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Night seems to fall so quickly around this time of year. More often than not, Jaskier would look up from his journal only to find that darkness had fallen and blanketed the world between one blink and the next. Nowadays, there wasn’t much to be afraid of in the dark, but he had yet to outgrow the initial onset of nerves that came with it. Though the house was warm, the fire lit and crackling nearby, Jaskier still felt a chill run through him. With a shiver, he stands with a stretch, joints popping as he lets out a soul-deep yawn. When was the last time he stood up?
He shakes his head, realizing now that the house is quieter than it was earlier. He makes his way to the kitchen, grabbing the blanket off of the couch on his way there. Jaskier throws the blanket over his shoulders, gathering the ends in his hands and tucking it tightly around his body to shield himself from the cold. He nudges the toys strewn over the floor aside, socked feet pushing them away as he makes a mental note to remind Ciri to pick up after herself. His daughter is cute, adorable, and all the sweetest words in the world, but by the gods is she messy. He wants to blame her other father, but Geralt is the most meticulous man in the world, so he’s sure he only has himself to blame.
With another yawn, Jaskier slowly shambles into the kitchen, taking note of the time. 6:35pm. Something about the time niggles in his brain, trying to alert him of something just out of reach. He thinks and thinks and thinks some more, absentmindedly grabbing the kettle, filling it with water, and placing it on the left front most burner atop the stove. He puts the fire on high, humming with the click of the pilot light.
What was it? He turns to the cabinets behind him, reaching up for the powdered hot chocolate. He bypasses the mint flavor, grabbing the french vanilla. Still lost in his thoughts, he unthinkingly grabs three mugs from the next cabinet, two large and one small, by force of habit. Each mug meets the counter top with a slight rattle. He turns and leans back against the counter, tucking himself back into the blanket with his eyes closed and lower lip caught between his teeth as he thinks. Something was supposed to be happening now, right? Maybe he should pull out his planner. With Ciri involved in so many activities, it was hard to keep track of them all. So much so that it was Geralt who actually did the tracking. Melitele bless that man.
Suddenly the front door flies open with a screech, Ciri careening through the living room, into the kitchen, and crashes into him with a shriek of glee.
“Papa!!” she yells, arms wrapped tightly around his waist, grinning brightly up at him. “I did it!”
Jaskier lets go of the blanket, now cinched around his waist by Ciri’s arms, and takes in his daughter’s appearance. She’s wearing her karate gi, her hair is a mess, and her eyes sparkle like the brightest star in the midnight sky. He grabs her shoulders to push her back just the slightest bit and catches sight of the belt cinched around her waist.
She has a red belt.
“Oh, Cirilla, you did it, sweet girl!” Jaskier tells her, joining her in celebration. He picks her up in his arms, twirling in the kitchen as he hugs her tightly. “I knew it,” he says, “I knew you could do it.”
He slows to a stop, a realization coming to him as he meets Geralt’s eyes across the kitchen island.
“And I missed it.” He ignores the kettle as it goes off.
Geralt shuffles around the kitchen island and shuts the fire off. The silence is almost overwhelming.
“You did.”
Jaskier lets Ciri down, looking down at her. He gets to his knees before her, taking her hands in his.
“My darling, I’m so sorry. I have no words, no excuses. I would ask for your forgiveness, but I fear I don’t deserve it,” he says.
“Papa, don’t.”
Ciri tugs her hands free and places them on his cheeks, wiping away tears he hadn’t noticed falling. Her calluses threaten to catch against his crows’ feet. He feels Geralt rest a hand on his shoulder, offering his own comfort.
“It’s okay. It’s only my red belt.”
“But still,” Jaskier says, hands limply resting on his knees. “You were looking forward to this.”
“Yeah, but only because that means the next one is my black belt,” she says, dismissive of her achievements in only the way that worldly nine year olds could be.
“How can I make this up to you?” Jaskier asks.
“Mmm…” she hums, trailing off. A few moments pass in silence. Jaskier doesn’t even notice the puttering happening behind him as Geralt puts their hot chocolate together.
“Ah!” Ciri says suddenly. Dramatic, his child. Definitely his child. “You cannot miss my black belt test.”
“Done. Absolutely,” Jaskier promises, already making plans on how to set reminders for himself.
She giggles and presses a kiss to his forehead. His eyes fall closed in this benediction by the angel before him. “The deal is sealed. Now you can’t be sad anymore, Papa.”
“I’ll try my best, darling girl,” he gives a slightly wet chuckle, reaching up to wipe any lingering tears.
“She’s right,” Geralt says. He helps Jaskier to standing, pressing a mug of hot chocolate, topped high with whip cream, into his hands. The warmth flows from his fingers and through his body. “No one can be sad with hot chocolate.”
Jaskier watches as he hands Ciri her hot chocolate, hiding his laugh as she quality checks the finished product.
“Good, you remembered the cinnamon this time, Daddy. You’re getting better.”
Geralt smiles down at Ciri, smoothing a hand over her hair. “Thank you for the feedback, as always.”
She nods and turns slowly, carefully holding the mug in both hands as she moves towards the living room. Jaskier knows she knows she’s not supposed to be eating on the couch, but he’ll turn a blind eye just this once. Once the tv is turned on, he closes his eyes.
“Hey,” comes the gruff voice of his husband. He feels Geralt wrap an arm around his waist, and he leans into the sturdy strength Geralt has always been, pressing his forehead into Geralt’s shoulder.
“I can’t believe I missed her test, my love,” Jaskier whispers, unwilling to be overheard by little listening ears. “I’m terrified for the day that she realizes I’m actually a horrible father and am unworthy of her love.”
Geralt hums, acknowledging his words. “That’s one way to look at it,” he says, matching Jaskier’s volume. “Or you could also forgive yourself just as she’s forgiven you. If you can’t believe in your ability to be a father, you can believe in her trust in you to be her father.”
Jaskier sniffles, just barely holding back more tears. Geralt pulls him in tighter, wrapping his arms around his waist under the blanket.
“And I’ll make you a promise,” he adds. “When her black belt test is scheduled, I’ll give you daily reminders in the week leading up to it. And if need be, I’ll force you out of the house on the day of.”
Jaskier gives a reluctant chuckle. “Please.”
Exactly where Ciri kissed him just minutes before, Geralt bestows his own kiss upon Jaskier’s forehead, following it with a kiss dropped gently on each of his eyelids, and ending with a soft kiss pressed to his lips.
“Now finish up your hot chocolate. I’m going to need your help with the upcoming sugar rush and later on, the crash.”
Jaskier can barely hold back his groan.