Work Text:
Of the all of the things Geralt expected to find when he got home, a deeply asleep seal on his couch was not one of them.
He bends to set his workbag on the ground, not taking his eyes off of the animal as he does so. After a twelve-hour shift handling the chaos that happens every autumn as creatures migrate and prepare to hibernate for the winter, he has half a mind to simply turn around and walk away. Eskel has a comfortable couch; Geralt could simply sleep at his place and leave the seal to his own devices. It’s been a long day, does it really need to be longer?
Roach murrow-ing at him with great offense from her place at the top of the stairs tells him that yes, it does. His cat is clearly not going to deal with their intruder.
He plants his hands on his hips and walks closer to the seal, studying it as its whiskers twitch with whatever it’s dreaming. He has no idea how the animal even got inside. There was a flap installed in the backdoor when he moved in, but with a cat and not a dog, he’d had no use for it and nailed it shut.
A peek towards his kitchen shows a couple of nails on the floor and the flap swaying gently in the wind.
Well then, that’s one question answered at least.
He’s trying to remember who’s on call for non-magical animal control this week when a waft from the air con sends the scent of the seal to him, and he frowns.
It’s not a seal on his couch.
It’s a selkie.
*
The knowledge that it’s a person in seal form and not a seal-seal on his couch really only serves to further muddy the waters of what exactly he’s supposed to do about the entire situation. He flaps uselessly for longer than he will ever admit under Roach’s reproachful gaze, unschooled in selkie awakening, especially in the awakening of selkies who aren’t supposed to be in his house in the first place.
He debates calling one of his brothers and also debates calling the police, but at the end of the day, he doesn’t want to get them involved in what seems to be an innocent–if fucking weird –mistake. It’s not as if the selkie seems to have broken in with malicious intent, no matter what Roach’s scowling may imply, and for all intents and purposes, it really seems like the creature played home intruder just to nap on his couch.
Thinking about how law officials tend to treat creatures and how his brothers will roast him for it until he’s dead decides him: he’ll be handling this himself.
Now if he could simply figure out how to do that.
Before he can decide, the selkie wakes.
And promptly flips the couch over in his panic at finding Geralt looming over him, baying loud enough that Geralt’s sure he’s going to get the evil eye from his neighbors tomorrow morning.
“You’re alright!” He tells the selkie, leaning over the sofa with his hands out. A flash of motion above reveals that Roach has decided to cut her losses and run, darting to his bedroom. “You’re fine, you’re okay!”
The seal slowly calms, one flipper clutched to its chest in a distinctly humanoid gesture. Finally it flips onto its belly and wriggles, a man appearing beneath the fur now lying around his shoulders like a cape.
Geralt is a bit wrong-footed by how fucking beautiful the man is, and that certainly does nothing for his conversational abilities.
“What do you think you’re doing?” The selkie demands. “Looming over people like that? You nearly gave me a heart attack!”
Geralt frowns at being reprimanded for a lack of manners by his home intruder.
“You broke into my house,” he points out, and the selkie tilts his head.
“Well, I guess that’s true.”
The man stands up, and Geralt averts his gaze at once from the very lovely view on display. Clearing his throat, he tosses a blanket from the arm of a chair at the selkie, who wraps it around himself like a skirt. Geralt moves to his workbag and pulls out a clean change of clothes, tossing them at the selkie, who accepts them with thanks.
“I do apologize for entering without your knowledge,” the selkie says, shoving at the couch to get it back upright, aided by Geralt’s help. “I’m Jaskier, by the way.”
“Geralt,” he responds, accepting the cushion handed to him and patting it back into place. “So, are you going to tell me why you decided to break into my house and terrorize my cat?”
“You have a cat?” Jaskier asks with interest, lighting up. “Oh, can I meet it? I’ve always wanted to touch a cat!”
The enthusiasm is unexpected and nearly distracts Geralt from his main objective.
“Sure, but can we cover why you broke into my house first?”
Jaskier pulls his shoulders in then, looking defensive.
“Well, you see…” He trails off, giving Geralt a considering look, and Geralt tries to look as receptive as possible, still mildly stunned that he feels the need to be on his best behavior for someone trespassing in his house. Apparently he looks trustworthy enough because the selkie continues. “I was with my pod–we migrate this time of year you know, and so we really need to catch what fish we can, which by the by, your salmon here are truly exquisite. I had thought-”
“Home invasion?” Geralt prompts, and the selkie flushes.
“Sorry, well, our pod swam into the harbor after a school, and we were having a great hunt when a boat appeared and poachers started trying to net us.” The selkie’s face goes hard. “One got my little sister. She’s still nearly a baby and not as fast as the rest, and my mother was busy trying to take a net from one of the men. I managed to rip the net with my sister in it open, but two of them had poles with loops on them, and they pulled me on board. I bit the hand off of one of them,” the casual delivery of this is stunning, “and so the rest of my pod got away, but they locked me below. I shifted back and bolted when we were at the dock, but they chased me. I jumped over your garden wall and saw the flap and well,” he shrugs, “I just had to hope you were better than a poacher.”
“And falling asleep on my couch?”
Jaskier looks sheepish.
“It’s tiring work, running for your life.”
Well, Geralt can attest to that, at least.
“Do you need a ride back to the harbor so you can meet up with your pod?” Geralt asks. He hadn’t been prepared to play creature taxi tonight, but he hadn’t been prepared to play creature AirBnB, either, so apparently his night is just destined to be a series of firsts.
A spasm of pain crosses Jaskier’s face.
“They’re gone. They fled to get away from the poachers, and they can’t afford to stick around and wait if they’re going to beat winter.” His eyes go shiny with tears. “I don’t have my family, and I don’t know where to go. Can I…can I stay until spring, maybe?”
It’s not a question he expected.
He considers the man’s story. Selkie poaching is illegal, of course, but that doesn’t stop those looking to cash in on high prices offered for the creatures. A glance at the one in front of him easily shows why: the man is objectively beautiful, all floppy hair and giant eyes and soft, smooth skin.
Geralt quickly looks away, feeling himself color slightly.
“So,” the selkie says, swinging his feet up and sitting cross-legged on the couch. In a hoodie too large for him, the posture is rather more adorable than Geralt was really prepared to deal with, and he makes himself refocus. It’s clearly been far too long if a homeless seal creature on his couch has him feeling flustered. He makes a vague mental note to let Yen walk him through dating apps again.
The selkie is watching him nervously, waiting for a response, and Geralt realizes he’s been quiet for too long. It’s foolish, to consider letting a stranger stay with him, no matter how cute the stranger. He should send the selkie off to a shelter or something, direct him to a place where he can wait for his family. He should send him off right now.
“Sure,” he hears himself saying, and the radiant smile on the selkie’s face prevents him from taking it back.
*
The first new surprise of his sudden roommate comes when Jaskier stumbles into his room still slightly dripping from his shower and drops down onto Geralt’s bed with him, his entire body softening with a great sigh as he nuzzles his face into a pillow. Geralt watches him in stunned silence, and finally the selkie seems to realize something is amiss, sitting up.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says sincerely, “is this your side? I’ve heard humans can be rather picky about that sort of thing.”
Before Geralt can say anything in response, he finds himself with a lapful of beautiful selkie as Jaskier scrambles over him. Once on the other side, Jaskier wiggles again, settling down.
Geralt lays where he is, staring in consternation at the ceiling.
He hadn’t expected a bedmate, and he doesn’t know how to get rid of one.
The easiest way would, of course, simply be to ask the selkie to retreat to the guest bed, where he’s meant to be.
When Geralt turns over, however, Jaskier looks so peaceful and content that he doesn’t actually have the heart to do it. He tries to remain stern for a long moment, but finally the selkie rolls over to his belly, snuggling his face into the pillow and sighing happily. Geralt curses his own softness in his head, berating his inability to be rid of a bed intruder so soon after a failure to be rid of a home intruder.
He rises and leaves the room, shutting the door softly behind himself and making his way to the guest room.
*
He wakes around an hour later with alarm as a dark figure climbs in with him, but the scent tells him quickly who it is.
Then his alarm shifts to annoyance.
“What are you doing?” He asks, not bothering to soften his tone. It’s enough to be chased from his own bed. Now to be chased from the spare? Surely even a good turn has its limits. When he speaks, however, Jaskier’s voice is sleepy and confused.
“You tell me,” he says through a yawn. “You’re the one who decided we should move beds in the middle of the night.”
“I moved beds,” Geralt corrects, “because you took mine.”
“Took?” Jaskier repeats, sitting up on one elbow, face scrunched in thought. “What do you mean took? We were sharing.”
Geralt simply stares at him, and slowly Jaskier’s face grows pink, his expression becoming embarrassed.
“Oh, um,” he fumbles, looking down, “selkies always sleep in pods unless they couple off. Do humans not…do that?” His voice by the end is nearly a squeak, and Geralt can smell the humiliation wafting off of him.
Obnoxiously, it makes him less annoyed.
“Humans usually sleep in their own beds unless they’re coupled off,” Geralt says, borrowing Jaskier’s term. “We don’t share.”
Jaskier ducks his chin and starts to slowly move off of the bed.
“Well, in that case, I’ll just…”
It’s what Geralt wanted, what’s proper. He has no reason to sleep next to a stranger, refugee houseguest or not. Still, the selkie looks so damned disappointed and ashamed at his misunderstanding that it makes Geralt feel prickly with guilt and finally he sighs, dropping his head back to the pillow and raising half of the blanket.
“Get in,” he calls, “we can share for toni-”
He doesn’t even finish the sentence before Jaskier is scrambling back in, bouncing the bed with his happy hop onto the mattress. He burrows down at once, legs draping next to Geralt’s.
“You’re an absolute peach,” Jaskier says brightly, snuggling down and taking more than his fair share of covers in the process.
Geralt says nothing, resigning himself to sharing with a bedhog for the evening.
*
When he wakes the next morning, falling asleep despite how sure he was that he wasn’t, he frowns before his eyes open. There’s something tickling his nose, but it doesn’t smell like Roach. His cat frequently joins him in bed to both cuddle and demand her breakfast, but the tickling doesn’t feel like her fur, and he then registers a long line of warmth partially on top of him, far too large to be his cat.
He opens his eyes at once and finds his vision full of chestnut hair.
Ah.
The selkie.
He slowly starts to shift out from under the man, but Jaskier makes a grumpy noise in his sleep and wraps himself around Geralt like a barnacle. Geralt frowns, shoving at limbs, but the selkie whines through his nose, managing to climb more on top of Geralt and tucking his head into the curve of Geralt’s neck, exhaling contently.
Geralt gives one more token struggle before he gives up. He could move the selkie easily, but he would also feel like the worst sort of dick, pancaking Jaskier out of bed the morning after he lost his entire family.
Resigned, Geralt makes his peace with being a selkie mattress for the morning.
The bed sharing will be a one-time thing, after all.
Geralt will make sure of that.
*
The bed sharing is not a one-time thing.
The bed sharing, it turns out, is an every-single-night thing.
Still, with a warm, soft selkie pressed against him, smelling of joy and contentment, Geralt can admit that there are harder crosses to bear.
*
They fall into a rhythm, the two of them. Geralt goes to work and occasionally brings Jaskier, feeling guilty for leaving him home alone all the time. On the days he’ll be too busy to field both questions from a very curious selkie or significant eyebrows and teasing from dickhead brothers, he leaves Jaskier in the care of Triss at the library, the woman more than happy to keep an eye on the selkie and point him in the direction of anything that catches his eye, which seems to be everything.
Triss gives him an amused glance when he hands over a postcard he wrote and mailed to his own address with Jaskier’s name on it, the selkie practically vibrating in glee at his elbow. While the selkie carefully prints his name on his library card, Triss mouths ‘aw’ at Geralt, pressing both hands to her heart.
Moving his body so his hands won’t be visible from the children’s book collection, he gives her the middle finger.
He then immediately has to stop Jaskier from imitating him with delighted curiosity at why such a thing would make Triss laugh, which only makes the librarian laugh harder.
*
Their peaceful little routine is disrupted one day when Jaskier drops like a rock in the middle of the produce section.
Geralt barely manages to catch him before the selkie’s head slams against the tile, and he can hear his heart pounding when he taps at Jaskier’s cheeks lightly.
“Jaskier,” he coaxes, waving off the terrified teenaged employee hovering anxiously, “Jaskier, c’mon.”
After a few minutes, the seal rouses, and after a couple of rounds of playing selkie WebMD, Geralt learns something new about them.
Selkies need to shift and soak in water every few days.
Which would have been very helpful information to know at any point in the three weeks previously.
Having only a shower stall in his house, he leaves Jaskier in range of the produce misters with some vague theory that keeping him moist even in human form will help things and stalks off to investigate the outdoor section. There isn’t much room in his yard for a pool, but a little inflatable should fit, and it’ll prevent either of them from having to trudge all the way down to the beach when winter hits in earnest, which should also help keep Jaskier safe from any poachers in the area.
Geralt does not, in fact, find an inflatable pool.
What he does find is a bright pink kiddy pool with yellow ducks stomping around in rainboots.
*
Sitting on his porch the next Sunday while nursing a mug of coffee, he takes a moment to wonder what exactly he’s done in life to end up here: watching over a seal lounging in a bright pink children’s pool that’s really too small for him, sunglasses on because of a too-enthusiastic exploration of human alcohol the night before. It’s a life Geralt would never have even thought about living a month ago.
Now, he has the horrible suspicion he’s not quite going to know how to give it up come spring.
*
There’s still been no real discussion of when Jaskier might be moving along in spring, but a brief talk in the vague direction of the subject had revealed Jaskier’s fear that his pod won’t come back at all, and the selkie’s scent had turned so damned sad and morose that Geralt had been nearly desperate to cheer him up.
And so: cupcakes.
It had been the easiest cooking thing Geralt could think of. After all, it’s just following instructions from a box. Even five year olds can do it.
As he’s now learned, however, selkies would not be able to hold their own in a primary school baking class.
The selkie blinks at him, stunned, as the powder and bits of egg settle, the electric whisk still clutched in one hand. Geralt reaches out and grabs it, flipping the switch off and setting it down. Immediate danger out of the way, he surveys his kitchen, plastered in batter shrapnel. The selkie watches him anxiously, clearly afraid of being in trouble, and the fear lets Geralt kill off the frustration of having such a fucking mess to clean.
“Well,” he says at last, “now you know how not to use a beater.”
Jaskier’s smile of relief is so sweet and genuine that Geralt can’t be sorry for the disaster they now have to clean up.
*
Jaskier is determined to get better at cooking, and he takes to the task with single-minded focus, waddling out to the car the next day with a stack of cookbooks so high he can’t even see around it. Geralt, amused, takes half the stack from him and returns the smile he gets when the selkie can see him.
“Triss helped me find them!” Jaskier says brightly, lifting his pile to indicate them. “She also told me about someone named Alton Brown.”
*
For all of his study, Jaskier doesn’t quite get the hang of cooking.
Still, the selkie is so fucking determined that Geralt can’t bring himself to ban him from the kitchen, no matter how many kitchen disasters he has to rescue. Jaskier, true to his word, studies with single-minded intensity, sitting in front of endless reruns of Good Eats with pencil in hand, tongue poking out slightly as he scribbles as fast as he can manage, trying to get down every last detail.
Geralt doesn’t necessarily enjoy watching cooking content and cooking content only as a casualty of Jaskier’s venture, but Jaskier’s chirp of “Bon appetit!” In clear imitation of Julia Child when he presents a stack of pancakes only mildly undercooked in the middle goes a long way towards making it easier to bear.
After all, who doesn’t need a dozen or so fire extinguishers in their kitchen, just in case?
*
In a mildly desperate attempt at dissuading Jaskier from something he frankly just has no talent for, Geralt takes Jaskier to a karaoke night at a local bar, dragging Eskel along for moral support and at least another pair of hands to applaud if Jaskier ends up being horrible. The selkie has a beautiful voice from what Geralt’s heard while Jaskier sings to himself while whipping up his latest culinary war crime, but he also knows that drunken patrons aren’t always the best audience and that Jaskier might not be as good when faced with an actual performance.
When Jaskier first wanders up on the stage, he’s shy for the first few moments, which Geralt can tell endears him a great deal with his audience. It’s an auspicious start. Even if he absolutely bombs, he’ll at least have being adorable to fall back on.
Geralt pointedly does not look at his brother shooting significant glances between him and the selkie, snickering into his beer at whatever he sees on Geralt’s face.
And then Jaskier begins to sing.
He’s not good.
He’s absolutely fucking spectacular.
By the time Jaskier croons his last note, Geralt isn’t the only one cheering.
*
Jaskier thrives under the attention he receives while singing, and they become regulars at karaoke night. After a few weeks, the bartender greets them by name, and a few patrons come just to hear Jaskier perform. In a departure from the usual spirit of karaoke, Jaskier begins taking requests, and other poor souls who attempt to take their turn at the machine are booed off until Jaskier retakes the stage, facing his adoring public once more.
Geralt frowns one week when a young woman intercepts Jaskier as he bounces down the stage. After a moment, he realizes what he’s feeling is jealousy, and that flusters him enough that he’s still working out the how and why of it when Jaskier beelines to the table, practically glowing. He accepts the embrace when the selkie throws his arms around him, used enough now to this post-performance ritual, and allows his beer to be stolen. The selkie has become more cautious of alcohol after trial and error with his own tolerances, but he’s a consummate drink thief no matter what Geralt’s drinking.
“What was that about?” Geralt asks with a nod to the woman now talking excitedly in a corner. He does his best not to sound jealous, and apparently he succeeds, because Jaskier simply smiles.
“She wants me to be in a band,” he gushes. “She said they need a singer, and they like my voice and asked if I’d sing with them and see if I fit.”
The selkie is adorably flushed with pure joy, and Geralt can’t help but smile at it, happy simply that Jaskier’s happy, which is really something else to experience.
“I’m sure you’ll do great,” he says, and Jaskier’s smile goes impossibly brighter.
*
Jaskier, as Geralt had known he would, aces his audition.
When Jaskier finds out he’s been accepted, he hangs up the phone and kisses Geralt’s cheek, jumping around the kitchen like a doped-up kangaroo.
Geralt feels the phantom of the kiss on his skin for a long, long while after.
*
“Who would have thought you would have shacked up with a creature,” Lambert says, bumping shoulders as he passes behind Geralt in the kitchen. They’ve just returned from one of Jaskier’s gigs, and Geralt and Lambert have been left to make sandwiches while Jaskier showers and changes out of his performance clothing.
Geralt does not respond to his brother’s taunt, which does nothing to dissuade him from continuing, always able to sniff out a weak point with unsettling accuracy.
“Tell me,” Lambert says, leaning into his personal space specifically to needle him, “is he a wild animal in bed, or are the rumors t-
“Enough,” Geralt snaps, looking quickly to the hallway. He doesn’t want Jaskier to hear this kind of joking, to even have the faintest thought of Geralt doing such a thing. “He nearly got poached, alright, he just needed a safe place to stay, and if he hears you saying shit like that, he’s not going to feel safe here. Control yourself or leave.”
Lambert, instead of starting a fight like Geralt would have expected him to, just looks at him for a long, long moment.
“Fuck,” his brother says at last, “Mr. Single and Too Hostile to Mingle is in love.”
When Jaskier does return and finds them in the living room, he doesn’t have to hear any crass humor from Lambert.
Geralt is too busy attempting fratricide via throw pillow to give him the chance.
*
Unfortunately for Geralt’s peace of mind, it’s not just his brothers who end up poking at him about Jaskier.
“He’s good for you,” Vesemir says while they’re in the kitchen of the lake house during a weekend get-away. It’s rare that they have time to go and do things like this as a family with their schedules, so Geralt treasures when it happens.
For now, however, he’s desperately wishing he were absolutely anywhere else.
“It’s a lonely life, living like we do. Our hours are long, and the job unpredictable,” his father continues, and Geralt feels exactly as awkward as he did when Vesemir sat him down for a talk about the birds and the bees and the succubi. In the distance, laughter filters back to him through the window, Eskel and Lambert swimming with Jaskier in the lake and enjoying being towed around with a rope held in the selkie’s teeth. “It’s good that you’ve found someone who doesn’t mind.”
Geralt does his best not to fidget like a child as he diligently slices cucumbers for a salad, but Vesemir has always known exactly how to out-silence him into talking, and it works this time like it has every other time in his life.
“I don’t want to take advantage,” Geralt says at last, still fixated on his assigned vegetables. “He’s living with me because he needed a place to be safe. I don’t want him to think I expect something from him. Or for him to think he needs to-to repay me, or something.”
“And what makes you think he might not be interested as well?” Vesemir asks, giving the pan of peppers and onions a deft toss.
The question nearly makes Geralt chop his thumb off.
“Well, he-he-” Geralt stumbles over his words, already feeling his face and ears heat. He shakes his hair forward to try and hide it, but from the amusement he can feel from his father, he’s been found out. “You haven’t seen him with other people, Vesemir,” Geralt says firmly, “he could have anyone he wanted.”
It’s true, after all. The selkie is friendly and beautiful and talented. Geralt’s been at his shows. He’s watched the crowd fall in love with him. He’s seen the people come up to him before and after with slips of paper scrawled with numbers. To his knowledge, Jaskier has never taken any of them up on it–the selkie’s presence in his bed every single night means he would notice rather quickly if he had–but the opportunity is there. Jaskier could have his pick of the litter if he ever wanted to.
“And what if he wanted you?” Vesemir asks, voice gentle.
Geralt, unable to even begin imagining such a thing, simply finishes chopping the salad in silence.
*
Jaskier is magnanimous by nature, and Geralt’s found himself the recipient of a magpie-like assortment of bits and bobs from the start, shiny rocks or interesting leaves or seashells from their visits to the beach. He accepts each little offering and lines them up on a shelf in his office, pleased for a reason he doesn’t understand every single time he looks at them. Jaskier, for his part, appears to enjoy giving the more Geralt enjoys receiving, and his gift giving only increases with each acceptance.
With his local fame in the band, Jaskier suddenly finds himself in possession of pocket money. Geralt attempts to wave off his attempt at contributing to household expenses, but Jaskier wears him down to at least being the one to purchase groceries to fund his doomed kitchen adventures, which are rather impressive in how little they improve.
Even with that expense, though, Jaskier still has money left over to continue trying to shower Geralt with offerings. In addition to the little finds the selkie had given him before, Geralt now finds himself the beneficiary of a plethora of treats: coffee brought to him at work, pastries, plants, his favorite gummy bears, even a soft pair of warm wool socks that keep his feet comfortable even when snow begins for the season.
Confused by the sheer volume of riches, he thinks back to his own knowledge of social species and chalks it up to group bonding. He’s assured Jaskier repeatedly he doesn’t need things in exchange for letting the selkie stay with him, but the gifts continue, so Geralt decides it must simply be a selkie practice. It makes sense, in a way, sharing resources with the rest of the group, even if those resources are just especially shiny rocks or interesting leaves.
Knowing how much Jaskier misses his pod, Geralt decides to start giving gifts in return.
When he first gives Jaskier a skirt he’d seen him eyeing in a shop window, the selkie flushes pink all the way down to his chest, pleased. He nearly skips all the way home and twirls like a whirligig all around the house, delighted with the flare of the material.
Given the success, Geralt keeps giving gifts in return. They’re always little things, simple steel rings picked up at a craft show, colorful bracelets, little snacks he knows the selkie especially enjoys. Jaskier, in turn, seems to treat their system as nearly a challenge, ramping up his own giving.
Jaskier even tucks little notes in his lunchbox, adages of “You’re doing great!” or “Don’t get eaten!” or “Have a great day!” always punctuated with a smiley face. Jaskier’s cooking skills are still abysmal, but he’s skilled enough at sandwiches and packing leftovers to not poison Geralt, and it’s a surprisingly pleasant novelty, joining the married witchers of the office in eating food they didn’t pack for themselves.
The packing of Geralt’s lunch sends Jaskier down a new path of focus, the selkie now determined to make Geralt’s lunch as beautiful as possible in a mildly bizarre sense of competition with faceless other lunch makers of Geralt’s coworkers. With a phone of his own now, the selkie doesn’t lack for inspiration, and it becomes a regular sight when Geralt returns for the day, Jaskier tucked away in the kitchen carefully following instructions of some faceless narrator. He goes down an especially long rabbithole of tiktok lunchbox videos, and Geralt is hard pressed not to laugh at the selkie wielding a melon baller at 11 pm on a Tuesday with deadly intent, glaring at a blandly attractive tiktok mom assuring him that there’s nothing to it
“Yes there fucking is, Julia of MyLittleLunchbox,” Jaskier grumbles, “there’s a great fucking deal to it, actually.”
Geralt, barely repressing his laughter, leaves him to his fruit warfare.
*
Their life assumes a pleasant, regular rhythm to it, and Geralt falls into it easily. It’s nice, having someone to share things with, to come home to more than just Roach. For all of his ineptitude in the kitchen, Jaskier is so bright that Geralt feels lighter just for being near him.
It’s addictive, that kind of togetherness.
And then comes the night Jaskier tries to kiss him.
The selkie is drunk after an evening of Lambert tutoring him in how to do tequila shots, and he’s giggly and loose when Geralt guides him inside. They’ve just made it into the door, Jaskier complaining plaintively about gravity not obeying him and Geralt trying not to laugh.
And then the selkie turns to him and plants his lips on Geralt’s.
Geralt freezes at the touch, hardly believing it’s happening. It takes him a shamefully long moment to react, pushing the selkie away. Jaskier blinks at him in surprise, but drunk still, he doesn’t seem able to fully process it.
“No kiss?” He asks, and Geralt, stunned, shakes his head. Jaskier snaps his fingers in disappointment but allows himself to be herded to Geralt’s room, which has become their room since Jaskier’s arrival.
Once the selkie is safely contained in bed with a bottle of water and a dose of ibuprofen on his bedside table, Geralt can take the time to properly freak the fuck out.
He doesn’t know why Jaskier kissed him. It’s what Geralt’s wanted to do for a while now, but the selkie actually doing it has thrown him for a loop.
He’s seen the people nearly throwing themselves at Jaskier at his gigs, but the selkie had always trotted right back to wherever Geralt was sitting, tossing himself down next to him and stealing his drink. He hadn’t seemed interested in other people, but clearly Jaskier wants to have something. Geralt knows that selkies like to pair off, they’re a famously monogamous species, after all, but why hasn’t Jaskier shown any interest in the people who have actively tried to have something with him?
And then it dawns on him: Jaskier doesn’t think he has any other option.
Geralt feels nearly sick, realizing how much he’s monopolized the selkie. They’re together practically all the time. Fuck, they even share a bed. Jaskier hasn’t had time to pursue anyone else to pair off with and has clearly decided he just has to try and make due with Geralt.
Geralt’s stomach roils with guilt, having backed the selkie into a corner like this, to have forced Jaskier to choose him or have no one. It’s nice, their life together, but it’s not fair to Jaskier to keep him from so many better options.
By the time morning rolls around, Geralt’s decided: it’s time to give Jaskier some distance.
*
He starts his plan slowly, buying Jaskier fewer presents and not reacting as much to the ones he’s given. He’s not the one who should be receiving this affection, after all. This energy and thought should be going to whoever Jaskier might be interested in as a partner. Instead of leading to a cessation in the behavior, however, the slowing seems to make Jaskier nearly frantic, and soon Geralt is receiving two or three offerings each day.
Deciding to rip the bandage off of what will be one of the roughest adjustments, he tells Jaskier one night that he won’t be going with him to his gig that night. It’ll be better for the selkie to not have Geralt to return to, to make sure Jaskier will feel free to explore his options.
He catches the immediate flicker of hurt on Jaskier’s face and tries to fight back the guilt, knowing he’s doing what’s best. Except for the nights he’s had a job, he’s never missed one of the selkie’s performances, and it can only have hurt Jaskier’s prospects, the selkie always darting right back to his side, compelled by a sense of necessary loyalty.
“But I…” Jaskier starts, but Geralt turns away, pretending he can’t taste the first salt of tears on the air as he does so. He busies himself at the sink so he won’t have to face the selkie’s hurt expression and fold as he knows he will. At last, he hears shuffling, and then the sound of the door as Jaskier leaves.
He doesn’t say goodbye.
*
Geralt plans to play it cool, to stay in his own bed, to lock the door even as a firm line. If Jaskier wants to pursue someone, he wants it to be clear that the selkie has the space to do so.
Geralt isn’t awoken by a rattle at the door, however.
He’s awoken by a call from the hospital.
*
He breaks several traffic laws and possibly the sound barrier on his way there. The gods must bless his endeavors because he neither gets a ticket nor into an accident, and in seven minutes flat, he’s pulling into the parking lot and nearly forgetting to lock his car in his haste to get inside.
In the few scant minutes she’d had before Geralt had hurriedly hung up and got into motion, the nurse had outlined the rough sketch of what had happened: a man had apparently tried to slip something into a girl’s drink, Jaskier had seen him, got the girl away, and called security, and the man along with a friend had jumped the selkie later the moment he’d walked out of the door. A bystander and two of Jaskier’s bandmates had jumped into help, but Jaskier had still been bleeding and been taken to the hospital accordingly.
Geralt must look a fright when he sprints his way to the front desk, but the man in charge of the station looks blessedly nonplussed, confirming Geralt’s identity as Jaskier’s emergency contact and pointing him to the right room. He nearly slams the door when he enters, relief rushing through him at the sight of Jaskier alive, despite the bloody cloth of his shirt. He doesn’t even have time to ask questions or ask how the selkie is before the doctor enters and begins stitching up a long gash along Jaskier’s side. Unable to do nothing in face of the selkie’s stifled whimpers, Geralt holds his hand, letting him squeeze through the pain.
Desperate for something to do, he also strokes Jaskier’s soft hair, feeling guilt eating him alive.
*
Geralt is the one who takes initiative on the cuddling that night, his own higher morals be damned, wrapping himself around Jaskier gently. It’s the least he can do, offering the comfort of a warm body after failing so horribly to protect the selkie. Jaskier is tense for a long moment, and Geralt almost retreats, but finally the selkie relaxes, sighing gently and shifting, wincing before he settles. He has three broken ribs, Geralt knows, and he shifts his own body, trying to provide a softer hold.
“Goodnight,” Jaskier whispers.
Once he’s sure the selkie is asleep, dragged under by exhaustion and pain medication, Geralt dares to press his lips to Jaskier’s temple, lingering a long moment and making himself breathe. Jaskier is here. Jaskier is with him. Jaskier is perfectly safe.
And will remain so, if Geralt has anything to do with it.
*
Geralt’s noble plan to free Jaskier to pursue romance where he can takes a severe hit after the hospital. In a practical sense, the selkie needs him physically close. He’s able to shower by himself by the day after, but dressing and putting his shoes on still proves difficult, his broken ribs and stitches making it painful to lean down too far.
After getting permission, Geralt begins helping him, providing balance for the selkie to step into trousers and skirts and fastening his shoes for him. It’s satisfying to be able to perform a service, and little as it means against what he’s failed to do, it makes Geralt feel like he’s making up for it, in some small way.
Jaskier, however, remains morose.
He accepts Geralt’s help out of what seems to be no other choice, but he doesn’t linger with his own touches, doesn’t reach out. After months of casual hands on him so often, Geralt feels the loss of them keenly, but it’s not about what he wants.
The true concern is how Jaskier refuses to enter the kitchen. Geralt attempts to lure him in with new cookbooks borrowed from the library and exciting new ingredients, but Jaskier simply lurks in the doorway occasionally before retreating, curling up as best he can on the couch, quiet and pale and sad.
*
Things finally come to a head two weeks later.
“You’re clearly not happy here,” Geralt says after waking up alone, Jaskier having decamped to the spare room he hadn’t set foot in since that first night. Geralt his tone to remain even. “You shouldn’t stay somewhere you don’t want to be. I’m sure you can st-”
“You’re the one who doesn’t want me here!” Jaskier nearly shrieks, chest shuddering with tears he’s trying to hold back. The display of emotion is wildly quick, and Geralt realizes that the weeks of quiet had been the selkie holding back.
Geralt blinks at him, stunned, as Jaskier sniffles and pulls his arms around his torso.
“You don’t-you,” Jaskier hiccups, moving one hand up to scrub at his face. Geralt aches to embrace him, to soothe him, but he stays in place. He doesn’t understand, and the confusion makes him unsure if he should dare such a thing. “I made you-made you mad or something, and I’ve tried to make it better, to not be in the way all the time, but you-you,” he devolves into crying, hurt, keening noises that leave Geralt with no choice but to cross to him, embracing him gently and swaying him from side to side, shushing him.
“Sh, easy,” he says as Jaskier unfolds enough to return the embrace, sobbing into Geralt’s shoulder. I’m not mad at you, Jask,” desperate to make the tears stop, he pulls back enough to kiss Jaskier’s forehead before tugging him close again, rubbing one hand along his shuddering back. “I was trying to give you space. You were lonely. I wanted to let you find someone without worrying about me being in the way, that’s all.”
At that, Jaskier abruptly stops crying and pulls back, his tear-stained face adorably disconcerted.
“What do you mean, find someone?” He demands. “I already found you.”
Geralt shifts his weight, feeling awkward. He knows the nuances of non-selkie culture still sometimes escape Jaskier, and he tries to find a way to explain things that won’t lead to either more anger or more tears.
“I meant someone to…” He searches for a word. “Couple off with.”
That, if anything, just makes Jaskier frown harder, even as he sniffles away the last of his tears.
“Did you…not want to?” He says, hurt and clearly confused. “But you were exchanging courting presents with me!”
Now it’s Geralt’s turn to stare at him.
“What,” he says flatly, the question coming out as a statement.
Jaskier gives him an exasperated look.
“The shells and things! I was giving you courting presents! And I gave you enough, and then you started returning them but then you decided to act like a total dick!” Jaskier stamps his foot and then winces as it hurts his ribs. Geralt reaches out on instinct, pressing a gentle hand to his side as the selkie breathes through the pain, mind spinning out in circles.
“We were…courting?” He repeats, and Jaskier, face pained, gives him a look.
“Obviously! I didn’t know if you were interested or not, but you liked the food presents, and then you started giving them back to me! I was about to ask if you wanted to do the human ring ceremony or if just a selkie hand fasting would be enough. I don’t know how your laws and customs work around that kind of thing. With selkies, it would have been the first one to receive a gift to decide when we should do that, but then you just never brought it up. I asked some of the people in my band, but all they did was say to ask you, but that would have been rude if you didn’t start it first!”
That’s…so much to process.
“We were courting,” Geralt repeats again, and Jaskier furrows his brow before a sliver of panic crosses his features.
“Did you…not mean to court back?” Jaskier asks, pulling his shoulders in, trying to make himself look smaller.
Unable to help himself, Geralt starts laughing, and after a moment, Jaskier joins him.
*
When the mild hysteria and unreality of the situation fades, Geralt ushers Jaskier over to the couch and retrieves an ice pack for him. The selkie gives him a wry look as he accepts it.
“Is this a courting ice pack or just a friendly ice pack?” He asks sardonically, and Geralt smiles slightly before he crouches in front of the selkie.
“Before anything else, I just have to ask: do you really want to court me, or did you just think you needed to?”
Jaskier’s face scrunches in confusion.
“Why would I need to?” He asks, and the innocence of the question makes Geralt feel hopelessly fond of him.
He takes the selkie’s hand that isn’t holding the ice pack to his side, squeezing it gently.
“I didn’t know we were courting, Jask,” Geralt says, and he watches as the selkie tries to make his expression neutral, failing miserably. “But I…” He hesitates, suddenly feeling shy. The emotions in his chest are so firm, so real, but saying them out loud? With words? Still, Jaskier deserves this, and for his sake, Geralt can suck it up. “But I want to, if you want to.”
Jaskier smiles at that, raising one hand to his cheek.
“Silly witcher,” he says with affection, “making everything so much harder than it needs to be.”
Geralt rolls his eyes at that but goes easily when Jaskier pulls at him to get him closer, and when the selkie presses their lips together, he acquiesces gladly.
*
Jaskier’s pod returns late next spring, and Geralt and Jaskier are waiting on the dock in the harbor for them, the selkie practically bouncing in place with delight to see his family again. They’ve been at the dock since 5 in the morning after reports of seals making their way down the coast, Jaskier for once alert and aware and not a hazard to himself and everyone around him before 10 am. They’d packed a lunch–well, Geralt had packed a lunch while Jaskier had been busy being frazzled and twitchy in various parts of the kitchen–and Geralt had been about to suggest they go find dinner and return the next day when they catch the first sight of the sleek bodies in the water.
When Jaskier raises his hand to wave at the pod, the last rays of the sun glitter on the engagement band on his fourth finger.