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Jaskier won’t lie and say he isn’t dragging his feet as the cave opening comes into view, heart still aching in his chest - not to be dramatic, gods forbid. Necluda’s head peeks out from inside, obviously having scented his arrival, and she lets out a low whine to alert the others. It’s obvious it’s different this time, it’s far from winter for one thing, and his heartbreak must be palpable from across the continent.
Kitalié’s head pops out next, followed by her young pups, all yelping eagerly at his appearance, and she jerks her head towards the inside of the cave before retreating, the others all following.
Jaskier takes a deep breath, prepares himself, and enters the cave just in time to watch fur ripple and smooth, soften into skin, mucked with dirt. The older woman eyes him for a moment before sighing, her children eagerly shifting as well just because they can, chasing each other around the cave on clumsy, coltish legs.
“What happened, then?” She asks expectantly, unashamed of her nudity as she comes to stand before him, her thumb rubbing downwards across his cheekbone. “Did he find out?”
Jaskier swallows and very determinedly does not cry. “No. He still doesn’t know. He just didn’t want me. ” It’s a hard tincture to swallow, the knowledge that just Jaskier all on his own was too much for Geralt, though at least he’ll never need to concern himself with Geralt discovering the truth now.
Kitalié stares at him for a long time, lips thinning, before patting his cheek and turning away. “Men are fickle. No loyalty. None.” She says, almost to herself, voice sharp with barely concealed rage. “You stay here now. No more giving your loyalty to man.”
He wants to argue, wants to remind her how much he loves mankind, how he was born one of them, yet he knows that it’s a moot point. She’s right, of course, Jaskier’s loyal to a fault, and all it’s done is taken twenty two years and filled them with hurt and humiliation. No, she’s right.
“Yes, mama.” He murmurs, watching as the other wolves pretend not to pay attention and she gives him a weary smile.
“I only want you happy, Julian. You know this, yes?”
He nods, and she nods in return.
“Shift now. No use for these bodies here.”
He does as he’s asked, and wonders if he’ll ever be human again after this.
The chocolate brown wolf relaxes when Luine and Erlo rise from their puppy pile and begin a new one on him instead, anxiety slowly ebbing away. This is where he belongs after all, he never should have left.
...
Julian is ten when he realises if he doesn’t run, he’ll die. It’s been less than an hour since he watched his Mother’s blood pool around her head on the ground, his father just as frozen at his own actions. He knows, then, that he is next. He doesn’t want to be next, so he runs.
His eyes are wild and his heart is racing and he’s starting to think this isn’t the best idea he’s ever had, because strange creatures lurk in these woods, when he suddenly finds himself flanked by wolves, and yes, he’s going to die. A particularly gruesome death, it seems.
But they don’t jump on him, if anything they’re steering him, directing him until he’s standing at the mouth of a rock formation, and they’re butting at his back with their mighty maws and gods will it, it isn’t like Julian has any other choices, does he?
He’s more than surprised when one of the wolves turns into a woman, young and pretty with dark hair, but absolutely filthy , in desperate need of a bath. She eyes him for a long moment, and then reaches out a hand.
She offers him a deal. A family, safety, all he has to do is drink something disgusting, get a little bite and not die in the process of changing.
That’s how he goes from Julian the abused noble to Jaskier the Wolfwalker.
...
Kitalié’s cubs are curious little things, three of them, all black as night, but they seem to know he’s their brother despite the fact he’s not been around since their birth last year. They snuggle into his sides, sleep slumped over his back, and Kitalié watches with her maw resting on her paws, eye cracked open warily.
He understands her apprehension. She thinks he’s going to run back to Geralt, like he has every other time, but this time, even the thought of it makes him feel ill.
No, he’ll not be inflicting himself upon Geralt any longer.
Rieti, the youngest cub, plays at chewing Jaskier’s side so he thwacks the boy on the nose, smugly satisfied when the cub lets out a pathetic whine and pushes against his fur pitifully. His sister huffs what could be a laugh, Teiko tackling Rieti off of Jaskier while Leila, the only sensible cub, closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep.
Jaskier can’t help that he’s bored, even as warm and relaxed as he is here, and he thinks the other wolves can sense it too, sparing him pitying glances and sharing extra cuts of meat with him as though he’s merely sick and needs to regain his strength. Jaskier wishes it were so simple.
...
It’s been quite a few years, Jaskier knows that at least, though time is hard to keep track of when it doesn’t really matter in any way. Living as a wolf means freedom, makes time meaningless. He’s on the hunt, approaching a deer cautiously with Leila at his heels, watching studiously. Teiko and Rieti are far too wild for even Jaskier to handle, and so they hunt with Kitalié always.
Jaskier doesn’t mind that. Leila is good company, warm and settled in a way that balances out Jaskier’s chill and jitters.
He doesn’t realise it’s a trap until he’s leaping towards the deer and Leila lets out a strangled, terrified howl. He swerves, the deer’s blood dripping from his sharpened teeth, and sees the men wrestling her into a cage. His body is like a spring, he takes out the fatter man closer to him first, ripping through his throat with his claws, but they’re loading Leila onto a cart.
His heart is racing and he howls as loudly as he can, desperate, hoping that any of the pack are near enough to hear and help, and then he’s running alongside the horses.
Gods, he loves horses, he really doesn’t want to do this, but Leila is far more important. He gives a mental apology as he slams his body sideways, feels the bones crack beneath his weight and the cart spin out of control.
He has to shift to open the door. Opposable thumbs and the like. It’s difficult after so long, bones aching and skin burning, blood boiling as it pumps through his veins, and then he’s Jaskier the bard again. Albeit a very naked bard indeed.
The man left inside is dead, and Jaskier has to draw in a fearful breath as he uncovers the cage - She’s alive. She’s cowering and pressed as far back into the cage as she can, but she’s alive.
Jaskier clears his throat, because they can’t communicate without speech with one shifted and one not. Unlocking the cage and helping her out, he murmurs softly but urgently. “You need to shift. There could be more, if we just look like people, we have a better chance.”
Leila snarls. He understands, of course he does, she’s only shifted a handful of times in her whole life, all of ten years now. She doesn’t want to.
“Leila, please.”
She shifts, but the simmering rage doesn’t ebb out, she still looks just as angry about it afterwards. That’s when Jaskier realises they have a whole other problem to deal with as well.
He turns away from her and starts undressing the men, wincing at the honestly bleak choices of greys and blacks and burlap, but they don’t really have other options. He pulls a shirt that’s too large over his head, tightens a pair of trousers with some loose rope, and then helps Leila get into similar gear, her own shirt swamping her entirely. At least there’s no blood. There’s no chance of either of the men’s shoes fitting her, so he pulls some on himself and moves towards the other horse that seems to be fairly unscathed.
He holds a hand over its neck, presses his face beside his hand. “I am very sorry about your friend,” He murmurs, even though the horse can’t understand. “But we need some help, so I hope you won’t give us too much trouble.”
Leila helps break the restraints holding the mare in place, looking wary.
“What we do now?” She asks, voice rough and words foreign on her tongue.
Jaskier swallows. “Now, we assume the pack is compromised. We get far away, and we wait for Mama to find us.”
“With the pack bonds?”
“Yes. It’s going to be okay.” Jaskier lies, because he truly has no idea. “Get on the horse now.”
Leila watches him for a long moment, and he knows he’s been caught in his lie, but she relents, hoisting herself onto the light toned mare’s back. “Her name is Birch.”
Jaskier smiles. “Like your favourite tree.”
“Yes.”
He holds out a piece of fabric he’s stripped from the edge of his chemise and she frowns at it blankly.
“For your hair, you tie it.”
She blinks at him, and he realises that passing as human is going to be a lot harder than he thought.
...
Performing again is a relief. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it, how big a part of himself it had been, until he’s back with a lute in his hands and a skip in his step.
Performing while watching to make sure a ten year old wolf girl is using the spoon to eat her soup rather than just shoving her face in the bowl is, if he’s honest, a touch stressful.
It’s not like Leila can help it. Of course not, she wasn’t raised to be human, she was raised to be wolf. And repeatedly told not to trust humans. So far, she’s snarled at six patrons who’ve passed their table. Jaskier isn’t so mad about that though, she’s a young girl seemingly dining alone, he’d rather she frighten them than seem welcoming.
As his set ends he smiles brightly and gathers his coin, and is pleased to see Leila clapping too when she remembers that’s what you’re supposed to do when you enjoy something.
“I don’t like it here.” She says though, when he sits down across from her. “Too many humans. Maybe they hunt us.”
Jaskier feels his expression soften, and he’d love to reassure her that they’re safe, but even humans aren’t safe from other humans. “I know,” He says instead, feeling shame bubbling up in his gut. Wolves don’t lie to each other, it’s not done, and he’s already told two since they ran, he can’t bear to tell another. “Mama will find us soon.” He’s at least 60% certain of this.
Leila’s blue eyes break contact and fall to the cracked wood surface of the table. “If Mama can’t find us, we die?”
“No!” Jaskier gasps, “We don’t. We’ll figure something out, I promise.”
...
And so three months pass and Jaskier’s hope sinks like a pit in his stomach, but he holds it together for Leila, Leila who forces herself to smile instead of bare her teeth, Leila who pretends to be a sweet little girl at inns so they can get a discount, Leila who isn’t dumb enough to believe there is going to be a rescue anymore.
Jaskier goes by Dandelion now, because Jaskier the bard should be well into his fifties by now and he looks barely thirty, and they hear stories on the road about themselves often, of Dandelion the bard and his young daughter. It works well enough, no one would accept Leila as his sister, and all in all, it’s the perfect cover story. It also leaves a trail, just in case. Their scent may be gone, but their notoriety isn’t.
So of course, just when Jaskier is beginning to think that they can make this work, rescue or not, Geralt of Rivia has to show up.
Because nothing is ever easy, is it?
They’re camping in the woods, unconcerned with creatures considering they can protect themselves well enough now, at the expense of their clothing though, when Leila hears it.
Born wolves always have better hearing, Kitalié had told him once.
She’s up and off her bedroll in seconds, grabbing a hold of Jaskier’s arms to shake him awake, black hair a mess.
“Creature coming. Should we shift?”
He considers, and sniffs cautiously himself, bleary eyed but aware enough, and that’s when the scent hits him. Familiar, safe, love.
Gods damn it all.
“Don’t shift.” He tells her as quietly as he can, because he knows the man has enhanced hearing, “Be as human as you can, alright?”
She frowns at him, thick brows furrowed so tightly they meet at the centre for a second before she sets her jaw and nods. “No shift.”
Geralt breaks into the clearing mere moments later, and then stops and stares.
“Jaskier?”
Jaskier hums, awkwardly, and nods. “The one and only. Fancy running into you here in these very spooky woods.”
Geralt won’t stop staring .
“Personally I didn’t think we’d run into anyone, especially at this time of night, not that I know specifically what time of night it is exactly, but the moon is quite high and -“
“Jaskier. You...you’re alive.”
Geralt sounds genuinely stunned, genuinely distressed, even. Is it wrong of Jaskier to feel just a little bit validated that the idea of his death had upset the Witcher just a bit?
“As far as I know, yes,” He agrees easily, Leila watching the interaction avidly, looking as though she’s trying to decide whether to flee or attack Geralt. Jaskier rests a hand on her shoulder to stop her movement. Unfortunately this draws Geralt’s gaze to her, and the man must draw some sort of conclusion because he seems to relax slightly.
“You didn’t die.” Geralt states the obvious, and Jaskier nods again, wondering if he’s going to need to come up with some elaborate excuse but Geralt just continues, “You had a child and disappeared to care for her.”
Oh. Oh, yes, that could definitely work.
“Yes!” Oops, that was certainly a touch too eager, but the Witcher doesn’t seem to notice, suddenly focusing entirely too much on Leila. That’s bound to get him a snarl if he doesn’t stop, so Jaskier jumps to his feet. “Yes, this is my daughter. She’s ten years old and she’s nothing like me so don’t try to talk to her, she won’t like it.”
Geralt eyes him, and there’s something there that Jaskier can’t put his finger on, but then he does the strangest thing. He smiles at Jaskier.
“I find that hard to believe.” He moves forward, towards Jaskier, pauses in place as though struggling with something, before he adds, “It’s good that you’re not dead.”
Isn’t that just lovely. How heartwarming. Honestly.
“I would’ve thought you’d be glad for it, if I was.” Jaskier can’t help but be petty, and Geralt has the decency to look away, expression pinched.
“I’m not.” Is all he says, though, so Jaskier lets it go. It isn’t important, as much as seeing the man is making his heart twist itself into knots until it rips. What’s important is getting away from him before he realises there’s something off about Leila, draws his connection, and kills them both.
“Lovely. Well, It was nice seeing you Geralt. Goodbye.”
There’s a stilted pause, the three of them standing in uncomfortable silence.
“You won’t even introduce me to your child?” Geralt asks, somehow managing to sound both nonchalant and hurt, and gods, Jaskier is weak.
“Fine. Geralt, this is Leila. Leila, this is Geralt. An old acquaintance of mine.”
Leila eyes the Witcher, tilts her head, and then narrows her eyes. Oh, fuck it all.
“I don’t like him.” She says simply, before moving towards her bedroll, never once turning her back. Jaskier winces, and Geralt looks genuinely taken aback. It’s rather amusing, really.
“My apologies. She’s rather...blunt.” Jaskier tries, but even he can hear how weak the excuse is, and Geralt is looking at him a little more carefully now. He still hasn’t mentioned Jaskier’s lack of ageing either. It’s mildly alarming.
“You did say she was nothing like you.” Geralt says finally. “Do you mind if I make camp with you for the night?”
Geralt’s never asked if he minded anything before, so Jaskier’s definitely more than a little on edge when he nods and tries as casually as he can to move his bedroll much closer to Leila’s, for as much good as that will do them if Geralt decides to take them out.
In the end, Geralt lays his own bedroll near Birch, and the latest Roach. She’s not the same, and Jaskier can’t help but feel a bit sad about that.
He falls asleep holding tight to Leila’s hand beneath the blankets.
...
Somehow, Geralt convinces Jaskier to let him join them in their travels. Leila is beyond unimpressed, taking every excuse to glower at him from her seat mounted on Birch, as Jaskier walks alongside her as always, strumming softly in an attempt to calm her. It doesn’t seem to work, and he thinks he sees the tips of black ears beginning to poke from between thick locks of hair several times as they walk towards the next village.
The second they arrive he takes her aside in a room and gives her the sternest look he can muster up, which he’s certain is probably not at all very effective.
“If you keep on like this he’ll realise what we are by the sunset and we’ll die before the moon rises.”
Leila crosses her arms, sharp claws scratching at her skin as she growls. “He betrayed you before. He will betray again. We die either way.”
“No!” Jaskier groans, “He betrayed me in an emotional way, he didn’t hurt me, not physically,”
Leila’s eyes go wide and she touches the tips of her claws to the place over his heart. “Here? He hurt you here?”
Jaskier nods.
“Then we should rip him. Then maybe eat him too, I’m hungry.”
Born wolves are absolute maniacs, Jaskier thinks, not for the first time.
“No, no ripping, no glaring, no growling. Act normal.”
“I am normal.”
Jaskier lets out a long suffering groan. “ Human, act human.”
Leila rolls her eyes. “I will use a spoon for soup, I will smile at the men.”
“Don’t smile at the men!”
...
Geralt looks more surprised than not to see them come back from the room, probably having expected Jaskier to avoid him entirely. That probably would’ve been a fine plan, if it didn’t involve skipping dinner, which always made Leila even crankier than usual.
“Will you sit with me?” The Witcher asks, as they pass towards the next table, and Jaskier doesn’t have time to consider it before Leila is sitting down across from the man, posture tight. Jaskier sits beside her, blinking.
“We will eat soup.” Leila says in a voice that sounds more accusatory than anything else, like she’s daring the Witcher to call her out on being anything other than human. For fucks sake.
Geralt nods as if he’s been given an order though, and gets up to walk towards the pretty barmaid.
“Now what on earth is he doing?” Jaskier can’t help but ponder, frowning, and Leila just sighs.
“He is getting soup. He asks us to sit, he gets me soup.”
Well, he can’t exactly fault that logic, except it’s not something Geralt would normally do. If Jaskier had asked, he’d have rolled his eyes and told him to get his own damn soup. Or told him to throw himself off the nearest cliff, probably, since the dragon hunt.
“Do you even want soup?” Jaskier asks finally, squinting at Leila suspiciously, and all of a sudden she looks insecure and uncomfortable and he regrets every decision that led him to this moment.
“I know how to eat soup.” She says simply, not looking at him, and now he feels like a right cock. Of course. He’d only taught her how to use a spoon, and she’s had bread and cheese and other things that don’t require utensils, but how could he have left her with such limited knowledge? He’s been a terrible pack mate, and a terrible brother.
“We’ll get pheasant tomorrow, okay? We have the money for it now that Geralt is paying tonight. I’m so very sorry, darling girl. Please forgive me.”
Leila just shakes her head. “It’s okay. Food is food.”
“It’s not okay. I’ll be better.” He says, just as Geralt makes it back to the table, a bowl of steaming soup in each hand that he places before them.
“I hope this is okay.”
Alright seriously, what the fuck is going on with Geralt? Who the hell is this imposter? A Doppler? Jaskier presses his spoon as discretely as he can against Geralt’s hand but there’s no reaction to the silver. Huh.
“Thank you.” Leila breaks the silence, and Jaskier feels himself flush that the ten year old struggling to be polite to anyone was the first to thank him for their meal. She doesn’t look happy about it, but she still said it. Jaskier smiles at her, proud, before nodding towards Geralt.
“Yes, thank you, this was very kind of you. May I ask what brought this on? While I know I am of course a delight to be around, you needn’t bribe me for my fine company.”
Jaskier had kind of been waiting for Geralt to cut him off during that entire sentence, and finds himself staring at the man when he simply waits for Jaskier to finish, a pleasantly nostalgic look on his face. What on the continent has gotten into him?
“I thought we could talk over a meal.” Geralt says simply, and Jaskier can’t help himself, he balks.
“Talk?! You? And me? Over a - where is Yennefer? You’re quite clearly cursed. We need to sort this out as quickly as possible -“
“No curse.” Leila hums around a mouthful of soup, incredibly unladylike. “Curses smell.”
Jaskier fights the urge to slap a hand over her mouth. “She’s joking, she’s never been very funny though. Nice try darling, I’m sure you’ll tell a good joke next time!” Desperation is leaking into his voice and Jaskier wants to slam his head into the table until it explodes.
Geralt just frowns for a long moment, and then says, “Curses do often have a smell.”
“Funny coincidence then.”
“Right. Look, Jaskier, I thought I lost my chance with you. I thought you were dead. But you are not dead.”
“A fact I feel we’ve established rather thoroughly at this point I feel the need to point out.” Jaskier’s frown deepens. “Are you quite alright, Geralt?”
Geralt makes a frustrated noise and Jaskier’s fairly certain he’s just clenched his battered copper mug hard enough to dent it.
“No - I....I wanted to apologise. For the mountain. And everything else. I was unfair to you, and I’ve found myself missing your company very much.”
“Then you should apologise.” Leila says nonchalantly, looking between the two with avid attention now.
Geralt frowns. “I just -“
“No, you say you want to. If you want to do something you should do it. Unless the thing you want to do is rip people up with claws.”
Jaskier could strangle her, he really could.
However, Geralt looks cowed. The man winces, and then looks directly at Jaskier, which is a bit overwhelming and says, “I’m sorry, Jaskier.”
Well then.
“I accept.” Jaskier says, almost on autopilot. “What now?”
Geralt looks unreasonably pleased. “If you would both be willing, I’d like to travel together again.”
Jaskier knows it’s a terrible idea. A really, very, so incredibly terrible idea, but Leila is actually genuinely smiling at Geralt now. She must be able to scent how pleased Jaskier is, the scent of heartbreak must have lessened. It’s the first smile he’s seen aimed at anyone but himself. If they’re careful, if they do this right- well, Geralt never found out about him in twenty two years, and at this point, Leila is being so incredibly obvious that the only conclusion is that Geralt is simply oblivious.
So he says yes.
...
Sometimes he thinks Leila wants them to get found out. It’s hard not to, when they get close to a river and she casually strips in front of them and walks the other few feet without even looking behind her. To Jaskier, it’s nothing, but Geralt looks stunned, and it’s not like he can say that it’s just a young girl thing, after all, Geralt raised Ciri from about this age.
“She’s not very self conscious?” Jaskier offers tentatively, and then Geralt looks at him with amusement in his eyes.
“She’s definitely your daughter.” He says pointedly, and Jaskier thinks maybe he should be offended, but it is true that he’d taken every opportunity to get naked around the Witcher before.
The two of them wait, Jaskier leaning just a bit of his weight on Birch, until Leila returns, dripping wet and squeezing her hair out along the dirt.
“You both smell.” She says as she pulls the dress Jaskier bought her in the last town over her head without drying off. It’s blue with white trim and matches his doublet and trousers set because Jaskier can’t help but be dramatic.
“Right, bath time then!” Jaskier says, feeling rather awkward as he undresses in front of Geralt, especially since it feels like the man’s eyes are on him rather intensely now.
Once they’re in the water, freezing cold and Jaskier wishes he could shift for this, his wolf can handle the cold so much better - Geralt holds up one of Jaskier’s floral scented oils and looks at him with determination.
“Can I wash your hair?”
Jaskier blinks. “Well, I mean, I suppose anyone can wash my hair but I don’t see why you would want to, you never have before-“
“Yes or no, Jaskier.”
Jaskier swallows. “Yes.”
It’s really rather nice, having Geralt’s fingers slipping through his hair, feeling his back brush against Geralt’s chest every now and then, he has to actively work against melting into it because wouldn’t that be embarrassing, but as they head back up the shore, Jaskier swears something has shifted.
...
When they sit down to eat, Geralt sits closer to him than he ever used to, one hand on Jaskier’s shoulder almost constantly, and Jaskier isn’t sure what to do with that. Leila watches the interaction with a frown as well, and he wishes he could scent as well as she can, so he could figure out what the hell is going on.
Leila must forget herself for a moment because she uses her claws to seperate her meat before he can warn her not to, and Jaskier feels a burning panic until he realises that Geralt isn’t even looking at her.
Honestly, how the fuck is Geralt good at being a Witcher?
...
They stop off in the small town of Downwarren, Jaskier having bugged Geralt for proper shelter for days now, his need for a hot bath and a clean bed itching under his skin in the same way it simply wasn’t itching under Geralt or Leila’s.
Leila didn’t even pretend to care, aside from the occasional nod during Jaskier’s impassioned rant about needing such things, but they settle at the inn, Jaskier and Geralt in one room, Leila in the next over, and Jaskier suddenly realises that he’s going to be sharing a bed with Geralt again, for the first time in so many years.
He stares at the mattress for too long, enough for Geralt to notice and his features to close off.
“I can sleep on the floor.” Geralt says, almost harshly, and Jaskier feels his heart twist in his chest, because no, he doesn’t want that, he has no words to describe how much he doesn’t want that.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Geralt!” Jaskier pastes on his false cheer like a thick layer of mud. “We’ll share. We’ve never had a problem with that before.”
Geralt’s lips twitch and he looks away, nodding. “Good. I know how cold you get.”
“Oh ho ho! Nice try, Witcher, but we both know it’s you who secretly enjoys snuggling.”
Geralt glares at him and Jaskier raises his palms in surrender.
“Just a joke! A funny little, haha joke, you’re far too big and scary to snuggle. I’ve never made a statement so false before now.”
Geralt rolls his eyes and shoves his shoulder, “Hmm.”
“Dinner?” Jaskier changes the subject very efficiently, and Geralt looks thoughtful for a moment before nodding.
They’ve knocked several times at Leila’s door before Jaskier begins to grow panicked, eyes wide and worrying his lip between his teeth, looking to Geralt. He doesn’t even need to say anything, Geralt forces the door open and they both freeze at the sight of an empty room.
Leila wouldn’t have left the room without him. She’s terrified of humans as a general rule, aggressive on a good day, so this - this doesn’t make sense.
“Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods,” Jaskier practically hyperventilates, eyes darting around the room as he takes in her belongings, all still there, bag dumped on the bed as if she were looking through it for something, and Jaskier doesn’t know what to do.
“Calm down.” Geralt says sharply, and Jaskier turns on him with fire filled eyes.
“ Calm down?!” Jaskier begins shrilly, “She’s just, she’s gone ! You want me to-“
“I can track her. We’ll find her.”
Jaskier’s panic eases only slightly. “Well then what are we doing here? Let’s go , Geralt!”
They’re knee deep in bog water half an hour later, disgusting as it is, and Geralt’s slain several drowners on their way which only goes to show that Jaskier’s going to have a lot of explaining to do when they find Leila, hopefully entirely unharmed - and Jaskier can’t shut up, drawing the attention of every creature in the area, but he’s scared alright, they’ve barely made it this far as it is.
Then Geralt stops walking, and abruptly drops into a squat in front of a gaping hole in a hill in the bog, squinting into the darkness. Jaskier nearly walks right into his back, only just catching himself on Geralt’s shoulders and lowering himself down carefully, peering in with his own barely enhanced vision.
“Leila.” Geralt frowns, and Jaskier frowns at him until dark hair spills out into the moonlight and big blue eyes peer up at them, looking far too guilty. Her dress is torn and muddy from the bog.
Jaskier’s heart sinks. “What did you do?” He asks her, chest tight as she looks fearfully between him and Geralt.
“Don’t hurt him.” She says finally, to Geralt, obviously making the decision to ignore Jaskier. He swallows.
“Leila, don’t tell him-“
“Not you.” Leila says softly, quietly. “Johnny.”
“Who-?”
Another head peers out from the darkness. Gold eyes watch the interaction fearfully, skin tinged ethereal blue, and Jaskier understands. Of course, at the first scent of a non human she’d attempt to make a friend. She’s still a child, after all. He should’ve known. But she’s endangered this boy, this obviously non human child, and she knows it.
Yet, Geralt seems to soften completely. “A godling?” He asks the boy, who nods cautiously, and then he looks concerned, of all things. “Not many of you left.”
“No, Witcher. There’s not.” Johnny agrees hesitantly, and Jaskier’s eyes are drawn to the way his hand is joined with Leila’s. Their grip is tight.
“Are you alright here? Anyone giving you trouble?”
Jaskier stares at Geralt, startled. The godling, however, seems to relax and brighten a bit.
“No, mister Witcher sir, I play with the kids from the village sometimes but I’m always careful!”
Geralt nods. “Good, stay careful. Humans won’t hesitate to hurt you.”
Johnny nods. “I’m no fool, I know that!”
Geralt just huffs a laugh. “Sure you do. I’m sure you also know the bog is no safe place for a little girl, claws or no.”
“Well...”
Jaskier tunes out whatever the rest of Johnny’s sentence is in favour of the roaring in his ears.
Claws or no.
What the fuck. How long has Geralt known? How long has Jaskier been afraid for no gods damned reason? Does this mean Geralt knew about him from the start, as well? He doesn’t know what to feel and his breaths are coming too quick and -
Geralt’s arms are tight around his shoulders. “Jaskier, it’s okay, breathe.” Geralt’s voice is steady but there’s strain there, like he’s uncertain of what do to as well, and Jaskier thinks Leila and Johnny are speaking as well.
Leila must lose her patience because he’s jerked back into the real world by claws sinking into his leg, and a snarl. On any other creature, it would be a cruel gesture, but for Leila, it’s the only way she knows to help.
He blinks and he’s wrapped in Geralt, Johnny and Leila both having climbed out from the burrow, both leaning in close to look at him, and if he’s honest, Johnny’s eyes are the slightest bit unnerving, when all his focus is on him.
“Jas, thank Melitele,” Geralt breathes, “what happened?”
“You know!” Jaskier points a finger at his face, hand shaking, trying to wriggle from his grip to face him but to no avail. “You know what we are!”
Geralt’s brows furrow. “Yes.” He agrees simply, like he doesn’t understand the significance of the admission. “What of it?”
“I thought- we thought...but how did you know?”
“I scented you the moment we met. And Leila is your child.”
“Actually - ugh, it’s not important. What the blistering fuck.” Jaskier drops his head back against Geralt’s chest. “I’m too beautiful to suffer so much, honestly.”
Geralt’s huff of amusement is so aggressive Jaskier can feel it against his back, a snort accompanying it. Leila just rolls her eyes.
“Of course you are.” Geralt says with a chuckle now, and Jaskier can’t handle this, too much of his world is warping.
“I don’t understand what’s happening.” It comes out much whinier than Jaskier intends, but he hasn’t the energy to act as put upon as he truly feels. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“You didn’t either.” Geralt points out with a shrug. “We should go, there’ll be more drowners soon. Stay safe, Johnny.”
“Yessir, Mister Witcher!” Johnny grins toothily, and then turns that grin on Leila. “I hope I’ll see you again soon!”
“Yes.” Leila agrees with little fanfare. “That would be good.”
Gods, the two of them couldn’t be more different.
...
It’s strange, that night, when Geralt helps him with his doublet and almost ushers him into a bath, because Jaskier’s covered in the rather unfortunate scent of bog.
He sinks into the water with a pleased sigh, closing his eyes, and finds himself rather startled when the water begins to rise around him. He peeks an eye open curiously, and his lips part in surprise as he takes in Geralt, nude as the day he was born, sinking into the water with him. It isn’t until Geralt’s leg brushes against his own that Jaskier jerks his legs up to make room. Geralt smirks a little at the dumbfounded look on the bard’s face.
“So bathing together. That is a thing we do now?” Jaskier asks, even though that much is obvious considering the fact they’re literally in the same tub now. Geralt just closes his eyes and knocks his knee against Jaskier’s, looking frustratingly smug with himself. Jaskier scowls and knocks his own knee back as hard as he can manage under water. Geralt snorts and leans his head back.
“Use your words, Geralt,” Jaskier pouts, drawing the words out rather petulantly. Geralt cracks an eye open, and drawls out a rather amused,
“You thought a Witcher wouldn’t know you on sight. It’s a miracle you’re still alive.”
“Well pardon me for letting my guard down when you didn’t immediately attempt to end my dastardly existence. Especially when you acted like you’d love nothing more than to do exactly that.” The bard snipes, and rather immaturely splashes the water at Geralt’s face. The Witcher grunts and swipes a hand across his eyes to clear them, raising an eyebrow at Jaskier.
“You seemed relatively harmless. Like a mosquito.”
“Oh, you did not just compare me to a blood sucking insect!” Jaskier rages, and Geralt’s lips twist as he obviously tries not to laugh at Jaskier’s indignance.
“I think you’ll find I did.”
Jaskier crosses his arms aggressively, and the water splashes over the sides of the wooden tub. “I hate you.”
Geralt stiffens slightly at that, much to Jaskier’s surprise, his eyes looking at Jaskier with a painful intensity. Jaskier tries not to recoil from it, he certainly wasn’t expecting Geralt to react that way. “Do you, Jaskier?”
Jaskier freezes. “What?”
“Do you hate me? I would...understand, if you did.” Geralt looks pained even saying it though, and Jaskier’s eyes are drawn to the way Geralt’s fingernails are digging into the sides of the tub. What an absolute idiot, this man is.
“Geralt, you stupid Witcher. If you think for a second I could ever hate you, even after what happened...well, you’re a dickhead. A dumbass. An imbecile, if you will.” Jaskier over-enunciates the last insult with a playful smile, and meets Geralt’s gaze easily this time. The Witcher looks hopeful, now, taking each insult in stride.
“Perhaps I am. I must be, to have ever considered turning you away. And I’m about to do the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”
“Geralt, what-“
Oh. There are lips on his, now. Dry, chapped, cold. Perfect.
Jaskier probably has a suitably idiotic look on his face when Geralt leans back, looking at him with no expression, those walls that Jaskier so hates are slowly rising up, and he can’t have that at all.
“Yes, well, I think that was actually the smartest thing you’ve ever done. The only stupid thing about is was pulling away. Come back here right now or I’ll shift in the tub, and you’ll stink like wet dog as well as the bog.” He throws in some grabby hands for emphasis, heart jumping into his throat as Geralt’s walls slam back down and he snorts, leaning forward in the cramped tub, meaty hand coming down to rest on Jaskier’s neck, thumb brushing the hollow of his throat and Jaskier swallows, licking his lips in anticipation as his stupid Witcher finally presses their lips together again.
...
Leila takes to this new shift in dynamics like a duck to water, grinning sharply and butting her head against Geralt’s neck to scent him properly for the first time, the closest to a welcome to the family as possible. Jaskier doesn’t know why he feels so triumphant about Leila’s approval, but it just goes to show how far they’ve come since the day they ran.
...
Jaskier’s wrestling Lambert for the right to season the damn hog before they roast it, when the portal opens in Kaer Morhen.
Leila’s aggressively chewing dried meat while Ciri attempts to tame her hair, Vesemir’s watching the two with a smile, obviously enjoying having another child around since Ciri grew up, despite his initial protests two winters ago when he looked a Leila and saw a potential predator. Leila’s thirteen now, and Ciri has appointed herself as Leila’s official female role model, much to the amusement of pretty much everyone. The two of them may as well be boys, for how little they care for society’s expectations for ladies. If anything, Ciri’s teaching Leila to be even more terrifying than she already was.
Jaskier’s mid shout, as Lambert twist his arm behind his back and demands him to yield, while Geralt and Eskel pretend to be very invested in sharpening their swords rather than acknowledging his admittedly pathetic attempts to call for their help.
And then there’s swirling blackness in the courtyard, and Yennefer’s stepping out of it casually, brushing invisible dust from her shoulders, but Jaskier is far more interested in the figure that steps out behind her, tall and unimpressed in a borrowed dress for modesty’s sake.
Mama.
Leila’s scream is loud and joyous as she drops her meat and runs , throwing herself into her mother’s arms with a choked sob.
Yennefer’s steely gaze melts into something softer as she watches them embrace, and Lambert’s grip has gone slack enough for Jaskier to jerk away and make his own running start, slamming into his family with enough force to stagger all three of them, Kitalié’s laugh loud and wild and joyous, echoing throughout the courtyard.
“My pups,” She gasps out, desperate and reverent, her grip on them tight enough to hurt.
It takes a long time for them to be willing to part, but when they do, all three of them are a mess.
“It’s time to come home,” Kitalié’s common speak has improved almost as much as Leila’s has, and Jaskier’s sure it’s because she’s had to pass for human just as much as they have.
Jaskier can feel his heart clench in his chest though, when he looks at Leila, who looks so happy, and he knows that living without her now is going to be borderline painful.
But then, Leila turns to look at him, blue eyes shimmering with tears, and back at their Mama again.
“If I come home, can I still come back?” She asks, tentative, conflicted, and Jaskier knows that all the witchers are watching, can see Ciri standing alone where she and Leila had been together before, stiff and sad. He feels Geralt’s arms curling around him from behind, chin resting on Jaskier’s shoulder. A reassuring weight. Kitalié looks at all of them, gaze steady, considering, before falling on Jaskier.
“You’re staying, aren’t you?” She asks, but they both already know the answer. He nods anyway. Then, Kitalié’s eyes land on the Witcher wrapped around him. “You take care of my boy. He’s sensitive, like a little babe.”
Jaskier sputters, feeling the rumble of Geralt’s chest against his back as he laughs.
“I’ll protect him with my life.”
“His heart, too. Silly boy has big heart. Too big.”
“I know.” Geralt says, far more subdued this time. “I think his heart is the best size, though.”
Kitalié flashes a rare smile, more of a baring of teeth than anything else. “Then Leila can come back. Half each year only, that’s it.”
It’s like all the Witchers have released a collective breath, and Jaskier tries not to laugh at the beaming smile on Ciri’s face.
“And...” Their Mama pauses, brows furrowing for a moment before she looks back at Geralt and Jaskier, “Still looking for Rieti. Maybe you can help find him.”
Jaskier feels his stomach drop, if it’s been this long than chances are...he looks at his Mama again and sees the same conclusion mirrored in her eyes, but he nods.
After that it’s a chaos of tearful goodbyes, mostly on Ciri and Jaskier’s part, but Jaskier could swear he sees a glisten in Vesemir’s eyes as he hugs Leila goodbye.
Afterwards, Geralt lets Jaskier cry into his chest for an ungodly amount of time,he doesn’t even point out how unnecessary it is since Leila will be back in half a year anyway.
...
Two weeks after Leila and Teiko’s fourteenth birthday, Jaskier is invited to be a guest at a rather extravagant banquet, and he forces Geralt along because it’s easier to bribe him with sexual favours these days. Ah, what a time to be alive.
Within seconds of entering, Jaskier is surprised to find a woman throwing her arms around him, and chuckles when he sees Geralt reach for his hilt of his steel sword.
“Down, wolf.” Jaskier teases, and the woman pulls back to grin at him and that’s when it clicks. She’s older now, she was just a teenager when he mentored her, and now she must be in her thirties, but she doesn’t question the fact that he’s barely aged. She always was a clever one. “Ah, my darling Essi!”
Geralt gives him a quizzical look, obviously irritated about being out of the loop.
“Oh calm down, she’s my old apprentice. I taught her everything she knows!”
Essi laughs, big and bright. “Not everything, Dandelion. I’ve got some dazzling ballads planned for tonight.”
“I’m sure you do, dear.” Jaskier can’t help how fond of the girl he still is, even though she’s grown up so much since he looked after her.
“I’ve even got an apprentice of my own now, you know,” She tells him almost conspiratorially, “Strange boy, but gods if the angels don’t cry when he sings.”
“Oh, do tell!” Jaskier grins, eyes scanning the hall, always enthusiastic to nurture new talent, “which is he then? He’s not better than me, is he?”
Geralt makes an impatient sound and yes, okay, they’ll sit so the damn Witcher can eat and refuse to socialise in a minute, but Jaskier would very much like to suss out his future competition thank you very much.
“Oh, not yet, but he will be.” Essi snarks cheekily, but there’s a hint of truth in her voice that surprises and impresses Jaskier. It seems the boy has left quite the impression with Essi. “He’ll be over the moon to meet you, always says how you’re his inspiration. He’s a little bit obsessed with you, if you ask me.”
At that, Geralt growls. Jaskier doesn’t coo at his protective boyfriend, but it’s close.
“Well then I must meet him! I’ll make his week.”
“More like his life,” Essi smirks, and then turns her hand to wave someone over, taking a few minutes to catch their attention, and Jaskier follows her gaze and freezes.
“Oh, sweet Melitele, Geralt.” He breathes, as a teenage boy dressed in blue silk makes his way over curiously, only to stop as soon as his eyes meet Jaskier’s.
“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, soft and concerned, and then Jaskier can’t help but laugh.
“Rieti.”
The boy smiles, blindingly bright. “Brother.”