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Jaskier paced back and forth in the inn room he and Geralt had been sharing, having dressed down some time ago.
The witcher had left the betrothal banquet before him, speaking to Mousesak in hushed tones; something about leaving alone, which simply wouldn't do. So Jaskier had done what he'd always done when Geralt disappeared.
He waited.
He waited- despite the promise of the Countess's warm bed and kisses in the morn- in their rented howff. The dying fire in the hearth did little to warm the icy bolt of dread in his stomach. Roach was still in the stables, Geralt's armor and clothes- now freshly scrubbed and laundered- were laid out on the desk, he wouldn't leave without those things surely. Which then begged the question, where was the witcher himself?
Two more hours crawled by. The sun was beginning to creep into the horizon, illuminating the dust that drifted in the air. He could see the palace towers in the distance, and he wondered what must be happening there now. He didn't envy Pavetta and Duny, and Calanthe least of all. She'd been ready to sacrifice her only babe to secure prosperity for her kingdom, but she'd been prepared to do it on her terms, not like this.
And then... The Law of Surprise being called upon once again... The way all three of their faces fell when they realized what that would mean, even with the joy of being newly weds, there was a helplessness there that had made Jaskier's heart ache for them. Pavetta would mourn the loss of a child she did not yet know, whether Geralt intended to claim them or not. There was a wisdom in her eyes, an awareness of destiny, and it was a heavy burden to bear.
The door flew open and hit the wall with a bang, startling Jaskier from his thoughts. Geralt stood in the entrance, hair wild and eyes dazed. A flush danced high on his cheek bones- and that would've made Jaskier's heart melt, except that Geralt didn't blush, not without intense fever or poison.
"Geralt-" Jaskier started to his feet towards him, but Geralt shoved past him with a growl. He stumbled out of the way, the force much more than he was used to. Geralt was usually so careful with his strength, but there was little evidence of that now.
Once the door was closed, restoring what little privacy they had in the thinly walled inn, Jaskier turned to see Geralt fumbling to remove the dusty remains of the silks that he'd purchased for the banquet.
"Geralt, where have you been? I've been waiting for you, it's been hours."
"Fuck off bard," was the short grunt he received in reply.
"I paid for the room." Jaskier dead-panned, crossing his arms over his chest.
When Geralt's tunic came off there was a tell tale ripping noise, and Jaskier definitely didn't wince because that shirt was not an expensive gift for a close friend.
Geralt pulled his normal black shirt on, grumbling and growling half formed and slurred sentences.
Jaskier's eyes widened as he continued to take in the witcher's disheveled and unbalanced appearance, and he took a few steps forward into his space, as well as a deep breath through his nose to scent the air. As soon as he was within a foot of Geralt the smell hit him like a smack in the face. The odor was eye-wateringly sharp, almost like one of his potions, but even more so. White Gull.
"Geralt, are you drunk?" In another situation Jaskier would have laughed, after all, Geralt was adamant that witchers could not get drunk.
"Blessedly." Geralt said with a heavy flop backwards onto the bed- which creaked worryingly- apparently giving up on the laces of his boots.
"Melitele, help me." Jaskier mumbled, scrubbing a hand down his face, and then getting onto his knees to remove the oaf's shoes himself.
If Countess Victoria could see him now she would die of laughter, he knew, and for a moment he even considered abandoning Geralt now that he knew he was safe. He could probably charm his way back into the castle to her chambers, and she'd be glad of his attentions, however belated.
No. He couldn't do it, wouldn't do that.
"How could I have been such a fool?"
"Have a mind to ask you that myself." Jaskier grumbled, working the last boot off.
"In the old days I would have to bring the boy to Kaer Morhen to make him a witcher."
Jaskier paused, the boy- Oh. Geralt was referring to his child of surprise. Realistically, it was impossible to know if the child was a boy yet, but it didn't seem the time to point that out, so he only hummed as he tried to keep up with the swiftly changing moods.
"It almost makes me glad- Vesimir would kill me- I'm almost glad the wretched place was sacked. I couldn't do it to anyone else." There was a sort of aborted hiccuping noise. "I couldn't put a child through what I- By the gods I couldn't."
Jaskier sat next to him on the bed and put a comforting hand on his knee. "I know." He didn't. But it seemed impertinent to say nothing, not when his normally reticent friend was bearing himself.
Geralt's palms were pressed tightly to his eyes when he next spoke, "The trials are torture; they go on for days. Make your blood like fire; shit and vomit like you wouldn't believe." He laughs high and garbled, a sound that Jaskier had never heard from him before, almost manic in its energy.
"You can hear the boys of the Grasses screaming even while you sleep in your chambers." He gasps wetly, "I didn't speak for weeks after."
He knew any words of consolation offered now would fall on deaf ears, so he chose to stay silent, even as his chest grew painfully tight with emotion. Instead he continued to rub Geralt's knee in a feeble attempt to offer solace.
"I was a child of surprise, got fed the same drivel about destiny, too young to even understand what it meant."
Suddenly Jaskier understood. Not only did Geralt not want to subject a babe to the hard life of a witcher, he didn't want to force upon them a life like his own. He couldn't rip them away from a loving family, from their ability to choose a future. And after all that- after his life, the talk of the law of surprise at the banquet, how he had spurned destiny- he still called upon it. He truly was a fool, he could've requested anything, gold, armor, food- instead, in haste he'd chosen to call upon the very thing that stole his own agency.
As a poet, Jaskier endeavored to embrace destiny, to spin tales of eerie coincidence and foreshadowing, of desire and serendipity; destiny was a tool for storytelling and a map of paths only legible in hindsight. If she existed outside of his stanzas however, he could only decide she must be a cold bitch.
"My mother just left me on the side of the road for them to get me. She didn't even try to keep me, just gave me up as soon as I could walk."
Suddenly there was a hand on Jaskier's shoulder pulling him down to lie on the bed. He let himself be led, though confused, and he was soon nestled into Geralt's side. He'd laid next to him plenty of times, out of necessity, or under the guise of saving coin, but the man was rarely the instigator. Seeing as he was in an unusually verbose and drunken stupor, Jaskier felt a trace of guilt as he enjoyed the warmth.
"I'm not going anywhere." He mumbled against Geralt's shoulder. Foolhardy as it was to make such promises he knew it was true.
"Don't leave me." Geralt's voice was an exhausted murmur.
"Darling I could never, child or no." He looked up to find Geralt studying him intensely, though his eyes were still dazed, and Jaskier stared back. Those were words reserved for lovers, for life-partners. They were neither, would likely never be, but he meant the vow all the same.
A moment later warm lips pressed softly to his. Geralt sighed into the kiss, and just when Jaskier began to return it, his head dropped away back to the bed.
"Wha-" He was immediately interrupted by a snore. "Oh you bastard." He let out a long breath as he settled back down. He listened for the strong and slow heartbeat he knew almost as well as his own and let it lull him to a calmer state.
Whispering, he stroked a careful hand over Geralt's cheek, "Melitele save me from loving you."
That night Jaskier dreamed of a girl with gray eyes. She ran through thick woods, ashen hair whipping in the wind behind her. The sound of armies clashing was in the sky like thunder.
* * *
In the morning, he shows no recollection of the kiss, and Jaskier doesn't pry. He only offers water and bread to ease Geralt's hangover. They leave Cintra that afternoon, heading north towards Verden. Eventually, they part ways for the winter as they always do, and when Jaskier spends the first of many nights to come with the Countess, despite the love he feels for her, and the lingering exhaustion from their amorous coupling, he finds himself laying awake and wondering of his wolf.