Chapter Text
Prologue: Later
He loses track of time after the first day. He could have noted it, scratched a mark into the wall for each new sunrise, but he’s not sure there’s any point in knowing.
They bring food and water twice a day, and he eats it. She comes herself, every day, or maybe every other day, and talks to him, but he knows what she’s going to say so he doesn’t listen. It won’t make any difference.
It’s very quiet.
After a while the music in his head goes away, too. He thinks about giving up then, but he’s always been stubborn, and there’s enough anger left in him to not make it that easy.
And then, one day, it stops being quiet.
He blinks. He’s been drifting, eyes closed, the sun on his face and his thoughts revolving drearily – would it be so bad?... Yes, yes it would... You could run… But they’d just find you again – when they’re interrupted by the sounds of steel on steel, somewhere far below.
He sits up, heart racing. There’s nothing in the room but him, and the tray with his breakfast on, and the bucket in the corner, none of which are weapons. Though he figures throwing the bucket at someone might at least make them pause long enough for him to run.
Before he can put the idea into action, the door explodes. A whirlwind of iron and wood, controlled somehow. He flinches back, flinging one arm over his eyes instinctively.
When he looks again, the door is in pieces on the floor and two of the most beautiful people he’s ever seen are standing in the doorway.
The man is tall, dressed in black. His hair’s an unnatural shade of grey, his eyes an unnatural shade of gold, and he’s carrying a sword in each hand. Julian saw him last when he fled the inn, before he was brought back here, when the man called him Jaskier even though that was a name no one in the world knew. The woman’s wearing a formal gown, which seems unlikely for storming a mansion, but the coiffured midnight hair and immaculate make up implies she’s not someone who knows what dressing down means.
It is, to say the least, unexpected.
The woman swears as she walks forward, and twitches a wrist as if she’s tossing something distasteful away. He feels a cold draught of air expand his lungs, coil up through his throat.
“Oh,” he says, and lifts a hand to his lips, presses his fingers against his mouth to feel himself speaking. “Oh, that’s—”
The man is kneeling in front of him, which is strange, since Julian didn’t even hear him moving. He’s put a hand on Julian’s shoulder and is staring at him like no one has ever looked at him before, like the very sight of him is a blessing.
“I’m sorry,” Julian says. “Do I know you?”
The man winces, his golden eyes tightening at the edges. A complicated expression crosses his face – something painful, maybe even something like grief. Julian tries to work it out, feels like he would be able to, if he weren’t so confused. And maybe a little horny, but mostly confused.
“No,” the man says. “Not anymore.”
Chapter One: Geralt, before
One year lost
In hindsight, Geralt should have realised something was up with Jaskier earlier. In his defence, Jaskier is always a little strange, and Geralt tends to let his strangeness wash over him, rather than try and follow it. The bard’s brain moves faster than most people’s. Geralt’s never been able to keep up, and Jaskier doesn’t mind as long as Geralt pays attention when it’s important. Geralt’s getting better at noticing when things are important, and Jaskier’s better at telling him when they are, too.
They’ve been in Oxenfurt just over a week. Jaskier’s in his element, bouncing from inn to inn and shop to shop, meeting up with old friends, making new ones. He seems to know everyone in the city, from the street urchins to the university professors. It’s odd to see him here, so much at home. Geralt’s never accompanied him to Oxenfurt before. For years, he thought this was Jaskier’s place, in the same way that Kaer Morhen was Geralt’s, and that it was good they had their own separate places to be.
They’re entirely entangled, now, and Geralt’s an idiot for not doing it sooner. He likes seeing Jaskier like this, joyful and relaxed.
Really, he should have noticed when that changed.
The tavern they’re staying in belongs to old friends of Jaskier’s, old enough and trusted enough that even Yennefer has started to relax somewhat, and Ciri is in her element, making friends with the bar staff and bothering the cooks. Oxenfurt feels far away from the war, still; there’s no love for the Nilfgaardians here; and there are enough Redanian soldiers and spies monitoring visitors that Yennefer says they should be safe from harm. They’re safe enough, anyway, for something like a break.
Jaskier’s there to play some harvest festival in a couple of weeks. Yennefer’s making use of the library. Ciri’s having fun. Geralt’s just… happy, in ways he never thought his life would allow.
He’s eating breakfast in the tavern’s main room with Ciri that morning. It’s plain food, an oat porridge, but well made and seasoned, and in Ciri’s case, drowning in honey. She’s on to her second bowl when Jaskier emerges, always a late sleeper when left to his own devices. His gaze scans the room, distant and a little confused, and then his face lights up when he sees the two of them.
“Geralt!” he says, gladly, and walks over. “How wonderful to see you. What are you doing here this fine morning? And, if I’m not mistaken—” he sketches a deep bow— “in the presence of royalty, no less.”
Ciri flinches like she’s been struck. Geralt hisses. Jaskier looks completely taken aback.
“For fuck’s sake,” Geralt says, “I know you’re friends with these people, but that doesn’t mean growing careless.”
“Yes,” Jaskier stutters. “Yes, I— sorry. Don’t know what came over me. Apologies, dear child.”
“The walls have ears,” Ciri tells him solemnly.
“They do!” Jaskier agrees. “Just like corn. Is it corn? Why does corn have ears?” He’s rambling, which Geralt takes to be a sign of guilt, or possibly embarrassment. Ciri seems to enjoy it though, so he leaves it be.
Not long after, Yennefer joins them – being an even later sleeper than Jaskier – and takes a seat on the bench beside Ciri. “Did you sleep well, Fiona?” she asks, and listens with what seems like genuine interest to Ciri’s story of a dream involving a frog, and a palace, and a garden that you could walk in for days. Jaskier’s looking between the pair of them, frowning a little, like he’s making notes, or possibly aiming to turn the dream into a ballad. He’s done that before.
“All right?” Geralt asks him softly, brushing his knuckles over Jaskier’s arm, and Jaskier yelps.
“Fine!” he says. “Quite fine. Couldn’t be better.” Geralt can smell a faint edge of anxiety coming from him – but he’s generally jumpy, and also, Geralt scolded him before, and Jaskier still reacts badly to that, all this time later. He should have been kinder. It was just Jaskier being dramatic, seeing they were alone in the room. No harm done.
Jaskier goes out after breakfast, and returns with a broadsheet and a puzzled expression, then retreats to their room to fetch his notebook and his lute, which generally means he’ll be lost in composition for the foreseeable future. There’s no getting any sense out of him on those days.
So Geralt does notice that Jaskier is acting a little… off, that morning in Oxenfurt, but he assumes that Jaskier will tell him if it’s anything serious, and carries on with the day.
And if there were other signs that he looks back on later – occasions when Jaskier paused in the middle of a conversation or stopped in the middle of a familiar street and seemed lost or far away for an instant – at the time Geralt just chalked it up to regular absentmindedness, and ignored it.
Two years lost
On the second day, Geralt wakes up to the sound of Jaskier having a panic attack.
They’re not unusual; Jaskier’s always been prone to bad dreams. Geralt’s never asked about them – he tried once, and it was about the only time Jaskier was quiet for more than five minutes – and anyway, there’s plenty of terrible memories for Jaskier’s sleeping mind to throw at him. During the years they travelled together, Geralt used to turn over in his bedroll and feign sleep until Jaskier had got himself under control. Even then, he felt the urge to reach out, but he never did. He regrets it bitterly now.
Jaskier’s left the bed, which is less usual; he’s huddled on the chair by the window, curled into himself. Must have been a particularly bad one. Geralt goes to kneel in front of him, takes his hands and starts circling his thumbs in Jaskier’s palms. “Jaskier,” he says, softly. “Listen to me. It was just a dream. You’re fine.”
Jaskier stares at him, blinking. His face is tight with misery. He looks young, and scared. “What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Wouldn’t be anywhere else,” Geralt says gruffly. “Yenn and Ciri are next door. We’re all safe.”
“Yenn’s here?” Jaskier closes his eyes, throws his head back dramatically. “Of course she is. Fuck.” His breathing’s slowing a little, though, so Geralt keeps chafing his hands, steadily, giving Jaskier something to focus on outside his own head.
“It’s all right,” he says. “You’re all right.”
“I’m all right,” Jaskier repeats, slowly. “But. The mountain, Geralt—”
Shit. Geralt knew he dreamed about it, of course, knew he thought about it, even though two years have passed now. But he hates to be reminded of it, hates to see the imprint of the panic and pain that he caused. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“Um,” Jaskier says. He pulls away from Geralt’s hands, turns his head to look out of the window. “We’re in Oxenfurt,” he says. He sounds completely surprised. It must have been a really bad dream.
“We are,” Geralt agrees. “You feeling better?”
Jaskier’s eyeing Geralt a little warily. “Oh. Yes. Thank you.” Geralt gets up, goes to get dressed, give him some space to collect himself.
“I’ll fetch breakfast, if you like.”
“Yes,” Jaskier says, faintly. “That would be… kind.”
Geralt hmmms, and fetches breakfast. When he returns, Jaskier’s sitting with his composition book in his lap, looking somewhat dazed. He eats the bread and cheese swiftly, and moves to pull on his breeches and doublet.
“I thought I’d take a walk,” he says. “Revisit some old haunts.”
“Want company?” Geralt asks.
Jaskier clutches his notebook to his chest. His heartbeat is faster than usual. Geralt knows something is up. He also knows Jaskier will tell him, when he’s ready.
“I’ll be fine,” he says. “Just need to clear my head.”
Geralt nods. “I said I’d take Ciri to see them setting up for the festival,” he reminds Jaskier. “See you back here for dinner?”
The bard smiles at him, soft and unexpectedly fond, the way he used to look at Geralt when they met up again on the path after months spent apart. “I’ll be here,” he says. “Of course.”
Jaskier plays in the tavern that evening. Geralt and Ciri watch; they don’t always, but after Jaskier’s dream that morning Geralt feels the need to be nearby – to make sure Jaskier’s safe, as well as, perhaps, to prove things are different now. Ciri loves it, clapping her hands along with the choruses and sniggering behind her hands at the bawdiest lines. Geralt can Calanthe glaring at him sometimes. This is about as far from palace life as you can get. Then again, Calanthe was raising armies when she was a teenager, so maybe she wouldn’t care about her granddaughter understanding a few innuendos.
A lot of the people in the audience know Jaskier, one way or another; he pulls a few fellow musicians up to perform with him at intervals, and others shout requests. He’s in his element, moving from floor-stomping crowd-pleaser to crooning ballad without it ever seeming unlikely or forced, beaming at how well the night’s going. It’s a world away from how he was this morning, tense and uneasy. He’s always most energised when performing (whether on stage, or in bed) and yet it seems greater than that, more like a weight has been lifted.
The fire is fading into ash and the candles guttering, and Ciri is fast asleep with her head on Geralt’s shoulder, when someone shouts “Her Sweet Kiss!”. Jaskier’s fingers slip on the strings, a jangled discordant noise, and Geralt sees his flushed cheeks pale slightly. “How do you—” he says, and then stops. Tries to smile. “Uh, not tonight, Szymon, eh? How about something more cheerful to send you on your way.” Then he breaks into a song that Geralt doesn’t know, but which must be popular, as most of the inn lifts their voices for the refrains.
After Kasha the innkeeper shuts the doors, and Geralt shifts Ciri into bed, Yennefer reappears from wherever she’s been all day. Geralt doesn’t ask, and Yenn usually doesn’t say; he knows she has contacts in the underworld of the city, both human and not, and while Geralt never feels the urge to slay anyone or anything keeping out of trouble, he’s aware that some of the people Yenn goes to meet may fall the wrong side of that line.
They share a last cup of wine and catch up on the gossip while Jaskier dozes in a chair by the last light of the fire. Talk of troop movements, of Nilfgaard licking its wounds while readying for further attack, of the news the refugees bring out of Cintra. The whole Continent is on the move it seems, though it feels far away from this cosy room, this quiet building, with Ciri safe upstairs.
After Yennefer leaves to join Ciri in their room, Geralt rouses Jaskier, who stumbles up the stairs after him, half asleep on his feet. He strips down to his shirt and then freezes, looking from the bed to Geralt and back again for a long moment.
“What?” Geralt asks, as he undresses and slides under the covers.
“I thought,” Jaskier says. “Nothing, never mind.” He pivots to the table by the window, scribbles a couple of lines in his notebook and then blows out the candle before getting in bed. “Sorry, had to write something down before I forget.”
“Hmmm,” Geralt complains, but sleepily, and moves to roll an arm over him. Jaskier’s a little cold, his muscles a little tense, and Geralt breathes softly on the back of his neck and waits for him to warm up.
“Why did you go to get Ciri?” Jaskier whispers instead, into the hush and dark of the night.
Geralt pauses. Jaskier’s never asked that before, and he always assumed he understood. But then, this morning, Jaskier woke with the memory of Geralt walking away from him sharp in his mind, so maybe it doesn’t seem so obvious right now.
“I didn’t want to believe in the ties that bound me,” Geralt says. “But they remained. And so I decided to see what happened if I pulled them closer, rather than trying to push them away.”
Jaskier shifts. “And how are you finding it?”
“Jaskier,” Geralt says, pulling him a little closer, “do you really need to ask?”
“No,” Jaskier says, after a time, the tension in his shoulders finally dissipating as he relaxes into the hold. “Apparently not.”
Seven years lost
The morning comes in quiet and clear. Jaskier turned over in the night, his forehead nearly pressed against Geralt’s as he snores, little murmurs of air breaking the silence. Geralt casts his senses out into the next room and finds it empty. Yennefer and Ciri must have gone out already. He lifts a hand to brush Jaskier’s hair away from his face. “Jaskier,” he says, softly. “You awake?”
It’s not fair, really, but Jaskier rouses anyway, blinking sleep from his eyes as he does so. He smiles, eyelids falling closed again, and Geralt leans forward to kiss him, tightening his grasp on the back of Jaskier’s neck.
“Mmmm,” Jaskier says. “That’s nice.” He’s warm and crumpled and only half aware, his words slurring together.
“Mmmm,” Geralt says back, grinning a little, and moves to deepen the kiss, hand moving down to trace the curve of Jaskier’s spine. He wriggles a little under the touch, opens his eyes again and then—
Then there’s a flurry of movement, a kind of squawk as Jaskier cries, “Geralt?” and his hands thrust forward so hard the momentum pushes him back off the bed and he lands with a thud on the floor. “Ow,” he finishes. “Fuck, fuck, what the fuck?”
Geralt has shot up to sitting, adrenaline racing like he’s been attacked, but it’s just Jaskier, picking himself up, brushing dust off his backside and glaring. “Not fucking funny!” he says.
“Jaskier?” Geralt asks. He looks normal. Slightly shocked, but otherwise fine. “What are you doing?”
“What am I doing?” Jaskier splutters, scrubbing at his face. “What are you doing? Is this a dream? I was asleep!”
“I’m sorry,” Geralt says. Jaskier’s never minded being woken up like this before, but he shouldn’t have assumed. “Come back to bed, let me make it up to you.”
Some incredibly complicated look crosses Jaskier’s face: surprise, fear, guilt, lust, longing, grief, determination. “Um,” he says and swallows. “Sure! Why not!”
He slips gingerly back into the bed and lies ramrod straight as Geralt nestles against him, running his fingers down his chest. “Sorry to startle you,” he says, and reaches for Jaskier’s cock, which lifts under his touch.
Jaskier makes a noise that sounds a bit like urkle. “That’s definitely startling!” he says. Geralt props himself up on one elbow to look at him properly, finds him staring up at the ceiling, eyes wide, biting his lip. “Did you… did you just… wake up and decide this was how you wanted to start your day?”
“Yes,” Geralt says, frowning at him, and leans in for a kiss.
Jaskier kisses back, frantic and enthusiastic and a little messy, before Geralt takes a firmer grip on his cock and he takes a strangled breath in and yelps, “oh, gods, I’m going to hell, I’m going to hell, Geralt, I can’t believe I’m saying this but are you feeling all right?”
Geralt lets go and rolls back, feeling somewhat annoyed now. “I was,” he says.
“Just,” Jaskier says, sitting up again so he can gesture wildly. “What the fuck! What about Yennefer?”
The annoyance fades and starts to be replaced by an edge of concern. Did Jaskier hit his head when he fell? “What about Yennefer? She’s not here.”
“Oh,” Jaskier says, and his face falls; he looks completely distraught. “Oh, of course, well, I’m sorry, but I can’t do that, I’m sorry. I wish I could, Melitele knows I do, but I can’t.”
“Do what?” Geralt growls.
Jaskier makes a surprisingly eloquent shape in the air with his right hand. “Be a… convenience,” he says, “for you to work off whatever you’re feeling right now. It’s not fair, please don’t ask it of me.”
“You’re many things,” Geralt says, “but I wouldn’t call you convenient.”
“I know,” Jaskier says, and fuck, are those tears in his eyes? “I’m sorry. Can we just, I don’t know, forget this and go back to normal?”
“This is normal!” Geralt says. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with you?” Jaskier hisses back, and then his face clears. “Oh, something’s wrong with you! Is it a spell?”
Geralt makes an incoherent sound of frustration and gets out of bed. He turns to glare and then stops and stares instead because Jaskier is different, in some indefinable way that he didn’t see before. His hair is slightly the wrong shade of brown, his cheeks a little sharper, the skin around his eyes doesn’t crinkle the right way as he peers up at Geralt. “Jaskier,” he says, slowly, carefully, “how old are you?”
“Um,” Jaskier says. “I… is that relevant?” and when Geralt looms over him, he says, “thirty-five, I’m thirty-five, wow, I don’t think you’ve ever asked before.”
Geralt sits back down, gracelessly, and buries his head in his hands. Behind him Jaskier says, worriedly, “was that the wrong answer?”
Fuck. He needs Yennefer, now.
Jaskier keeps staring at Ciri. Geralt can tell it’s bothering her, so he clicks his fingers in front of the bard’s eyes and says, “you should be used to it by now, stop it.”
“Strangely enough, Geralt, I have not got used to the fact that the child I last saw at her seventh birthday party is a teenager.” He looks over at Ciri. “Sorry if I’m being a pain, your highness.”
“Don’t call me that,” Ciri says, more patiently than Geralt expects, given it’s the third time she’s had to remind him. “I’m in hiding, remember?”
“Of course,” Jaskier says, and bows a little, and then winces. “Sorry, sorry.”
They’re sitting in Kasha the innkeeper’s private quarters, Kasha herself having been swept aside easily by Yennefer, who cannot be denied when she’s in this kind of mood. Jaskier’s perched on the settle, clutching his lute rather like a child with a favoured toy; Yennefer’s pacing the room; Ciri is sitting neatly at the kitchen table; Geralt standing guard by the door.
“Two days ago,” Ciri says, “you called me princess, d’you remember?”
“Two days ago is seven years in the future apparently,” Jaskier says sourly, “so no, I can’t say I do.”
Ciri turns to Geralt instead. “He did,” she says, “and we thought it was careless, but maybe he’d already forgotten?”
Geralt thinks about the way Jaskier acted that day, slightly on edge, confused, and then about yesterday. What if the vivid memory of the mountain wasn’t a flashback or a dream but something that, to the Jaskier of the day before, had only just happened?
“He didn’t play Her Sweet Kiss last night,” he says. “I thought he didn’t want to, but what if he couldn’t remember how to?”
“He is right here,” Jaskier says. “Stop talking about him like he isn’t. I may be forgetful but I can still hear you. Also, what’s Her Sweet Kiss? Is it one of mine? Is it good?” He puts his lute down and picks up his notebook, riffling through the pages.
“So it’s been going on for three days,” Yennefer says thoughtfully. “And you’re not forgetful, Jaskier, you’re actually younger. Your body’s different, your mind doesn’t feel the same.”
“I’ve had quite enough of you feeling things,” Jaskier spits at her. “You feeling things has a tendency to bring buildings down on people’s heads!”
Yennefer looks pained. Ciri looks fascinated. Geralt can sense a headache coming on. He had forgotten, it turns out, quite how much they’d aggravated each other, before the mountain made them uneasy fellows in their shared anger at him, and then Ciri united them in determination to protect her.
“So it’s a spell,” Geralt says.
“It’s a very good spell,” Yennefer corrects him. “I can barely detect it now I’m actually aware of it. And it would take a lot of care to pull this off without destroying him, either physically or mentally.”
“Can you reverse it?”
“I’m not sure,” Yennefer says. “Not easily. It’s not really my area, this kind of working.”
“I told you,” Jaskier mutters to Ciri. “Buildings. Heads. Screaming and craziness and dark magic.”
“Jaskier, shut up,” Geralt says. He loves the bard, he does, but he’s a lot to take right now. He knows it’s because Jaskier’s panicking but Geralt is panicking too, deep down, where he’d never admit it. This is something he doesn’t understand, and can’t fight, and in the meantime, Jaskier’s looking at him like he’s… not a stranger, of course, but not like he’s his.
Jaskier grumbles, but shuts up, flicking slowly through the notebook.
“So what are we going to do?” Ciri asks, proving again that she’s the most grown up of all of them in some ways. Geralt looks at Yennefer.
“I can ask around,” she says. “It’s the kind of magic you’d probably have to maintain, from not too far a distance, at least till the spell’s complete. If it only started a couple of days ago, the mage is likely still in the city. And there are some volumes in the library that might cover this type of working too.”
“What do you mean till the spell’s complete?” Jaskier asks, sharply, self-interest warring with dislike and winning.
Yennefer shrugs. “By my count you’ve forgotten seven years in three days. Who knows how long they want it to go on for?”
“But why?” Jaskier demands. “I’m just… I travel the Continent and sing, who would care how old I am?”
Geralt feels cold. “Could be it’s about what you can remember,” he says. “If someone had met you on the street yesterday and asked if you were travelling with a young woman called Ciri, you’d have said yes, wouldn’t you?”
“...yes,” Jaskier says, slowly. “I would have today, if you hadn’t noticed anything. Fuck.”
“All right,” Yennefer says briskly. “Ciri, you’re coming with me. Geralt, stay here and see if anyone tries to make contact. Jaskier, I don’t care what you do.” She sweeps out the room.
Ciri hovers briefly by the door and adds, “she doesn’t mean that!” before following.
Geralt and Jaskier are left looking at each other.
“Want to pick up where we left off?” Jaskier asks after the silence has stretched enough to become uncomfortable.
Geralt hadn’t known what to expect but he didn’t expect this. “You mean…”
“I mean,” Jaskier snaps, “that I have been pining after you for the best part of two decades and apparently we do that now, and there is no way that I’m going to pass up the opportunity to have my first time for a second time.”
He looks angry, hopeful, a little uncertain, and surprisingly young. Geralt knows he’s hurt this Jaskier – the djinn, Yennefer, all the times he was inconsiderate or rude or reticent – but he hasn’t broken his heart, yet. “There are things you don’t know,” he says.
“Don’t care,” Jaskier says. “I can see you building up to denying yourself out of some misplaced guilt, so I’m just going to ignore all that. Whatever it was, you’re sorry and I got over it. Or I will get over it. Fuck, tenses are hard. Right?”
“Right,” Geralt says, and can’t help the fond smile that comes to his face. Jaskier’s a complicated man, deep down. But he likes to make things simple.
“So take me to bed,” Jaskier says, “and we can work it out later.”
Geralt does as he’s told.
It’s a strange kind of coupling. Not the easy, known thing they’ve grown accustomed to. Jaskier’s body reacts the same, more or less – Geralt has learned what he likes – but the flush on his skin, the joy and wonder in his eyes, that’s new. Even on their previous first time, Jaskier was old enough and hurt enough to be a little guarded. He has no such defences now.
He’s lying half on the bed, half off; spread legs over Geralt’s shoulders where Geralt is kneeling on the floor, bent over to suck his cock. Jaskier’s resting on his elbows, angled up so he can watch as Geralt lifts and lowers, teasing at the head before taking him all the way down. Jaskier’s biting his lip, panting as he exhales, almost laughing as he inhales.
“Oh,” he says, suddenly, “Geralt, I’m—” and then he comes, as Geralt knew he was going to, was waiting for him to do. He swallows, then lets Jaskier slip out of his mouth, lifts his legs sideways onto the bed as he shakes through his release. Geralt lies next to him, stroking his hair. “Mmmm,” Jaskier says, warmth and sleepiness in his voice. “That was lovely.”
“Not over,” Geralt says, “if you don’t want it to be.”
Jaskier rolls over, interested. “What did you have in mind, witcher dear? Are you going to ravish me?”
Geralt smiles and swats at his arse. “Don’t make it sound like you’re some innocent,” he says.
“I’ll have you know—” Jaskier starts, and then gives it up. “All right, fair. What would the man of the world like to do with the not-so-blushing, far-from virgin?”
“Well,” says Geralt, “I could fuck you.”
Jaskier’s cock stirs to life a little. That’s different. Or at least faster. “Could you,” he says, a little breathlessly, fingers brushing Geralt’s fully erect cock, feather-light. He doesn’t know Geralt’s body, doesn’t know that he likes a firm grip there and a light touch on his balls, and Geralt has no idea if this version of Jaskier will ever find that out. But he’s determined to make this first time good for him, a memory he might get to keep, untroubled, unweighted by history or pain.
“I could,” he agrees, and goes to fetch the oil from his bag. Jaskier turns to watch him, eyes large and faintly disbelieving.
“I keep waiting to wake up,” he says, as Geralt returns to the bed. “Find out this has all been but a beautiful dream…” He looks beautiful. Geralt kisses him instead of saying so, and Jaskier surges into it, eager and sloppy. “A very good dream,” he adds, softly, into Geralt’s mouth. “How d’you want me, darling?”
Geralt flips him over, lifts him up so he’s on all fours, and Jaskier’s cock goes halfway full at the show of strength. His Jaskier would have laughed, said something cutting, and he freezes for a moment, waiting for it, feels a strange kind of sadness when it doesn’t come. He distracts himself by starting to open Jaskier up, losing himself instead in the way Jaskier shakes as he adds a second, then a third finger, drowning in the sensation of Jaskier around him, the stream of consciousness nonsense falling from his lips. And then slowly, slowly, pushing in.
“Oh,” Jaskier murmurs, hushed and unusually brief. “Geralt,” he says, and the word is worshipful.
Geralt moves, gently at first, rocking into a rhythm he knows well but which has Jaskier keening, scrabbling at the bed as the pace builds. He waits till Jaskier comes, crying out with a pleasure tinged only slightly by pain, and then lets himself follow in a blaze that empties him of all thought.
After, he finds himself half atop Jaskier still, hands clutching his hips. Jaskier turns his head, blinking, dazed, and says, “thank you.”
“It wasn’t a gift,” Geralt says, sharp.
“Still,” Jaskier says, half asleep now. “I appreciate it.”
Geralt goes to fetch a cloth, cleans them both up and tucks Jaskier under the covers as he starts to snore.
He feels unsettled, and he’s not entirely sure why.
Later, after Jaskier has woken, washed, complained about how sore he is till Geralt took pity and massaged his back which led to a second time that undid the washing… later, he leaves Jaskier with his notebook and lute and goes down to the tavern to wait for Yennefer.
When she does arrive, she takes one look at him, sends Ciri to go play in the kitchen, and sits across the table from him. A glass appears at her right hand, fills itself with good red wine, and she takes a long drink and regards him steadily.
“Really, Geralt?”
Geralt can’t prevent a slight smirk lifting his lips. “Kept him out of trouble,” he points out.
“The two of you are a menace,” Yennefer sighs. “I can feel him up there, and the smugness is quite spectacular.”
“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, deciding to change the subject. “He doesn’t know not to resent you.”
Yennefer waves a hand, dismissing the idea that Jaskier’s reaction could have touched her in the slightest. Geralt doesn’t entirely believe it, but to go further down that road leads to all kinds of subjects better left alone.
“We have other problems than the bard’s petty jealousies,” she says. “I couldn’t glean any gossip about any mage capable of this being in town, which probably means that it’s someone who’s been under the radar a long, long time, hiring themselves out to the highest bidder. I’ll keep asking, but it feels like a dead end. And what little I could learn about magics that manipulate time and memory implies the spells are best not interfered with, unless you want to destroy the subject body and soul.”
“So we’re nowhere,” Geralt says, and when Yennefer winces, adds, “I didn’t mean – I don’t blame you. I just don’t know what to do.”
“I do,” Yennefer says, firm and a little cold. “If it happens again tomorrow, I’m going to take Ciri back to Kaer Morhen, out of danger.”
It feels like a cut, one so fine you don’t even notice the pain straight away.
Yennefer sees his reaction and softens. “And now I’m the one who didn’t mean it. I’ll come back, Geralt, of course I’ll help you both. But Ciri needs to be safe first.”
“You’re right,” he admits. “There’s no knowing what he’ll do or say; or what the person doing this is after. It’ll be easier if we don’t have to worry about her as well.”
“All right,” Yennefer says. Then she pauses. “And if it does happen again – what will you do?”
Geralt hasn’t thought about that. He considers Jaskier, younger again, waking up in a place he won’t remember reaching, but at least not with a stranger. “I won’t tell him,” he says. “It’ll be easier that way.”
Yennefer watches him steadily over the rim of her glass. He’s sure she disagrees, but unsure why, and she keeps her own counsel. “Well, then, we have the start of a plan.”
He closes his eyes, lost for a moment in missing Jaskier – the real Jaskier, his Jaskier – so much that it aches somewhere deep inside him. “We have to fix this,” he says.
“We will,” she promises.
They eat together, the four of them. Jaskier is quiet, chatting to Ciri from time to time, glaring at Yennefer when he doesn’t think she’s looking. Yenn maintains a chilly, formal politeness, a sparkle in her eyes that speaks to amusement and, Geralt thinks, to hurt hiding a layer beneath that. Geralt himself says nothing at all.
When he and Jaskier return to the bed, they lie in silence for a while. The candles are out, and the moonlight draws shadows on Jaskier’s face, making the familiar strange. Jaskier shifts, and asks, “If I lose my memories again tomorrow, will you tell me? About this?” – indicating the way their bodies slot together, warm beneath the covers.
“Yes,” Geralt lies, and stays wakeful and watching until Jaskier sleeps.
Sixteen years lost
He knows from the minute he opens his eyes that it’s happened, and that the time lost is significant. Jaskier’s lines have gone entirely; his face is rounder; his hair longer than he wears it now. Geralt carefully moves away, untangling Jaskier’s arms and legs from around his body until he’s free to leave the bed. He used to do that, almost without thinking, assuming the bard would be embarrassed if he knew how close they’d got overnight. Now, he knows it wasn’t truly Jaskier’s feelings he was trying to guard against.
Jaskier yawns as Geralt gets up. “What time izzit?” he asks.
“Morning,” Geralt says, patiently, and one blue eye opens to glare at him. “What do you remember?”
“That’s an odd question,” Jaskier says, opening his other eye. “Pray tell, is there a story behind it?” He smells a little anxious, a lot lustful. That was a common scent, when Jaskier was younger. He learned to control it better, over the years, and these days of course it’s present, but generally sated. Geralt has almost forgotten the taste of it, the years he spent turning away from the invitation that was hinted at but never outright expressed.
“You got into a fight last night,” Geralt says. “Bumped your head. Thought it might have scrambled the few brains you have in that skull.” And, oh, it’s so easy – that old pattern right there, waiting for him to fall back into.
“I appreciate your concern,” Jaskier says sniffily. “I’m sure if I stooped to anything so uncouth as a brawl there was an excellent reason. Probably defending a fair maiden’s honour!”
Geralt snorts.
“All right, don’t tell me,” Jaskier grumbles. “Are we in Cintra still at least? I have a booking I really can’t pass up.”
“Oxenfurt,” Geralt tells him.
Jaskier sits up, panic written all over his face. “I was to play in front of royalty! How much time’s gone by? Did that happen?”
“It did,” Geralt tells him, while he feels his slow heart go icy and still. Of all the places the spell could have stranded him, why did it have to be Pavetta’s betrothal? “You were feted. The talk of the town. I haven’t forgiven you for the clothes you made me wear, mind you.”
“Oh, well, fine then,” Jaskier says dismissively. “As long as I was there. Queen Calanthe isn’t one to forget a slight easily. Was it a fine affair? Did I make any delightful new acquaintances? Was there a fight? There usually is, at that court.”
“Hmmm,” Geralt says and lets Jaskier throw a pillow at him for his reticence. He lacks the wit to invent a story, and he’s certainly not going to tell Jaskier the truth.
Yennefer and Ciri are at the table by the door when they enter the room downstairs, Jaskier still grumbling that the blow to his head has robbed him – robbed me, Geralt! – of the knowledge of a superlative performance. Geralt steers him to a table by the bar, sits himself down so he can meet Yennefer’s eyes. She raises a brow at him; he shakes his head; and she sighs, before ushering Ciri up. They’ll portal to Kaer Morhen straight away, Geralt knows, and Yenn will settle her overnight before returning to Oxenfurt tomorrow. Ciri is tired, and tearful; she turns back to look at them and Geralt tries to reassure her with a nod before they leave the room.
Jaskier watches them go, frowning.
“Do you know them?” he asks Geralt.
“No,” Geralt says. “The woman’s a sorceress, from the looks of her.”
“Huh,” Jaskier says. He seems puzzled, thoughtful. “I could swear… there’s something familiar, you know, like when you turn a corner in a town you’ve never been before but are certain you’ve seen the same shops, the same array of people…”
“I’ve been to so many towns they do all look the same now,” Geralt says.
“Fine, reduce all my poetry to the dull everyday,” Jaskier says. “Why are we in Oxenfurt anyway? I wouldn’t have thought it was your kind of place.”
“You wanted to winter here,” Geralt says. “My path coincided. I’ll be moving on in the morning.”
Jaskier dips his head, accepting this. He’s still staring in the direction of the stairs, frowning slightly, as if seeking something he knows he’s lost without knowing what it is. Geralt wonders what it’s like inside his head, if there is any awareness of a gap. He wonders if, when they fix it – and they will fix it, if it takes the rest of his life – Jaskier will remember any of this. Will remember how Geralt lied to him.
“So we have a day, then,” Jaskier says at last, returning his gaze and attention to Geralt. And Geralt has forgotten that, too – the fascination, the hunger. He used to feel as if Jaskier would feast on him, if he let him, strip him bare. He didn’t know then that it was possible to give and give and not lose anything. It wasn’t like that with Yennefer, much though he loved her; their love was always a war. It was Ciri who taught him that some feelings could never run dry, and Jaskier who compounded the lesson.
“Hmmm,” Geralt agrees.
“Unless you had plans,” Jaskier says, a little reticent, “there are places I’d show you, if you cared to see them?”
Geralt almost refuses – he would have refused, when Jaskier was truly in his mid-twenties – but it seems cruel now to maintain the character of a Geralt years dead; and besides, the chances are Jaskier will forget all this in the morning anyway. “No,” he says. “No plans.”
And Jaskier’s delighted smile is almost enough to make him feel better.
It’s a good day. The kind of day that has always been rare in Geralt’s life. No urgent need for coin, no imminent battle, no concerns beyond the obvious. He lets Jaskier lead him on a meandering route from university to river, tavern to concert hall, market to townhouse, all with a story attached from his student days: bawdy, funny, boastful, occasionally sad. Jaskier haggles for lute strings, drags Geralt to the best baker in town and is heartbroken when they find the shop in new hands (Geralt drags him away again before he can ask questions about how long it’s been since the last owner sold it). They buy cheap ale and less-cheap pies from a stall by the city gates, and it’s nearly dusk before they return to the tavern, Jaskier stumbling slightly.
He tries to negotiate free board from Kasha by offering to play, and Kasha catches Geralt’s eye before apologising and saying that they have another entertainer lined up that night, perhaps tomorrow, master Jaskier? And Jaskier slumps a little but lets Geralt shepherd him upstairs easily enough.
Geralt goes through his supplies and sharpens his daggers, as if he truly is leaving in the morning, and Jaskier re-strings and tunes his lute. Afterwards, he picks up his notebook and reads the last few pages, scribbling new lines, crossing out old ones. A tune he’s not happy with, Geralt assumes, and is briefly amused to think of Jaskier composing in collaboration with other Jaskiers through time.
“Thank you for today,” Jaskier says, some minutes later. He looks up, his eyes clear and bright. “You didn’t have to spend all of it following me around.”
Geralt feels faintly sick. The Jaskier of yesterday thanked him too, fucked out and sweaty, as if he couldn’t believe his luck. So many years they spent together with Jaskier grateful for scraps and Geralt feeling benevolent for casting a few his way. It wasn’t fair, any of it. He’ll remember that; how much he owes.
“I had a good time,” he says, gruffly, and enjoys the surprise and pride and pleasure that crosses Jaskier’s face.
“Me too,” Jaskier says. He writes a few more sentences, then shuts the book with a snap. “Shall we turn in? I guess you’ll be wanting to set off early.”
Geralt nods, and lies down in the bed, his whole body aching with the awareness of the space between them, the careful way Jaskier holds himself angled away.
He waits until he’s sure Jaskier’s asleep before he releases the words he’s been holding behind his teeth all day. “I miss you,” he says. “Don’t leave me.”
Jaskier murmurs something under his breath, and Geralt follows the sound into darkness.
Twenty-five years lost
Geralt wakes up on a surge of adrenaline, reacting to a threat before he’s even conscious. He sits up in bed, casting his eyes around desperately. The bed, the unshuttered window, his bags by the door, swords propped next to them, Jaskier’s lute in the far corner. Jaskier, by the window, back pressed against the wall, wearing yesterday’s clothes. They sit oddly on him, and Geralt goes cold.
Jaskier’s too thin, the kind of lean that builds up over months of never quite eating enough. His eyes are wary, his hair cut close in a style that went out of fashion two decades back. He’s shaking a little, and fear comes off him in great gusts. He can’t be much younger than the first time they met – aside from the weight and the hair, he’s entirely familiar – but he has never been scared before.
Geralt knows to his bones this is a Jaskier he’s never met.
He wants to curse himself for not considering that possibility. Instead he stays still, tries to look unthreatening, though he’s not sure how best to do that. A young man, waking up in a strange bed, next to a strange, much older man – there are few good ways to get to that outcome.
“Who the fuck are you?” Jaskier says, voice almost steady. His hands are shaking by his sides.
“Listen,” Geralt says, slowly. “I know this must be unsettling, but if you’ll hear me out—”
“I don’t think so,” Jaskier hisses, starting to edge around the room, and Geralt gets out of bed to stand in front of the door. He doesn’t want to frighten Jaskier more than he has already, so he stays as far away as possible in the confines of the small room, but he can’t risk him running.
“Please, Jaskier, just listen—”
Jaskier freezes, his eyes darting from side to side like an animal caught in a trap. “How do you know that name?” he cries, and then without pausing for breath he takes a step back to the window, slides out and is gone.
Geralt, startled, is too slow. By the time he follows, using the low roof as a ledge to jump the short distance to the alley, all he can hear is the fading sound of Jaskier’s bare feet on cobbles, running as fast as they can. He could track him, of course, but he’s scared the man enough already, and if he’s guessed the age right, this is currently Jaskier’s home. He won’t leave before Geralt and Yennefer have a chance to figure this out.
It’s the sensible thing to do, waiting, but the decision sits poorly with him. He returns to the room, stands at the window as if Jaskier might come back at any minute. It’s easier than looking at the bags, the lute, the notebook, the detritus of a much-loved life that has vanished as if it never existed.
After a time he sits at the table and finds himself staring at the notebook. He shouldn’t, he knows, but Jaskier lives in those pages, and before he can stop himself he begins skimming through it. Mostly it’s music, lyrics scrawled and scratched out beneath the staves. And then, in the last few entries, it’s something else entirely.
Things you need to know:
It’s 1264. You seem to be losing your memory.
Also, Geralt likes you now.
Ciri’s in danger, call her Fiona in public.
Yennefer seems to like you now too; so far, it isn’t obviously a trap.
Geralt and Yennefer are maybe not fucking anymore? Unconfirmed.
Geralt really seems to like you now. No, really.
There’s a song called Her Sweet Kiss that someone requested. The sheetnotes are earlier in the book. Possibly about Yennefer.
It’s 1264, and Ciri is Geralt’s Child of Surprise, and there’s a war going on, and people are looking for her. Seriously, call her Fiona.
Apparently I’m fucking Geralt. No, honestly, this isn’t a trick, would I lie about that? I’m fucking Geralt!
There are two and a half pages of notes in Jaskier’s neat script, only a little hesitant in places: things he observed, speculation, advice. All this time Geralt thought he was the one in control of the situation; of course Jaskier knew all along. Of course he figured it out first.
The last entry seems tired, somehow, the writing less careful. It reads:
I don’t know what half of these notes mean. I don’t know what the fuck is happening. I’m not sure Geralt knows either; maybe he does; he was acting very strangely today. But I do know this, future me, or old me, or whoever reads this next: stick with Geralt. Whatever else happens, he’ll keep you safe.
“Fuck,” Geralt says. He knows Jaskier meant it; that was one belief that never wavered. And yet the very next day, Geralt scared him away just by existing.
When Yennefer returns, he’s still sitting there, staring out of the window, one hand resting gently on the book. He fills her in as quickly and neutrally as he can manage, and waits while she processes the news.
“We’ve been looking at this all wrong,” she says, eventually, and he looks up at her, attention caught.
“How?”
“We thought it had to be about Ciri, because everything in our lives revolves around her. But if Nilfgaard had a mage skilled in memory work in their employ, why would they target Jaskier? They could go after you, or me – fuck, they could go after Ciri, make her run from us straight into their arms. And the spell’s gone on too long, now. There’s no reason one of our enemies would want the bard to forget both of us entirely, what good would that do them?”
Geralt feels the truth of it settle slowly into his gut. She’s right. They’ve been blind. “And if it’s not about us…” he says.
“Then it’s about Jaskier,” Yennefer agrees. Her eyes are sparking, furious. “Someone from his past. His long-ago past, if he’s a student again.”
“And if it’s that,” Geralt says, “we have something to go on.” He pauses, thinks back over two decades’ worth of unceasing talk that he always pretended not to listen to, and tries to remember if the bard ever spoke of his life before university. He can’t think of a single time.
Yennefer nods. Chaos is building in the air around her, Geralt can taste it, ozone and salt, waiting to strike.
He stands, and goes to get his swords. They’re tracking a monster, he realises, as he should have realised two days ago. That, he can do.