Chapter Text
There’s one tavern Jaskier makes a point to visit almost every other month. Even if it’s just in passing, even if he has to leave Geralt and Ciri to their own devices for a few days. It’s the tavern that his letters get sent to, if he has any - the address he gives when prospective patrons show interest. Usually it’s junk or sometimes, even threats. There’s a bit of fan mail that gets left as well, perfume or cologne soaked envelopes, flowers pressed to the paper.
This time, Geralt and Ciri come with him. In the morning, he creeps out of bed, stepping around Geralt’s prone body on the floor - it had been the Witcher’s turn for the pallet this past night. Ciri sleeps in the little bed adjacent, and shifts in the early morning light filtering in from the window. Jaskier tidies himself, washes his face in the basin by the door, then heads down to the bar. He’s been decent friends with the barkeep since he started out on his own. The man sees him, nods, hands him a stack of letters, and slides him a cup of some concoction of roasted, ground coffea beans steeped in boiling water. The drink always leaves him with a boost of energy. Jaskier takes the steaming, clay mug and the letters bound together in twine, nods his thanks, and heads back upstairs. Geralt is already sitting up on his pallet, stretching his neck with sick pops and cracks.
“One day, those bones won’t go back the way they’re supposed to,” Jaskier muses as he sits on the bed. He pulls his feet under him and starts to go through the letters. Absentmindedly, he hands Geralt his steaming mug as he walks by, offering a taste. Geralt takes it without question and sips at it, humming in approval before handing it back. Jaskier, for a moment, basks in the trust the other man has for him.
And then all thoughts of trust - and that his mouth is now on the spot Geralt’s mouth was on, an indirect kiss if ever there was one! - fly from his mind as he sees it.
To The honorable Viscount de Lettenhove, the Lord Julian Alfred Pankratz,
by order of the Earl and Countess de Lettenhove
Jaskier shoves the mug back into Geralt’s unassuming hands, spilling it on both of them, getting drops on the fancy, linen paper envelope. Ignoring Geralt’s growl, Jaskier flicks the drink from his fingers and rips the envelope open, unfolding the heavy paper within. It’s an invitation. A wedding invitation.
The Lord’s presence is requested for
the most honorable marriage of
The Viscountess de Lettenhove, the Lady Hedwig Amalia Pankratz
Second child and daughter to the Earl and Countess de Lettenhove
To
The Countess of Azory, the Lady Lorenia Lille de Lucretzia
Only daughter and heir to the Marquess de Lucretzia of Azory
The address is his family’s estate in Lettenhove, the date for next month. And scrawled in his mother’s cramped script written hastily and smudged from her quickness of hand: We’re expecting your mysterious lover, Julian.
Jaskier’s hands are shaking as he shuffles through the other letters and finds two of the same paper quality. One says, The Countess of Kolonia, Lady Waleska Adelaide Pankratz Fuhrmann , the other The Viscountess of Lettenhove, the Lady Hedwig Amalia Pankratz. He rips open Waleska’s letter first. Her handwriting is just as bad as their mother’s.
Dearest Julek,
I take it this finds you after you’ve read Mama and Papa’s invitation to Hedi’s wedding? Finally, she and Lorrie are making it official. Be forewarned, little brother, mother is ready to have you married and settled the moment you step foot on the estate. She’s positively bursting with excitement at the prospect of meeting this mysterious lover you refuse to give any details on except - how did she put it? Tall, lovely, noble, and of few words.
I hope they’re worth the fuss - and love you very much, or else the hassle of getting marriage shoved down their throat will surely chase them away.
Dietrich and the children send their love,
Waleska
He tosses that over his shoulder along with the invite, vaguely aware that Geralt has sat beside him and is reading through them all as well. Jaskier rips open Hedwig’s envelope next.
Julek!
Don’t be too jealous, but your childhood crush has finally decided to make an honest woman out of me. Of course, Mama and Papa were thrilled - they do so love Lorrie. Speaking of love, you best be prepared. Mummy is going berserk because she wants to meet your lover. Oh, you fool, Julian, I’m half convinced you don’t actually have a lover, to be honest. Waleska says I’m being far too cruel, but I’ll believe it when I see you walk in with them.
Careful, baby brother. Mother is already talking of your impending marriage to whoever it is that accompanies you as though it is set in stone. Good luck!
Love you lots, and Lorrie does too,
Hedi
“The gods,” Jaskier moans, shoving his face into the papers, “do detest me.”
He’s only snapped out of it when Geralt snatches Hedwig’s letter from his lax fingers and starts to read it too, murmuring, “Hush, you’ll wake Ciri.”
“What are you - no, Geralt!” Jaskier whisper-screams. But Geralt is already done and has a scowl on his face, like usual. But Jaskier knows the different scowls. This is the contemplative one. He’s working out a problem. Jaskier’s problem.
“Your sister is getting married and you must attend,” he sums up. “With a nonexistent partner.” Geralt raises an eyebrow, and Jaskier can see it now, the minute tick at the corner of Geralt’s mouth, the tiny flare of his nostrils. He’s trying not to laugh. But there’s also a question in there.
“They wouldn’t leave me be!” Jaskier exclaims, then bites his tongue when Ciri snuffles in her sleep at the sound. “In my land, inheritance goes by birth order, not gender. Lettenhove doesn’t care much for such constructs.”
“You’re last born so you inherit… nothing?” Geralt guesses.
“Just a small sum and our grandmother’s cottage to retire in. And Granny is still alive and well. But that’s not the point,” he hisses. “The point is that it meant I had freedom . Yes, I inherited the viscount title, but only because my father is an earl. It’s only honorary! I could travel, go to Oxenfurt for school. Sing!” He shakes his head. “But mother is insistent that I settle down.”
“So you lied,” the witcher says with a smirk. “Tall, lovely, noble, and of few words?”
Jaskier hopes Geralt isn’t so cruel as to point out that not only could anyone fit that description, but that Geralt himself could. Because it is based on Geralt. Jaskier knows his own heart, knows that he feels far too strongly for Geralt. He knew it after the dragon, when Geralt sent him away, knew it even more when their paths crossed later, and Geralt spent almost a year sincerely apologizing, eventually admitting that he and Yennefer found it best to be apart and uninvolved. Ciri had been with Geralt by then, and Jaskier far preferred this feminine company to any other Geralt could have.
And yet, he doesn’t think too badly of Yennefer, not lately, anyway. She’s been doting on Ciri , teaching her to control her power, and has kept her distance, romantically and sexually at least, from Geralt. There is an emotional bond between Yennefer and Geralt, though, that Jaskier respects and would never dare to demand an end to.
Besides, Geralt isn’t his to make such a demand of, and will never be.
“Tall, lovely, noble, and of few words, yes. It was enough, at the time. I guess mother had her hands full with grandbabies, so she let it be. But now….” He groans. “I’m in a right mess.” He brightens. “I know, let’s just fake my death!” Geralt snorts. “No, really!” Jaskier turns to him, crossing his legs under him on the bed. “That way, the next time I visit, they’ll be ecstatic to see me. I’ll tell them, ‘Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated,’ and then inform them that my lover was tragically lost in the event and I will never be able to love another.” He snaps his fingers, warming up to the idea. “I know just the thing! I’ll compose a ballad for my fallen love - that’ll do the trick.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt drawls, “that is the most idiotic idea you’ve ever had. You’d traumatize your family instead of admitting you lied or simply saying the relationship ended?”
“If I do that, then I’ll spend that whole wedding being paired up with random suitors. I’ll never have peace. I’ll never be able to just celebrate my sister’s wedding!” Jaskier admits, sullen. Geralt had a point. “I just want to go and be there for her without my mother putting any unnecessary attention on me. It’s Hedi’s day, not mine. She’s already been dealt the middle-child spot in life, it shouldn’t have to extend to her wedding.”
It’s true. As first and last born, Waleska and Jaskier drew much of the attention, leaving little for Hedwig. Hedwig constantly got left behind in the middle of things, but she’d always been so good about it, never blaming her siblings and mostly lamenting fate instead. Jaskier doesn’t want his mother trying to pair him up while his sister is getting married. They should all be celebrating her .
“Just take someone then,” Geralt says, standing up. “By the way, you missed something.” He hands the invitation back to Jaskier, the latter trying to wrap his mind around Geralt’s suggestion. On the back, written in his father’s neat, looping script, is a note.
We heard you are familiar with a powerful mage, Yennefer of Vengerberg. We would love if she could perform a ritual blessing at your sister’s wedding. Please extend the invitation on our behalf. Looking forward to seeing you son.
Father
“Well fuck,” Jaskier says. Now he has to invite Yennefer? “The gods detest me.”
“Just take someone,” Geralt repeats, turning to his swords. He’s probably going to start oiling them. It’s usually so soothing to watch, and Jaskier hopes it can calm him from the frenzy his whole family situation has gotten him into. “Better yet, have them fake being your spouse and dodge the whole marriage talk altogether. You aren’t home enough for them to see through it.” And that throws Jaskier out of his thoughts. He wants to gawk - what crazy ideas has Geralt got in his head? Is he fucking with Jaskier? But there’s no smile on Geralt’s face, just the usual sureness as he takes a seat and starts going through his pack for his oils.
“And who would I be taking?” Jaskier snaps, impatient. First he has to be official and invite Yennefer. Now, Geralt is proposing fake marriage. The mage is going to laugh at him. Good grief.
“There is no shortage of people who would throw themselves at you to go,” Geralt mutters. He seems a bit uncomfortable at that, refusing to meet Jaskier’s eyes and his voice coming out a bit growly - like he has to force the words out. Jaskier doesn’t care.
“Oh, yes. And I’m sure they would be so good at faking a relationship - a marriage, at your insistence - that I have claimed to be in for years . And no, I’m not asking another troubadour. We’re already a finicky lot. I’d have to ask someone I knew. And the only people I actually know are you and Yennefer. Well,” he concedes at Geralt’s unimpressed look. “Fine. I guess I know Zoltan quite well. But he doesn’t go for blokes, and though I know he’d help, he’d do an awful job of faking it.” The dwarf is a stalwart friend, though, Jaskier knows. “Dudu is off doing gods-know-what as gods-know-who. And I shant ask Priscilla because, though we ended amicably, still, she’s a troubadour.” He pauses. “Also, I think her current partner is one of the new actresses at the Chameleon in Novigrad and I am not about to get an actress after me.” He wonders how his cabaret is doing - he’d left it in Priscilla’s hands when he’d gone back to touring about with Geralt. “Which leaves Yennefer. And the mage of Vengerberg is not going to pretend to be married to me.” He pauses, grimaces. “Honestly, I don’t think I’d be able to pull that off either.”
Softly, from her little bed, Ciri mumbles, “Geralt would be a good husband.” She sits up, rubbing her eyes, not seeing Geralt freeze and Jaskier with his mouth agape. “I can be your adopted daughter. I want to go to a wedding. This sounds more fun than the royal ones and I’ve not been to one in ages.” She yawns and stretches, blowing a pale lock of hair out of her face.
“Ciri,” Geralt says, sounding pained, “that… is probably not a good idea.”
“Of course it’s not,” Jaskier blurts, trying not to panic. Ciri gives him a pointed look and… does this child know about Jaskier’s very secret and absolutely well hidden yearnings? Oh gods no. “That’s just… ludicrous! Geralt would be terrible at it. What an awful idea. He could never pull it off.”
Silence and then: “Excuse me?” Jaskier turns to Geralt, who’s frowning. Even his forehead is involved, oh no.
“What? You heard me. You couldn’t pull that off. I, of course, know you the best. It’s been years, and you are my muse, the subject that has gotten us both famous,” Jaskier blabs, bullshitting his way through. He knows very well that he knows Geralt so well because he is stupidly in love with the man. “But you’d never be able to pull off knowing me that way.”
“You think I don’t know you?” Geralt asks, something close to hurt in his voice. “Jaskier, I’ve known you since you were 18.”
“Yes, but this is - this is marriage we’re talking about Geralt. A fake one that you’d have to convince people was real,” Jaskier says. Why are they even having this conversation? How are they even having this conversation? “You can’t even pretend to like the ealdorman of a rude town for long enough to get a good deal on a contract, never mind pretending to - to be married to me for a week.”
“Do you want to bet?” Geralt growls, looking insulted. Jaskier freezes. What?
“What?” Jaskier says, lost. Ciri hides her face behind her blanket so no one sees her laughing, but Jaskier can definitely hear it.
“Fine, it’s settled. We’re going to Lettenhove. I am your spouse, Ciri is our daughter. We’ll get the wedding out of the way and then be back on the road,” Geralt snaps. “Acting as if I don’t know you,” Geralt mutters under his breath. “After years….” He sounds… maybe hurt isn’t the right word, but he’s definitely insulted.
“Uh, Geralt, let’s think this through…” Jaskier panics. Oh, he’s panicking. So very much.
“Do you have a better idea? Anyone else to take with you that would be willing and that would know you well enough to not get caught?” Geralt says, fishing in his pack for something. “Like I don’t know you…” he mutters again.
“Uh.” No. Jaskier doesn’t have anything else in mind, besides the truth and he doesn’t even consider that an option. “Why?” he asks instead.
“You’re always helping me,” Geralt says, his massive body hunching in on itself and tugging his sword close, suddenly guarded. And Jaskier thinks of all the contract deals he’s helped make, the ruffled feathers he’s helped smooth, the times he’s defended Geralt’s honor because he’s a good man, damn-it. Isn’t that what friends did, though? Or had Jaskier let his love get out of hand and now Geralt thinks he has to pay him back? Is that all this is, Geralt evening the score? “Now you think I can’t help you. Well I can,” Geralt continues. Oh no, this is worse - is this a matter of pride? Geralt feels he has to prove he knows Jaskier as well as Jaskier knows him? “Ha!” Geralt barks, pulling out some loot from the last group of bandits that tried to rob them on the road from Oxenfurt. He picks through the jewels, pulling out two silver bands. Jaskier’s stomach clenches, but Ciri slips out of bed to go admire what Geralt’s brought out.
Uh oh.
“Uh, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, voice sounding strangled with words scraped up from his throat. Ciri sits at the table with Geralt and goes through the little treasures he isn’t using, leaving them to it. She seems quite content to test the edge of a silver dagger against her thumb or spin a few rings like tops on the table.
“What?” Geralt murmurs, picking through the loot for some gems. He looks briefly at Jaskier then back to the small gems he has decided on. “Shouldn’t you be sending word to your family? I’m already mentally composing my letter to Yennefer. She’s in Vizima for the next month. I’ll send it off today. She'll come around in a few days, to be sure.”
“I… yes.” And that’s that.
Ciri soon grows bored of her dagger and rings, tugging Geralt away from his ring work and downstairs to rustle up some breakfast. Jasker will join them later. For now, he sits on the bed and pens a note to his father that he’ll be attending the wedding with two guests, and that he’ll have the mage of Vengerberg in tow. He’s still reeling, even after leaving the message with the barkeep with Geralt’s letter to Yennefer to go out with the rest of the mail. By next week, a courier will have delivered it to his father’s estate. They’ll probably get there in a fortnight at the lastest, leaving a whole week leading up to the wedding in which Jaskier’s family will undoubtedly realize that he and Geralt are not married, Ciri does not see them as her parents, and Yennefer is just there to stir up some trouble.
And how, exactly, is he supposed to be married to Geralt and do all the things married couples do, like sleep in the same bed and sweet talk one another and touch?
Oh my, Jaskier thought. I am thoroughly fucked.