keeping him in close. Geralt growls, and Jaskier moans again.

"Geralt," he says. Geralt rocks his thigh down against Jaskier and the other gasps. "Geralt."

He still doesn't know what the fuck to say, so he just shoves Jaskier's shirt up and ducks backwards to bite down his stomach.

"Oh, very promising," Jaskier murmurs, putting a hand in his hair and tugging out the tie. Geralt pulls his pants down to free his cock and Jaskier hisses.

Geralt almost takes his time. Almost.

He doesn't want Jaskier to have time to think better of this yet, though, so he wraps a hand around Jaskier's cock and ducks lower to wrap his mouth around the head of it. Jaskier moans, arching up into him. Geralt pushes his mouth lower and sucks. He's done this with far fewer men than women, but it's not exactly complicated.

"Don't stop, don't stop," Jaskier half-chants, and Geralt has no intention to. He bobs his head and twists his hand and rolls his tongue up tight against Jaskier's cock, and Jaskier moans and gasps and drops his head back against the mattress. His hand fists tight in Geralt's hair. "Oh, oh—"

Geralt sucks him off as effectively as he knows how, wishing he were better at it, and he doesn't think about how Jaskier's cock is rubbing across his soulmark or the strange electric feeling of the contact. It's not long before Jaskier's cursing and coming in his mouth.

Across his soulmark, more specifically.

"Fuck," Jaskier says feelingly as Geralt swallows, wiping at his mouth. "That was—give me a moment, I'll return the favor."

"It's fine," Geralt grunts. Jaskier scoffs.

"Oh, that makes you talk," he says derisively. He tugs at Geralt's hair, and Geralt follows the tugging and gets kissed again for it, to his slight surprise. "Come here. Lay back."

Geralt lays back. Jaskier sits up and kicks out of his pants and kicks them off the bed, then turns over and straddles Geralt's thighs. Geralt . . . swallows.

"Hm," Jaskier says. "You know, I was just going to suck you off."

"That's fine," Geralt says roughly. More than fine. Jaskier just scoffs at him again, though, putting a hand on his stomach and sitting down on his hips. Geralt bites his tongue.

"You never talk to me," Jaskier says, leaning in just close enough for Geralt to make out the details of his face a little better in the dimness. He wants to open the curtain. "You could, you realize. Wouldn't be the end of the world or anything."

"Jaskier," Geralt says tightly. Jaskier sighs.

"Why do I bother," he says, then leans over the side of the bed and digs into his abandoned pack. Geralt puts a hand on his hip, maybe to steady him but maybe just to . . .

He exhales. Jaskier straightens back up, holding a little vial.

"This'll do," he says breezily, tipping it from side to side as he inspects it. Geralt tightens the hand on his hip.

"We don't have to," he says.

"No, but we're going to," Jaskier says. "Unless you have an objection?"

Geralt shakes his head mutely.

"Thought not."

Jaskier pops the vial open and pours a slick, sweet-smelling oil out of it and over his fingers. Geralt isn't sure what to expect, for a moment.

"Pants," Jaskier says briskly, spreading the oil over his fingers. Geralt unfastens them, and Jaskier reaches in and strokes his growing erection with slick fingers. "Gods, you're even bigger than I thought you were. I'm not going to walk right for days."

"You can top," Geralt says, and Jaskier . . . pauses.

"Hm," he says, stroking Geralt's cock again. Geralt bites back a groan. He's not sure how Jaskier's reacting to that idea. Not sure how he wants Jaskier to react to that idea. "You've done that before?"

"Yes." Not many times, but a few.

"Which way do you prefer?" Jaskier asks, a speculative note in his tone.

"I don't care," Geralt says.

"Really?" Jaskier squeezes his erection; it twitches in his grip. "Nothing sounds better just now? A nice warm hole or a nice hard cock?"

"Ngh," Geralt says thinly. Jaskier tilts his head.

"If you don't answer me, Geralt, I'm just going to have to assume," he says.

Geralt didn't expect this much talking. Should've, probably, given it's Jaskier, but . . . no, he really hadn't.

"Assume, then," he grunts, an odd curl of heat blooming in his gut at the thought. Jaskier tilts his head the other way.

"Hm," he says. He strokes the length of Geralt's cock, and Geralt bites his tongue again. Jaskier strokes again, and he bites it harder. "It would be a shame to waste this lovely thing, but . . ."

"Jaskier," Geralt grits out. Jaskier slides his thumb over the head of his cock, making a pleased noise as it spits pre-come. Geralt grips the sheets, because if he grips Jaskier he's going to bruise him.

"I'm an easily tempted man, I suppose," Jaskier says, letting go of his cock. Geralt bites back a groan of protest. "Roll over."

Geralt's cock aches, and he rolls over beneath the other. Jaskier slides his other hand up his spine and Geralt just barely keeps himself from rutting down against the bed.

"Never let it be said I'm the ungrateful sort," Jaskier says lightly, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Geralt's pants and pulling them down over the curve of his ass. Geralt lifts his hips just enough to make it easier, hands fisting against the mattress. He might've picked a different position, if it were him picking—one where he could see Jaskier's face—but he isn't going to complain either.

Jaskier doesn't wait, putting slick fingers against Geralt's hole and sliding the pad of one across it. Geralt grunts, knuckles whitening, and Jaskier wastes no time working a finger into him. Geralt manages not to groan, but it's a close thing. Jaskier curls his finger inside him and rubs, and very clearly has more experience doing this with a man than Geralt does. Geralt ducks his head, breathing roughly.

It's so obviously a pity fuck, but he'll take it. Jaskier's never treated him like this before, after all.

Pity or not, considering Geralt made him fucking cry today, he has no idea why Jaskier's doing this.

Jaskier presses his mouth against the back of his shoulder and another finger inside of him. Geralt tries to breathe normally, but it's not happening. He digs his fingers into the mattress and Jaskier curls his own inside him again. It feels good. Geralt presses his forehead against the bed.

"Honestly, I would not have thought you'd let me do this," Jaskier says, his voice very quiet. Geralt almost laughs. He wouldn't have thought Jaskier wanted to do this.

“Don’t stop,” he grunts.

“You really don’t have to worry about that.”

Jaskier works him open with his fingers and Geralt bites back the noises he wants to make and holds himself as still as he can. He thinks he could come just from this, but if he does he's not sure Jaskier will still fuck him so he very much does not want to.

Fortunately, Jaskier is efficient and Geralt can relax a little easier than usual, and it's not very long until Jaskier is reclaiming his fingers and leaning over him. His cock rubs against him and Geralt bites his tongue to the blood.

"Make some noise for me, Geralt," Jaskier breathes, and pushes into him. Geralt can't think of any cock that's felt better inside him.

"Make me," he grits out.

"Oh, gladly," Jaskier says. He rolls his hips into Geralt's and Geralt bares his teeth, digging his fingers into the mattress again. Jaskier sets a lazy, drawn-out pace, thrusts long and slow and deep, impossible not to feel every inch of. Geralt would've asked for rougher and faster, but . . .

But.

Jaskier fucks him. Geralt holds back the sounds he wants to make, but only barely. Jaskier presses a kiss to the back of his shoulder, and somehow that makes Geralt hiss.

“That’s a start,” Jaskier murmurs. Geralt feels heat rush to his face and fists his hands in the blankets.

“Just fuck me,” he grunts.

“Mm,” Jaskier says, and rolls his hips in again. “Is this because I’m your soulmate, Geralt?”

Geralt grits his teeth.

“No,” he says, staring down at the bed.

“No?”

“You never tried before,” Geralt says, and Jaskier lets out a low huff of a laugh. “Is this because you’re my soulmate?”

"I'll tell you in twenty years," Jaskier says. Geralt . . . blinks. That’s . . . strange, he thinks. That’s a strange thing to say. But then Jaskier snaps his hips in tight and distracts him, and he groans, and he can’t focus quite well enough to think about it. Fuck. Fuck.

Jaskier is . . . very good at this, actually.

Geralt probably should’ve expected that, considering how often the other’s dick manages to get him in trouble.

Jaskier kisses the back of his shoulder again and slips a hand beneath him to wrap around his cock and stroke, and Geralt groans louder, dropping his forehead back to the bed. Jaskier’s fingers stroke and squeeze just shy of perfectly and his cock rubs him just right, and Geralt thinks that they can absolutely never do this again, because fuck forbid he gives the bastard the chance to learn.

“Will you say my name, Geralt?” Jaskier asks in that practically tender tone, like he didn't say he hated it before. Geralt grits his teeth again.

“Jaskier,” he manages, and Jaskier makes the quietest, strangest sound. Geralt can’t figure it out, especially not with the other still touching him, still fucking him. It’s just not happening. But . . . “Jaskier,” he says again anyway, and Jaskier makes that sound again, and, “Jaskier.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs, practically tender, and then twists his hand around his cock and fucks him just that little bit deeper and slower, and drags what might be the longest orgasm of Geralt’s godsdamn life out of him. Geralt chokes, and moans, and comes in Jaskier’s hand, and Jaskier lets out a soft sigh and comes inside him. Geralt locks his elbows to keep his body from collapsing, but somehow Jaskier’s weight crushes him into the bed anyway. It’s not as if he’s even that heavy, and yet . . .

And yet.

Jaskier strokes a hand up his side and pulls out of him. Geralt moans again. Jaskier lays down beside him to catch his breath, and Geralt rolls onto his side to avoid the wet spot on the sheets and kicks off his pants to get them out of the way and stares at him. It doesn't clear anything up.

He's not sure what could, so . . .

"Jaskier," he rasps.

"Open your mouth," Jaskier says. Geralt frowns.

"Why?" he asks. Jaskier won't be able to see his soulmark clearly in this light. Probably won't be able to see it at all, actually.

"Just . . . do it," Jaskier says. "Please."

Geralt looks at him for a long moment, but obeys. Jaskier grips his jaw and tilts his head like he's trying to look inside his mouth; Geralt lets him. He still doubts Jaskier's seeing anything.

Jaskier . . . exhales, and lets go of his jaw.

"I want to touch it," he murmurs quietly. "Is that strange?"

"You already came on it," Geralt points out neutrally, and Jaskier balks.

"Fuck, I did," he says. "Why on earth did you let me do that?"

"I didn't mind," Geralt says.

"Ngh," Jaskier says.

Geralt wants to kiss him. He doesn't do it, though. They've done it already, but . . .

He just doesn't do it.

That's all.

They lay there for a while. Jaskier doesn't say anything, and Geralt can't think of anything to say. It's . . . quiet.

They haven't been quiet together too many times.

Geralt doesn't know how to feel about it.

Jaskier sits up, eventually. Geralt glances down the length of the other's body, half-wishing he'd taken his shirt off at some point. He wants to see more of him. He wants to see things Jaskier hasn't shown him before.

"Well, that was new," Jaskier says, looking around the room. Then he looks back at Geralt. "Oh, but you only came once. I feel a bit selfish."

"It's fine," Geralt says.

"How many times can a witcher come before he's satisfied?" Jaskier asks.

". . . it's fine," Geralt repeats. Jaskier tilts his head.

"Hmmm," he says, and picks up that vial again. Geralt . . . notices. That's all. "Well, then I suppose I don't need this just now?"

Geralt doesn't answer. Jaskier sighs. He inspects the vial.

"It's still mostly full," he says musingly. He looks down Geralt's body the same way Geralt looked down his, and Geralt feels . . . odd, almost. It's not as if no one's ever given him an admiring look before—even knowing he was a witcher—but it's odd all the same.

Something's different about Jaskier doing it, somehow.

"Nothing to say?" Jaskier says. He taps the vial against his cheek. Geralt . . . watches.

"No," he says.

"Should I make assumptions again?" Jaskier asks mildly, and something burns inside Geralt. He doesn't answer. Jaskier leans over him, his eyes glittering in the dim.

Geralt waits.

"Geralt," Jaskier says. "I'm going to make an assumption."

Geralt watches him, anticipation curling in his gut, and Jaskier pours oil onto his fingers. It still smells sweet. He doesn't know what to expect the other to do, but Jaskier doesn't waste any time; he reaches down and slips his fingers back inside him and curls them just so, rubs just so, and Geralt grunts. His cock twitches, and Jaskier hums.

"Can you come like this?" Jaskier says, working his fingers inside him. Geralt wants to touch himself, wants to rock his hips, but restrains himself. It'll be better if Jaskier does it. It's already better with Jaskier doing it. "Or should I give you something more?"

"Hn," Geralt says.

"Oh, Geralt," Jaskier says. "What will it take to get you to talk to me?"

Jaskier curls his fingers inside him again, and Geralt curls his own in the sheets. His cock is responding, growing heavy and thick, and Jaskier is watching it like . . . and Jaskier's watching it. Something burns inside Geralt again. He wonders if Jaskier's going to fuck him again. It didn't sound like it, the way he was talking.

Jaskier sets aside the vial and puts his free hand on his cock. Geralt grits his teeth around a grunt. He was right. It's better being touched by Jaskier than just doing it himself.

"Here's an idea," Jaskier says. "You get hard for me, and I'll give you something nice."

It’s not exactly an imposition. Geralt already is getting hard for him.

Jaskier reclaims his hands, though, and Geralt misses them immediately.

"Well?" Jaskier says. "Go on."

Geralt bites the inside of his cheek. He wraps a hand around his half-hard cock to stroke and Jaskier makes an approving noise that goes straight to it. It takes very, very little effort to get the rest of the way there.

"There we go," Jaskier says. He picks up the vial again and slicks his fingers. Geralt wonders if he wants fucked after all, but Jaskier doesn't put his fingers inside himself; he smooths his hand down the inside of his thighs instead, leaving oil behind.

Geralt's brain catches up, and his cock twitches again and his eyes flare. Jaskier laughs, and this time Geralt doesn't hate it.

"I thought you might like this idea," Jaskier says, then turns onto his side and glances back over his shoulder at him with a faint, barely-visible smile. "Come on. Come and get it."

Geralt immediately presses in against Jaskier's back, and Jaskier shifts back into him, and his cock slips easily between the other's warm, slicked-up thighs. Geralt buries his face in Jaskier's shoulder, and Jaskier tightens his thighs around his cock. Geralt's hips stutter, and he fucks into the tight place Jaskier's made for him.

"There you go," Jaskier croons at him, and Geralt groans, gripping the other's hips. "Such a big cock, Geralt. Give it to me."

Geralt does.

Of course he does.

“Just like that, yes,” Jaskier says breathlessly, and he sounds like he’s being fucked, although Geralt doesn’t actually know how Jaskier sounds when he’s being fucked. He wants to. Jaskier seemed willing, before. Maybe he’ll be willing again. “Harder, love, come on—”

Geralt does not let himself react to that term of endearment, but his fingers still dig in harder against Jaskier’s hips. He might be about to bruise him, but . . .

“That’s right, come on,” Jaskier husks. “Don’t disappoint me now, darling.”

Geralt groans into Jaskier’s shoulder and snaps his hips in. Jaskier laughs, easy and light and so unlike the way he laughed downstairs. He sounds like he’s never been upset a day in his life, much less today.

“Yes, yes, give it to me,” Jaskier says. He’s apparently done being quiet. Geralt can’t bring himself to be bothered. He fucks into the space between the other’s thighs and Jaskier squeezes them together so tight, and Geralt breathes roughly against his shoulder and bruises his hips with his fingers. Jaskier keeps talking. “I always thought you’d be rougher than this. You can, you know. Don’t hold back on my account.”

“Ngh,” Geralt says. He bites down on Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier makes a pleased noise.

“Oh, Geralt,” he purrs. He threads his fingers into Geralt’s hair; puts his other hand over one of the ones Geralt has on his hips. Geralt’s used to being careful with his partners, but this isn’t really a situation he has to be careful in, and Jaskier doesn’t seem to want him to be anyway.

Jaskier doesn’t want him to be, so . . .

“Come on, darling,” Jaskier says, and Geralt wraps an arm around his stomach and snaps his hips in roughly and bites his shoulder again. “Better. Don’t stop.”

Geralt doesn’t stop. He’s as rough as he dares to be and clings as tight to Jaskier as he can, and Jaskier keeps crooning and cooing and urging him on. Geralt groans raggedly, and Jaskier croons at him again and cups the side of his face with a hand. Geralt wishes his soulmark were somewhere easier to touch. He wishes Jaskier were touching it right now. He wishes—

He knows better than to be making wishes. Haven’t they gotten him in enough trouble as it is?

He especially should know better than to be making wishes over a damn soulmark.

“Mmm, aren’t you eager, love,” Jaskier says, and Geralt curses roughly and comes all over his thighs. Jaskier laughs again, warm and easy; tugs lightly at his hair as Geralt shudders through his orgasm. “Very eager. Was that good?”

“Good,” Geralt rasps, burying his face in Jaskier’s neck and tightening his arms around him. Jaskier laughs again.

“Good,” he says.

Geralt wants to know why he’s calling him endearments. Geralt wants to know if he’s going to leave after this. Geralt wants to know . . . too many things, probably. Definitely too many to ask all at once, or maybe even at all. He’s already upset Jaskier enough for one day; he doesn’t want to trip over something else that might do it. For the moment, he has him in his arms, and that . . .

It’s enough, he tells himself, like he tells himself every time he wants someone who’s going to leave to stay. It’s enough, and he’s not going to ask for more.

He’s learned better than to do that by now.

Jaskier shifts. Geralt forces himself to loosen his grip on him.

“Oh, what a mess,” Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt regretfully lets go of him and lets him sit up. Jaskier gets out of the bed and cleans himself up with a washcloth from the pitcher and basin on the dresser. Geralt watches him do it much too attentively, and Jaskier looks back at him and then brings over another washcloth for him. Geralt takes it and cleans himself up too.

He’d rather be touching Jaskier again.

“That was lovely,” Jaskier says, taking the dirty washcloth from him. Geralt braces himself for the “and now let’s never do it again”, but Jaskier doesn’t say that. He just takes the washcloths back to where he got them and then picks up his pants and pulls them back on. Geralt would rather have him naked, but he doesn’t say that. “Hmmm. Where did my jacket go?”

“Don’t know,” Geralt says.

“As long as we didn’t come on it,” Jaskier mutters, rifling around. Geralt sits up and opens the curtain so he can see better. “Oh!”

Jaskier straightens up, looking startled. Something silver flashes around his throat—a necklace, Geralt assumes—and he puts a hand to his collar with an unnerved expression. Geralt frowns.

“What’s wrong?” he says.

“Er,” Jaskier says, his eyes sliding across the floor before landing on his fallen jacket. “Nothing. Ah, there it is! Thank you.” He scoops up the jacket and turns his back to pull it on, buttoning it up to his throat and then smoothing the line of it. Geralt misses the softer profile of his shirt already. Jaskier looks ready to walk out of the room right now and never come back. All he needs are his boots.

Geralt tries to ask if he’s going to leave yet, but can’t quite get the words out. Jaskier straightens his clothes and runs his fingers through his hair, looking . . . odd, somehow.

“Your mouth,” Jaskier says. “Wait, no, I’m—”

Geralt’s already opened it, of course, and tipped his head back to give the other an easy view. Jaskier falls silent. He stares into his mouth.

Geralt doesn’t understand why Jaskier is his soulmate. Understands even less why Jaskier is his soulmate now, and not any time in the past two decades.

But when Jaskier puts a hand on his jaw and tips his head back just a little bit further, Geralt lets him.

“Ciri’s right,” Jaskier murmurs. “It is pretty.”

Geralt rolls his eyes.

“I mean it,” Jaskier says, letting go of his jaw. Geralt lets his mouth close again. “Sweet-looking little thing. Well, I suppose I should be pleased, since it’s apparently me and all.”

“It is you,” Geralt says, though he thinks he’s been pretty clear about that. Jaskier laughs. It’s not the easy laugh, but it’s not quite the one he hates either. It’s not a kind laugh, though.

“After all this time,” Jaskier says. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of a soulmark taking so long to fill in. Perhaps I should’ve been more impressive?”

“Mm,” Geralt says. It’s true; Jaskier’s never really impressed him before. It makes him feel . . .

Well, it doesn’t matter, really. It’s a one-sided match, after all. Why does it matter if it took this long?

“Sorry,” Jaskier says, and smiles weakly at him. “I’m sure you’d rather have had Yennefer. Well, of course you would have. You’d have known her right away.”

“Probably,” Geralt says. Yennefer’s done a lot of impressive things around him. He doubts it would’ve taken long.

But it’s not Yennefer.

“Yes, well,” Jaskier says, looking around the room again restlessly. “Silly me. Should’ve gotten in the way years ago. Hardly a good time to be doing it now and all.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, although he doesn’t know what to follow it up with. Jaskier looks at him for a moment, then laughs again.

“Oh, Geralt,” he says. “I really am sorry. You should’ve had someone who suits you. Not, well. Me.”

“Why are you sorry?” Geralt says.

“I just said,” Jaskier says, frowning faintly at him for a moment before his expression crumples. “And . . . gods, all this time, Geralt, and I never impressed you once. I must say, it doesn’t make a man feel very good about himself.”

“No one asked you to impress me,” Geralt says, reflexively tensing.

“You don’t think I ever tried to?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt . . . frowns. Why would Jaskier try to impress him? “Oh, you stupid . . . of course I’ve tried to. But I’m a pie with no filling, aren’t I. Just some silly . . . what do you even think of me as, Geralt? I know it’s not a friend, despite my best efforts.”

“Why do you care?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier’s expression turns downright miserable.

“I really have tried, you know,” he says. Geralt doesn’t know what to say. When does he ever? But right now he needs to know what to say, and he just . . . “I did my best.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Geralt says, and Jaskier’s face twists. If he cries again, Geralt might just kill himself for it. “It’s not—you don’t have to fucking impress me, Jaskier.”

“Apparently I do!” Jaskier says hotly. “Seeing as I’m your soulmate, that’s the literal definition of what I have to do!”

“That’s not . . .” Geralt trails off uselessly. Jaskier gives him a bitter look.

“That is,” he says. “I’m your soulmate, and I didn’t impress you until I got in the way of a stupid vampire for all of two seconds. As if it even mattered when you were already about to kill the thing.”

“Ciri—” Geralt starts. Jaskier puts his hands over his ears.

“I don’t want to hear it!” he snaps. “I don’t even want to know why that impressed you!”

“You could’ve died,” Geralt says.

“I could’ve died a lot of times, Geralt!” Jaskier says. “It’s not like it’s never come up before!”

“Not like that,” Geralt says, feeling . . . stupid, mostly. He should get dressed again too. He should think of something better to say. He should’ve paid more attention to Jaskier all this time, because then maybe this would’ve happened years ago, and Jaskier wouldn’t be looking at him like . . . wouldn’t be feeling like . . .

“I’ve never, ever impressed you,” Jaskier says bitterly. “Not once. Nothing I sang, no song I wrote, no favor I did, nothing. Not once.”

“No,” Geralt says. There’s no point in trying to soften that blow. “Not before now.”

“I’m so angry,” Jaskier says, shaking his head. “What a waste of time.”

“Time?” Geralt frowns.

“It’s just not fair,” Jaskier says helplessly. “I tried, Geralt! I really did!”

“You didn’t even know I had a mark,” Geralt says, his frown deepening. He doesn’t understand.

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t want to impress you!” Jaskier snaps at him. “You—you’re amazing, Geralt, of course I wanted to impress you! I at least wanted you to like me! And you don’t even like me! You don’t think I’m your friend, you think I ruin everything, you hate—”

“I don’t hate you,” Geralt cuts him off with.

“You could’ve damn well fooled me!” Jaskier says, throwing his hands up in the air. “I’m the worst soulmate on the fucking continent! For someone who doesn’t even believe in destiny! Someone’s laughing about this, and it’s not me!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and gets up off the bed and . . . just stands there, useless. Jaskier drags his hands down his face, then points at him accusingly.

“If you try to make me feel better, I’m going back to that damn forest and feeding myself to the first vampire I find,” he says.

“I’m not trying to make you feel better,” Geralt says.

“Good!” Jaskier snaps. “A damned buttercup! No wonder I’ve never impressed you. It’s a miracle I ever did. And with the worst possible timing, too!”

“It is,” Geralt agrees.

“I know!” Jaskier shoves him, but not hard enough to actually make him go anywhere. “You’ve got Ciri, and you’re still upset about Yennefer, and—”

“I’m not upset about Yennefer,” Geralt lies.

“—still upset about Yennefer, and probably haven’t been paid in months, knowing you!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. “This isn’t helping.”

“I get to say if it helps!” Jaskier says. “Twenty years, and you’ve never liked me or been impressed by me or done anything but—what, pity me?! Is that it?!”

“I don’t pity you,” Geralt says.

“I don’t believe you!” Jaskier shoves him again. It’s still not enough to move him. Geralt catches his wrists, and Jaskier makes a furious sound. “Geralt!”

“I don’t,” Geralt says tightly. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” Jaskier demands. “What has it ever been like? I’m not your friend and you never want to see me again but you’ll let me fuck you and I’m on your damn skin. What does that mean to you, Geralt?”

Geralt doesn’t know, or at least doesn’t know how to say it. He just wants one fucking thing to come out of his mouth today, but nothing’s managing it.

“Geralt!” Jaskier says in frustration, and Geralt still can’t say it. He grips the other’s wrists tight, and Jaskier bares his teeth at him. Geralt struggles to find the words, the right thing to say, but . . .

But.

“I don’t know,” he says. Jaskier laughs at him.

“You don’t know,” he says. “Twenty years, and you don’t know!”

“I didn’t know you were my soulmate until today,” Geralt says. He hasn’t had time to figure any of this out. There’s too much to figure out.

“Well some of us aren’t that lucky, are we!” Jaskier hisses spitefully, and Geralt . . . pauses.

“. . . Jaskier,” he says carefully. Jaskier gives him a vicious smile.

“Go on,” he says. “Ask me.”

“Am I . . .” Geralt starts, but can’t finish. Jaskier laughs at him again and yanks his wrists free.

“I thought it was one-sided,” he says. “I thought, ‘Well, I’m a bard, it makes sense I’d get a muse for a soulmate. Not somebody who wants me.’ And I was right, apparently!”

“How long have you known?” Geralt says.

“How long do you think?” Jaskier says. “It took you twenty years, so just guess when it happened for me. Go on.”

“. . . the djinn,” Geralt assumes. The djinn might make sense. Jaskier laughs. “The banquet?”

“The first time I fucking saw you,” Jaskier spits, and pulls open his collar and drags his shirt down to reveal—

It’s a wolf school medallion.

Of course it is, Geralt thinks, just looking at the gleaming silver mark on Jaskier’s skin.

“You didn’t have to do a damn thing,” Jaskier says roughly. “Not a thing at all.”

Geralt closes his eyes, and exhales. Jaskier laughs again, a trace of hysteria in the sound. Geralt . . . he’s never been impressed by his own fucking soulmate. Never once. And Jaskier just had to look at him.

What does that say about them?

“You could’ve told me,” he says, opening his eyes again to see Jaskier’s wet and too bright ones. Jaskier shakes his head.

“Then you really would have pitied me,” he says, voice thick and eyes still much too bright. “Stupid, unimpressive bard, wearing your mark since he was eighteen. Destined to follow you. How sad is that?”

Geralt can’t say anything.

“I shouldn’t even have told you,” Jaskier says tiredly, his shirt still hanging open; his chest still bearing that mark. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters,” Geralt says.

“Don’t you dare tell me that,” Jaskier says. “I’m the one who’s carried you on me all this time.”

“And tried to impress me,” Geralt says. Jaskier looks even more tired.

“I thought maybe it was just somewhere I hadn’t seen, for a while,” he says listlessly. “And then I just . . . I still wanted you to like me. I at least wanted that. Couldn’t even have that much, though, could I.”

Geralt just looks at him. Jaskier smiles humorlessly.

"It's alright," he says. "It's my fault, after all. I'm the one who couldn't impress you. Why would you like me?"

"I never asked to be impressed," Geralt says.

"You never ask for anything, Geralt," Jaskier says. "That doesn't mean you don't want it. It's fine. Really. Sorry for bringing it up."

"You should've sooner," Geralt says. He's looking at Jaskier's soulmark. It's hard not to. Jaskier covers it with a hand, and Geralt flicks his eyes back to the other's bitter, bitter expression.

"When?" Jaskier says. "When you hated all my songs? When you weren't impressed by me at all? When you were mooning after Yennefer? After you told me you wanted me off your hands? Shall I keep going?"

"It's me," Geralt says. "You should have told me."

"No," Jaskier says, flattening his hand over his mark. "You said you didn't have a mark. It was just me. I didn't have to tell you anything."

"You were never going to tell me," Geralt says.

"Never," Jaskier confirms.

Geralt doesn't know how he feels about that, but something about hearing it is just . . . frustrating. Maybe a little painful.

Maybe very painful.

Jaskier's known Geralt was his soulmate all this time, and he never said anything. Never so much as implied anything, unless once asking if witchers had soulmarks counts. Geralt might've . . . he doesn't know, exactly, what he might've done, but he'd have done something, if Jaskier'd said something.

He thinks he would have.

Maybe that "something" would've just been getting the hell away from him, though, he finds himself thinking.

It wouldn't be the only time he's left destiny behind.

"Like I said. It's fine," Jaskier says, rubbing at his face. "You have real problems. This is a temporary inconvenience at best.”

“I don’t let temporary inconveniences fuck me,” Geralt says.

“Very funny,” Jaskier says, and Geralt just . . . reaches out, and grabs the other’s arms again. Jaskier frowns at him. Geralt can’t come up with the right thing to say; can’t come up with anything to say.

So he kisses him.

It seems like a reasonable idea at the time, at least.

Jaskier makes a soft, startled sound, and for a moment Geralt thinks he’s done the wrong damn thing, but then Jaskier kisses back. It's the best he can do, so Geralt does the best he can do with it, until Jaskier's making quiet little noises and gripping his arms in return. Geralt hopes it can make up for at least some of what he can't say. There's too much that he can't make work, and he doesn't know what else to do. With Yennefer, he says too much; with Jaskier he just doesn’t know what to say at all.

"You're hopeless," Jaskier sighs, then pushes him back towards the bed. Geralt lets him. The backs of his legs hit the side of the bed and he sits down on the mattress. Jaskier crawls into his lap and loops his arms around his neck. He kisses him again, and Geralt kisses back.

This is good. He can do this, at least. The rest of it . . . that's too much right now, but he can do this much.

Jaskier tilts his head into the kiss and Geralt deepens it and wraps his arms around his waist. Jaskier clutches at him and keeps making those quiet little noises.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, hoping the other doesn’t hate the way he says it, and Jaskier sighs between their mouths and pushes a hand into his hair to tug lightly.

“You’re so difficult,” he murmurs. “I just want you to talk to me. Just sometimes.”

“I’m not good at that,” Geralt says. Jaskier gives him a wry look.

“Oh, I’ve noticed,” he says, then traces his hairline with his fingertips, his expression briefly distant. “Can you go again?”

“Yes,” Geralt says. “If you want.”

“I want a lot of things, Geralt,” Jaskier says, tracing his hairline again. Geralt wants to press into the contact, but restrains himself.

“Take your shirt off,” he says. Jaskier pauses for a moment, but then nods.

“Alright,” he says, shrugging out of his jacket again and then pulling his shirt off over his head. Geralt looks at his exposed chest—at his exposed mark. Seeing the whole thing at once is . . . affecting. He wants to touch it, but restrains himself again. He kisses him instead, and Jaskier leans into him. Jaskier strokes his hair and the back of his neck, and Geralt tightens his grip on him. He wants Jaskier to stay, which makes it very obvious he’s going to go.

He wants . . .

Jaskier kisses him harder, and Geralt responds in kind. He doesn’t try to touch the other’s mark. Jaskier pushes at his shoulders; Geralt lays back, and Jaskier leans over him.

“I’m going to assume some things again, Geralt,” he says, stroking a hand up his side before getting up again to take his pants off. Geralt’s gut burns in immediate anticipation, and Jaskier picks up that vial again and straddles his thighs and slicks up his fingers. Geralt watches, and inhales sharply when Jaskier reaches between his own thighs to slip a finger inside himself.

“Jaskier,” he says.

“Yes?” Jaskier says.

“You don’t have to . . .” Geralt trails off. Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him.

“Well, I want to,” he says. “So how do you feel about that?”

“Hn,” Geralt says. Jaskier sighs, pressing another finger inside himself.

“I want your dick in me, Geralt,” he says patiently. "I want all filled up with that nice big cock of yours."

Geralt tightens his jaw, pushing his hands up Jaskier's thighs. Jaskier keeps working his fingers inside himself. Geralt wants to tell him how good he looks doing that, but . . . doesn't.

"I bet it feels so good, Geralt," Jaskier says, watching him with heavy-lidded eyes. "I bet it's so good to come on."

Geralt digs his fingers into Jaskier's thighs. They flex under his grip. He wants to be inside him. He wants . . .

Jaskier works another finger into himself. Geralt watches. Jaskier . . . keeps talking.

"How much of it do you think I can take?" he asks. "I want to find out."

Geralt swallows roughly, tightening his grip on Jaskier's thighs again. He had no idea Jaskier's voice could affect him the way it's affecting him right now, but he's not sure anything's ever affected him like the gleam of that silver mark on the other's chest.

It's . . . very affecting, that mark.

Jaskier starts panting. Geralt grits his teeth and forces himself to wait. He pushes his hands up Jaskier's sides and Jaskier leans into them.

"Get inside me," Jaskier says breathlessly after not much longer, reclaiming his fingers. Geralt drags him down and kisses him, and Jaskier makes a startled, pleased sound. Geralt rolls them over and they shift and squirm until they're both properly on the bed, and Jaskier wraps his arms around his neck and squeezes his thighs against his sides. "Like this?" he asks, sounding briefly uncertain. Geralt kisses him again.

"Like this," he says.

"Alright," Jaskier murmurs, flicking his eyes down between their bodies. He bites his lip. Geralt grabs the oil to slick up his cock, and Jaskier watches raptly as he does. Geralt likes that more than he should, probably.

"Are you sure?" he says, and Jaskier eyes him.

"Geralt," he says patiently. "If you don't fuck me right now, I'm going to kick you out of this bed and into the hall. Naked."

"Hn," Geralt says, and Jaskier kisses him again. Geralt grips his cock to guide it against him, and Jaskier groans. He presses into him, and Jaskier inhales sharply, his eyes flaring wide. His body is warm and receptive and Geralt braces a hand against the wall to keep himself steady. He wants to fuck him immediately, but he knows better; he needs to let him adjust.

"Oh, you really are big," Jaskier gasps hoarsely, digging his nails into his back. "You really—you're big."

"Is it too much?" Geralt asks carefully, forcing himself to stay still.

"If you pull out I will kill you," Jaskier says. "Move."

Geralt thrusts once, shallowly, and Jaskier moans very, very loudly.

"Oh gods," he says. Geralt thrusts again. "Oh gods!"

Geralt sets a careful rhythm, fucking into him with slow, steady thrusts, and Jaskier starts babbling and clawing at his back.

"Oh, oh, Geralt, Geralt, don't you dare fucking stop," he groans. "You feel so good, fuck, I can't believe how good you feel."

"You're tight," Geralt says, stupidly.

"No fucking wonder!" Jaskier laughs breathlessly, dropping his head back against the bed. Geralt kisses his throat, but not quite low enough to kiss his soulmark. Jaskier groans. "Oh—more, come on, love, give me more."

Geralt wonders if Jaskier even realizes it when he's saying things like that.

He fucks him a little harder, a little deeper, and Jaskier moves into him, gasping for breath. He looks overwhelmed, and Geralt feels overwhelmed. Jaskier is so tight, clinging to him so hard, and Geralt can barely think past how good he feels.

"Yes, yes, gods yes, don't stop don't stop—" Jaskier half-chants, clinging to him all the harder, and Geralt doesn't. He holds back, though; doesn't bury himself as deeply in the other as he wants to or fuck him as roughly as he could. Jaskier already looks overwhelmed, already is this close to a pleading mess, and Geralt doesn't want to go too far and risk hurting him. He wants Jaskier to like this. He wants him to love this.

He wants him to come back for more.

"Oh oh oh—!"

Yes. That's what he wants.

Geralt buries his face in Jaskier's neck, again just above the soulmark, and fucks him as steady and perfect as he knows how to. He hasn't slept with as many men as women, no, but he knows how to make this good for Jaskier; how to fuck him right and treat him well.

Jaskier seems to be liking it, at least, going by the noises he's making.

Good, Geralt thinks. That's good.

"Geralt," Jaskier chokes, and Geralt wraps a hand around his cock to stroke. "Geralt!"

He leans back to watch Jaskier's face, and fucks him 'til he comes. Jaskier gasps and chokes and moans, and then spills all over Geralt's hand. His expression as he does is something Geralt never wants to forget.

"Ohhhh," Jaskier groans, throwing an arm across his eyes, and Geralt slows his thrusts. Jaskier's breathing in rough, heaving gulps, chest rising and falling, and his soulmark is flashing in the light.

Geralt can't stop looking at it. Jaskier won't mind, he tells himself. He wanted to see his too.

He’d think it was pretty, if it weren’t a witcher medallion. Seeing it on Jaskier makes him feel strange, though. At a glance, he could think it was a real medallion.

He could think it was his, and that Jaskier was really wearing it.

Which, in a sense, Geralt supposes he is.

“Come on,” Jaskier murmurs, dropping his arm away from his eyes; looking up at him all hazy and heated. “Come inside me.”

It doesn’t take much more than that.

Geralt comes with a groan, burying his face in Jaskier’s shoulder, and Jaskier threads his fingers through his hair and strokes the back of his shoulders.

“There you go,” Jaskier hums lowly. Geralt pulls out of him and lays down on his side, and Jaskier puts his hand in his hair again and draws his fingers through the full length of it. Geralt watches him through heavy eyes as he catches his breath.

It feels good, but he doesn’t say that. Jaskier keeps doing it anyway, though.

“Gods, you’re good at that,” Jaskier says after a little while, drawing his fingers through his hair one last time before reclaiming his hand and sitting up. He winces slightly as he does, and Geralt’s attention sharpens.

“Was it too much?” he asks.

“Ask me when I have to walk tomorrow,” Jaskier says wryly.

“Mm.” Geralt frowns. He sits up too. He definitely feels like he’s been fucked, but he’s not sore enough to wince. Jaskier seems a bit more affected. Maybe he wasn’t careful enough, he thinks.

Jaskier gets up and cleans himself up, and Geralt watches him move. He’s a little stiff, but not concerningly so, so . . .

So.

“Well, we’ve made a mess of the bed,” Jaskier observes from the dresser. Geralt glances down at it. They have, definitely. He really doesn’t care, though. They can strip the sheets and worry about it later.

“Come back,” he says, and Jaskier gives him an odd, bright-eyed look.

“I haven’t actually gone anywhere,” he says.

“You know what I mean,” Geralt says. Jaskier laughs, low and quiet. Geralt wants to pull him back into the bed and not let him go anywhere.

“Get those filthy sheets off and we’ll see,” Jaskier says. He turns back to the dresser. Geralt isn’t sure what he’s doing, but stripping the bed is easy enough, and he does it before the other’s even turned back around. Jaskier keeps giving him that odd look, but comes back over. Geralt . . .

Geralt reaches out for him, pulls him down, and pushes his face into his neck.

“You can touch it, you realize,” Jaskier says, a forced lightness in his tone. Geralt . . . pauses.

“Mm,” he says.

“I mean, not that you necessarily want to, I’m really just assuming here,” Jaskier says. “You seem to be going to an awful lot of effort not to, is all. And it’s not going to bite you. It’s just a soulmark.”

“Your soulmark,” Geralt says.

“Well, I consider it more yours, really,” Jaskier says, again with that forced lightness. Geralt looks at him. Jaskier smiles, brittle and strange, and Geralt wants to kiss him until that expression goes away.

He doesn’t, but he wants to.

That doesn’t matter, of course, since he doesn’t do anything about it.

“Really,” Jaskier says. “It’s fine.”

Geralt looks at him for another long moment, then very carefully lays a hand over Jaskier’s chest, covering the medallion with his palm. Jaskier’s eyes flare, and his hand burns. It’s . . . something.

It’s a lot, Geralt thinks. Maybe too much.

He drops his hand away. Jaskier laughs, still brittle and strange.

“See?” he says. “It’s just a soulmark. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Doesn’t it?” Geralt says. Jaskier stares at him, then laughs again. Geralt really does hate it.

“It’s destiny,” Jaskier says. “You know. Horseshit.”

“Hn.”

“And an unimpressive destiny, at that,” Jaskier says, his smile completely humorless. “It’s fine. I know I’m not what you want.”

“I didn’t say that,” Geralt says.

“You did, actually,” Jaskier says. “Rather loudly. And angrily.”

“That’s not . . .”

“Oh, but it really is.”

Geralt looks at him for a long, long moment. Jaskier keeps smiling that humorless smile. Geralt almost kisses him again; almost touches his soulmark again. Almost does . . . a lot of things.

But doesn’t do any of them, of course, so none of that matters.

Jaskier gets off the bed. He gets redressed again. Geralt watches his soulmark vanish under his clothes. Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him.

“You really should sleep,” he says. “You need it. Frankly I’m amazed you haven’t already passed out, after all that.”

“I’m fine,” Geralt says stiffly.

“Liar,” Jaskier says, not accusingly but as a simple statement of fact. Geralt can’t exactly argue with it. Jaskier leans over and picks up his pants and holds them out to him, and Geralt takes them. He redresses too.

He doesn’t say or do anything that would matter.

He doesn’t know if there’s a damn thing he could.

Jaskier draws the curtain again, then comes back to bed and lays down and closes his eyes, and Geralt sits beside him and just watches him for a long, long time. Jaskier is merciful enough not to comment.

It’s not what Geralt wants, but he doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants. Doesn’t think Jaskier would give it to him anyway.

Or wouldn’t think that, except . . .

Jaskier’d said Geralt wouldn’t want him. Not that he didn’t want Geralt.

Geralt’s . . . thinking about that.

He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. It doesn’t feel any different than it did yesterday, but somehow the mark still burns when he looks at Jaskier.

He’s thinking about that, too.

Jaskier sleeps.

Geralt doesn’t. He thinks about Jaskier crying, and all the different ways he's laughed today, and the back-and-forth between his grief and his pleasure. He thinks about the way his body felt, and the mark on his chest, and twenty fucking years.

He thinks he should’ve paid more attention to him all this time.

Is it actually that Jaskier never did anything that would’ve impressed him, or is it just that Geralt never noticed it? Is that the reason that Jaskier had to wait for literal decades for him to realize they had each other’s marks?

Does it matter either way, if he can’t deal with that right now? Or would they have gotten this out of the way years ago if Geralt had just paid more attention, and the only reason the timing’s so bad now is because of his mistakes?

That might be true, he admits to himself. This might be his fault.

Jaskier’d said Geralt wouldn’t want him.

And Geralt . . . Geralt doesn’t know what he wants at all.

Jaskier sleeps. Geralt doesn’t.

He tries to think of what he’s going to say when the other wakes up. There’s so many things he could, but none of them feel right, and the ones that are probably the most honest he doesn’t think he can actually manage to say. And he doesn’t know what he wants, either, so he can’t tell Jaskier what he wants.

He doesn’t even know if he wants Jaskier. Not like that. It’s one thing to let him tag along for material or do him a favor or fuck him, but as his soulmate? As the matching mark to the flower he didn’t even know was on his tongue? As that gleaming medallion?

No. Geralt really doesn’t know if he wants that.

Of course his soul would leave that mark, though. A mark that just reminds him how useless a soulmate he’d be, when he has the Path to follow. Even without Ciri to worry about, he could never give Jaskier what even the least involved of his flings could; couldn’t give him that much time or attention or . . . anything. None of it.

Geralt has a job to do, and Jaskier has a life to live. Those things don’t go together.

It’s better, letting this go. Easier and cleaner, and going to avoid more hurt than it’d cause. Jaskier can live his life, and Geralt can help Ciri, and neither of them will need to try and make themselves into something they’re not.

It’s better.

Geralt closes his eyes, and tries to sleep.

He still can’t.

He wonders just what kind of life Jaskier wants, anyway. He should know the answer to that question after all this time.

But he doesn't, of course.

But he should.

Jaskier breathes softly in sleep, and Geralt stares up at the ceiling and thinks about all the questions he should already have answers for. What kind of life does Jaskier want? What does he want? Why now, of all times?

Really. How can it be now, of all times. All the other chances it could've been, and it chose to be this one.

Or Geralt just really should've been paying more attention.

He exhales roughly, closing his eyes again. It doesn't help. Nothing seems to. His mind won't stop racing and he can't fall asleep and he can't ignore destiny in the other half of this bed.

And Jaskier is right here, and a thousand miles away.

Geralt concentrates on his breath. His heartbeat. The silence. Anything he can think of besides Jaskier's body warmth beside him, Jaskier's breathing, Jaskier's existence. What Jaskier might want.

Twenty fucking years, he thinks.

Twenty fucking years.

Jaskier sighs in his sleep. Geralt is much, much too aware of even that little sound.

He almost wishes something, but holds it back.

Jaskier sleeps all day, and Geralt doesn't sleep a wink. In the late afternoon, someone knocks lightly on the door, and he rolls off the bed to answer it. It must be Ciri, he thinks, and is immediately proven right when he opens the door to find her there.

"Everything alright?" he says.

"Yes," she says. "I just wasn't sure if you'd be awake yet. I was going to get something to eat."

"You should," Geralt says, then rummages for his coin purse.

"I still have a little money," Ciri says, shaking her head. "I just wanted to know if you wanted to come."

"Oh," Geralt says. "Yes. Give me a moment."

"Okay." Ciri waits, and Geralt turns back into the room to get his boots and put them on. Jaskier is still asleep. He considers waking him, but figures he probably needs the sleep. He can always eat later.

Ciri leads the way down to the tavern, and they eat . . . breakfast, or dinner, or whatever this meal counts as. Geralt doesn't let himself think too hard about Jaskier. He concentrates on the food, and eats methodically. Ciri sneaks a peek at him. He glances back at her.

"Mm?" he says. She flushes.

"Did you and Jaskier make up?" she says, and Geralt honestly has no idea how to answer her.

"Is that why you said we should room together?" he says, and she flushes even darker.

"I thought it might help," she says. "Did it help?"

"I don't know," Geralt says, because he can't bring himself to lie to her. Ciri frowns.

"Why not?" she says. He tries to find the words, but that's when Jaskier appears at the foot of the stairs, looking . . . twitchy.

"Ah, here you are!" he says brightly. "I almost thought you'd run off on me."

"I left my armor," Geralt says.

"Yes, therefore the 'almost', Geralt," Jaskier says. He hesitates for a moment, then sits down at the table. Geralt watches him, not sure what to say. Or think, really. "How's the food? Worth our stay?"

"It's . . . fine," Ciri says. As a girl used to eating like a princess, that's probably the kindest adjective she has. "The bread's fresh."

"Lucky us," Jaskier says, folding his arms on the table. Geralt keeps watching him warily. "How did you two sleep?"

"Fine," Ciri says.

"Fine," Geralt lies.

"Good, we had enough trouble last night without it carrying over into the day," Jaskier says briskly. "You certainly won't catch me in those woods again."

"I should make sure they're cleared out," Geralt says.

"Is someone paying you to?" Jaskier asks pointedly. "Because otherwise, no."

"Mm," Geralt says.

"Priorities, Geralt," Jaskier says. "Are you a witcher or not?"

"Mm," Geralt says again.

"You're so difficult," Jaskier sighs. "I'm not writing a ballad about this, you realize."

"Are you really going to go fight more vampires?" Ciri asks tentatively.

"He's hardly got the time to," Jaskier says. "Not that that's ever stopped him before, of course."

"I'll ask the town council about it," Geralt says.

"And if they don't want to pay?" Jaskier says. Geralt takes another bite of his food. "Mmmhm. You know, you're usually much better at pretending not to get involved."

"I'm not getting involved," Geralt says.

"Oh no, of course not," Jaskier says, rolling his eyes. "Not Geralt of Rivia!"

"I can wait here," Ciri says. "I'll be fine."

Geralt doesn't like that idea, for all the obvious reasons and a few less obvious ones too. He doesn't like the idea of fuck knows how many alps running wild in the forest either, though. That's not something to be left alone. Especially not because an alp can disguise herself as a human with hardly any effort whatsoever. And they're dangerous enough even without that little trick.

"Really," Ciri says. "We won't go anywhere."

"We?" Geralt echoes.

"Jaskier and I." She looks between them. Geralt resists the urge to look at Jaskier. He doesn't know what Jaskier's looking at. "We can stay at the inn tonight. That'd be alright, wouldn't it?"

Geralt hesitates. He's not sure what he wants to do here. The alps are a problem, obviously, but . . .

"Really," Ciri says. "We'll be fine."

"Of course we will," Jaskier says breezily, waving a hand in the air. "I'll probably even turn a profit, I'm sure the locals will appreciate my dulcet tones."

"I'm not," Geralt says.

"Rude!"

"Are you sure you'll be alright alone?" Geralt says, though he's personally not sure at all, and Ciri nods.

"We'll be fine," she repeats. "You need to get paid, right?"

She's not wrong. He's down to his last few coins, and they can't live in the woods forever. That's assuming this town will even pay, though, and that might be a bit much to assume. Geralt's been more than a few places less concerned with their people's lives than their town's coffers.

"They might not pay," he says.

"You are terrible at getting paid," Jaskier says agreeably. "I've rarely met worse."

Geralt gives him a dubious look. The first time he met Jaskier, the other was eating bread off the floor. He doesn't mention that, though, because that's not the only thing that happened the first time they met.

He's not sure what he'd say if Ciri weren't here.

"I'm going to go talk to them," he says instead. "Don't go anywhere. Either of you."

"Either of us?" Jaskier asks with an odd glint in his eye. Geralt . . . perhaps should not have said that. Or at least said it differently.

"Yes," he says anyway, pushing his chair back. "I'll be back before I go back to the woods."

"Because you're definitely going to the woods?" Jaskier says, raising an eyebrow at him. Geralt ignores the question.

"I won't be long," he says to Ciri.

"Alright," she says.

He goes upstairs to put his armor back on and then leaves them at the inn, not sure which one he's trusting to take care of the other, and he asks around until he finds someone willing to pay him to deal with the alp problem, and then he heads back to the others. Jaskier is chatting up the innkeeper, presumably in pursuit of playing here tonight, and Ciri is sitting in the corner with his lute. Geralt goes to her, gives her his last few coins and makes sure she doesn't need anything, and tells her he'll be back in the morning.

"Be careful," she says.

"I will," Geralt says, as if he has any idea how to be. "Don't let the bard wander off with anyone he shouldn't." Ciri blinks at him, looking confused.

"He's your soulmate," she says. "Why would he wander off?"

"Mm," Geralt says. Ciri still looks confused. Jaskier sweeps up to them cheerfully.

"There we go, all sorted!" he says brightly, making a show of dusting off his hands. "Anyone paying you, Geralt?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I'm impressed!"

"You'll be back in the morning?" Ciri says.

"Yes," Geralt says. "But if I'm not, leave town."

Ciri frowns worriedly. Jaskier shrugs dismissively.

"When don't you come back?" he says.

"Hn," Geralt says. Eventually he won't. Eventually everyone doesn't.

"Anyway, we'll just keep the rooms for the night," Jaskier says. "Was already planning on it, personally. I'm in no rush to go anywhere."

"Where are you going?" Ciri asks. Jaskier smiles pleasantly at her.

"I'll tell you when I know," he says.

"Are you going to come with us?" she asks, glancing between them again. Jaskier's smile turns slightly strained.

"Oh, you don't need a bard tagging along, I wouldn't be much use," he says with a laugh, and Geralt remembers him saying that he wouldn't want him, and remembers him talking about how he'd tried to impress him, and remembers . . .

Remembers him crying, mostly, because that's damn hard to forget.

"There's more places to sing than there are monsters to kill," Ciri says. "I bet you get paid more often, too."

"Well, someone has your number," Jaskier says to Geralt. He doesn't answer Ciri. Geralt . . .

He needs to say something. He needs to say something right now, or Jaskier really will leave and he really will never see him again. The thought is a certainty in his mind. Destiny or not, this is the last time he'll ever see Jaskier.

That's not even true. Jaskier already said he'd keep the rooms. He's not leaving yet. Geralt will see him in the morning, after he makes sure the alps are all dead.

And yet . . .

"Jaskier," Geralt says.

"Yes?" Jaskier says, looking at him with a neutral, pleasant expression. Maybe he's waiting for Geralt to say something. Maybe he's waiting to leave. Maybe . . .

"Ciri's right," Geralt says. Anything else seems like . . . too much. Too much to say, especially in the middle of the afternoon and the middle of a tavern and with Ciri right there listening.

"So you want me around for my coin," Jaskier says dryly.

"That's not what I meant," Geralt says. Jaskier waves him off.

"You'll just have to learn to stop getting involved in situations you're not getting paid to be in, Geralt," he says, and Geralt still feels like he's never going to see him again.

For fucking once, he wants to know the right thing to say. Just once.

It shouldn't be this hard.

But it is, so he's going to have to figure it out.

"Jaskier," he says. "Just . . . don't be difficult."

"Difficult?" Jaskier says, raising his eyebrows. "Oh, no, I wouldn't want to cause more trouble for you. You don't need another child surprise or crazy witch on your hands."

"I didn't say that," Geralt says in frustration.

"Didn't you?" Jaskier gives him a pointed look. Geralt grits his teeth.

He needs to say the right thing, but what the hell is that? What does Jaskier want from him?

. . . what does he want to give Jaskier?

Maybe that's the question.

"Don't fight," Ciri says, looking worried.

"Oh, we don't fight," Jaskier says. "He yells at me over someone else's choices and I slink off to lick my wounds. Very healthy behavior from both of us."

"I don't want to fight," Geralt says. He wants to fix this. He wants . . .

"Well, you've got other concerns these days," Jaskier says, and it's all Geralt can do not to reach out and put his hand on the other's chest, right over the medallion marked on it.

"That's not the point," he says. How is his mark in his mouth, when he can never say the right damn thing? There's some kind of irony there.

Or destiny, laughing.

"Don't you have vampires to be killing?" Jaskier says.

"Mm."

Geralt still wants to touch him. Still doesn't know what to say. Still . . .

Just "still".

"I mean, I know you adore my sterling company, I just assumed you were on a schedule," Jaskier says.

"Don't leave while I'm gone," Geralt says abruptly. Jaskier gives him a strange look, his eyes a little too wide and his mouth a little too tight.

"Why not, Geralt?" he says. "Because I assure you, if Ciri needs—"

"It's not about Ciri," Geralt interrupts, though maybe it should be. Jaskier wouldn't be much of a guardian if she needed one, though. Not up against the kind of people looking for her.

"Then what is it about, Geralt?" Jaskier says. "Because I'm sure it's not you."

Geralt tightens his jaw. He fists a hand against his side. Jaskier raises his eyebrows at him.

"Well?" he says.

"Just don't leave, dammit," Geralt grits out. Jaskier throws his hands up.

"Why do I even try?" he demands. "Were you this difficult for Yennefer? Are you this difficult for anyone else? Ever?"

"Shut up," Geralt snaps.

"So no," Jaskier says. "Should I feel special? Because I don't."

Geralt growls at him. Jaskier glares back.

“You don’t have anywhere to be, do you?” Ciri says, nervously covering her soulmark. Geralt supposes it’s not a very reassuring situation, watching soulmates argue. Or . . . not exactly argue.

He’s not sure what they’re doing, honestly.

“I could think of someplace,” Jaskier says, but softens slightly all the same. Towards Ciri, of course—not Geralt. “Don’t worry. I’ll stick around ‘til your errant witcher gets back. I’d hate to leave you alone and bored, after all.”

“Thank you,” Ciri says, glancing a little hesitantly at Geralt. He pretends not to notice.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” he says, and bites back the additional “don’t go anywhere”. It’s not going to help.

He leaves them there, and heads for the door.

“Why are you fighting?” Ciri asks softly, probably thinking he’s out of earshot. “You’re his soulmate.”

“I am afraid that is not the solution I would love for it to be,” Jaskier says, and then Geralt’s through the door and can’t hear either of them anymore.

He heads back out into the forest, and he spends the whole night hunting vampires. He’s attacked by a pair of stragglers, but no others, and the fight’s quick. He brings back their fangs as proof. It's an easy night, or as close to easy as his nights ever get.

Which is good, because he spends the whole damn time thinking about Jaskier.

He knows better. But he does it all the same. He thinks about him while he's headed out there, he thinks about him while he's hunting, he thinks about him while he's pulling fangs—he thinks about him.

And at the end of it all, trudging back to town in the early morning light, he still doesn't know what he wants to give him, or what he wants to say.

His throat isn't burning anymore, but he feels like it should be.

Geralt gets paid by a half-asleep council member, and he goes back to the inn. There's no sign of Ciri or Jaskier, but when he asks, the innkeeper confirms they're both upstairs. Geralt assumes they're asleep, so he sits down and eats . . . breakfast, or dinner, or whatever it is.

He still doesn't know what the fuck to say to Jaskier. He still needs to figure out what he wants. Does he want Jaskier around right now? It's not exactly safe, and it's hard enough protecting just Ciri.

Does he want Jaskier around at all?

A few years ago, he would've said "no" and been done with it. It would've been easy. Right now . . .

He doesn't know, right now.

So of course it'd be right now when he recognized him. Of course.

. . . of course.

That might mean something, Geralt can't help but suspect.

That destiny is horseshit, maybe. Maybe it means that.

Yeah, that seems likely.

Geralt eats his meal and drinks his ale and doesn't go upstairs. He could—of course he could—but he doesn't.

He doesn't know why he doesn't.

Or . . . doesn't want to know, maybe.

Fuck, this whole situation is giving him a headache. Of course it had to happen now.

Geralt exhales, and takes a long swallow of ale. It's . . . vaguely helpful, he tells himself. Really. It is.

Jaskier comes down the stairs, and nothing is any kind of helpful at all.

"Oh, you're back," Jaskier says, sounding surprised. "What am I saying, of course you're back. Why would you come back to the room like a normal person, after all?"

"Hn," Geralt says. He didn't know if Jaskier'd want to see him.

"You're a mess," Jaskier informs him. "Finish eating, I'll have someone fill up another bath."

"You don't need to do that," Geralt says.

"Geralt, there are leaves in your hair," Jaskier says. "I definitely need to do that."

"Hn."

"You're hopeless," Jaskier says, then goes to the innkeeper, passes over some coin, and comes back with his own tankard of ale and sits down at the table. Geralt doesn't stiffen, but . . . "Oh, don't look at me like that. You could at least pretend you'll miss me when I'm gone."

"Jaskier . . ." Geralt hesitates. Jaskier does not.

"Now, why on earth did you want me to stay 'til you got back?" he says. "Because if it was just to tell me to stay away where Ciri wouldn't hear, I've already gotten that message loud and clear."

"That's not what I wanted to tell you," Geralt says.

"But you did want to tell me something?" Jaskier raises his eyebrows. Geralt . . . hesitates. "Geralt."

"It's not like that," Geralt says gruffly.

"So then what is it like?" Jaskier says.

"Not that," Geralt says, feeling like an idiot.

"So you don't want to tell me anything," Jaskier says wearily, rubbing at his temples. "You want . . . what, exactly?"

"I don't want to tell you to stay away," Geralt says. Jaskier raises his eyebrows again.

"News to me," he says.

"Hn," Geralt says.

"You do realize you have to elaborate, yes?"

"Hn."

"Geralt."

"It's not . . ." Geralt grits his teeth; tries to figure this out for the thousandth time. This is something simple. He has no idea why it feels so complicated. "I'm not trying to get rid of you."

"Why not?" Jaskier says, tilting his head. Geralt might hate him a little bit right now.

"Because I don't want you gone," he says, voice rough. "It's not—safe, but . . ."

Jaskier waits, the bastard. Geralt struggles for the right thing to say.

"I've missed you," he says finally, because that's the truth and it's the best he has.

Jaskier doesn't speak, again, but this time Geralt thinks it's shock keeping his tongue in his head. He certainly looks shocked, at least.

"That's all," Geralt says tightly. "I've missed you. I don't want you gone."

"I'm in the way," Jaskier says.

"I don't care," Geralt says.

"You don't even like me." Jaskier's face twists.

"I never said that," Geralt says.

"You certainly never said you did," Jaskier says. "Why is that, Geralt? You can say things to other people, surely. You certainly said them to Yennefer!"

"You're not other people," Geralt says. He wants to reach over and touch him. Wants to put his hand on Jaskier's marked chest and say the right thing. He's never said the right thing to Jaskier once in his life, though, and he's clearly not starting now.

"I'm 'people' enough, dammit!" Jaskier says. "What am I doing wrong?"

Geralt . . . blinks.

"'Wrong'?" he echoes.

"Yes!" Jaskier says, throwing up his hands. "It's clearly something, so what is it?!"

"Nothing," Geralt says, feeling . . . strange. "You aren't doing anything wrong."

"I don't believe you!" Jaskier snaps.

Geralt stares at him blankly. Jaskier's face twists again, and he covers it with his hands. Geralt's heart skips a beat, and not in a good way. If he's about to cry again—

"You really are the worst thing that's ever happened to me," Jaskier says despondently, then picks up his tankard and takes a long drink. "Really. The very worst."

"I love you," Geralt says, like an idiot. Jaskier drops his tankard. It spills, mostly on Geralt. Geralt doesn't actually give a fuck.

"What?" Jaskier says, and now Geralt's already said it so—

"I love you," he repeats. "I don’t want you gone. I miss you.”

“That’s not—” Jaskier sputters, half-flailing and fumbling with his spilled tankard. “You do not!”

“I do,” Geralt says, feeling strangely peaceful even with ale soaking his armor and Jaskier looking so alarmed. He’s said it. It’s done.

It wasn’t even as hard as it’d felt like it should be.

“I hate you,” Jaskier says feelingly, thumping his tankard on the table. “Geralt. All the shit we’ve been through and you decide that now?!”

“Yes.”

“Bastard!” Jaskier says. Geralt is, probably, but he doesn’t care.

“I just wanted you to know,” he says. “Whether you leave or not.”

“Oh? And exactly how useful am I supposed to be in the middle of this mess?” Jaskier demands.

“You don’t need to be useful,” Geralt says. Jaskier throws his hands up, then goes back to the bar and gets a rag to mop up the spilled ale.

“You’re impossible,” he says, scrubbing roughly at the table. Geralt thinks about kissing him again, but it’s not exactly the place for it. “You love me. No one loves me!”

“I do,” Geralt says.

“You do not,” Jaskier says, pointing at him accusingly. “I’m annoying and I get you into situations you don’t want to be in and I make you actually interact with people for longer than a transaction, and you hate all those things. And I’m your soulmate! You know, part of your destiny? That thing you hate so fucking much?”

“I don’t care,” Geralt says, still feeling strangely calm, and really doesn’t. All of that’s true, and it doesn’t matter at all. He still wants Jaskier. He still wants to see him, to have him around, to be with him.

Even if Jaskier doesn’t want that himself.

“Unbelievable,” Jaskier fumes. “Unbelievable!”

“It’s alright if you don’t feel the same,” Geralt says. Jaskier gives him an incredulous look.

“Really?” he demands. “After all this time, you think that’s the problem here? Of course I love you. I’ve loved you since I was a stupid eighteen year-old who couldn’t write a decent verse to save his life. I’ve loved you longer than I haven’t loved you.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Geralt says, a painful warmth in his chest.

“I don’t know!” Jaskier throws his hands up again. “Something must be. Something’s always wrong, between us. I don’t think it’s ever once been right.”

“I don't think there's anything wrong with us,” Geralt says.

“You're an idiot,” Jaskier says, and then drops the ale-soaked rag and leans across the table to grab his face and kiss him, right here like it’s nothing. Geralt's too startled to kiss back, but Jaskier doesn't really give him time to anyway. "Really. An idiot.”

"I really don't," Geralt says, hooking his hands around the other's wrists. Jaskier gives him a strange, soft look.

"There are so many things wrong with us, including the fact you don't think anything is," he says. "But I like hearing you say that anyway."

Geralt frowns at him. Jaskier cups his face in his hands for just another moment, then lets go.

"Geralt," he says, practically tender. "We need to talk about so much."

"Does that mean you're staying?" Geralt asks, and Jaskier lets out a helpless laugh.

"Of course I'm staying," he says. "You know, all you actually had to do was ask."

"Mm," Geralt says. He puts a hand on Jaskier's chest, right over the soulmark he can't see. Jaskier's expression turns wry.

"You’re exhausting," he says, covering the back of Geralt’s hand with his own. “And I’ll follow you wherever you go.”

“. . . good,” Geralt says as his heart clenches in his chest for not the first time, lacking a better response. Jaskier lets out another soft little laugh.

“I suppose it is, isn’t it,” he says musingly. “That’s new.”

“Mm,” Geralt says, fairly sure Jaskier means that it was bad before and not really able to argue with that. It doesn’t feel bad right now, though.

He hopes it doesn’t feel bad for Jaskier, either.

“Alright,” Jaskier says with a fond sigh, squeezing his hand, and Geralt thinks that means it’s good.

Notes:

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Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of if you understand