Chapter Text
“Geralt, where...” Jaskier clears his throat, taking in the bustling city before them.
It’s...unnervingly, uncannily familiar, with the inn next to the blacksmith and the apothecary across the busy street. He can see the butcher shop a short ways down the road, and, he thinks, if they turn the corner near the tailor just beyond it they’ll find the brothel, tall and uninviting with chipping red paint and broken blue shutters. His muscles coil, pulling taught as though in preparation for a fight. He feels the nearly overwhelming urge to run.
But—no. No, it can’t be. All of the cities look the same, of course they do, and surely he’d have paid enough attention to what Geralt said about this contract to realize if they were going somewhere he really doesn’t want to be.
“Where did you say we were heading?” he asks finally as Geralt climbs off of Roach and begins untying the saddlebags.
“Danighan,” the witcher grunts.
Oh, shit, Jaskier thinks.
“Oh, good,” he says.
Jaskier stays silent as they make their way to the inn, keeping his head down and trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible. He tells himself he’s being foolish. Even if people do recognize him they’ll recognize him as Jaskier, the Famous Bard, the Poet of the White Wolf. He thinks bitterly that those who would remember him from before would have escaped this shithole the first chance they got. And anyway, everyone is too preoccupied with the witcher walking broodingly by his side to pay him much mind.
Still, he can’t help but hunch his shoulders in a way that reminds him too much of how he’d held himself the last time he’d walked these streets, over ten years ago. He scowls. He’d sworn he would never set foot in this sorry excuse for a town ever again.
If Geralt notices Jaskier’s strange behaviour he doesn’t mention it, although the bard is sure he can smell his rising anxiety. He shifts nervously as Geralt and the innkeep exchange a few words and then a handful of coin. He can’t keep himself from glancing around to make sure that no one is going to approach him. It’s happens sometimes, anyway, even now that he’s changed his name and his clothes and bought himself a lute. Didn’t you know? All bards are whores.
The inn is just as dauntingly familiar as the first sight of the city had been. Jaskier remembers vividly evenings spent lounging at the bar, sent out to entice travellers and merchants with his cheeks and lips dusted with rouge and his eyelashes painted with coal-paste, trying to be as sultry as his fifteen-year-old body would allow. The young ones always bring round new patrons. It was true—they’d looked at Jaskier with hunger in their eyes and after he’d led them to the brothel once they’d kept coming back, again and again and again.
Jaskier shudders. It feels the same, even though they’ve been here less than an hour. Like he’s running from something and waiting for something all at once, like he’s watching minutes and hours and days of his life tick by that he’ll never, ever get back. Like all the time he’d spent trying to forget this place, making a name for himself and finally living, had never even passed.
This time Geralt does turn to look at him, face expressionless except for the quirk of his brow. Jaskier wonders what he must smell like now. He doesn’t want to explain to Geralt—doesn’t know what he would say—so he sticks his tongue out, expecting the witcher to roll his eyes and let that be the end of it. He doesn’t, though, just lets out an indiscernible hum and studies Jaskier’s face until the bard looks away uncomfortably.
As he turns, his eyes lock with a familiar pair of green ones set in a pale, heart-shaped face framed with soft black waves. His breath catches. He needs to go, needs to get up to their room before she realizes who he is, but he’s rooted to the spot and then she’s making her way toward him and it’s too late.
“Julian?” she breathes as she nears, eyes wide. She glances between him and the witcher.
“Brighid,” he replies woodenly, panic and some emotion he can’t put a name to stealing his words and his manners.
Geralt hums again and, with a nod to Brighid and another glance at Jaskier, disappears up the stairs.
“I can’t believe it,” she murmurs when he’s gone, searching Jaskier’s face as though she’s not sure he’s real. Her Danighan accent sharpens the ends of her words in a way that speaks to a lifetime in the city. Jaskier clenches his teeth against the memories threatening to overwhelm him. “‘Tis been years.”
“It has,” he agrees, and suddenly he’s on edge, afraid that someone else will confront him. “Would it be all right if we went somewhere...a bit more private?” His gaze darts around, but so far no one else has taken any notice.
“Of course, of course.” Brighid shakes her head and blinks as if she’s just remembered where they are. She leads him to a table tucked away behind the stairs.
“Julian—” she starts when they’ve sat down.
“Jaskier, please,” he interrupts, begs, and her eyes widen further.
“Oh!” she exclaims. “You’re Jaskier? The bard?” Her face lights with excitement at his nod and she takes his hands in her own. “Of course, I should have known, with the White Wolf as a travelling companion. Oh, Julian—Jaskier—that’s wonderful! You always had such talent. I knew you would end up doing something incredible.” She leans forward and kisses his cheek and he feels warmth bloom in his chest despite himself.
“Thank you, Brighid, really. That means a lot to me.” He squeezes her hands in his own, searching her face. “But you’re still here, after all this time? I would have expected you to be long gone by now.”
“As would I,” she murmurs longingly, her green eyes so sad that something deep within Jaskier’s chest aches.
He and Brighid had been the youngest of the whores at the brothel. Jaskier had come running, away from his loveless family and the emptiness promised alongside ownership of the Lettenhove estate, with nothing but the clothes on his back. Brighid had been found cowering in an alley by the brothel’s owner, abandoned by her mother and without a single crown to her name. Jaskier had been fourteen, Brighid only a year older.
The owner, a fiery woman with a kind heart named Edana, had taken them in and given them the best she could with what she had. She and the others working there had always cared for them. But no matter how much they’d cared, working in the brothel had been dismal and vile and dangerous, and it had drained the life out of them. All of them.
“Why aren’t you gone, then?” Jaskier asks, suddenly fierce. “Geralt is going to see about a contract tomorrow morning—if you need coin, Brighid—”
“‘Tis not the coin,” Brighid interrupts. “I’ve saved my crowns since I got a job as a serving maid here six months ago—when I met my love and finally escaped that shithole.”
“Then what is it?” Jaskier demands, leaning in. “You can’t possibly want to stay in Danighan.”
“Of course I don’t, it’s just...” she bites her lip. “The newest of Edana’s girls, Arienh. Fourteen, just like you were. Keir’s new favourite.”
Jaskier’s heart skips a beat and he feels the blood drain from his face. Oh, no. Oh, no. Not Keir, not another innocent child trapped in that twisted fucker’s clutches. Jaskier’s body aches with the phantom feeling of Keir’s hands on him, harsh and unyielding.
“I was meant to leave two months ago,” she continues, her face anguished and guilty, “but Arienh came a few weeks before I got out and I promised I’d look out for her. I want to take her with me, but I can’t. Moryn owns a tailor shop in Gaslow, and we’ve no place to put her up. I don’t know what to do. I can’t just leave her here.” Tears are welling in Brighid’s eyes.
“We’ll take her.” The words leave the bard’s mouth without him telling his lips to move. He’s nearly as surprised as Brighid looks.
“Take her?” Brighid asks skeptically. “You and your witcher?”
Jaskier grimaces a little at the thought of Geralt trying to interact with a fourteen-year-old girl. Still—Geralt doesn’t sit well with violence against innocent people, especially children. Jaskier knows that there’s a kind heart underneath all that glowering and grunting. He’s seen it. And besides, he’s put up with the bard for nearly eight years. The man truly has the patience of a saint, no matter how hard he tries to hide it.
“Geralt will be fine,” he assures. “They were wanting for a kitchen maid at the inn in a town a few miles back. The innkeep was a kind woman. I’m sure Arienh will be well cared for until she decides to make her own way.”
Brighid sags with relief. “Oh, thank Melitele,” she breathes, closing her eyes. “You should see the bruises, Jaskier. Already.”
The bard grinds his teeth, feeling the first flame of rage ignite in his belly. He wants to make Keir pay for what he’s done, to him and to all the poor kids who had come after him, naive and sanguine as he must have been before he’d been ruined by reality.
“But—Jaskier—” Brighid grips his hands more tightly, her eyes suddenly fearful. “Be careful. You know what he’s like. He won’t give her up easily. And if he catches you there—”
“He won’t,” Jaskier interrupts a little wildly, ignoring the thrill of fear he feels at her words. “Don’t worry, Brighid. All will be well.”
“Thank you, Jaskier,” she says fervently. She leans in to kiss his cheek again. “I’d best get back to work. I’ve been gone too long already.”
She gives his hands another quick squeeze and stands, leaving him with a growing feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. What the fuck is he doing? What is he thinking? He can’t stage some sort impromptu prison break for anyone, let alone a traumatized young girl he’s never even met. He’s not well-versed in the art of subtlety or elaborate planning, and besides, his luck is absolute shit. Oh, Melitele’s tits. What has he gotten himself into?
He makes his way up the stairs in a daze, belatedly realizing that he doesn’t even know what room they’re staying in. Luckily, Geralt had taken the bard’s inattention into mind and left the door open a crack. He opens it to find the witcher sitting on the bed, drawing a whetstone rhythmically across the blade of one of his swords.
“What have I told you about sharpening things on the bed?” he asks as he shuts the door behind him, the question leaving his mouth without thought. He feels strangely disconnected from his body.
“Hm,” Geralt says without looking up from the weapon. “Friend of yours?” he asks. It takes Jaskier longer than it should to figure out what he’s talking about and Geralt pauses, finally turning his attention to the other man. “Lover?” His eyes are unreadable, but Jaskier can hear the slightest hint of careful possessiveness in his tone
“No! Gods, no,” Jaskier denies too quickly. He and Brighid had been extremely close, but they had never had that sort of intimacy. Too many shared experiences, and anyway— “She’s, ah, not my type.” He can’t help but pass his gaze over the witcher. Geralt knows very well what his type is.
Geralt hums again, studying his face impassively. “If you got yourself into trouble gods know how fucking long ago, bard, and have enemies in this city—”
His anxiety mounts. “No, no trouble, none at all, enemies, certainly not—”
“—you need to tell me so that when it comes back to bite you in the ass I can make sure it doesn’t kill you,” Geralt finishes, glaring now.
Jaskier hesitates, clenching his hands nervously. His trouble with this city isn’t the kind that the witcher is considering. Even so, he wonders if he shouldn’t explain the situation, what he’s planning on doing. He’ll have to tell him sometime—after all, he can hardly smuggle a teenaged girl out of Danighan without Geralt’s notice. But he has a feeling that if he reveals his intentions Geralt will call him an idiot and refuse to take the girl with them. No, better to leave it until he actually has Arienh to use as leverage. The witcher won’t be able to look at a child, battered and hopeful at the chance for freedom, and leave her to suffer.
“I’m offended, dear witcher, that you would think I could have enemies,” he says finally, pressing a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “I am beloved by all who lay eyes on me.”
Geralt snorts, turning back to his sword without another word. Jaskier is cleverer than to think that the other man really believes him. He probably just doesn’t want to put the effort into arguing. It shouldn’t matter, though. Jaskier won’t be in need of saving. He fights off the wave of doubt and the niggle of fear. He can pull this off, damn it, he can. He has to.
He doesn’t want to visit the brothel now, not when night is approaching and it will be full of drunkards and rich men alike. There’s too much of a chance that Keir will be there, and besides, it’ll be better to talk to Edana and Arienh during the morning, when customers are scarce. He sits next to Geralt on the bed, putting his feet up and leaning back against the headboard. The witcher doesn’t falter in his sharpening.
“Who is this contract with, again?” Jaskier asks absently. He’s thinking about how strange it will be to return to the brothel. It’s been a long time. He had thought he would be trapped there forever, taking the abuse and endless monotony until he died and rotted in that place. But he had seen the lute in the woodcarver’s shop and saved his coin, hidden it under a floorboard in his room and hoarded it until he’d had enough to buy the instrument, and when that day finally came he’d played and sang at the inn and collected so many crowns that he’d cried to Edana with joy. Finally, finally, he was free.
“Lord Keir,” Geralt replies, and Jaskier nearly chokes on his own spit.
“Lord Keir?” His heartbeat is thundering in his ears and he feels lightheaded. He wonders half-hysterically who the bastard had had to kill to win that title.
Geralt looks at him sharply. “Jaskier,” he growls.
Jaskier recovers himself a little, though his heart is still racing. It doesn’t matter. He’s not involved in the negotiation of the contracts and Keir’s higher status doesn’t make him any more of a threat. At least, he hopes it doesn’t.
“Nothing, it’s nothing,” he says, trying to be reassuring. If Geralt’s glare is anything to go by, he doesn’t succeed. “Truly, there’s no problem. Keir and I won’t be crossing paths.”
Geralt scowls before getting up to put away the sword and whetstone. “Performing tonight?” he asks, pausing at his bag. “No,” Jaskier replies hastily. He can absolutely not draw that much attention to himself. Not here. “An early night, I think.”
Geralt nods, unquestioning. He pulls out a sleep shirt and Jaskier turns away. Now is not the time for his unyielding attraction to the witcher to make itself known, although it would be a welcome distraction from the stress of the circumstances.
As he changes his own clothes, the bard wonders not for the first time where he and Geralt stand in terms of their relationship. They had started sharing a bedroll more often during the winter, Geralt holding him close when the chill had made his teeth chatter and his lips turn blue. Then they just hadn’t stopped, lying together every night and waking with Jaskier curled into Geralt’s chest. They’d stopped asking about separate beds months ago. Jaskier knows that the witcher can scent his lust for him and he’s sure he’s caught the hint of arousal in the other man’s own eyes, but Geralt hasn’t made any indication that he wishes to make anything of it and Jaskier is too afraid of his friend’s rejection to confront him.
Still, as they climb into bed and Geralt makes no objection when the bard plasters himself against his side, just gives a low hum that the bard can feel rumble through his warm chest, Jaskier wants. He wants Geralt more fiercely than he’s wanted anything besides that lute, years and years ago. He wants Geralt’s touch and his affection and his love, and he wants to give and give and give himself to the witcher until there’s nothing left.
He sighs softly. Wishful thinking, that’s what it is. But Geralt’s slow breaths and steady heartbeat chase away the panic of today and the days to come and he falls asleep quickly, secure in his witcher’s solid presence, if only for a little while.