Chapter Text
The child has spoken to Jaskier only a handful of times since placing himself in his charge, exactly fifteen days ago.
Jaskier dimly recalls that he had always been small for his age too, but still he didn’t quite believe the claim that the short, skinny boy in front of him was actually twelve years old.
The child had introduced himself with a curt nod and delivered the news that Jaskier was his father.
The first thing that came to Jaskier’s mind, and unfortunately out of his mouth, was: "Are you sure?", which the boy did not dignifiy with an answer.
Their relationship hasn't changed much since that first morning. The child is staying with Jaskier at the boarding house he rents during cold, long winters of teaching at Oxenfurt. Now he has to pay double, of course. His insistence that the child could hardly count as a whole person has fallen on deaf ears.
Fifteen long days of charged silence and Jaskier feels ready to crawl out of his skin.
If he is honest with himself he is not all that surprised that he has a bastard child somewhere on the continent, but this child is so unlike anything he could have expected. He looks like Jaskier, sure, a miniature version of the bard, but with darker eyes and a mouth that never smiles or talks.
As a child nobody could get Jaskier to shut up, even less so than now. He had annoyed his sisters and mother until they made him run up and down the stairs to tire himself out. He had recited verses to the servants, the cat and even the chickens, anyone who would listen or couldn't run away fast enough.
The child seems to loathe talking. Not only, but mainly, to Jaskier.
Now he is sitting opposite him at the inn, slowly and deliberately picking apart a slice of bread. So engrossed, he leaves Jaskier ample time to stew in his own discomfort and dread. A whole lot of dread at what will happen when the creaking door of the inn opens, and Geralt enters. Poor, unsuspecting Geralt who almost certainly can't stand children and will leave poor, hapless Jaskier without so much as a grunt. Leave him to care for a son who hates him, leave him to a teaching post that doesn't even come close to the excitement he gets from travelling with the Witcher, leave him.
The door opens twice, first to let in a couple of hunters, loudly discussing the merits of one serrated knife over the other, then to admit a stooped, limping figure, before a familiar white head of hair appears.
He looks good, Jaskier notices. He always does when he returns from the Witcher hideout, wherever that might be. Well fed, somehow more relaxed. Certainly cleaner.
And he makes Jaskier’s pulse spike and his breath hitch and makes all those other things happen to his mind and body that Jaskier would absolutely write a song about if it was about anyone other than Geralt.
The Witcher spots him, spots the child, and raises one eyebrow.
The bard plasters on his brightest smile.
"Geralt, I hope you missed me!", he exclaims.
The Witcher almost rolls his eyes.
"Who's that?", he asks while sitting down heavily at their table.
"Who, the boy?"
Geralt doesn't answer but something around his mouth twitches. Whether he is amused or annoyed, Jaskier can't quite tell.
"Well, you see, funny story.”
He clears his throat and looks over to the child who has graduated from picking apart his dinner, to methodically cleaning his fingernails. No help there.
"About a decade ago, when I was young and dumb-"
Geralt snorts.
"Fine: A little younger and dumber.", Jaskier amends. "Anyway. Twelve years ago, I met a girl with pretty eyes and huge... a huge smile! Sparks flew, sonnets were written, promises made and then something or rather happened and we parted ways - amicably I must add. And this", he gestures at the child, a little out of breath, "This is, sort of, pretty much, the child."
"The child.", Geralt repeats slowly.
"My child?"
At that the child looks up and says: "Jeroen."
"Right. That's his name, apparently. "
There are a few moments in which no one says a word and Jaskier hears his heartbeat thumping in his ears.
"Hmm." Geralt finally says.
"I am truly sorry, Geralt. I didn't know until a couple of weeks ago. See his mother died and he has no one else, and", he lowers his voice, "I don't know what to do with him."
"Are you the Witcher?", the child asks.
Geralt nods.
"My mother told me that my father travels with one. I thought she just made it up so that I wouldn't be sad he wasn't there."
Jaskier feels something close to pity, but quickly shoves it away. Not his fault, he tells himself. He didn’t know.
"She was right about that. Though I don't know about how much else, if she got her information from Jaskier’s songs.", Geralt says.
"Hey!", Jaskier squawks indignantly.
The child's face twists into something like a smile, and suddenly Jaskier can almost remember the face of that girl with the pretty eyes.
"So?", Geralt turns to look at Jaskier.
Jaskier takes a deep breath. He has fretted about what to do with the child for the better part of the last two weeks, only interrupted by spells of hysteria when he was absolutely convinced that there simply was no way out.
"Well, I thought that my family might take him. It's quite a way, and I haven't so much as shown my face in a decade, but it's worth a try." He shrugs.
As much as Jaskier likes to talk, he could never quite bring himself to tell Geralt much about his family. Not that the Witcher had ever asked, but that hadn't stopped Jaskier from telling him about his preferred fabrics for winter and summer either, or about the best ways to woo a countess, so it was more deliberate that he'd care to admit.
"If they don't take him, you'll have to stay here with him." Geralt's face reveals nothing, while Jaskier's probably reveals too much.
"I can't!", he exclaims.
"Jaskier, the child is your responsibility."
"Don't talk to me about children and responsibility.", Jaskier snaps.
"You don't want to go there.", Geralt retorts darkly.
"Is it true that Witchers are immortal?", the child asks before Jaskier can say something he will regret. Or start crying.
"No.", Geralt answers calmly.
"Is it true that Witchers eat men?"
"Only if they ask too many stupid questions."
The child laughs, actually laughs, which surprises Jaskier enough to almost make him spill his ale over his favourite breeches.
"Good thing I'm not a man!", the child grins.
"No, you're the child of an idiot, which is worse. Makes Witchers want to roast you on a spit."
Geralt too, has broken into something akin to a grin.
"Hardly my fault, is it?", the child retorts and makes a rather rude gesture with his hands.
"Am I to be insulted all night?", Jaskier interrupts, making the frown return to the child's face.
"Ah fuck off, Jask." The Witcher is still doing his half-smirk and holds Jaskier’s gaze.
It's those eyes that Jaskier would give it all up for. Damned be his conscience, damned his reputation, if Geralt would let him, he'd leave his son at the inn forever and never waste another thought on him, just to hold on to this sort of friendship.
He only hates himself a little for those thoughts. At least has the good manners to blush slightly at them.
"Fine.", he sighs. "We'll bring him to my father."
"Who is your father?", the child asks. He doesn't look directly at Jaskier but seems to focus on a spot above his shoulder.
"He is the Duke Pankratz. Lovely man." He adds the last bit a bit too forceful. Geralt will have caught that.
"Pankratz?"
"It's a silly name. I am his firstborn son, and will take his titles when he dies, and you are probably my firstborn son and will get the title when I die. Something to look forward to."
The child sucks on his teeth before asking: "Probably?"
"Jaskier, if there are more bastards waiting in this inn you better tell me now so I can strangle you. No need to drag it out."
"Don't worry, I have become rather skilled in the art of, well, let's say in the art of staging a dignified exit." He tries for a wink. "And come on, dear Witcher, how can you be so sure there isn't some lady of the night sitting on a brood of white haired, rosy cheeked little rascals?"
"Witchers are sterile." Geralt says bluntly.
Right, Jaskier should have known about that, though he is not sure if Geralt ever actually told him.
"I promised a village a few miles from here to look into some shit for them. You and your boy get your things together and be ready. I will come pick you up when the job is done."
It's an impressive sequence of words for Geralt, and Jaskier appreciates the gesture.
"What kind if shit?", he asks softly. He can see the child straining in his peripheral. Obsession with Witchers at least seems to be hereditary.
"Nothing unusual. Vanishing virgins."
"Is it the virgins that are vanishing or is it just their virginity? Because if it is the latter, you might want to take me as a consultant."
Geralt snorts and shakes his head.
"Fine, fine. Never understood that whole obsession with virgins anyway. Why would you want to lay with someone who doesn't know how to-", he stops himself with a glance at the child, who looks mildly horrified.
"Right, we will be ready."
Geralt leaves not long after, without much of a goodbye, as usual. A nagging voice in Jaskier’s head suggests that maybe this is the Witcher leaving him for good, sparing himself the hassle of breaking it to him.
He sends the child to bed and spends much of the night fretting.
The next day is filled with errands he neglected to deal with earlier. He settles affairs, promises payments at later dates where possible, and packs his bags.
After years of travel with the Witcher he has gotten good at the last bit. Not that he ever had to account for a child before.
The child doesn't have much more than the shirt on his back and the boots in his feet, so Jaskier buys him a warm doublet, a cloak and a bedroll. He is quietly hoping they will be stopping at more inns this time, but knowing Geralt, neglecting to bring adequate camping gear could be considered child abuse.
They have to wait two days for the Witcher to return. Days in which the child keeps asking Jaskier about Geralt. When will he come back? What monster will he have slain? Is it true that he never sleeps?
After a long day of waiting, the child quietly asks if Geralt would maybe teach him how to kill
monsters, and Jaskier recognizes the yearning.
When Geralt finally returns, he is grumpy and filthy and Jaskier could kiss him.
There are a couple of bulging, dripping sacks tied to Roach's saddle that make the child giddy with excitement and Jaskier a bit nauseous.
A few hours later they are on the path and Jaskier feels like he can breathe again. The air is fresh, the birds are singing, and Geralt is back. Geralt, who is currently ignoring both him and the child, Geralt who seems to be in a contemplative mood, Geralt, who is the most beautiful man Jaskier has ever laid eyes upon.
He shakes his head lightly to stop himself from pining. It doesn't work. What does work is the glare he receives from the child, who possibly caught him staring at Geralt like he was the sun. He would have to be more careful.
It all goes relatively well until they break for camp in the evening. The child doesn't moan anywhere close to as much as Jaskier does, about his blisters, the constant drizzle of rain or the lack of lunch breaks, and even the weather has the mercy to clear up by the time they stop at a clearing.
Then, once the child has left to collect wood, Geralt looks up at Jaskier from where he is hunched over what is to be their campfire, and asks:
"Is your father actually going to take the boy?"
Jaskier swallows. "I don't know. I haven't spoken to my father in-"
"In a decade, you said that.", the Witcher interrupts. "You are hiding something. And normally I wouldn't give a shit, but I'd like to know if I'm wasting my fucking time, playing escort for you and the boy."
Jaskier defensively crosses his arms. "I am not hiding anything! It is quite simple: I am my father's only son and a great disappointment. We agreed it would be better for me to leave for a while and I decided that it would be better to leave for good. So how would I fucking know?"
"And why are you such a disappointment?"
"Why does it matter?"
The Witcher stands up so that he towers over Jaskier, maybe not so much in height but in sheer brooding bulk. "Because I need to know if you will receive a slap on the wrist upon your return or face imprisonment."
Jaskier groans in frustration. All the times he has ever thought about telling Geralt of this one aspect of his life, this isn't the way he thought it would go.
"He caught me with someone and couldn't bring himself to look at me again, after."
Geralt makes a kind of huffing noise.
"A man.", Jaskier says quietly. "He caught me with a man."
He wants a dragon to swoop from the skies and snatch him up, a drowner to grab him by the ankles, a witch to curse him. He can feel his cheeks burn, even as he tries to keep his composure defiantly.
"Hmm."
"Hmm indeed.", Jaskier repeats.
"So somewhere between slap on the wrist and a life behind bars, then.", Geralt says.
Jaskier grimaces.
"I don't think he ever told my mother or anyone else why we had our falling out. For all I know she thinks it's because of my music. Who knows, he might even be relived I have produced him an heir.”
"And you don't mind leaving your son with him?"
Jaskier can't bring himself to call the child his son very often. Now, too, the words make him shudder a bit.
"He is nothing like me, I doubt he will get into the same kind of trouble. And besides, there is nothing I can give him, Geralt."
"There is nothing you want to give him.", the Witcher states.
Jaskier is half impressed, half aghast at the Witcher’s sudden display of insight. All these years the man pretends to be an emotionally constipated log and as soon as Jaskier's own morals are being poked and prodded at, he hands out wisdom like a whore giving out kisses.
"Right, if you are so high and mighty, dear Witcher, why don't I see you claiming your child surprise? It has no doubt been born by now, yet I can't see you carry an infant in Roach's saddle bags!"
"And what would I do with an infant, Jaskier? Bring it to Kaer Morhen to face the trials? Or take it monster hunting? I already have you to look after, and now your bastard child, what am I to do with even more dead weight?", the Witcher snarls.
There is a part in Jaskier that thrills as the mention of whatever Kaer Morhen is. Geralt is usually so stingy with details about what being a Witcher actually entails, that an offhand comment like this is a rare treat. The other part feels like there are fangs burying themselves deep in Jaskier's heart, gnawing at him in the shape of Geralt's words.
"Right. How about you don't judge what I do with my child, and I shall do the same to you?"
Geralt, instead of replying, takes a step back and narrows his eyes.
"Your child should have been back by now."
Without another word he turns and walks back into the woods.
Jaskier is left standing next to the abandoned fire, with a ball of guilt the size of a boulder in his stomach.