Archive of Our Own

The cramped little room built into the sloping roof of the inn is empty and quiet. Orange coloured sunlight filters in through the windows, the last rays of the setting sun illuminating little dust motes that float giddily in the air. Below the creaking floorboards the sound of the tavern’s patrons can be heard - drinking and carousing, celebrating.

A wide wooden tub rests next to the banked fire, the once steaming water now still and tepid. On the single bed lie the various accoutrements of a life lived on the road - packs and bedrolls, a little canvas bag spilling with medical supplies, a dust-coated doublet that once might have been a fetching green colour but is now closer to brown.

Beside these - a lute, resting against the lumpy pillow, and a thin satin chemise with a split shoulder seam bundled next to it, as if thrown aside in haste without care for creases. A needle, still threaded with cotton several shades too dark, sticks through the fabric, pinning the seams together.

There’s a distant crash - the sound of a door - and the rabble of the drinking clients below suddenly falls silent.

For a moment, nothing happens. And then the door to the room, made of old, nearly-rotten oak, bursts open, the hinges screeching in protest, and two men stumble in.

Rather: one man stumbles in - his face red with effort - half dragging and half carrying a second, slung over his shoulders, covered in blood and black, clinging viscera.

“For fucks—” Jaskier mutters, his fingers slipping on Geralt’s bloodied armour, “Fucking bastard thing—” Geralt murmers something against his shoulder, and Jaskier continues to complain. “You know if I hadn’t come looking for you, you’d be fucking dead right now? And these trousers are ruined and I’ll tell you, Geralt, this better be that creature’s blood and not yours, or else I'll, I'll… well I'll be very cross, I can tell you that much.”

With a laboured huff, he slides Geralt off of his shoulders and onto the bed, uncaring for the mess he’s inevitably going to leave behind. Sheets can be cleaned - or, more likely, burnt - but Geralt will be treated far less easily.

He kneels at Geralt’s feet, grabs his pale face - still sticky with monster ichor - and gently moves his head so he can see into his eyes. They’re a little unfocused, pupils blown wide through a mixture of potions and adrenaline. He blinks slowly, clearly concussed.

Jaskier swears, takes a deep breath, then begins the arduous task of peeling away Geralt’s armour, careful to breathe through his mouth so the stink of monster guts doesn’t make him heave. It’s a disgusting job, but one he’s well practiced at, and the unpleasant squelch of viscera against his hands is nothing compared to the lurching feeling in his stomach when he considers the state of the man beneath the armour.

The task is over quickly, largely thanks to his many years of experience. The armour is tossed aside - it can be cleaned later - and he moves to the clothes beneath. Geralt’s undershirt is sodden with sweat and blood - some his, some the monster’s - and that too goes on the pile with the armour. Perhaps it can be salvaged: Jaskier doesn’t stop to check.

Geralt appears to be coming to a little as Jaskier works. He watches him with a cautious gaze, and Jaskier wonders if he understands that he’s there to help him. He wants to force a vial of swallow down his throat, but he’d pushed one on him when he’d found him in the blighted field on the edge of the town, even worse for wear than he is now, and the dark lines creeping around Geralt’s eyes tell him that it’s not yet safe to risk another dose.

It had been - fuck - Jaskier isn’t even sure what the monster clinging to Geralt’s back had been. It hardly matters now: the thing is dead, and it will remain dead, while Geralt’s fate may still hang in the balance.

His armour had taken the brunt of the attack, but it's ripped in several places, buckles tugged away and straps sheared neatly in two, leaving large swathes of Geralt’s skin bloodied and bruised and torn. Jaskier heaves himself onto the bed behind him, then hisses through his teeth as he examines the back of Geralt's head.

His hair is a tangled, bloody mess. Not just blood, but that same black ichor, thick as tar. The beast’s claws have dug into Geralt’s skin, and only now can Jaskier begin to guess at the damage they've done.

“Come on,” he says, “we need to get you cleaned.”

Pulling off the rest of Geralt’s clothes and getting him in the tub is surprisingly easy, and while Geralt grunts at him a little when Jaskier pulls off his smalls, trying very hard not to think about what it is he’s doing, he gets into the tub with only a little complaint.

“Fuck,” he huffs - the first clear thing he’s said since returning to the room. “It’s cold.”

It’s good to hear Geralt talk again. The tightness in Jaskier’s chest loosens a little.

“It would have been warm if you’d come back when you said you would,” he says.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier squats beside the wooden tub, watching Geralt closely. The darkness has receded from his eyes, a little.

“How do you feel?”

“Like shit.”

“Can you take another swallow?”

Geralt shakes his head, then winces. “Not yet.”

“We’re doing this the old fashioned way, then… hold on.”

Jaskier stands, and returns to the medical kit on the bed. He briefly examines the contents, then grabs the whole thing with a sigh and carries it over to the bathtub.

“Right,” he says, “You start on your arms, and I’ll get a look at your head, okay?”

Geralt mutters something that’s probably a sound of assent, then begins to wash water up and down his injured arms as Jaskier moves around to his back.

The most pressing problem is that it’s impossible to tell how bad the injury is beneath the tangle of hair and muck. He needs to clean the wound, and thoroughly - who knows what waste was lodged beneath the claws of that screeching monster - but he can’t even reach it to do so.

With a resigned sigh, Jaskier rises to his feet and heads towards their bags, grabbing the tools he’ll need for the job. His comb, another bar of soap, the earthen jug set out next to the basin. He pauses, for a moment, before grabbing the pair of silver scissors he'd picked up in Toussaint several years ago when he realised that travelling on the road meant cutting his own hair.

Geralt is carefully sluicing soapy water over the claw marks on his arm when Jaskier returns to his side.

“Right,” he says, settling behind him. “This is probably going to hurt. Sorry.”

The first job is to untangle Geralt’s hair. It’s fallen from the tie he usually keeps it back in, so Jaskier pulls the dark strip of fabric away and rests it on the side of the tub before attempting to pull the hair from the mess of blood. When he's separated as much as he can, he twists it together and ties it swiftly back into a messy knot at the top of Geralt’s head.

Even without the curtain of hair obscuring it, it’s virtually impossible to gauge the depth of the wound. It needs to be rinsed. Jaskier grabs the jug and reaches around Geralt’s body - his arm sliding against Geralt’s bare chest - and dips it into the water between his knees.

Geralt stills. Jaskier hesitates, worrying that he’s hurt him, somehow - his back and shoulders are marred with bruises and cuts, after all - and then, quite suddenly, he realises what he’s doing. Where he's leaning. The slick dampness of Geralt’s bare skin beneath him, his chest pressing to Geralt’s back.

And most importantly: he realises where he's just thrust his hand.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He quickly withdraws, taking the jug with him with an awkward splash, bumping the suddenly heavy receptacle against Geralt’s shoulder.

“I just…” he says, then starts again, feeling his ears burning, “I needed to get water. To wash. It’s…”

“Okay.”

Fuck. Right. Jaskier can ignore this, if he focuses on the wound at the back of Geralt’s head. The injury is more important than the embarrassment making his ears ring, or the sudden realisation of how close Geralt is.

He gently tips the jug over Geralt’s nape, pouring slowly, working through the tangles with his fingertips. It shifts only the barest amount of ooze, but now the hair is thoroughly soaked he can at least work the soap into a lather against it, the yellowish bar quickly staining red. Geralt grumbles a little as Jaskier presses his fingers to the wound, but doesn’t swear at him or tell him to stop, so he continues till the lather has turned a sickly brown colour then washes it away with another glug of water.

Now he’s getting somewhere. There’s a deep, angry-looking gash at the back of Geralt’s head, a few inches above the hairline. The blood is quickly clotting, taking the monster ichor and dirt with it. If Jaskier doesn’t hasten his pace, the wound will begin to heal over while still tangled with muck, the skin closing over Geralt’s hair.

Urgh. Jaskier shudders, the reaction automatic, then gets back to work. Now he can see what he’s doing he can move more efficiently, tugging away hair and using his fingers to carefully peel away the worst of the black ichor. It’s a difficult job - much of Geralt’s hair is tangled into unbreakable knots, slick with blood and slime, impossible to untangle.

He fiddles unsuccessfully at the mess, his face just inches from Geralt’s skin despite the unpleasant stench of monster blood, engrossed in the disgusting task.

After fifteen minutes of struggling, Jaskier sighs, resting his hands against the tub.

“I can’t clean this properly,” he shakes his head, feeling defeated. “Geralt, I didn’t want to do this, but…”

He moves around to the side of the tub so he can look Geralt in the eye. He looks better, now - much better - his skin no longer that awful pale grey and his eyes back to their typical, burning yellow.

“I need to cut it,” Jaskier says. “Your hair, I mean. Or it’s just going to—”

“No.”

“... get infect— what?”

“You’re not cutting it.”

“But...”

“No, Jaskier.”

Geralt spits it out - his tone clipped and angry. Jaskier hesitates, his fingers tapping gently against the rim of the tub. Geralt isn’t even looking at him.

“Geralt, I—”

“I said,” Geralt snaps around, and his face is furious. “No.”

Jaskier swallows down his next argument, shrinking back - but not moving away. He takes a breath, counting to ten in his head, keeping his eyes fixed on Geralt’s until the witcher finally turns back, picking up the soap from the bottom of the tub and returning to his scrubbing.

Right. It’s like that. Jaskier has grown used to this, now. He grew used to it a decade ago, and now he just has to work through it, picking the best route. No wonder Geralt is in a foul mood - he nearly got ripped apart by a… by a something-or-other, and now he’s wounded and bleeding and he can’t even take a potion to heal himself.

And, Jaskier reminds himself with another twist of embarrassment, he’s likely still annoyed for Jaskier getting so close, earlier, even if it had been accidental.

He takes another steadying breath - grounding himself so he won’t shout back if Geralt starts yelling - and grips the rim of the tub with renewed vigour.

“I can’t clean it like this,” he says, slowly. “It’s a mess, Geralt.”

“It’s fine.”

“Oh, and you’ve suddenly sprouted eyes in the back of your head, have you? Is that part of being a witcher, too?"

Geralt doesn't respond, so Jaskier continues, voice rising.

"Or is it that you’ve suddenly developed the ability to see through my eyes? Have you slipped into my head like Yen does to get a good look at the mess back here?"

He's being ridiculous, Jaskier knows, but sometimes it takes a little absurdity to snap Geralt around - to make him cross with Jaskier rather than whatever it is that's really bothering him. He rather hopes Geralt hasn't suddenly developed the ability to peer into Jaskier’s head: there are several incriminating things in there he certainly doesn’t need to see.

Geralt scowls at the soap in his hands. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Jaskier says, adding a sarcastic twist to the final word. “It’s fucked, actually.”

Geralt doesn’t respond, and Jaskier feels like he might be winning.

“Look,” he says, “it’s a mess of hair and blood and… and monster shit—” he hopes this is an exaggeration, because of course it could be monster shit, “—and if I don’t clean it out it’s going to get infected and disgusting and when your fucking head falls off I will not be taking the blame.” He pauses. “Alright?”

Geralt has gone very quiet. His hand stills, the bar of soap pressed to his leg. Jaskier feels suddenly a little guilty - like he’s prodded too hard, like he's been testing a fruit for overripeness only to find his finger sliding through the skin.

"Alright,” Geralt mutters, finally.

Jaskier wants to ask what's wrong. He needs to ask. But he needs to clean Geralt's head wound more, so he presses a reassuring hand to Geralt's shoulder with a soft squeeze then moves back around to his nape.

It's clear that Geralt doesn't want his hair cut, but it needs to be done. The very least Jaskier can do is make sure it looks good.

He picks up the comb again and begins to section Geralt's hair more neatly, pulling two thirds or so up into the knot and leaving the rest - most of which is a tangled mess - hanging down. He works carefully, fingers pressed to Geralt’s scalp, ensuring the line where the hair is parted is neat and even.

When he’s sure it’s perfect, he reaches down and grabs the little scissors, giving them a couple of experimental snips before moving them to the back of Geralt’s head. He slips then beneath the worst of the knots, the sticky ichor, and cuts.

If he’s expecting the satisfying snip of blades against hair, he’s disappointed. There’s so much dirt and blood that the scissors stick, and cutting through the mess is harder than he’d anticipated. He’ll need to throw these away when he’s done, he’s sure. Geralt doesn’t move as he slowly cuts away his hair, tossing the fallen strands to the floor in a neat little pile.

Soon, the hardest part of the job is done, and he’s left with a pile of discarded hair, a useless pair of scissors and the unevenly cut inch or so of hair at the back of Geralt’s head. Now he’s unimpeded, he rubs the soap between his hands again and easily cleans away the rest of the grime. Geralt jerks a little as his fingers brush the wound, and Jaskier mumbles a low apology before washing away the bubbles.

He pauses. The wound is deep, and while Geralt’s mutations grant him swift healing, Jaskier suspects it will still need a little help. Even this short, Geralt’s remaining hair is still in the way - which means he’s only left with one option.

“This needs stitches,” Jaskier mutters, fingers pressed to the red skin around the gash. “But I need to…”

He places the scissors down then walks back towards his pack, looking for his razor. It’s a simple thing - a steel folding blade with a wooden handle, the closest thing to a knife Geralt trusts him to carry. Everything he needs to actually suture the wound is in their little medical bag, so he takes the razor back to the tub, slides to his position on the floor and grabs the soap again, coating the back of Geralt’s head in a thick lather.

"Okay…" he breathes. "Don't move."

He's expecting Geralt to grouse at him, to warn him not to cut him or moan about getting a move on, but he doesn't say anything - just breathes. At least he's still, and Jaskier reaches up with the blade, positioning it against his skin with gentle care.

It's oddly intimate in a way that Jaskier is trying not to linger on. Binding Geralt's wounds or soothing salves across injuries he can't reach or even massaging him when he's aching after a hunt have all become such regular parts of their routine that he barely even considers them unusual any more - but this is new.

It's one thing for Geralt to trust Jaskier to tend to him when he's hurt and has no other choice, but now he's got a blade to his skin - even if that blade is only a few inches long - and Geralt doesn't even flinch.

For all Geralt's moaning and grumbling and empty threats to leave Jaskier behind if he doesn't keep up, he trusts him. And that's… not a thought that should surprise him, Jaskier knows, yet it does anyway.

He pulls the skin taught with his fingers, a sudden warmth pooling in his chest, and gently scrapes the blade across Geralt’s skin. He works from the bottom up, shearing away the hair and wiping the residue - bloodied hair and bubbles - on the fabric of his trousers. When he gets to the injury itself, he leans in closer with his tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth, using only the very tip of the blade, careful not to press too hard - not to slip and make it worse.

When he’s removed most of the hair, he moves to the boundary where shorn skin meets roots, making sure the line is even, his hands surprisingly steady considering how much blood he’s just wiped away - and how close his lips are to Geralt’s neck.

Finally, he’s done, and he leans back to check it’s even. There’s a couple of rogue patches of hair that he quickly sees off - and - there. Jaskier can breathe again as he drops his hands to his side.

He places the razor next to the scissors and reaches for the needle and thread. This he knows - and it's with a familiar sort of routine that he prepares the needle and presses the tip against Geralt’s skin.

“Ready?” He asks, voice low.

Geralt shifts in the water. “Ready.”

“Okay. On three, breathe. One, two, three—”

He pushes the needle in as Geralt exhales. Jaskier’s done this so many times that he hardly recognises the terrified young man he’d been when Geralt had first thrust the kit at him after a particularly hard fight and firmly talked him through the procedure, Jaskier’s hands shaking the whole time. He knows what he’s doing, now, and while he’s never had to stitch a head wound before it’s easier without the squeezing intimacy that had come with shaving Geralt’s head.

The injury only needs a few stitches and he’s quickly done, tying the thread off and using the razor to cut it short.

Geralt rolls his shoulders with a low grunt as Jaskier leans back. “Don’t forget the—”

“The ointment, I know.”

Jaskier places the needle to one side - he’ll need to clean it later - then pulls the tiny green pot from the bag and twists off the lid, peering inside. It’s still half full of the acidic smelling salve that Geralt uses on his wounds - on both their wounds - and with only the smallest grimace he dips his fingers in. He spreads it across Geralt’s skin, careful not to dislodge the stitches or irritate the injury, and then - at last - the grim task is finished.

“There,” he says, satisfied. “Now… now your head won’t fall off. Probably.”

He edges around to the side of the tub again. Geralt’s hands are resting on the rim, his eyes low, watching the surface of the water.

“Geralt?”

He looks - lost. Almost young. Jaskier’s heart breaks a little.

“Do you…” he chews on his lip, trying to find the best words. “I know you don’t, but do you want to talk about it?”

Geralt’s fingers twitch against the wood as he stares down into the murky water. Jaskier waits for a long while, letting him think. Finally, he can’t bear the silence.

“You don’t have to—”

“After the trials—”

Jaskier falls silent immediately, letting Geralt speak.

“My hair… it was red, when I was young. Bright red. But I reacted so well to the Trial of the Grasses that they put me through it again. I was… an experiment, to them. And afterwards, my hair....” He sighs, and pulls his hands beneath the water, shrinking in on himself. “After it went white, I was so angry. I didn’t recognise my own reflection, and I hated them for doing that to me. So… I hacked it off, with a dagger.” He pauses. “Eskel helped.”

Jaskier can’t speak - too struck with the image of Geralt, barely more than a boy, tearing at his own hair with a knife in a desperate attempt to regain control over his turbulent life. He reaches out, and places a gentle hand to Geralt’s arm. He doesn’t snatch it away, like Jaskier is expecting him to do.

“It grew back white, of course. And… I didn’t cut it again. At least, never that short.”

Jaskier squeezes his arm. “Geralt…”

“It’s stupid, I know. You were right. It needed to be cleaned.”

“Oh, Geralt. No. Don’t…” Jaskier swallows, nervously. “I should have asked. I should have known…”

Geralt looks at him. “How could you have known?”

He’s right, of course. But guilt bites at Jaskier anyway. He knows that Geralt’s childhood - his life - has been built around trauma and fear. He hopes he brings a little light to him, now, to balance it out. But sometimes he forgets, and is brutally reminded of just how much pain Geralt carries with him.

He can’t fix it. He can’t turn back the clock and wish it away. He can’t reach into Geralt’s chest and pull away so many years of hurt and replace them with the love he knows Geralt deserves. The love that Jaskier wishes - fruitlessly and foolishly - Geralt would accept from himself.

But he can help, in his own way.

“You know,” he says, smoothly, “when I was a student, back at the Academy… this was very fashionable.”

Geralt narrows his eyes at him.

“I mean, the whole… half-shaved hair. It was all the rage, for a while. Very popular.”

Jaskier can distinctly remember how popular it was. He can also remember how fond he was of that particular trend - the embarrassingly long list of those he wooed or attempted to woo simply because they sported some variation of it. Geralt, he thinks, does not need to know that. And anyway: Jaskier’s sure he’s grown out of the predilection by now.

Geralt frowns. “Since when have I cared about being fashionable?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Well, never, but seeing as it fell out of favour a good ten years ago, I rather think you don’t need to worry about that. But… let me see what we can do with it, hmm?”

“And what does that mean?”

A sly grin quirks across Jaskier’s face. “Don’t you worry about that,” he says. “Just… trust me.”

When Jaskier had told Geralt to trust him, Geralt assumed that meant that the bare patch at the back of his head wasn’t, perhaps, entirely a disaster. That it wasn’t so bad. Geralt had known that he was lying, of course - it likely looked ridiculous - but he had appreciated the effort regardless.

He’d wanted to say of course I trust you - even if he was placing that trust in a lie. But it was a white lie - the sort that Jaskier was best at - borne from an attempt to spare Geralt’s already fractured feelings rather than from malice.

Jaskier had told him to trust him, and Geralt had silently assented, and then… then everything had happened quite quickly.

The bard had demand he get out of the bath, quickly wrapping him in a sheet before bustling back down into the tavern below and shouting at the innkeep until he’d sent someone to sluice away the dirtied water and replace it with some that was fresh and clear and - best of all - warm.

Jaskier had slouched down behind him with a range of inexplicable oils and soaps and returned his hands to Geralt’s hair, cleaning away the last of the blood, rubbing it through his fingers and coating it with oil so lightly scented that it barely tickled Geralt’s heightened senses. Jaskier had washed his hair a hundred times before, but this time had been different.

It had been different in a way that he’d chosen not to think about - a way he's still choosing not to think about now, his skin flushed and scrubbed clean, the linen of his clean shirt itchy against his prickling chest. His remaining hair rests damply on his shoulders as Jaskier gently runs the comb through it, tugging it back from his temples.

Jaskier mutters as he combs - he’s always chattering, usually more to himself than Geralt, but for once the sound isn’t an irritation: it’s almost soothing. He basks in the gentle tug of Jaskier’s hands in his hair as he pulls it up into a ponytail, out of the way. It was only an hour ago - less - that those hands had been holding a blade to his skin, the fingertips gently pressed to his scalp, the hot huff of Jaskier’s breath fluttering against his neck.

Geralt shuffles on the spot, hands tingling, and tries not to think about that, either.

“Right,” Jaskier says, and as he steps away Geralt is suddenly aware of how close he’d been standing behind him, “Done. Turn around, then. Let’s see how it looks.”

He does as Jaskier asks, already prepared for the laugh he’s sure the bard is going to try his hardest to stifle. Geralt knows he must look foolish, no matter what Jaskier says about the style once being popular. He wasn’t lying, before, when he said that he didn’t care about fashion. Geralt doesn’t care how he looks: partly because it doesn’t fucking matter and partly because even if he did, all anyone else would ever see is a battle-scarred witcher.

Now, suddenly, it does matter. He’s horribly aware of the shorn skin at the back of his head, unpleasantly reminded of the bald patches that had lingered there when he was a boy.

If - when - Jaskier laughs at him, even if he pretends not to, it’ll hurt.

So he turns, already preparing an acidic retort - but the laugh doesn’t come.

In fact - Jaskier doesn’t say anything. He just stares. Geralt feels even more self-conscious, and reaches up a hand to feel the back of his head. His fingertips are cool against his scalp, but it’s not altogether unpleasant. It’s an odd feeling, being able to feel the shape of the base of his skull like this.

And Jaskier still stares. Geralt can’t take it.

“Well?” He asks impatiently, wishing he didn’t care.

Jaskier blinks, as if returning from some distant dream. He swallows, and Geralt can’t help but watch the movement in his throat. He nods - a small, constrained gesture.

“Good,” he says, simply. “It… it suits you, actually.”

Geralt frowns. “Really?”

“I… yeah. It looks good.”

Geralt narrows his eyes. He’s sure Jaskier is lying - but the sudden nervousness in Jaskier’s body language, the way he twists his fingers together and the pinkness mottling his cheekbones don’t seem to be betraying a deception, but something else.

Before Geralt can take a step closer - before he can hone his senses to figure out what, exactly, the bard is hiding - Jaskier plasters his face with a somewhat awkward smile and walks backwards towards the door.

“So,” he chirps, swinging out his arms. “Shall we head downstairs? Find something to eat?”

That’s not a bad idea. Geralt always feels hungry after a fight - especially after riddling himself with potions. Perhaps after a full meal and some good beer he’ll feel a little less unsettled, and he can examine Jaskier’s behaviour more closely.

“Fine,” he says. And then, feeling a little guilty as he remembers the hefty purse the alderman promised him for seeing off the wyvern: “I’ll pay.”

Jaskier grins at that. “Marvellous.” He gestures to the door, eyes twinkling. “After you, then.”

Geralt hesitates just for a moment, then grabs his purse and heads from the room. As he walks past, he can feel Jaskier’s eyes lingering on him. He can still feel them on him as he heads down the stairs towards the tavern below, Jaskier close behind.

When he reaches the narrow landing he turns just in time to see Jaskier’s gaze snap quickly away. His foot completely misses the bottom step and he stumbles forwards, crashing straight into Geralt’s shoulder, then quickly rights himself with a curse, face flushed. The tips of his ears are scarlet.

Geralt peers at him. Jaskier’s not laughing at him, that much is clear. But there’s something in that gaze - those sparkling eyes.

He just has to work out what.

It's with a wet thud that the Wyvern's head falls to the ground, black blood oozing across the grass. Geralt feels a little guilty at how easy the fight has been - and even guiltier when he aims a prolonged blast of Igni into the nest of eggs the creature had been so absorbed in guarding that it hadn't even seen him approach.

The eggs pop unpleasantly in the fire, and Geralt takes a swift step back, keen to not be caught in the crossfire if one should explode.

He realises, as he grabs the head and makes his way back to the town, that it's been two years since his last wyvern contract. Two years since the one that came close - but not too close - to killing him. Almost to the day, in fact. Jaskier will no doubt have something poetic to say about that, but for Geralt it only brings with it the gentle reminder of how quickly the time has passed, and how much has changed.

The scar on the back of his head is no more than a pale line, now.

It's barely a twenty minute walk back to the alderman's home, where Geralt trades the head for a heavy bag of coins, suspecting he's getting the better end of the deal. He doesn't stop to chat, but heads towards the inn, the sun still high enough in the sky that there's plenty of time left to enjoy the evening.

When he pushes the door open to their room, he’s half expecting Jaskier to be conspicuously absent - having found an eager audience in the town’s single tavern across the road - or possibly snoozing in the bed. But he’s reclining in the bath next to the fire, his back to the door, a book dangling from one hand over the rim of the tub. As the door opens, he half-turns, peering over his shoulder.

“You’re back early.”

Geralt walks past the tub, placing his pay upon the bed and beginning to remove his armour as Jaskier watches.

“Easy hunt,” he says, simply.

“Hmm,” Jaskier moves in the bath, the water sloshing a little over the side. “Looks it. I assume that means you won’t be needing the bath, then?”

Geralt is tugging away his tunic before Jaskier’s even finished speaking. “I didn’t say that.”

He shucks off his trousers and smalls, eliciting an appreciative hum from Jaskier, who drops the book to the floor and shifts back against the tub as Geralt steps in, lowering himself down between Jaskier’s legs. He leans against Jaskier’s chest - warm and damp and softly fuzzed with thick hair - letting his eyes drift shut.

It feels like an undeserved indulgence considering how swiftly he’d seen off the wyvern, but one he’ll allow himself, today. It’s not like either of them have anywhere pressing they need to be, and they’ve got the room till the next morning.

Jaskier wraps his arms around his middle, sliding beneath his arms, hands drifting lazily up and down Geralt’s torso. After a moment, Geralt plucks one of Jaskier’s hands from his chest and threads their fingers together.

“My hair needs a trim,” he says, finally. “At the back.”

With his hands occupied, Jaskier tilts his head, and Geralt can feel his lips pressed to the shorn hair of his nape, nuzzling exploratively.

“Hmm,” Jaskier assesses, “I think you do.”

“Can you…?”

Geralt doesn’t need to finish the sentence, of course: Jaskier’s been shaving his hair for two years now, keeping it in check every time it grows messy and unwieldy. His lips move from Geralt’s nape and down his neck, fluttering over his shoulder.

“Of course,” Jaskier mutters, his breath sending little shivers down Geralt’s spine. “But…” He opens his lips, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the bend between neck and shoulder, “...later.”

Geralt shifts beneath the touch, feeling Jaskier’s tongue hot against his skin. The hand not currently held in his own drifts down his stomach, sliding boldly beneath the surface of the bathwater.

“Did you know,” Jaskier continues, lips lingering above his pulsepoint, “that it’s been two years since we first…” his hand twitches beneath the water, and Geralt can feel him smile against his skin, “...cut your hair?”

“Hmm,” Geralt presses back harder, wriggling between his legs. “I did.”

The smile against his neck melds into a soft, open gasp - a little intake of breath.

“So,” Geralt says, a little smugly. “Shall I fetch the razor?”

The soft touch of lips and tongue is joined by the brief scrape of teeth - sudden and sharp. It’s Geralt’s turn to gasp.

“Like I said,” Jaskier whispers. “Later.”