Growing closer, growing wise

[deerna]

Rating: SAFE
Fandom: The Witcher
Relationship: Jaskier/Geralt
Tags: Canon divergence, baby Ciri, getting together, hurt/comfort, mention of starvation, sleeping together, sickfic, first kiss
Wordcount: 6790
Notes: commission and xmas gift for xxhhunter

Summary:
What if Geralt had kidnapped Ciri when she was four months old, and accidentally involved Jaskier in the whole baby-rearing thing? Or also: the one Geralt and Jaskier spend the winter watching baby Ciri grow, travel half the Continent and fail to part from each other.

Excerpt:

Geralt was a wonder to watch. He made faces at her so she could try and mimic him, he guided her little hands over the textured fabrics of Jaskier’s fancy outfits he’d graciously lent them just for this very exercise, and the more he made Ciri laugh, the softer his smiles became. Jaskier was completely addicted to the way his whole face lit up in wonder when she did something new or unexpected.

{ read on AO3 | read here }

It was almost winter when Geralt showed up in Kerack, the same year Jaskier had been invited by his cousin Ferrant to spend the season at his court.

The witcher stood still in the middle of the marketplace, a dark motionless shape against the blur of the crowd, staring down at a bundle of blankets clutched in his arms.

He didn’t see Jaskier come closer, as the crowd separated in front of him like in a dream. Before Jaskier could open his mouth and call his name, and wonder what he was doing in a small commercial town instead of hiking on the Blue Mountains like every other year, the bundle started crying.

*

The witcher didn’t put up a fight when Jaskier dragged him home. That alone was so alarming that Jaskier didn’t dare push for more. He swallowed the worried questions that threatened to crawl up his throat, and just got to work. With a little convincing and a few promises he managed to find a wetnurse, a crib and other baby-rearing related things in less than three hours.

Geralt clung to the baby the whole time, like he was afraid she was going to disappear the moment she got out of his sight. He was paler than usual, gaunt and thin as if going through some terrible sickness; his boots were muddy, a single silver sword was slung over his shoulder, wrapped in dirty rags, and his usual gear was missing so many pieces it was a stretch to call it armor. Still, he was gentle with the little girl in his arms, bouncing her from time to time, answering to her inquisitive gurgles with hesitant, hushed words. He let her wrap her chubby fingers around the tips of his stringy hair to soothe herself as he stood in a corner of the room watching the proceedings with tired, attentive eyes.

The little girl went easily enough in his arms, when Jaskier took her from Geralt. She seemed to like the colorful embroidery on the front of his doublet, which distracted her long enough to make her forget the discomfort and confusion of being in a stranger’s hold; she also seemed too hungry to object to the foreign nature of the pretty nurse who had been hired to feed her. Nevertheless, Jaskier would never forget the pitiful noise that rose from the back of Geralt’s throat as she slipped away from his fingers—not with the way it lodged itself in Jaskier’s heart, just shy of breaking it.

Only when the baby was done being fed and put down for her nap, clean and sound asleep in her crib, and the nurse excused herself, did Geralt relax—or more accurately, fall apart.

“Thank you,” Geralt rasped out from where he’d crumpled on the floor next to the cradle, when the shaking subsided. “You saved her.”

Jaskier unfroze from his spot and went to sit on the carpet next to him. “Don’t mention it, my friend,” he whispered. He was afraid of touching him, although he really wanted to. “Anything to help.”

A bath was drawn for Geralt. Jaskier had to help him undress, because there was so much grime stuck to him it was hard to tell where his armor ended and the witcher started. His skin was dry and papery under Jaskier’s fingers, taut over prominent bones, and his flesh felt empty and soft, eaten away by months of starvation. By the time they had finished scrubbing him off, the bathwater was revolting and Geralt was falling asleep against the rim of the tub.

“If you let me wrap you in a robe, I will let you take a nap before dinner,” Jaskier said, coaxing. “How does that sound?”

“No,” Geralt stammered, startling into alertness, his eyes snapping in the crib’s direction. “Ciri—”

Oh, Jaskier thought, and the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.

“She’ll be fine,” he promised out loud. “Get some rest, Geralt.”

The witcher frowned, lying on the side of the bed closer to the cradle, clearly determined to stay awake and watch over the sleeping baby. He was out cold as soon as his head touched the pillow.

*

“I couldn’t sleep.” Geralt’s hands were slow and careful as he changed Ciri out of her dirty napkin. “I couldn’t meditate. I couldn’t focus. I almost got myself killed during multiple hunts because of stupid mistakes—I could hear my teachers’ bones rolling in their graves.”

Ciri tried to imitate his frown and Geralt’s expression softened a little, but his golden eyes stayed sad and angry. “I found myself in Cintra, without meaning to. The city was grieving—Duny and Pavetta were dead.”

Jaskier could hear the word Destiny hang heavy on his tongue.

The witcher did not speak it out loud. “I don’t remember taking her,” he continued instead, almost too quiet. Jaskier had never heard him sound so afraid. “We ran away on horseback, we rode for hours, days. I didn’t know what to do. We stopped at an inn—for a while. I knew we couldn’t stay. So we left.”

His voice cracked when he told Jaskier about selling his gear piece by piece to make up for the lack of money. “I couldn’t take jobs,” he whispered. “I was supposed to be in Ard Carraigh by now, but all the convoys were going to Kerack, and—”

He picked Ciri up, smiling wider when she grabbed a fistful of his hair. “We were lucky. The wagon we came here on belonged to a family—a woman had a very young child. She agreed to feed her too, for a small fee. We were lucky,” he repeated softly, looking up at Jaskier, “that you were here.”

Jaskier smiled back, and tried to keep his heart from bursting.

*

A week later Geralt attempted to leave with only a shirt and barely any armor on his back, carrying the silver sword over his shoulder and Ciri wrapped in the quilted blanket that usually lay on Jaskier’s bed. Jaskier caught him just as he was slinking out of the bedroom at ass o’clock in the morning.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, Geralt?” he drawled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and squinting in the half-darkness.

“I don’t mean to overstay our welcome,” the witcher explained. Only half his face was visible in the blade of light coming from the half-opened door, highlighting the guilty grimace on his features. “Please, give your cousin—”

“Fuck my cousin,” Jaskier snapped. “Close that door, put Ciri back in her cradle and come to bed. You’re letting the cold in.”

He fully expected Geralt to growl at him to mind his own business and to storm out; instead, the witcher let out a shaky breath and obeyed. Jaskier, stunned, barely breathed as he listened to him moving around the room with heavy steps. He shushed Ciri with tender, inaudible words when she fussed unhappily at him. The boots made dull thuds against the carpeted wooden floor, when he finally pulled them off to climb in bed.

Jaskier rolled over and reached out in the darkness, blind. His fingers found Geralt laying with his back to him, curled up like a kicked dog. His skin felt too cold, so wrong, when it usually ran as hot as his noble heart.

“You wouldn’t last a day, out there,” Jaskier told him. His voice was hoarse with sleep; it made him sound harsher than intended. He grimaced, he licked his lips, and kept going. “Your armor isn’t fit for travel. You’re missing a sword and about a million other things. The past month took a toll on your body and on your mind. It’s the middle of winter already. Where would you go?”

“A witcher’s place is on the Path,” Geralt croaked out.

“The Path isn’t the place to raise a daughter.”

A sharp breath of intake and Geralt curled up tighter on himself, shivering. Jaskier laid his forehead between the witcher’s shoulder blades. “You can stay as long as you want,” he whispered, feeling them rise and fall with Geralt’s labored breathing. He wrapped an arm around his stomach, grimacing at the cold, and started humming a song under his breath.

The trembling eventually stopped, and they both slipped in exhausted slumber.

*

A month went by. The days were short and cold, the nights longer and colder. They settled into a strange routine that revolved around Ciri’s activities—or well, Geralt did: whether it was supervising Katarina, the nursemaid, as she fed her, or making sure that she was firmly laying on her back during naptime, or changing her napkins, the witcher was never too far from the child.

And Jaskier—well. Jaskier was supposed to have his own things to do, such as writing songs for the next season, practising his scales, entertaining Ferrant’s court; but more often than not, he would catch himself watching Geralt and Ciri play.

They were surprisingly distracting. He wasn’t too interested in the infant, to be entirely honest—she was too young to move around, besides rolling over and attempting to reach out with her chubby fists, although it was still pretty cute, he supposed—but Geralt…

Geralt was a wonder to watch. He made faces at her so she could try and mimic him, he guided her little hands over the textured fabrics of Jaskier’s fancy outfits he’d graciously lent them just for this very exercise, and the more he made Ciri laugh, the softer his smiles became. Jaskier was completely addicted to the way his whole face lit up in wonder when she did something new or unexpected.

But above all, she made Geralt talk, a feat that Jaskier had never managed to accomplish. He wasn’t being jealous of a toddler—even if it was true that in the ten years they’d known each other before that winter, Jaskier could probably transcribe all the words that Geralt told him in a dozen of pages of his journal—but it was a little special to hear the usually taciturn witcher have whole conversations with a vaguely babbled word as the sole prompt.

“So it’s true that a good conversation partner makes all the difference,” Jaskier couldn’t help but tease him one day, as he listened to them go back and forth, Geralt sprawled on his back, amused and slightly rumpled, and Ciri perched on his chest as she happily tried to undo the tiny buttons at the neck of his shirt.

At the quip, the witcher’s grin fell a little. Jaskier mentally kicked himself for ruining the mood, and went back to his work — though in all truth all he was doing was pretending to sharpen his quills while keeping an eye on his guests.

“Talking—keeps her engaged,” Geralt explained, before Jaskier could stammer an apology or something. “Arleta, the girl who helped us while we were travelling, said—it helps her grow up right. She needs stimuli from me, so that she knows she can trust me.” He paused, looking haunted and uncertain for a split second. “It’s important, especially because she's not—mine.”

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier sighed. He took a deep breath, put down the quill he had in his hand and turned around. “Of course she’s yours.”

The witcher stared at the ceiling for a moment, then shrugged and slowly sat up, maneuvering Ciri to lay against his shoulder. She fussed and complained a little, clearly annoyed about having her game interrupted, a pout already forming on her adorable little mouth; but then Geralt ran a hand through his own hair, gathering it over his shoulder so Ciri could touch it, and she was immediately distracted, eyes big and smile wide while she petted the silky strands with her tiny hands.

“See? She adores you,” Jaskier insisted. “She couldn’t wish for a better… anyone.”

Geralt looked down at the child who rested on his chest with a peaceful expression on her face and a lock of his hair clasped in her fist, and frowned.

*

As winter kept crawling towards spring, Geralt seemed to get better. He still couldn’t get a full night of sleep and had a hard time leaving Ciri out of his sight, even if it wasn’t as bad as it was at the beginning, but he’d been putting on some weight and he’d taken to spend a couple hours in the snow-laden courtyard during Ciri’s morning nap, leaving Jaskier to keep an eye on her while he exercised, going through sword routines and fight forms.

His restlessness became very noticeable when the snow finally melted. Jaskier thought the only reason he hadn’t attempted to leave in the middle of the night again was because he still was too spindly and thin to travel; he would’ve teased him about it, if he hadn’t been having nightmares about finding the witcher gone only to later recover his corpse frozen solid in the middle of the road.

“I want to be in Kaer Morhen before Belleteyn,” blurted out the witcher eventually, one night as they were getting ready to go to bed.

Jaskier’s hands froze in the middle of undoing the last fastening of his undershirt. It was too dark for him to see, the candles already snuffed out to avoid disturbing Ciri, but he somehow could feel Geralt’s gaze on him. He had the sudden realisation that they never really questioned their arrangement, never got weird about sharing quarters, a room, a bed, for almost three months now.

He wasn’t going to start now.

“It’s not the end of February, yet, and you barely have any equipment to speak of,” he objected instead, stifling a yawn. He’d spent all the evening playing for Ferrant and his friends, and he was starting to feel the weight of the day on his eyelids. He was getting too old to play so long into the night.

“It’s warm enough. We can get the things we need in town. It’s a long way to the Blue Mountains, even if we move quickly,” Geralt replied, unimpressed. “We’re leaving. Next week.”

“Alright, oof.” He yawned, dropped the clothes on the floor, found his sleepshirt under the pillow by touch and pulled it on. “Let me think…” he trailed off, climbing in bed and wrapping himself in the comforter. It was warm and comfy under the covers, and Jaskier couldn’t repress a smile; Geralt’s furnace-like body heat was slowly coming back.

He settled on his back, stuck a hand out towards the ceiling and started counting off his fingers, knowing that Geralt would’ve seen them better than he could see them himself. “First of all, tomorrow I’ll call the tailor and the armorer. Then I’ll have to see Pete, about the horses,” he listed off, and frowned. “I hoped to surprise you with some authentic witcher gear, but I definitely can’t pull that off by the end of the week, so we’ll have to hope that Ferrant’s guy has some decent stuff on the ready—”

A rustle of sheets. “Wait—what?”

“I can’t possibly commission him a custom blade with just a week's notice. What else? Oh, Ferrant’s birthday is in March… he probably expected me to sing him a ballad or something, but I’m sure he’ll deal with it. Katarina told me that Ciri is ready to be fed cow milk and other things, I’ll have her show me how to prepare them so we won’t need to bring her with us—”

“You—” Geralt interrupted him, sounding raspier than usual. “You’re coming?”

Jaskier blinked. “Of course I’m coming. Who’s going to take care of Ciri while you’re off killing drowners and ghouls and what not?”

Geralt didn’t answer. There was some more rustling, the sound of air being slowly pushed out a pair of tense lungs.

“Of course, I don’t have to if you don’t—”

“No, it’s okay,” the witcher croaked out. “Thank you.”

The next morning, it was as if the conversation had never happened: they had breakfast, they went through their routines. Geralt played peek-a-boo with Ciri, he trained in the courtyard, and waited for Jaskier to finish his evening sets in bed; Jaskier sneaked glances at the witcher and his tiny charge as they played on the carpet, warmed up his voice and tried to keep his cousin in a good mood.

There was no talk of leaving until the middle of March, when Geralt picked out a new armor and a new sword and three new outfits with Jaskier’s advice and only minimal complaint. His new horse, a mare with a coat of such a warm chestnut that looked almost red, was immediately dubbed Roach, much to Jaskier’s fond exasperation.

He had a test ride with her the morning after, instead of his usual sword training; when he came back, sweaty and wind-swept and smiling, Jaskier found he’d never seen him happier than in that moment.

*

Jaskier expected the journey to feel pretty much the same as their usual traipsing from one side to the other of the Continent. They were going to travel as much as they could, as quickly as they could; Geralt was going to hunt monstrosities during the day, and Jaskier was going to perform for taverns’ patrons at night. Except—Ciri was with them, then. So nothing was really the same.

“Let her sleep when she wants to sleep, feed her when she’s hungry and change her when she needs it, like I’ve shown you,” Geralt told Jaskier the first time he left her with him. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Of course,” Jaskier lied with a smile, feeling like Geralt had looked like all those months before in the middle of a marketplace in Kerack. “We’re going to have so much fun, don’t worry about us—just do your witchering and come back safe.”

Geralt gave him a look, but didn’t comment. He just brushed the back of his hand over Ciri’s cheek in the softest of caresses, pulled his gloves on and left with his swords on the back, only a fleeting, parting glance to Jaskier as he exited the room.

Alone with the baby, Jaskier felt himself deflate a little. He didn’t know a lot about children—besides the things that Geralt had taught him before leaving and the ones he’d learned peripherally about his very young nephews, which boiled down to the fact that young children didn’t do much more other than sleeping, eating and shitting, and being very good at getting into trouble.

He really wasn’t equipped for this—but he’d made a promise to Geralt.

He didn’t do too bad, at first. Ciri slept most of the morning away, much like she was used to do in Kerack, and when she woke up around noon, Jaskier was ready with her bottle; she let him feed her without making too much fuss, smacking her lips with a hilariously satisfied and solemn expression on her little face when she was done. Even changing her nappy, which was the part that he’d been most worried about, was less dramatic than he feared (although exactly as smelly as he’d expected.)

So he’d been putting her down back in the small bag-shaped cradle he’d commissioned especially so they could bring it with them, thinking to himself that maybe he wasn’t so bad at this caregiver thing after all, when Ciri made an inquisitive noise, looked up at Jaskier with a wide-eyed, red-faced expression of surprise, and burst into tears.

“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier hissed under his breath, wringing his hands. “Fuck. Shh. It’s—it’s okay. It’s okay.” It wasn’t okay. It really really wasn’t okay, and Jaskier hadn’t the slightest idea on how to fix it. “It’s okay,” he said again, as if repeating it would’ve made it true.

He knelt by the cradle, trying to think—but it was surprisingly hard, when every single cell in his brain seemed focused on oh fuck, crying baby.

“What would Geralt do?” he whispered.

He’d seen the witcher rock her against his shoulder sometimes, when she was being fussy, so he reached out to pick her up—but Ciri slapped his hands away, crying even harder, her little eyebrows scrunched up in an outraged frown.

“Sorry! Okay! No picking up,” Jaskier snapped, and then grimaced. “I’m sorry. It’s okay. It’s okay, really.” He felt faint, strangely terrified, and not too far away from crying himself. Which was completely silly because—children slept, ate, shit and also cried.

Nothing bad or abnormal about that. He’d never quite seen Ciri cry like that, but—

“It’s okay,” he repeats again, feeling foolish but helpless to stop.

He began humming almost on reflex and he didn’t realize when it turned to singing, the instinct to soothe himself with song as natural as breathing. It was the unfinished refrain he’d been working on for the past few weeks, he recognized vaguely, something that he thought to pair with some lyrics about birds and prey and rivers and long travels, because the melody was winding and flighty but also old and rich, and it filled every corner of the room whenever he started singing it and—

Only Jaskier’s voice echoed against the wall,

“Oh,” he breathed out, blinking at Ciri. She was looking at him with rapt, round eyes; her face was a little puffy after all that crying, but she was silent and attentive, then. “Uh. Did you like that? What about something else… less unfinished perhaps?”

He sang for her for what felt a long time, leaning over the edge of the cradle feeling like he was performing for the most demanding judging panel of his career; Ciri listened quietly, staring at him with an interested smile, until she eventually began to yawn, fighting to keep her eyes open.

He was still watching her sleep, still humming under his breath and gently rocking the cradle when Geralt came in, covered in a familiar layer of unidentified filth.

“Oh,” Jaskier said, blinking up at him. “You’re back early.”

Geralt tilted his head. “No, I’m not.” He gestured at the window, where the sky had begun to turn pink and purple.

“Huh, would you look at that.” Jaskier stood up, grimacing at the stiffness in his knees—he’d knelt on the wooden floor all afternoon, alright. “Well, I’m glad to see you seem to have come back in one piece! I’ll call you a bath and fetch us dinner—”

“I already asked.” Geralt took his gloves off, then sat down by the cradle not far away from the spot Jaskier had been occupying minutes before. “How’s Ciri?”

“Well, she slept, she ate, I changed her like you showed me—that seemed a lot easier when you were doing it, let me tell you—she’s okay! We had a little- but it’s okay now. She started her afternoon nap a little later than her usual, which is why she’s still sleeping, but I’m sure she’ll be waking up any minute for her dinner now—”

“Are you okay?” Geralt rasped, interrupting his babbling.

“Golden,” Jaskier answered, maybe a little too quickly. “Uh, you probably noticed I was a little nervous about this, you and your witchery senses, but all things considered—”

There was knocking at the door, which was when the bath was brought in, and then dinner was brought in, and then Ciri woke up and demanded to be fed, and to be changed, and to be picked up and be played with; but later that evening, when the fire from the brazier had started to die down and they were just waiting for Ciri to fall asleep again, they went back to their conversation.

“You—” Geralt glanced up at Jaskier briefly, a flash of hesitation in his yellow eyes, before looking down at his tiny charge again. “You smell upset. Faint, dried out, but—something upset you, earlier. Did she give you trouble?”

“Uh, no.” Jaskier smelled upset? That was new, even for Geralt. He sat down on the bed next to him, hugging one protesting knee to his chest; he felt exhausted, even if he actually hadn’t done much. “No, as I said—well. She cried a little. But I guess she missed you—nothing I could do about that. I managed to calm her down but—oof, that sucked.”

Geralt hummed. Jaskier did not fidget.

“The first time she cried I was so scared I almost bit my finger off,” Geralt admitted. He showed his right hand to Jaskier, pointed out the jagged, ugly scar just next to the knuckle on his index finger. “Gnawed on my hands a lot when I was a child. Had to grow out of it after the Trials. I hadn’t done it since.”

“What did you do? To calm her down?”

“I didn’t,” the witcher said, simply. “She tired herself out and fell asleep. We were outside, and I was trying to keep her warm against my chest—I thought she’d died.” Jaskier whimpered. Geralt continued like he hadn’t heard him. “What did you do?”

“Uh. Well. I’m a bard.” Jaskier chuckled, unamused.

Geralt hummed again, and nodded like it made sense. “She likes it, when you sing.”

Jaskier turned to look at him, surprised. “She does?”

“Yes. She almost never cried when we were in Kerack.” Jaskier had noticed, actually, but it didn’t actually explain anything, like many of the things that Geralt said like they were matter of fact. “She cries when she’s bored. Travelling on the carriage was a nightmare.” Geralt tilted his head. “I guess you were too focused on your work to notice.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier murmured, feeling warm at the revelation. He smiled, impishly. “Well, at least she has taste—not like some witcher of my acquaintance.”

Geralt huffed laughter and pushed him. Jaskier fell off the bed with a squeak.

*

“…and then we spent the afternoon on Robin the Old’s Temerian Love Poems, didn’t we?” Jaskier bounced Ciri on his knees and grabbed her little wrists. “I’m telling you, Geralt, this little one of yours is a big romantic. I couldn’t get her to lay down for her nap until I finished! The whole! Thing!” he exclaimed, punctuating every world by clapping Ciri’s hands and making her laugh and wriggle. “Which I hadn’t done since Oxenfurt, so you’re very welcome. I hated that teacher.”

Geralt hummed in response. His eyes were trained on the sword he was sharpening, but there was the tiniest amused smile on his face.

“She’s going to learn my whole repertoire, if we keep going at this pace—the travelling and academic one.” Jaskier got up to put her down in her crib and to pull on his doublet, readying for his evening performance. “She always sings along when I play Toss a coin, you know? I could bring her down with me right now, and have her sing the whole thing. You’re not gonna need me anymore when she’s old enough to hold a lute—”

The image of a fantasy grown-up Ciri filled his mind: a tiny blonde girl with a lute, dressed in a bright green bard outfit, following Geralt around, while the witcher pretended to be grumpy, a smile tugging at his lips.

Too cute for words.

“You could make her your apprentice,” Geralt said, unexpectedly.

Jaskier looked at him. “You’d let her become a trobairitz?”

Geralt shrugged. “I wouldn’t let her become a witcher. Well—I couldn’t, the mutagens and the formulae are gone, but even if they weren’t, it would be too dangerous.” He frowned. “She’ll have to learn to defend herself though, if she’s going to walk around like you do.”

Jaskier swallowed, a sudden knot in his throat. “Well. She better learn to walk first.”

Geralt froze for an instant, then he kept sharpening the blade. “Right.”

“Right. I’ll get going. Uh, good night,” Jaskier stammered, grabbing his lute on the way out.

As he strummed the very first chord of the evening, Jaskier thought of the little bardling in green that wasn’t yet, and couldn’t help but smile.

*

The sun shone brightly and warm on the day they left Ard Carraigh, but Jaskier’s heart felt heavy and cold as they rode towards the Blue Mountains, their looming peaks getting closer and darker as the day went on.

“What’s wrong?” Geralt asked later that evening, when they stopped for the night, as they waited for the stew to cook. “You were very quiet this afternoon.”

“Ah, it’s nothing. Just—” Jaskier bit his lip, and looked up at the mountains. There was just one village separating them from Kaer Morhen. Just one village, a few days away, and then Geralt and Ciri would be gone from his life, for who knows how long. Jaskier couldn’t stop thinking about it, a pang in his heart ringing hollow with their absence already. “I’m just tired. Nothing a good night of sleep can’t fix.”

Geralt hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t insist. He spread his bedroll near the fire and laid Ciri out on it, changing her quickly and letting her stretch and move a little after being cramped in the travel-crib for half a day. They ate in silence, watching her toddle around and play with a corner of the blanket, the crackle of the fire and Ciri’s interested babbling the only sounds to fill the air.

“She’s been smelling different,” Geralt said with a frown, when she picked her up to put her to bed.

“Different how?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she’s just growing up,” he mused, but he sounded unsure.

They laid down on their bedrolls with the cradle between them. Geralt closed his eyes, his breath immediately deepening and evening out as he fell into a light meditative state. Jaskier watched his slackened face, trying to commit it to memory, until his eyes burned and his eyelids grew heavy with sleep.

Ciri started fussing around midday on the next day and by evening she was sniffling and leaking clear mucus from her nose, whining and crying weakly with her face against Geralt’s shoulder.

“It’s just a cold,” Jaskier tried to reassure the witcher, who had gone almost completely non-verbal as Ciri’s sniffles worsened and she refused to eat. “I’m sure she’ll be fine, she just needs to let the sickness run its course.”

Geralt nodded, stiffly. He didn’t lay down to meditate that night, keeping the toddler cradled against his chest, his back slightly slumped as he instinctively curled around her. Jaskier kept them company, playing quiet melodies on his lute, trying to keep his head instead of panicking like he wanted to.

They broke camp at dawn and rode all morning to get to the village as soon as possible. There was a surprising amount of people around when they finally reached the local inn, and the innkeeper, a round woman with an impressive length of braid wrapped around her head, gave a tired snort when she saw them.

“Never seen a Wolf come back for Belleteyn of all things,” she addressed them, turning her back to them as she wiped a table. “What can I help you with?”

“A room,” Jaskier said, while Geralt rasped out, “Is there a healer in town?”

Ciri sneezed and the innkeeper turned around, noticing her in Geralt’s arms for the first time. “Oh dear. I thought your lot had stopped with this children business.”

“She’s sick,” Geralt insisted. “She needs a healer.”

The innkeeper eyed Ciri. “She looks too small for a healer to do her any good. Kids that age better not take any of their hocus pocus crap. Does she have a fever?”

Geralt didn’t answer. Jaskier watched as his mouth turned into a thin line, his slitted pupils unnaturally tight in the dim light. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

“We’ll check once we get settled.” Jaskier squeezed the witcher’s elbow surreptitiously, trying to be reassuring. “So, about that room?”

Being so close to Belleteyn meant that every sorry bastard who usually lived in an isolated hut in the countryside had reached the closest village for the festival, so the only room available was tiny, cramped, and with a single, narrow bed.

They decided to spread the bedrolls on the floor and to leave the mattress to Ciri. She didn’t seem warmer than usual, but she cried more easily and she demanded cuddles more often, making keening noises until she was picked up.

The innkeeper came to check on them later that evening, bringing two bowls of groats with mushrooms, sausage and fried eggs, and a bucket of boiling water, slightly scented with lavender and thyme.

“I sent someone to fetch the healer, for your peace of mind,” she told Jaskier, handing him the tray with the food and the bucket. “In the meanwhile, the steam will help if she has a stuffy nose. Really though, I wouldn’t worry too much—babies get sick all the time. It’s good for them, even, it makes them stronger. Try to get some rest.”

Jaskier nodded, took the food and thanked her. Geralt didn’t even look up.

Eventually they managed to feed her a little — with a lot of spit and a lot of breaks, as she seemed to have a hard time breathing through her nose — and she fell asleep, exhausted and upset.

“She still doesn’t have a fever though,” Jaskier tried to sound cheerful, as he arranged the blanket around her, tucking the bucket next to the mattress so she could breathe the steam. “Ah, it’s cooling down already…”

Geralt idly lit his hand on fire with a spell and plunged it in the water, warming it up again. He had dark circles under his eyes and his skin looked papery-dry and too pale, like when he imbibed his witcher potions.

“We were almost there, too. Was it for nothing?” he whispered.

Jaskier clenched his jaw, a ringing in his ears. “She—she’s going to be fine,” he babbled. “She’s going to be fine, don’t even joke about that.”

“What if she isn’t? What if—”

“Merciful gods, I don’t even wanna hear it. Come here, you idiot.”

He pulled at Geralt until he could put his arms around him.

The witcher tensed a little, but then the fight left his body. He slumped against Jaskier like a puppet with its strings cut, his face buried in his neck. He smelled like old sweat and dust, but his hair was soft enough when Jaskier reached up to run his fingers through it, soothing and repetitive.

“Close your eyes,” Jaskier murmured. “I know you’re not going to sleep or meditate while Ciri is like this, but at least get some rest.”

The witcher nodded mutely, and wrapped his own arms around Jaskier, who blinked, tightening the hug in surprise.

“Did I ever say thanks?” Geralt mumbled in his shoulder.

“I heard you say ‘thank you’ and ‘I’m sorry’ more times this winter than in the twelve years we’ve known each other,” Jaskier reassured him.

“You’ve been putting up with my shit for months.”

Jaskier snorted. “Sorry to break the illusion, but I’ve been putting up with your shit for twelve years.” He meant for it to pull a chuckle out of the witcher, but Geralt swallowed noisily against his neck and turned his head away instead. “That’s alright. I never minded.”

“Why?”

“Because—” you’re my friend, he wanted to say. “Because I care about you,” was what came out of his mouth instead. Too sincere. Too close to the truth.

“I like that,” Geralt said. “I’m sorry that it’s unfair.”

“What do you mean, unfair?”

“Witchers don’t—” He sighed. “I’m not very good at showing that—I like that.”

“Oh, Geralt, you don’t have to. I knew that already.”

“See?” the witcher groaned. “Unfair.”

They stayed like that, leaning against each other and listening to Ciri’s labored breathing until she woke up with a startled whine, which immediately sent them both scrambling at her side. She eventually fell asleep again, a strand of the witcher’s silvery hair tight in her little fist.

Jaskier fed her breakfast while Geralt took a catnap with his back against the wall. She was hungry, even if she was still struggling to breathe, and Jaskier recognized she was fussing out of frustration, more than discomfort.

The healer arrived just before dinner, and if they were unnerved by Geralt hovering they didn’t show it. “She’ll be alright,” they concluded, rinsing their hands with a sour-smelling potion after the visit, and smiled when they saw the witcher lean against the wall, body sagging in relief. “I would give you something to make her more comfortable, but she’s very young, and there’s really no need. You just have to be a bit patient, and wait it out.”

And so they did. They stayed at the inn for a couple more days, until Ciri felt better, until she’d gone back to her usual bubbly self, singing and babbling and laughing—with only a few breaks for Jaskier to wipe her itchy, crusty nose from time to time—and then it was time to leave.

“You were planning to get to Kaer Morhen before Belleteyn,” Jaskier said, looking out at the mountains. “It seems you’ll get to.”

“Mmm. We made good time,” Geral said. He loaded the saddlebags on the mare’s back, and then he lifted Ciri out of her travel crib.

“How long will it take?”

“A week, more or less. This time of the year the light lasts longer even here. Can you hold Ciri while I finish getting the horses ready?”

“Sure.” Ciri immediately stuck her hand in the decorative cut of his doublet, pulling the embroidered undershirt through the slit. He chuckled. “Ah, little Ciri, I’ll miss you a lot. I was planning to teach a summer class in Oxenfurt, but none of my students will be as enthusiastic as you’ve been.”

Geralt gave them an odd look, as he tied Ciri’s collapsible cradle on the other side of the saddle, and then checked Roach’s straps. He let Pegasus sniff him for a moment, before checking him over as well.

Jaskier had already done that, but his gut flipped something weird as he watched him double check. Maybe he shouldn’t have eaten breakfast.

“Thank you,” Geralt said, taking Ciri back.

“You’re welcome.” Jaskier smiled. “Well, I guess it’s time—”

He dusted an invisible speck of dust from his doublet, slung his lutecase over his shoulder and went to pat Pegasus’ neck for a moment, before getting in the saddle.

“Jaskier, wait,” the witcher rasped out suddenly.

He froze with his foot in the stirrup. “Yes, Geralt?”

“You can come with us.”

“Ah, Geralt. That’s very kind of you, but you don’t have—Oxenfurt awaits.”

“No, I mean—” Geralt huffed, moved Ciri from his right side to the left, and then he was pulling Jaskier towards him, his hand on Jaskier’s jaw, and he was leaning down to press a kiss against his mouth, as light as a summer breeze. “Come with us,” he repeated.

Jaskier stumbled, dizzy, and grabbed his hand. “Are you—but Ciri…”

“Please,” Geralt insisted. “She’s—she’s yours too.”

“What about you?” Jaskier asked, “Geralt, this is not— I told you, you don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“I know.” The witcher shrugged, looking away. “I—you had me, already.”

A warmth spread in Jaskier’s chest. “To Kaer Morhen, then.”