Chapter Text
Jaskier's heart doesn't race as much as it once did, whenever he sees Geralt. He's probably gotten used to his constant presence, waking up tangled together in the morning, whether in a bed or bedroll, and falling asleep in each other’s arms at night. But that heartbeat still thunders a little when the witcher comes back to camp, whole but often bloody, after a hunt. And especially whenever the bard turns up in the morning after a night in someone else's bed, smelling of sex and the slight bitter tang of worry, like maybe this time, he’ll be turned away, rather than dragged into bed and marked up with the witcher’s scent again.
Geralt doesn't lay with many other people, himself. Mostly professionals, and now, only whenever his bard is busy elsewhere, and he's missing him enough to open his purse. But even if ordinary women, and occasionally men, flirt with him sometimes, it’s still too risky to let anyone into his life, even if only for a night. It had taken the witcher years just to accept that his bard wouldn't be going anywhere. And the guilt of letting him stay still flares up, all too often.
The last other person he'd fucked had been Yennefer. The timing had been shit, considering that throughout their brief flirtation, he'd only been half-present, with his bard gasping for life in the other room. And after the danger had passed, and he could breathe again, it had still probably only been the lingering sex magic in the room that had tipped them into consummating so fast. Otherwise, he might’ve thought twice about bedding someone who had recently tricked, ensorcelled, and used him.
But at least he hadn’t been the one putting her in danger. For once, it had been the other way around. And he’d saved her life for a reason. If he had thought her truly evil, power-mad beyond redemption, he would’ve let the house collapse on her.
He still dreams of lilac and gooseberries, sometimes. It makes him almost ashamed, when he wakes up to dandelions. He both dreads and hopes to find her scent in waking life again. But it will happen. He’d made a wish, and for a reason.
Geralt and Jaskier sit side by side at a tavern table, across from a potential customer. Middle-aged, bald and beer-bellied. His bellow is too booming for the witcher’s senses, and it’s already loud, anyway, packed to the walls.
"Have you ever heard of the legend of the white stag?"
Geralt doesn't react, especially since this potential customer clearly wants him to be impressed. So the witcher simply swills his beer, very much unimpressed.
"Have we ever heard of it," mutters Jaskier. "Are we not professionals? If we hadn't, would you really want to hire us?"
Geralt fights a smile. Jaskier's use of the plural used to bother him. But now, it makes his chest swell a little.
And having his bard around does make it easier to talk to people, pick up jobs, gather information, settle payment. He's a good buffer, as well as a witness, and sometimes, even a negotiator.
The potential customer is getting exasperated. "Look, someone's spotted it."
That explains why the tavern is so crowded, with a more diverse set of travelers than usual, bands of hunters and mercenaries, not all human. It sets the witcher on edge, more than people in general usually do.
The man－looking less and less like a potential customer－drops a heavy purse on the table. "I need you to hunt it for me."
"It's not a monster," says Geralt. "Just a rare animal of magical origin."
"What does it matter?" asks the man. "I'll pay you triple the going rate for any drowner nest or pair of wyverns."
"But the chase is important," says Geralt.
Jaskier catches on, familiar with the ballads, of course. "You can't have anyone else do it for you. Not when it's supposed to lead you to your heart's desire. I doubt your respective desires are one and the same."
Geralt looks at Jaskier. "They'd better not be."
He doesn't go in for public displays of affection. But he can get away with grazing the bard's knee under the table.
Jaskier bites his lip.
"What do you mean lead?" asks the man. "It just gives you wishes if you catch it, three of 'em."
"According to some of the many legends," says Geralt. "If any of them are true.”
"If it’s a fucking goose chase, I’ll just take the loss on the first half of payment,” says the man. “But if it’s not, then use the first wish to give the rest to me."
Geralt and Jaskier exchange slightly pained glances.
"Not for all the coin in the world," says Geralt.
Jaskier stands. "Agreed."
Jaskier walks ahead of him, no doubt to find the tavern keep and settle on the room. But Geralt takes him by the shoulder.
“We should camp tonight.”
“Geralt,” says Jaskier, in protest. He tilts his head back and scrunches up his face, wrinkling his nose in exasperation. His usually sweet scent takes a turn. “I’m so tired.”
“It’s going to be a little longer than we thought till my next job,” says Geralt. “We need to save the coin.”
“I could sing for it.”
“Not to this audience, I don’t trust it. Neither do I trust sharing walls with this lot.”
Jaskier tilts his head back down, looking up through his lashes with those blue eyes, letting his lips go pouty, in that way that often works on the witcher. But not this time.
Geralt leans in, towards his ear, voice low and growly. “In the woods, you could scream as loud as you’d like.”
Jaskier’s scent sweetens again, with a little musk. “Or you could.”
“Not so tired?”
“More mad.” Jaskier smiles, in spite of himself. “And I'm going to take it out on you."
Geralt doesn’t go in for public displays of affection. It’s safer not to let his guard down. And here, especially, around all the other hunters, it would be wise not to put a target on the bard’s back.
But he can’t wait till they’re alone, so he can nip the pout from those lips.
On their way out, a familiar scent stops him in his tracks.
Lilac and gooseberries.
Unlike last time, though, it doesn't make him black out. He's still lucid, not under a spell. It's only a perfume, harmless now. Had it only been a one-time trick? Could he have gained an immunity?
"Yennefer."
He's not entirely surprised to see those blazing violet eyes, meeting his own. He's been looking for them, wherever he goes. She's still so beautiful, delicate features twisted fiercely, soft lips held hard. And it's a feat of will not to look down her plunging neckline. He notices her elaborate dress last, just a frame on a work of art.
Oh, fuck. Poetry. That’s what he gets for keeping a bard in his bed.
"Geralt,” says Yennefer, coolly, as if her heart hadn't skipped a beat as she met his eyes.
"Aw, shit," says Jaskier. "Not you again."
"You look alive, bard," says Yennefer. "Don't make me regret it."
"I won't have time, we were just leaving." Jaskier starts walking. "Shall we, Geralt?"
Geralt finds himself rooted in place.
"Going after the stag?" asks Yennefer.
"No," admits Geralt.
She doesn't reveal much on her face, but her scent, under the perfume, goes mild, not as acrid as her words. "Good," she says. "You'd do well not to get in my way. I hope not to see you again, witcher."
And with that, she strides past him, into the tavern. He turns to watch her go, dark hair falling over her proud shoulders, and he can't help but recall how that lithe body looked in the mirror, during their bath.
But he'd seen something else in the mirror, too, like a vision. Maybe his witcher immunity to magic, or something else entirely. The same woman, as a girl, with a twisted spine and crooked jaw. It must've been before her magical transformation.
And she'd been beautiful, even then. After the transformation, she'd lost something. Her eyes may have kept their violet color, but they weren't the same. Though she’d kept the scars on her wrist.
He couldn’t let her die, not after seeing how hard she’d once tried, losing control. He’s glad he’d been there, when she lost control again, only instead of opening her wrists, she’d picked a fight with a djinn, nearly bringing down a house on top of her head.
That’s why he’d made his wish. In case she loses control again, he’ll be there.
Jaskier grabs him by the arm. "Don't even think about it."
Geralt is too heavy to be dragged, but he allows himself to be coaxed away.
Jaskier lied. After they set up camp, and the rabbit stew is settled in their stomachs, he's too tired to try and take Geralt. Or be taken. But not too tired to enjoy the witcher's mouth. On his neck, across his chest, down his belly. And then, finally, after some teasing, and begging, around his cock.
Geralt is glad not to have walls around them, with people on the other side that might knock in protest. Jaskier is so loud, he usually has to cover his mouth, or put something in it. But out here, he can enjoy his singing. Not to mention the way the campfire and the moonlight turn his skin blue and gold.
Jaskier clutches his hair, bucking helplessly.
"Geralt－nnn－ I'm close－"
But then there's a snap amongst the trees. Again and again. Footsteps through the brush.
Geralt pulls away, snapping his head up.
"Geralt?"
Jaskier doesn't pout this time, catching on to his witcher's concern. He even starts dressing, without complaint.
It's human, from the smell. Not close enough to recognize, at first. Not over the blood.
Then it hits him. Lilac and gooseberries.
Yennefer emerges through the trees, heart thundering. Geralt tenses, realizing she must’ve been following the screams, and knows exactly what they were doing.
But that doesn’t matter. Bright in the moonlight, there’s blood dripping down her dress, pooling through the fingers clutching her side. He’s on his feet instantly.
“Oh, not you,” she says, through gritted teeth.
He rushes to her. “You’re in no condition to complain.”
She lets him take her arm and put it over his shoulders, helping her walk toward their camp. He might’ve tried picking her up, but even in her state, she probably wouldn’t have allowed it, still capable of magically shoving him away.
Jaskier gets to his feet, muttering under his breath. “Bollocks.”
“What happened?” asks Geralt.
Her voice is tight, cinched with pain. “Found the stag. Immune to magic. Couldn’t bind it. Fucker skewered me with its horns and fled.”
“Sorry, why do we care?” asks Jaskier.
Geralt and Yennefer both turn a glare on him, as he spreads out the bedroll and helps her down onto it.
“Piss off,” says Yennefer. Not so eloquent at the moment.
Geralt tries to convey with just a look that he’s not about to let the woman bleed to death, no matter whom she may have threatened with a knife, ensorcelled with her magic perfume, or endangered with the djinn.
Damn, he’d nearly forgotten all those reasons he could have left her to die. And reasons not to have fucked her.
Well, it’s too late now.
“Fetch me the liquor,” says Geralt.
Jaskier rolls his eyes, but he obliges, muttering as he rummages their packs. “Wonderful, let’s patch up the mad witch and send her on her way to wreak yet more havoc on innocent townsfolk.”
But he still hands over the flask, and the rest of the supplies. They usually refrain from drinking this liquor, saving it to pour on wounds in case they ever run out of salve. But right now, it’s for pain relief.
Geralt hands it to Yennefer. She sniffs it, and then, chugs, far from delicate. He wouldn’t have guessed she could hold it, since she’d been drinking apple juice, of all things, at an orgy.
“I need to see the wound,” he says, gently. Even if he’s glimpsed what's beneath her dress in the past, he still has to ask.
She catches on. “Unlace the back.”
He does, pulling the criss-crossing strings loose. His heart races a bit, and so does hers, as olive skin is slowly unveiled. It looks as soft as he remembers, in the campfire glow.
At last, he pushes the dress off of her shoulders.
“Look away,” says Yennefer. Not to him.
“Oh, please,” says Jaskier. “As if I’d ever want to see those again, after last time.”
But he still obliges, putting his back to them, on the other side of the campfire.
It’s surprisingly easy to ignore her breasts and focus on the wound under her fingers, pulling her hand away. The gash is high up enough, under her ribs, that it doesn’t seem to have pierced any organs.
Geralt pours a little water from his pouch to flush the wound and clear the blood, wiping up the rest. Yennefer breathes hard, her flank rising and falling under his hands.
“Can’t you just heal yourself?” asks Jaskier.
She pushes herself to explain, her voice still rough, but maybe whetted enough by the alcohol to articulate. “I’m not a healer. Your wounds were magical in nature, just a simple matter of reversal. But if it had been a blade to your throat? There wouldn’t have been much I could do, had I even wanted to try.”
“Speaking of blades to my throat, remember the one you wielded yourself? Oh, and how you threatened to unman me. Some fun times we’ve had together.”
She side-eyes the bard’s back, with a hint of a sly smile. “Truly.”
Geralt doesn’t warn her before adding the salve, which tends to burn. She hisses, violet eyes flaring.
“Some bedside manner,” she says.
He tilts his head at her. ”You are not the sweetest patient, yourself.”
“He’s usually much nicer,” says Jaskier.
Perhaps she really is in pain, because she doesn’t have a retort this time. She stares ahead, breathing slowly and deeply.
“You’re going to need stitches,” says Geralt.
Her eyes flutter shut. “Brilliant.”
Jaskier heaves a put-upon sigh. “I’m going to sleep.”
Yennefer groans in protest when the bard turns around, covering her chest. But Jaskier ignores her, heading for Geralt. He knows how the witcher feels about displays of affection around other people. And yet, Jaskier still brushes his lips over his cheek. Almost chaste, and yet, far from friendly.
Yennefer raises her eyebrows at them. And then, she smiles, slow and smug. As if she needed any more confirmation, after no doubt hearing the screams earlier.
“Good night,” says Jaskier.
The sorceress is on their bedroll. So Jaskier takes Geralt’s cloak and lays it in the grass, curling up with his back to them again.
“Friend, my arse,” says Yennefer.
Geralt just gives her a dull glare, holding the needle and thread at the ready.
She apparently decides now is not the time to tease. "All right," she says. "Get it over with."
He does, not flinching as he applies the needle, as calm and steady as if mending clothes rather than flesh. She keeps it together, hardly making a sound save for her heavy breathing.
It's not till he's done that he remembers she hadn't made much noise while they'd fucked, either. For an orgy host, she could still be strangely withdrawn.
He begins to bind the wound, wrapping it around her abdomen.
"Why are you here, Yennefer?"
She looks into the fire, reflected bright in her eyes. "I told you, for the stag."
"And what do you wish for? Did you learn nothing from last time?"
"Nothing happened last time," she says, but then, meeting his skeptical gaze, she amends the assertion. "Nobody died."
"And if someone did die－this thing you seek－ would it be worth it?"
She tries to raise her shoulder in an instinctive shrug, only to wince. "Depends on who dies."
"Have you killed before?"
Her violet eyes are cool. "Nobody who didn't deserve it."
He wants to believe that she would judge justly. As he tried to do. Only killing those who would kill himself or others. But he'd misjudged Renfri.
Yennefer’s voice goes low. "I wouldn't have harmed your bard, if that's what you're wondering."
She doesn't smell like she's lying.
“What about me?” he asks.
“I did no harm to you,” she says, almost affronted. “In fact, quite the opposite－did I not give you pleasure?”
This time, he has to look away, not allow himself to be distracted the gravelly purr in her voice. “What about sending me rampaging through the streets, and getting me imprisoned, with a likely death sentence?”
“I would’ve freed you, had you not gotten out yourself.”
He tilts his head at her. “If you didn’t get yourself killed by the djinn.”
“Right.”
Her lips go almost pouty. He nearly smiles at that.
“Very well,” she says, begrudgingly. “I consider the former life debt repaid－or rather, worked off－but for this one, it seems you’re angling for an apology.”
“Nevermind that,” he says. “How about your word not to do it again?”
She rolls her eyes. But then she casts them downward.
“Yennefer,” he says. “It is no laughing matter to take control from anyone.”
He doesn’t miss the way her eyes flick briefly down to her wrists. Her voice is quiet. “I won’t do it again.”
“But you’re still wearing the trap,” he says. “Lilac and gooseberries.”
He’s familiar with the spell. It’s supposed to smell like whatever scent the target loves best. Once, that had been his mother’s perfume. And deep down－in spite of what she’d done－that hadn’t changed, for a long time.
“It seems it’s no longer working on you, anyway,” says Yennefer. “I’d rather not wear the scent you do like best nowadays. I wouldn’t stoop to copying it. Besides, it’s so common.”
Dandelions. Jaskier’s perfume, which he makes himself. Out of such a common flower, that even when their purses are empty, he can still smell subtly sweet.
"Is it common for witchers to take lovers with them on their travels?"
“No,” he admits. “It’s not.”
He knots the last of the bandage, and then helps her get her arms back into her sleeves. Then he laces up the back of her dress again.
“You’re welcome,” he says, meaningfully. It makes him sound like Jaskier.
She gives a tight smile, which softens, before quickly fading. “Would you let me intrude upon your hospitality much longer?”
He spreads his arms a little, as he gets up. “My camp is your camp.”
Her laugh is close-mouthed and brief. But then she sighs, closing her eyes.
“Geralt,” she says. “My thanks.”
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
She rolls her eyes again, and then, lays down, smiling a little.
He goes to lay down next to Jaskier, at his back, so he can keep an eye on Yennefer.
Yennefer is roused in the night by a strange sound. So is Geralt. They look at each other, and then, at Jaskier.
The bard is gasping in his sleep. She's heard this sound from him before, that ragged, desperate gulping. But his throat isn’t swollen with magic anymore. There’s no blood to cough up. It’s only a nightmare.
Geralt leans over him, shaking him gently awake. “Jask.”
Jaskier’s eyes fly open, but he still gasps, deep in the dream’s clutches. He grasps at his throat, thinking he can’t breathe.
But then the witcher’s hands are on him. And his lips. It makes her own breath catch, as she watches those hands run through his hair, mouth brushing over his face. She wouldn’t have thought Geralt capable of that kind of gentleness.
No, actually, it shouldn’t come as such a surprise. She’d felt it in those hands before, in Rinde. And tonight, when he stitched her up. Whenever she wasn’t trading barbs with the bard, at least.
Geralt whispers something not meant for her ears. “Songbird.”
Jaskier’s breaths begin to steady. He buries his face in Geralt’s chest, nearly disappearing in his arms, cradled tight.
Yennefer can’t remember the last time she’d been held like that. She doesn’t often allow herself to fall asleep beside her partners after fucking. After all, what if she had one of her own nightmares? In front of a stranger? How could she expect them to react? Not with brushing and kissing, and even if they did, it would only feel piteous, practically condescending.
She hadn’t allowed herself to be held since Istredd. But she had fallen asleep beside Geralt. Only to wake and find him gone.
It takes far too long for her to fall asleep again. Because of her wound. Not because she’s worried about having a nightmare.
She sleeps with her back to the witcher and his bard.
Jaskier wakes to voices. That’s odd. It sets him immediately on edge, particularly because he’s usually woken by his dear witcher’s lips. He’s loathe to wake up any other way these days. The lack makes him grumpy already, stretching and groaning tetchily.
And then he recognizes the other voice, and his groaning turns to cursing. “Oh, mother of－”
Geralt is handing some sausage and bread to Yennefer. They only carry two bowls and sets of utensils. So that’s his bowl and fork she’s using.
What the fuck?
“Good morning,” says Geralt.
It’s not, as long as his witcher keeps withholding his lips. Ruffling his hair doesn’t count.
Geralt gives up his own bowl and fork, handing them over. Jaskier can only hope he’s already eaten, and not given up his own portion entirely.
“I thought songbirds rose early,” says Yennefer.
Jaskier nearly chokes on his sausage. He points his fork at her. “You do not get to call me that,” he says. “Get the hell out of my head, witch.”
“I wasn’t－” she starts, but then, doesn’t finish. Maybe she knows what’s good for her.
Geralt starts packing up the camp around them.
Jaskier and Yennefer finish eating in silence, not looking at each other. Well, aside from a few stolen glances. The witch looks like hell, her dark skin a little grayish, full lips chapped, and circles under her eyes. It would make him feel a little better, if she weren't still gorgeous.
Her dress is torn and stained with blood. For a moment, he almost feels bad for her. But then he remembers the sting of her blade at his throat, and the familiar, almost comforting warmth of burning hatred floods over him again.
Geralt extends his hand to Yennefer, helping her gallantly to her feet, and then, onto Roach.
Jaskier is going to have words with his dear witcher about this whole unfair ordeal later. For now, he asks, “Why does she get to ride?”
Would Geralt stop looking at him like he's the murderous lunatic, as opposed to the lady smirking down from the horse? She must've had a truly magical cunt. He tries not to think about it, on the way back to the inn.
Geralt helps her down when they arrive. She looks up at Geralt, and then, at Jaskier, maybe hoping for a bit of privacy. But Jaskier roots himself in place beside his witcher, not going anywhere.
“You need rest,” says Geralt. “Stay down for a few days, don’t try and travel. If you feel feverish, call for a healer. It will take a few weeks to mend, and then, you’ll have to have the stitches taken out.”
She sighs, but that might be a smile, tugging at her lips. “Thank you again, Geralt.”
At least she’s playing polite now. But he doesn’t trust it.
The sweetness of her voice needles him. “Jaskier.”
Two can play that game. “Yennefer.”
Hopefully, that’ll be the last they see of her, as she disappears inside.
“Geralt－”
But his witcher isn’t leading Roach back toward the road. Instead, they’re heading for the inn stables.
“Go get us a room,” says Geralt. That smile might’ve been subtle on anyone else, but on him, it might as well be wide. “For an hour.”
Jaskier can’t help but gape. His witcher doesn't usually splurge like this. He must really want to butter him up.
“Two hours,” says Geralt.
It works. As soon as they're upstairs, and those lips are finally on him again, that low growl tickling his mouth and tingling his spine, he forgets the sharp words that had been waiting so long on the tip of his tongue. Somewhere between having his clothes torn off and getting pinned to the bed, he decides that the lecture can wait.
Besides, the witch might be close, in a room above or below, or on either side. So he's going to shrug off the hand covering his mouth as often as possible, and sing for her.