Chapter Text
Geralt had thought that it was inevitable that their paths would cross again, but it had taken much longer than he had originally anticipated and a lot more of conscious effort on his part. Of course, if pressed, he would claim he hadn’t been actively looking for Jaskier, but in truth after finding Princess Cirilla he had been looking for the bard in earnest.
To be honest, going to Letthenhove had been a bit of a desperate move on his part. He knew Jaskier had family there, but he knew little else and he hadn’t actually thought he would head for his family home: while Jaskier didn’t speak much of his childhood and teenage years or the town he grew in, he had always been quite adamant that there wasn’t anything for him back there.
But either he changed his mind or he found himself without any other options, seeing that’s exactly where Geralt finally finds him.
And judging by his scent, he’s willing to bet it was option number two.
He became all too familiar with Jaskier’s scent while they traveled together, getting to know it as intimately as if they had been mates. He would have noticed even the slightest change in these months apart, but even someone not quite as familiar with the bard’s scent, would have noticed the difference.
The milky scent of unborn pup is mixed with Jaskier’s in such way that there’s simply no way to make a mistake: the bard is pregnant and the sole thought almost makes Geralt turn around and leave before actually facing his friend.
In the end though, he forces himself to soldier on and enter the tavern where he can smell Jaskier is in. There’s music playing, an all too familiar tune greets him and Geralt’s foolish heart flutters in his chest.
His entrance attracts a few curious glances and quickly enough those who have noticed it are leaning towards their companions, pointing at the Witcher and murmuring to each other. It’s not a completely uncommon reception and so Geralt barely spares a thought on the matter.
Ciri presses closer to him, practically hiding behind his bulk now, pulling her hood over her head. The Witcher places a hand on the girl’s shoulder, leading her towards one of the empty tables, deciding they might as well eat as he waits for Jaskier to be over with his presentation.
Or that had been his plan, except that the many murmurs have grabbed the bard’s attention away from his music and he’s noticed Geralt’s presence now. His scent spikes with something that Geralt has never smelt on him before, or at least not directed at him: Jaskier stinks of panic and Geralt’s heart twists at the notion. Jaskier had never feared him, not even at the very start of their acquaintance and now--
Jaskier steps down from the improvised stage and hurries to him. His eyes are wild with fear and Geralt is half tempted to actually leave right now. It’s evident the Omega isn’t happy with his presence and while he had expected as much, a foolish part of him--
“Geralt!” Jaskier exclaims, throwing his arms around him, holding him close. He still smells of panic, which is quite curious seeing he’s the one who initiated the hug, but Geralt doesn’t really question it, relaxing into the embrace. He’s never been one for displays of affection, but he could never quite deny Jaskier his need for such touches and he’s not about to begin now, when their relationship is standing on such shaky ground.
“Listen to me,” Jaskier urges, whispering against his ear. “I need you to just play along, alright? I’ll explain later.”
Geralt frowns, confused by the words and the secretive tone in which they were whispered, but before he can question it, the tavern’s front door opens, a group of guards flanking an elegant woman coming in.
“Witcher,” the woman greets, her tone cold but cordial and Jaskier pulls away from Geralt’s embrace and the Witcher hurries to place himself between the newcomer and his friend, also pushing Ciri behind him, sensing there might be trouble. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Geralt arches an eyebrow, curious and from the corner of his eye he watches Jaskier step around him. He allows it, but he gets ready to protect the bard should the need arise.
“Mum, Geralt has just arrived into town, I don’t really think--”
Geralt looks between the woman and his bard, growing more confused by the minute. Now that he’s actually looking, the similarities between the lady and Jaskier are quite prominent; in fact the woman looks like an older version of her son. She’s dressed richly and the guards surrounding her suggests a certain status and Geralt isn’t sure how to reconcile what he knows of Jaskier with what he has just learned.
“Hush, darling,” the Lady says and Jaskier clamps his jaw shut which, Geralt thinks amusedly, would be a most useful trick to learn. “Lady Amaryllis, Viscountess of Letthenhove,” she introduces herself, offering her hand to be kissed and Geralt hesitates just for a beat. On one hand, it’d be impolite not to do as expected, on the other he’s not one to care for politeness or for nobles’ fragile egos, but this is Jaskier’s mother so--
“My Lady,” Geralt greets, bowing his head although it feels odd to do so. Witchers bow to no one, but-- “Geralt of Rivia,” he introduces himself, although he assumes she already knows who he is.
“Hum,” the Lady murmurs, her eyes flicking to Ciri. “And this young pup? She’s yours?”
“I’m Fiona, my Lady,” the girl hurries to introduce herself, her curtsy so elegant and well practiced that immediately raises a few eyebrows. Geralt holds back a groan: the girl’s smart but some things are too engraved in her brain for her to completely fake otherwise.
The Viscountess hums, still looking at her. Ciri shifts on her feet nervously and Geralt is hard pressed not to push her behind him once more. “You must be tired,” the woman finally says, turning her attention back to Geralt. “You must join me for dinner.”
It’s not an invitation but an order and while Geralt bristles at the woman’s tone, a quick look in Jaskier’s direction stops him from saying anything at all. The bard is looking at him with wide, pleading eyes and as usual, Geralt finds himself incapable of denying him anything.
“Of course, my Lady” he agrees, figuring there’s no real harm either way. He’s a little worried on Ciri’s account, but he supposes they’re more or less safe for now. After all, Jaskier is his friend and this woman is his mother, so--
“Oh, please,” the woman says, waving a hand dismissively as she turns around to exit the tavern. “Call me Amaryllis. We’re about to become family, aren’t we?”
Jaskier’s scent is laced with panic once more and Geralt frowns, choosing to simply hum in lieu of a response. It’s a most curious statement, but judging by Jaskier’s expression asking about it is not the best idea and so he keeps his mouth shut.
Later, he thinks. Later Jaskier will provide answers, probably even to questions that Geralt won’t actually voice, like all those concerning the pup he’s carrying.
In truth, Geralt is dying to know about that.
But he won’t ask.
As they make their way through town, they gather more than a few curious stares. This is not unusual for Geralt and yet they feel different although he couldn’t explain how if someone had asked him. He keeps Ciri close to him and at some point he grabs Jaskier’s arm, pulling him close too since people are staring a little too intently at him. Of course that just succeeds on dragging more stares, but Geralt feels a little calmer this way. His Alpha instincts are screaming at him to protect his pup and his mate and he’ll be damned if he ignores them.
Of course Jaskier isn’t actually his mate and while Ciri might be his child of surprise, she’s not his pup so--
He watches Jaskier from the corner of his eye, not quite sure what to make of their reunion. The bard hadn’t seemed terribly happy to see him, but he had hugged him and that must count for something. He doesn’t smell distressed anymore either, his scent back to its soothing flowery notes. The milky scent of the pup is a little distracting, but not unpleasant and Geralt finds himself discreetly taking a whiff to reassure himself that yes, he has managed to find Jaskier again.
And if he has his way, he won’t be losing him again.
Although that might be a little trickier than Geralt originally envisioned. His lifestyle isn’t conductive to forming a family and he’ll have trouble enough with Ciri around to add a newborn pup into the mix, but--
There’s also a chance that Jaskier won’t want to travel with him again. After all, he’s going to have a babe and there’s probably an Alpha in the picture: Jaskier had never strike him as the kind who settled down, but evidently he was mistaken. There’s no mating mark, though and other than the addition of the pup’s scent, Jaskier doesn’t really smell any different, but maybe--
He shakes his head in an effort to clear it. There’s little use on speculating: he’ll get his answers later and until then, he won’t continue pursuing this painful and useless line of thought.
Jaskier rubs a hand over his swollen abdomen, a distracted smile on his lips and Geralt’s heart constricts painfully inside his chest.
Maybe he’s too late.
Despite its size and how well looked after the mansion is, it’s nothing like the Palace-like houses most nobles, even small nobility, have.
The house is surrounded by an extense garden, filled to the brim with vegetation. Geralt can see a few guards milling around, but they all look relaxed. They run into a couple of gardeners in their way to the house entrance and Lady Amaryllis stops to speak to them for a few moments, which gives Geralt enough time to continue inspecting their surroundings. He doesn’t trust all this peace and quiet, although he must admit that might just be his usual paranoia talking.
“You do not believe I would lead you to a trap, do you?” Jaskier asks him, tone light and cheerful, but there’s a dark edge underneath. He’s not looking at him, eyes starting upfront and his body is tense, but his arm is linked with Geralt’s which is… comforting, he guesses.
“No,” he replies honestly and Jaskier looks at him from the corner of his eye. “I trust you, Jaskier.”
The bard’s lips curve up in a slightly self deprecating smile, but before Geralt can say anything else, they’re moving once more, this time actually entering the house.
“Welcome to our home,” Lady Amaryllis tells him, smiling at him. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but that’s something Geralt is used to. Nobles will smile at him because they need his help one way or another, but the minute the job is done--
Well.
“Frederik,” the Viscountess says, addressing the butler that appeared as soon as they walked through the door. “Have one of the girls prepare a guest room for the young miss,” she says pointing at Ciri. “Don’t you have any bags with you?” she asks Geralt, with a slight frown.
Oh, right. Their stuff. “Left them with Roach,” he murmurs, a bit embarrassed he somehow managed to forget about his faithful mare. To be fair, she’s probably fine back at the tavern’s stable, but--
“Ah, right. The mare,” the woman says, nodding. “Have someone fetch her, would you Frederik?”
“At once, my Lady,” the butler replies pleasantly. “Dinner will be ready shortly.”
“Wonderful,” the woman says, clapping her hands together. “In the meantime--”
“Mother, perhaps our guests would like to rest before dinner,” Jaskier interrupts. “Maybe even a bath?”
Lady Amaryllis huffs. “If you wanted some privacy, you only needed to say so, pet. Very well, run along. This young pup can keep me company while you two have a proper reunion.”
Jaskier blushes madly, but Geralt barely notices, his focus mostly on Ciri who looks nervous at the thought of being left behind. He’s not keen on the idea either, truth be told, but he and Jaskier do need to talk and--
“You’ll be fine,” he tells Ciri, resting his hands on her shoulders comfortingly. “I’ll be close.”
Ciri bites her lip gently but nods. “Alright,” she agrees softly, unsure and Lady Amaryllis huffs.
“Oh, please. Family is family. Your pup will be perfectly fine with me,” she says, wrapping an arm around Ciri’s shoulders. The girl stiffens briefly, but doesn’t comment and Geralt narrows his eyes at her, but of course the Viscountess is as immune to his dark glares as her son.
“She’ll be fine, Geralt,” Jaskier assures him, grabbing his hand and squeezing gently. “And we really need to talk.”
Yes, Geralt supposes that’s true.
It’s time for a much needed talk.
Jaskier takes him to what’s presumably his room, just stopping once on their way up to ask a maid to fix them a bath. Jaskier sits on the edge of the bed, looking quite nervous and Geralt chooses to stand by the door, both to ensure no one eavesdrops on their conversation and also because he’s not entirely sure what to do with himself.
“Alright, let’s hear it,” Jaskier says after a tense silence. “Ask away.”
There are several things Geralt wants to know, but the first question to leave his lips is one he hadn’t been planning on asking. “How did that happen?” he asks, pointing at Jaskier’s swollen belly and the bard arches an eyebrow, looking slightly amused.
“Oh, I’m certain you’re familiar with the proceedings Geralt. We might have never engaged in them with each other, but I have it on good source that you have--”
“That’s not-- what I meant was-- how-- when--?”
Jaskier sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “After you… after we parted ways , I met someone. Except no, because that makes it sound like it was an important someone and they weren’t, not really. I just… I mean, it’s not like I had been planning on sharing my Heat with someone but-- oh, quit making that face!” he exclaims and that’s when Geralt notices just how tightly he was clenching his jaw. “It wasn’t anything nefarious, as you’re probably thinking. It was all perfectly consensual, I just meant it wasn’t something I had planned on doing. And I didn’t think-- I mean, it’s something I’ve done before and I always took all the appropriate precautions and so I didn’t think, well. And then, when I realized I was carrying I thought, well, why not? I mean, I’m not getting any younger and I’m tired of chasing after something that’s clearly never going to happen but a pup… well. I did want to be a father.” He shrugs, avoiding Geralt’s eye. “But with… well, everything that’s happened, I figured the roads weren’t safe for anyone really, but especially not for someone in my condition and so I came to my mother’s.”
Geralt keeps quiet, contemplating Jaskier’s words. His stomach is twisted in knots for some reason and he can not deny the slight flare of jealousy he’s still feeling at the thought of Jaskier with someone else, ridiculous as it might be, because--
“And of course my mother had a right fit when she saw me,” Jaskier continues with a self depreciating chuckle. “She demanded the Alpha’s head, because how dare they leave me after knocking me up and I couldn’t quite tell her it had been a meaningless fling because how dare I keep a pup of someone I didn’t love and… well…” he rubs his hands nervously, his gaze flicking to Geralt very briefly. “I might have-- I might have lied to her. Which is why… well. Hence your reception.”
Geralt frowns. “What did you tell her?”
Jaskier groans, pinching the bridge of his nose once more. “Geralt, you must understand-- I didn’t think we would ever see each other again and-- Well, my mother might want your head but no one is stupid enough to actually try to get it, so...”
“What did you tell her?” he repeats very slowly, realization drawing upon him. He has a very good idea of what Jaskier might have told his mother, but he needs to know for sure.
Jaskier sighs, expression devastated. “I told her you were the father.”
Of course he did. “Witchers are sterile,” Geralt says, because he has no idea what else he can say and he’s a little busy processing the warm feeling spreading across his chest at the thought of Jaskier actually carrying his pup.
“Well, yeah and Witchers also don’t have feelings and they only care for themselves and they always travel with packs of gold, except of course that’s not true and so who is to say which parts of Witchers’ lore are correct and which aren’t?” Jaskier argues, an edge of hysteria in his tone. “We’ve been traveling together for years, Geralt. Most of the people who’ve met of us assumed we have been fucking all this time, so… well. It was a perfectly plausible tale.”
Geralt can feel his cheeks warming up and he wonders if his blush is noticeable. “You told your mother you were pregnant with my child so she wouldn’t give you grief?” how did that work out? he wants to ask, because he does not think it went over particularly well.
Jaskier shrugs. “Yes. And now that you’re here-- well, she’s probably hoping you’ll make a decent Omega out of me and marry me.”
Geralt hums. It’s a ridiculous notion, a wedding ring doesn’t make an Omega any less or more decent, but he also knows it’s a widespread belief and so he understands Jaskier’s predicament, although--
“Oh, my mother will have my head!” Jaskier laments dramatically, laying down on the bed with a hand covering his face. “I’m a dead man walking!” he continues, bemoaning his luck, in a quiet despairing dramatic tone.
It’s a bad idea, Geralt knows. For years he’s been trying to ignore his growing feelings, telling himself over and over again that he wasn’t any good for Jaskier-- the Omega too young and good and deserving much better than a mutant like him, but--
“Do you want you marry me?” he asks and Jaskier’s dramatic monologue stops abruptly, as he sits up straight, a startled expression on his face.
“What?” he asks, looking honestly puzzled and Geralt wonders if he really wants to do this. It’s a recipe for disaster, it can not possibly end well and yet-- “That’s not the point Geralt, you’re not--”
“I will,” he interrupts. “You’re my friend,” he adds, as if that explained anything at all. He supposes it does, on some level, at least to him, but it’s probably not enough.
They stay in silence for a beat, just watching each other. “Well,” Jaskier murmurs finally, slightly hesitant. “I suppose there are worse reasons to get married,” he says although he doesn’t look very sure. “You don’t have to,” he adds gently, avoiding Geralt’s eye.
“I know,” the Witcher agrees. I want to, goes unsaid.
Jaskier watches him for a beat, as if trying to read into his very soul. Geralt keeps his expression carefully neutral, ignoring the mad beating of his heart. “You don’t-- I mean, it’ll be a marriage only in name,” Jaskier tells him softly and Geralt ignores the breaking of his heart with practiced ease. “I don’t-- I mean, it’ll be just like the old times. With neither expecting anything from the other.”
“Yes,” Geralt agrees, because what else can he do? The marriage will be a sham, a continuation of a lie that spiraled out of control, but if it’ll continue to spare Jaskier from any grief--
“Very well,” the bard agrees finally, expression hard to read.
It’s not a terribly romantic proposal, Geralt is aware.
But then again, it wasn’t a matter of romance at all.