Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Like any intelligent creature should, dragons understood when things were becoming dire. Humans were slaughtering them all across the Continent for so many reasons they lost track. Whether it was for their wealth, their hide, or to make fabled potions from pieces of their corpses the end was all the same--there were less and less dragons. 

So, the dragons made it harder for the humans to find them. It wasn’t a decision made as a whole collective, but more one made by most out of reason. 

Humans never took the time to understand dragons as beings with knowledge, power, and culture, no surprise there. They always seem to view anything other whether it be elf, witcher, or simply disfigured as a threat needing to be disposed of quickly--never considering the benefits to allyship and peaceable existence. In their haste of greed, the humans never took note of the people in villages at the base of those dragon-filled mountains telling them to turn back. 

None of them thought to question why these people didn’t run far from the so-called monster-ridden area in search of “safer” homes. If they stopped to question it, maybe they would have also connected the empty caves at the mountain peaks to the full tavern below in the valley. Instead, they trudged home treasure-less right through small towns made up of the creatures they were seeking to hunt, for dragons have magics of their own. One of which, being the magic of transfiguration. 

Jaskier likes to think of his life beginning at Oxenfurt. It’s easier that way--easier to think he is simply a human bard. He can let the memories of his parents and court and draconic life fade into the past where it belongs. And honestly, was his life really him living before studying music? What’s a bard without a song or a poet without words?

Yes, things are simpler this way...most of the time. 

Watching from the berry bush on the roadside as Geralt nearly catches a claw in his chest from the beast that lumbered into the road they were travelling is testing Jaskier’s ability to remain in this weaker form. As his true self, he could simply stomp this snarling creature out of existence and make a bonfire out of it, but that would prove rather hard to explain to his witcher. In the few years they’ve traveled together, Geralt has never questioned his heritage and Jaskier has never opened up about it. 

He winces when Geralt dodges out of the way of the beast’s whipping tail and rolls underneath it. With a skillful thrust upward, he buries his sword nearly to the hilt in its stomach, the guts spilling onto him in the process. The witcher manages to right himself before the monster can collapse on top of him and wipes the slime that seeped onto him away from his eyes. 

Geralt goes to fetch Roach from the treeline where she ran at his command when the fight began. Jaskier brushes some leaves from his doublet and follows after him. 

“Are you alright?”

“Hmm,” Geralt responds without turning to face him. He pats Roach’s snout and she snorts at him as if rejecting the growing stench coming off of him. 

“Let’s double-back to that brook we crossed over. There is no way we are travelling in the baking sun with that all over you,” Jaskier says, gesturing to the dark liquid dripping onto the dirt from Geralt’s clothes. 

“Have to retrieve some quills, cut off the head, and dispose of it before it attracts anything,” Geralt explains as he rummages through the saddlebags. He tosses a cloth bag at Jaskier when he finally turns to look at him. “And you’re helping.”

Jaskier voices his disgust, but follows him anyway. As they work, Jaskier prattles away asking any question that comes to mind about the beast, the fight, or even down to pondering whether it would have liked his latest ballad. Geralt grumbles at him, but let’s him continue on making the arduous task pass faster. 

They make it back to the brook when it’s nearing dusk with the head tucked into a large rucksack astride Roach’s hindquarters and two bundles of quills and various unmentionables for Geralt’s potions. 

Geralt begins work at building a fire while Jaskier practically runs towards the water, stripping out of his soiled outer clothes. He stops at its edge with a glance over his shoulder. Geralt quickly turns his focus back onto his fire. Jaskier’s lip quirks up, relishing in Geralt’s attention. Most likely he was watching him to ensure he didn’t trip and drown (wouldn’t be the first time), Jaskier rationalizes to himself. The butterflies in his stomach don’t listen to his logic. 

He strips down further and wades into the water, briefly ducking his head below the cold surface to wet his hair. When he stands up, blinking the water from his eyes he sees Geralt sign Igni, making flames burst to life in the makeshift fire pit. 

Deep within him, something rumbles at the sight of it. His nature draws him to flames; he is part-fire, after all, with his eternal flame burning at his center from which he forges his dragonfire and keeps himself sustained. Seeing the witcher so easily summon his own flame to life pulls at his chest in a way Jaskier isn’t willing to dwell on. 

“Come on, witcher! Get over here so I can work that vile gunk out of your hair,” Jaskier calls over to him, plastering a playful smile on his lips to cover his revelation. 

He hears Geralt grumble as he stands and walks to the water’s edge. Jaskier tries to look anywhere but at his travel companion as layer by layer or straps and armor and cloth falls to the ground by his feet. If he’s unable to resist the pull of one quick peek, Geralt doesn’t show any sign of noticing. He wades out to him and just as Jaskier opens his mouth to say something, he ducks under the water to wet his hair. 

“Ugh! You know, if it weren’t for me, the whole realm would think your hair grey, not white with how little you wash it,” Jaskier playfully huffs out. “Oh come now, we both know with those witcher senses you can hear everything I’m saying perfectly.”

Geralt surfaces a mere six inches from Jaskier stealing away his breath for a brief moment. 

“Not all of us were raised with pompous, nobel hygiene standards,” Geralts says with a spark of mischief in his eyes. 

“You call not smelling like the inside of a--a kikimore pompous standards? Gods, no wonder people didn’t want to get within nine yards of you before I came along. You know--”

Jaskier’s cut off when a quick grin spreads across Geralt’s face before he’s promptly shoved beneath the water in a loose headlock. Geralt rubs his closed fist over his scalp before releasing him to get some air. He gulps in a lungful and rounds on the witcher with his mouth agape, trying to get his hair out of his eyes. 

“Just trying to return the favor. You wanted hair washing, right?”

A quick feeling of warmth floods through Jaskier’s veins. Heat builds in his chest at the teasing and to his horror, it’s more than just a blush. Geralt’s attention always garners a reaction from Jaskier, but he’s usually able to hide it rather deftly. But now the flame within him is rising under Geralt’s rough affection causing the water around him to warm by at least a few degrees. 

Before Geralt can catch on to the change, Jaskier slashes a hand down into the water causing a cascading splash to hit Geralt directly in the face. A knot in Jaskier’s chest looses when Geralt splashes him right back, ignoring the steam coming off of the water after a few minutes of roughhousing. 

They’re both breathing through their mouths from the effort and smiling. Geralt is trying to hold his back, but the small upturn at one corner of his lips is all Jaskier needs. 

“Well, now that I’ve won our little war, get over here so i can fix your hair,” Jaskier says. He crooks his finger and Geralt wades forward; if it weren’t sure to end in his drowning Jaskier is sure he would swoon at his eager compliance. 

Chapter Text

Humans often equate dragons to any other sort of monster, causing demise on all sides. Unlike witchers, humans do not possess proper knowledge of that which they hunt. They would use fire and steel against all things, regardless of a creature's strengths and weaknesses. For those that did know a little of monster hunting, they took the presence of a witcher’s second sword--the valuable silver sword--to mean all monsters could be defeated with the metal. 

Dragons are not just any monster. Their susceptibilities are nearly nonexistent, and silver is not one of the few. 

Geralt grits his teeth, eyes searching the ground rapidly for where his sword may have fallen. Before he can locate it, the wyvern’s tail comes down nearly on top of his head having moved a few inches when the stinger came into his view. He rolls with a grunt. He’s understandably focused on the flying lizard-- if a witcher loses focus, they die , Jaskier recalls Geralt telling him time and time again. 

The bard watches as his heart tries to beat itself out of his chest. He’s seen Geralt in far worse positions before, but seeing him on the defensive never sits well. When Geralt dodges yet another blow from the creature’s tail, Jaskier braces himself enough to tear his eyes away from him in search of the silver sword. 

The glint of its hilt catches his eye when the wyvern steps on a raised clump of grass beside it. Without pause Jaskier moves forward towards it. Geralt leads it a few feet forward allowing him to reach down and--

“Geralt!” he shouts, holding up the sword. 

The witcher looks at him, taking his eyes off of the wyvern for just a brief moment. He dodges another lunge and runs to Jaskier with his hand out. He tosses the sword towards him to the best of his ability. It nearly falls short, but Geralt seems to have anticipated Jaskier’s lack of athletic ability and catches it still. 

Jaskier stumbles back as the creature rounds itself on them, falling back onto his ass trying to avoid the action after his harrowing deed. He recoils from the ground with a hiss. Looking at his hands, he spots small, silvery nettles embedded in the lines of his palms from where he braced himself. 

When the witcher rights himself, the wyvern is as good as dead. 

With a small sack of scales, a disgusting pile of wing membrane, and the creature’s stinger carefully strapped to Roach’s saddle, they return to their camp from the previous night a short jaunt from the lakeside. 

Jaskier stares into the flames of their small campfire, not focusing on how they dance around the nearly-charred meat his companion is supposedly tending to. His mind is whirling with thoughts of the fight, but for once it is not in search of lyrics and rhymes for a song. He swallows down the lump building in his throat as he imagines Geralt dodging the beast without his weapon. What if that vicious tail had moved faster? What if Jaskier had stayed out of sight by Roach as Geralt had yelled at him to do?

Witchers live hard lives; Jaskier knows this first-hand having shared a life with one for nearly a decade now along their travels. He recalls asking Geralt about how long witchers live. Until they slow and get killed , he replied with no malice in his tone. Instead he sounded resigned like there was no other option in life than to be taken down by the very things he hunts. One day, Jaskier might have to live without him. 

“I would have thought you’d already have several verses about defeating that beast by now,” Geralt comments as he stokes the fire. 

Jaskier shakes himself from his spiraling thoughts and grins at the witcher.

“Are you worried about me? Oh, Geralt, you shouldn’t have! Not to worry, I’ll have a song about my courage and your skill within the fortnight.”

Geralt looks up at him, scowling. He glances down towards Jaskier’s lap where his hands are resting, palms upward to avoid the sting of the silken fabric against the irritating nettles that he hasn’t been able to rub free from his skin.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. If it weren’t for me we’d travel in utter silence.”

He doesn’t dain Jaskier with a response. Instead, he stands, walks around the fire, and sits down next to Jaskier without another word. Before he can ask what he’s doing, Geralt grips his wrist, bringing his palm into the light cast by the fire.

“I am fine!” Jaskier yelps, trying to tug his hand back. “I fell, landing in a patch of nettles. Nothing to worry yourself over.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt levels him with a look before standing, as if to keep him in place. 

“Honestly, where does the man think I’ll run off to?” Jaskier mutters to himself knowing full well that Geralt can still hear him.  

He watches unabashedly as the muscles under Geralt’s shirt shift and ripple as he digs through Roach’s saddle bags for something. Jaskier blinks himself away from the startings of a daydream when Geralt settles back beside him with a pouch he’s only seen Geralt use a few times--where he keeps the medical supplies meant to work on humans... meant to work on him . 

Knowing Geralt uses what little space he has with his nomadic life to provide something Jaskier needs makes him feel stifled as if he were sitting too closely to the campfire’s flames, but in the same vein, his heart aches. Geralt sees him as a helpless human doomed to simple injuries and a mortal life. He should explain.

They’ve known each other for years and through out them Jaskier has seen Geralt’s softer side: his compassion each time he refuses payment from a family knowing that if he were to keep it they’d go hungry or his understanding when listening to the very monster he has been paid to slay and find a solution away from killing. Jaskier knows deep within the well of himself Geralt would never harm him--monster or not--but he can’t bring himself to part his lips and tell him the truth. 

Geralt grips Jaskier as he did before with a far more tender touch this go round. He tries to stay steady as Geralt applies a salve and begins wrapping his hand. The years-worn calluses on Geralt’s finger pads catch lightly against the soft skin of Jaskier’s wrist, taking the man’s breath with it. Geralt’s amber eyes flit up to meet Jaskier’s stare. Jaskier manages to finally open his mouth--

“We should get some rest. The road will be long tomorrow,” Geralt speaks up before Jaskier can form a syllable.

Chapter Text

From the legendary first few hoards found by humans full of gold and gems and trinkets, they thought all dragon hoards must look the same--these shining piles taller than most houses made solely of material wealth. And for some, they would be right. 

Dragons seek out things , but what those are depends on the dragon themselves. Such as a fisherman may come to covet his best lures and casting methods, a dragon near the sea may come to collect shells on the shore. Those up in the mountains may become close with the dwarves mining there, and come to appreciate the glinting metals and stones they pull from its core. 

Or perhaps the dragon comes from a strict lineage focused on preserving the draconic ways and as a result yearns to know more about the humans he’s told time and time again to stay far from. Maybe he wants to learn of their ways, their culture...and even learn how to make the music he’s heard them singing along the road. 

A hoard can be anything whether it be shining gold pieces or a collection of self-composed songs. 

As a youngling, far before he would be known as Jaskier, he tries creating a hoard for himself. It’s common for hatchlings and so forth to try out different collections to find something that stoked the fire in their souls via trial and error. Many find that what their parents hoarded also works for them as well(making it much easier to get started on their own little treasure piles). Jaskier tries these methods too, of course. 

He swipes a glittering jeweled necklace from a visiting nobel during a day when his parents make him accompany them to court. While it is a beautiful piece, it just simply felt like nice jewelry. He tucks it away in his room far from where a servant or his parents will think to look, but thinks little of it. For an incredibly brief period, he dips his wings into what his parents’ hoards consisted of: power. Every order given feels like ash in his mouth; each snub carefully construed to put himself in the best light makes him itch as if his scales were riddled with mites. 

The Pankratz don’t keep their thoughts of their son’s failures to find his hoard quiet. Whenever out of earshot from any of the human servants or members of the court, they ponder what use a son would be if he couldn’t make up his mind and build his first collection. 

What point is a dragon with so little ego and self worth they don’t even bother hoarding?

Jaskier makes a good show of pretending not to hear them. He knows finding the right object of his desire takes time. Some dragons take decades to figure out what calls to them. Logically, he is fully aware this is completely normal...but that doesn’t stop the pain in his chest whenever he catches the whispers of how disappointing he is. It doesn’t assuage the guilt when all the other hatchlings and younglings in Lettenhove have found their desires and collect them proudly. 

Oxenfurt gives Jaskier more than he could ever repay; not only does give him a doorway to enter human society on his own terms away from the title his family name offered, but it teaches him the beauty of the arts and brought about the first treasures in his hoard: his songs and poetry. The university gives him, for the first time in his life, kindling for the fire of his soul. 

The first time he’s recognized in a city and someone asks after one of his very own songs, Jaskier’s eyes begin to water. Every rendition of Toss a Coin makes Jaskier’s chest puff out with pride. Tavern patrons raucously singing along, each request, the knowing eye roll from Geralt with the first opening strum builds up the song as something precious, popular, and coveted. And in turn, raising the value of Jaskier’s carefully curated hoard. 

He preens under all the attention and recognition. Geralt calls him prideful on more than one occasion, but he can never bring himself to feel any sort of shame for it. After all, what dragon isn’t a little prideful of their hoard?

Playing in a tavern is never the same thing twice. Sometimes he (and Geralt) are chased out of town; others they leave with their coin purses full and bodies well-rested for the first time in a long while. The coin doesn’t matter so much to Jaskier--alright, maybe the coin does matter a bit seeing as it’s paying for their room and the bath that will be waiting after his performance--it’s about the crowd. When he strums the first chord of a song and he can see the recognition and excitement in the eyes trained on him and his lute fills him with satisfaction and warmth. It’s nights like these that he forgets all about the whispers from his family, the pain of carving out a life for himself, and the loneliness that creeps in on him during dark nights knowing that Geralt is here with him, but closed off from him not it all the ways that matter, but the ways that make his chest ache. 

Jaskier’s performance tonight takes more out of him than he expects. Perhaps that’s because the past week only gave meals of watery stew and dry rabbit out on the road on top of rocky ground to sleep on. He collapses into the seat across from Geralt as dramatically as he can manage with how his body aches. He throws a hand up against his forehead and sighs. 

“My dear witcher, I think I’ve finally done myself in with that one. Any lesser man, Valdo Marx ,” he coughs, “would have fainted attempting such a lively performance.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunts over the rim of his ale. 

He downs the rest of his drink and stands. Jaskier is following him around the bar and up the stairs to their room before his brain even processes what he’s doing. Geralt unlocks their door and steps inside, striding over to the bath which is filled nearly to the brim with steaming water. His hunt earlier didn’t leave him too disgusting, especially compared to how he usually returns, but even Jaskier can smell the creature on him from the doorway. 

“Why did you bother with staying downstairs when this was waiting? I know you’re used to living as an actual wolf, but we both know that nose of yours is more nuisance than anything. If I were you, I’d have been soaking in all that glory instead of sitting in what must have been a very loud room for you.”

As Jaskier rambles on, Geralt methodically pulls the leather straps of his armor, releasing himself from it. The clang of the metals against the floor as he sets it down jolts him away from his trailing thoughts. He goes to the bottles his laid out atop the bureau and picks out a faint lavender oil that hasn’t upset Geralt’s heightened senses thus far. Geralt strips down further as Jaskier prepares the bath properly with the oil and some salts. For good measure, he sprinkles in some dried flower petals. When he’s happy with his work he looks up to find Geralt standing naked in front of him with an eyebrow raised and his head cocked to the side, as if asking what the hell he was doing. 

“Just making your bath worthwhile, Geralt. No need to put on such a sourpuss about it. You are allowed to indulge in the niceties of life every once in a while, my friend.”

Geralt glares at him, stepping into the scented water without pause. Jaskier busies himself with locating his soaps and hair oil as to keep his eyes far from tracing the lines of Geralt’s form slipping under the water’s surface. When he turns back, the witcher’s head is under the water, wetting his hair. When he surfaces, the motion flings water directly onto Jaskier’s pants. He gaps at him. 

“You did that on purpose! And to think I was going to help you with your hair using the good oil we found in Vizima. You’re useless on your own with it. I don’t know why you keep it so long when you refuse to give it the care it deserves.”

“Jaskier, get in.”

“What?”

“I said, get in. No point wasting the heat while it lasts.”

Geralt snatches the soap out of Jaskier’s limp hand and motions for him to undress. His fingers fumble for a moment against the clasps on his doublet. His eyes finally fall away from Geralt to see what he’s doing, but Jaskier still feels his gaze on him. They’ve seen each other naked countless times. This shouldn’t feel so...exposing. Jaskier gets himself down to his smallclothes without too much trouble. He looks back at his companion and gulps. Sure enough, Geralt’s amber eyes are still trained on him, waiting. When did he become so modest, Jaskier thinks to himself. He’s never like this--even with lovers. He quickly sheds the rest of his clothes and steps into the water, being sure to avoid brushing against the witcher. Geralt presses the soap back into his hand when he’s settled and turns his back to him.

This he can do, Jaskier thinks to himself. He reaches for a cloth hanging over the bath’s rim and rubs the soap into it before swiping it over the broad shoulders in front of him. His eyes trace the pale white scars emerging from under the grim he’s cleaning away. Jaskier wants to break the silence hanging in the air, but all he can come to think of are Geralt’s muscles shifting under his touch and that certainly won’t do for small talk. He begins to hum a composition he’s working on. His throat is a bit sore from his performance, but the gentle, light notes don’t cause him discomfort. 

They continue their bath with Jaskier scrubbing Geralt’s back and arms before handing over the cloth so Geralt can get his front while he tries to work out the knots around the tie in his hair. He can’t wash it properly if half of his hair is up. 

“Why did you wish for Valdo Marx to die?”

Jaskier stops his ministrations and knits his eyebrows together for a brief moment at his travelling companion. 

“Which time?”

Geralt huffs at him. “With the djinn.”

“Oh! Why’s that on your mind? That was ages ago. And he stole from me. One of the first songs I composed at Oxenfurt, he played as his own and refuses to acknowledge what he did. He should be glad all I wish for is his head instead of a worse fate,” Jaskier rambles out, going back to working the knots out of Geralt’s hair. Really, he should be glad I don’t roast him in my dragonfire.

“All that ire over a song? Didn’t think you that sort of man, Jaskier.”

“What sort of man? One that protects what’s his: his livelihood and identity? Geralt, I’m a bard. All I have in this life aside from your lovely company are my creative endeavors. How would you react to another witcher claiming the reward for a contract you completed? No, that’s not strong enough--”

He’s cut off by a sound he rarely has the joy of hearing: Geralt’s laugh. He peeks over his shoulder at Jaskier. The corners of his eyes are crinkling into laugh lines and his mouth pulling wide into a bright grin. The sight steals the breath from Jaskier’s lungs. He pulls more in and huffs out his own chuckle. 

“You are quite the character, Jaskier. No man could call you dull.”

Jaskier’s chest flutters at his praise and attention. He can feel the heat in his center coming forth to leave a soft blush across his cheeks.

Chapter Text

Humans believe the stay away from each other is often perpetuated by one dragon staying behind when they are cornered to ensure the survival of the others, as a mother would distract a bear as her children ran for safety. 

Dragons are social creatures with complicated relationships spanning centuries and cultures that differentiate between the variations throughout the species. Even the green dragons, often known for being distant, make bonds, keep friends, and are connected with the world. 

The traveling pair walk into the apothecary nearly side by side (knocking a pestle off of a shelf in the process), gaining the attention of the shop owner they were searching for. Jaskier scrambles to pick it up and put it back on the shelf while offering the woman a soft smile. It catches on his lips when he takes her in fully. She isn’t just some small village apothecarist. Before him is another dragon. She looks him over fully with a smirk on her lips and lifts an eyebrow at him.

Geralt nudges him  roughly shaking him from his frozen stance clutching the pestle to his chest. He tosses the item at Geralt and gives the woman a quick bow. 

“My dear lady, excuse my companion. This is Geralt of Rivia and I am Jaskier. We hear you have a contract for a witcher.”

Geralt glowers at him, placing the pestle back in the mortar it fell from. He’s the one to procure contracts, not Jaskier. He probably thinks the bard’s mind isn’t as involved in his actions as his lower brain is. For once, Jaskier’s glad his companion usually underestimates him and his intentions. While the woman is beautiful, he’s more focused on ensuring she doesn’t share too much of her knowledge with his beloved witcher. 

She rolls her eyes at him and Geralt lets a smirk play against his lips, unable to stifle his amusement at Jaskier making a fool of himself trying to bed the young woman. 

“Yes, I’m Kirah and I’m seeking a witcher, not a bard .” Jaskier bristles and crosses his arms over his chest. “There’s a horned creature that ruined a farm just outside of town--you probably passed it on the way here. When the crops disappeared the beast went for the family. The two that lived didn’t last long after the attack. Too much blood lost.”

Geralt listens as she describes what she knows of the creature from its twisting horns, its size, down to its charge. Jaskier fiddles with a few vials on the shelves lining the small shop’s walls during the description until Geralt grasps his wrist before he could truly break something. So he’s a little antsy, could anyone blame him?

“Sounds like a chort. I’ll go inspect the farmstead, but I need half payment upfront.”

“What’s fair is fair,” she says, pulling a coin purse from one of the cabinets and tossing it to the witcher. “Good luck.”

“Yes, Geralt, please be careful. I’ll procure us a room while you’re...witchering.”

As soon as he’s sure Geralt is at least a few paces from the building, Jaskier turns back to the woman and flashes his true, slitted eyes in a sign of respect. She does him the same courtesy. 

“Not often our kind come through these parts, fire scale.” Jaskier bristles. He hasn’t flashed his scales in nearly a year. There’s no way for her to know he’s a red dragon. 

“What can I say, I’m known for exceeding all sorts of expectations. And what’s a dragon like you doing in a place like this? Surely your clan didn’t settle here.”

“That makes two of us, Julek ,” Kirah says with a pointed smile. 

“Ah, so you’ve heard of me then.” He’s mentally trying to find a way to backflip out of this conversation and towards the tavern down the road a bit. Ahead of him all he sees is hazards. 

“You aren’t the only youngling on the continent to find your own way...but you might be the one with the most gossip, especially with the company you keep. I’ll hazard a guess and say you haven’t told him what you are.”

He ignores her comment. There’s no use getting into his reasoning and the last thing he wants to do is upset her and have Geralt’s contract go up in smoke, as it were. 

“I’m sure you could take care of the chort yourself. Why waste the coin hiring a witcher to get the job done?” Jaskier asks. 

The other dragon smiles at him before ducking her head with a small shake of it. “And how would I explain that to the people here? Oh, don’t worry! I took on the beast myself and killed it within minutes. Do have some sense, bard.”

Jaskier tilts his head in agreement. He tries to imagine a young woman as slender as her trying to convince the burly townsfolk that she handled the creature that took the lives of nearly a half dozen of them. When his eyes meet hers again, his stomach sinks. From the fire in her eyes, she misunderstood his lingering gaze.

“Well, I should leave you to your work. I’m sure Geralt will find you when the task is completed,” Jaskier says, taking a step towards the door.

“And what if I wish to see you, not the witcher?” 

“Perhaps I’ll perform tonight at the tavern. Good day, Kirah.” 

Before she has any more opportunity to keep him, Jaskier turns on his heel and bursts out of the door back out into the bright light of the hot summer day. He grips the strap of his lute case a little too tightly. What’s got him so worked up? He’s had plenty of meaningless afternoon delights in his time. What would be one more?

He tries to convince himself that it would be different with another dragon--someone who would truly know what he is. Beside the risk of offspring in copulating with his own kind. He is in no position to become a father, thank you very much, no matter all the jabs Geralt has made about all the hypothetical bastards he’s left in his wake of jumping from bedroom windows at the break of day. 

But even as he formulates all his reasons, one is sitting in the back of his mind, weighing him down. He knows why he didn’t meet Kirah’s hot gaze and smile in kind. Wisping memories of soft touches and amber eyes and soft hair slipping between his fingers plague him as he makes his way towards the promise of a nice cool ale to uncloud his mind.

Gerlat returns from his successful hunt with a full purse and his skin freshly cleaned from the cool stream he came across on his way back to the village. The barkeep points him to the room Jaskier procured for the two of them. He nods at the man.

Opening the door, he’s greeted by a familiar sight: Jaskier spread out of the bed with his papers surrounding him, hair ruffled presumably from running his hands through it, and a bit of charcoal smudged on his cheek. He’s writing something furiously on one of the pages, only looking up at the sound of the door shutting behind Geralt. He can smell the ale on him--not the same stench that seeps out of a man's pours the morning after a night of terrible decisions, more the kind of a bit of day drinking gone on a little too long. 

“Oh, hello. I guess the chort is sorted then?”

“Hmm,” Geralt responds. He waits for Jaskier’s bombardment of questions about the creature, the hunt, the heroics of it all (not that Geralt thought there were any), but they don’t come. Jaskier is already staring at the parchment again. He opens his mouth to ask...something. The words fight in his throat leaving him speechless for a moment. 

He tries to recall the last time Jaskier was this focused on anything. Even in the most dire of situations, the bard always had split attentions whether it be complaining or attempting to insult their attackers to death. Even in the quiet of a room rented together while Geralt polishes his armor, Jaskier is usually strumming while he talks or tending to his oil or something...more.

“Preparing for a performance?” Geralt hazards a guess, trying to just break the heavy air in the room. 

Jaskier huffs and rubs at his eyes, smearing more charcoal against his skin. “Not quite, my dear witcher. Don’t think I’ll be performing tonight.”

When Jaskier pulls his hands away from his face, He startles. Geralt is standing beside the bed glaring at him. Before he can ask what the man wants, Geralt reaches out and rubs his cheek with his thumb. Jaskier’s mouth drops open with a soft pop. 

“For a man so concerned about his appearance, I thought you’d be more concerned about the charcoal,” Geralt says simply, but his hand doesn’t move away. 

Jaskier blinks up at him and swallows. Fuck, he’s pretty , is all that’s running through his mind. Maybe the ale is affecting him more than he thought...

“Why don’t we get you cleaned up and you can tell me why this town doesn’t deserve your, what was it, ‘Honed and meticulously curated skill?’”

Jaskier pouts up at him with a huff. “People rarely deserve my high caliber of craft, Geralt. You really should be more appreciative! Honestly, you get to bask in my abilities every single day!”

Geralt offers him a sly smile and shakes his head.

Chapter Text

Children hear stories of dragons of shining gold that can shift their shape into any creature they so please--whether it be animal or human. These shapeshifters use their abilities to best man, steal from lords and get revenge for those the humans have hunted. 

They aren’t entirely wrong; golden dragons can shapeshift, but so can many others. Red and silver can all shape shift into human forms. Other draconic species can shapeshift into other creatures such as blue dragons into mermaids. Golden dragons are the only ones to shift into any living creature they desire, which is why they are believed by so many to be non-existent. When you can shift into anything, it’s easy to not be seen. 

Jaskier’s first instinct is to roast the would-be thieves where they stand. He bites it down and tries to use his words instead (he’s known for being a wordsmith, so it should work just fine right?). Somehow, the two refuse to heed his word. Jaskier hopes for Geralt to pop his head out of the cave and stop this nonsense. The last thing he would ever expect or think to wish for is the elder of the golden dragons, Villentretenmerth, and two Zerrikanian warriors by his side to come to his “rescue.”

The women snap the neck of one of the men before Jaskier can comprehend what is happening (and ponder how ridiculously complicated his life has become). 

Geralt comes out of the cave and raises an eyebrow at the scene before him. 

Jaskier passes the time during the walk back to the town trying to woo Téa and Véa. To his disappointment, they either don’t realize he’s a dragon or don’t care that he is. He can’t well blame them when they’re the right and left hands of the greatest dragon on the Continent. It doesn’t stop him from trying, though. 

At the tavern, Villentretenmerth or Borch , as he calls himself, explains their quest for a dragon. Jaskier reeks of pride when Geralt confirms his word that he wouldn’t kill any dragons--that it’s against his code. Jaskier has known of this for ages, of course, but that doesn’t quell the swelling feeling in his chest at his confirmation. The blossoming in his heart dies when the tavern door swings open, bringing with it none other than Yennefer herself. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier hisses under his breath.

“Villen, what are you playing here?” Jaskier asks Borch when they get a moment alone as the teams ready themselves at the base of the mountain.

“You’re one of the younglings from Lettenhove. I heard the tale of your plans. Can’t say anyone mentioned a witcher during my last visit,” he says instead of answering the question. “I wonder, have you told your companion of your lineage?”

Jaskier bristles. He may not be centuries old, but he is no youngling! As the words sink further in, he tightens his jaw and looks over to Geralt as he wishes Roach farewell for now, as the path up the mountainside is too treacherous for her. 

“You’re the one that enlisted our help. I don’t need to explain myself to you,” Jaskier says with a tight smile. The Zerrikanian warriors watch his demeanor with care from a few paces away. While they may be travelling with Villentretenmerth, that doesn’t mean they’ll accept his true self. 

Borch offers him a plaintive smile. “Pankratz, you owe yourself, not me. You know the character of your witcher, yet you lie to him. The truth is better from your mouth than from circumstance.”

Jaskier flinches at his family name. He doesn’t answer. Instead he stalks off to Geralt, letting the elder get away with avoiding the original purpose of the conversation. He’ll find out soon enough. He just hopes to avoid problems in the meantime. 

Jaskier wakes on the mountainside with his lute beside him and no one in sight. Swallowing down the lump in his throat at being left behind, he scrambles to the path towards the summit. He rushes past the dwarves and stops at the mouth of the cave, finally seeing why Borch brought them here: a single dragon egg. He averts his eyes from the fallen green dragon, presumably the mother. 

His search for Geralt and the story of whatever happened to the Reavers (most likely Geralt himself) leaves his mind the moment he steps into the cave. 

He can feel the presence of the dragon inside the egg--her mind curiously pressing against his. She must be near hatching, then, Jaskier muses to himself. He nudges her mind back and smiles blindingly at her excitement. He steps forward to sit beside the egg to share some of his warmth, but a blade meets his throat. 

Véa is at the other end of the weapon, ready to kill him if he dare harm the egg. He resists letting out a scoff.

“She’s cold. I’m trying to help,” he explains in a soft voice. Véa scrutinizes him, not trusting his words. In a flash of annoyance, Jaskier lets out a huff with a little too much effort behind it. Steam comes out of his nose in two thick streams. Véa’s mouth opens for a moment, closes, and then she finally pulls back her weapon, letting him pass. 

He settles himself close enough to the nest to breathe some warmth into it without disturbing the egg. He relishes in her blissful response to the heat as a man does to feeling the kick in his sister’s belly for the first time, knowing he’ll be an uncle. He has no direct relation to Villentretenmerth or his offspring, but dragons don’t often abide by the limitations humans place on kin. She will be a part of him, just for existing, as all his cousins still in Lettenhove are (no matter how much he can’t stand them). 

“Would you come play at her naming, bard?” Villen asks. 

“It would be an honor,” Jaskier stands, replying with a small bow garnished with a wink. “She’s, what, a month from hatching?”

Borch nods with a proud smile on his face. “We’ll remain here with her as she grows, until she’s ready to come to Zerrikania. You’re welcome to join us, if you so wish.”

“That would be the best area for her, I suppose. And while I appreciate the offer, I have other places to be. What would a bard be without his muse, eh?”

The elder dragon clasps a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder with a sad smile, bidding him farewell. 

Back out in the fresh air, Jaskier takes a moment to see the vast valleys and hills below them and imagines spreading his wings and diving down to meet them. Can’t remember the last time I took his true form , he muses to himself as he walks towards Yennefer and Geralt near the cliff’s edge. 

Jaskier knew before this trip even began that it would end poorly, he just hadn’t realized it would be earth-shattering. His entire worldview tumbles down the mountain as Geralt’s venomous words sink into his person. 

In the near-decades Jaskier’s known the witcher and called him friend, he’s never been so poorly treated. Well, apparently he shouldn’t have ever called him friend. According to Geralt, all Jaskier’s ever been is a burdensome deliverer of poor fates. He feels the heat within him build into a roar, but he bites himself back. He can’t break down here. He can’t let Geralt see just how much he means to him. 

With a throwaway comment, Jaskier turns away from his one, constant companion. The man that makes up the wealth of his musical hoard has torn him asunder, not caring where the pieces lie. Against all better judgement, Jaskier leans into the raging fire within himself. Lets it come closer and closer to the surface until it’s all consuming. 

He looks down expecting his blood-red scales to glint back at him, but instead his hide is shining as gold as the coin he sings for. He spins in place to get a better look at his body. 

“Do you know where golden dragons come from?” He feels Villen speak against his mind. Jaskier bites back the panic to listen. “We are formed, not by sought-out mutations, but by finding true peace in the wealth we’ve collected. Not a hoard of trinkets, but a collection of creations and experience worth far more than worldly treasures.”

Jaskier sputters. He’s a red dragon. His whole family is made of red dragons. He--he can’t be some legendary thing! He’s just a simple bard--

His wings stretch forth as if by their own will. They ache from disuse, but not enough to deter him. His whole world is crumbling around his feet and all he wants is to be free from it, far from here either rocketing up into the clouds or swooping down to caress the craggy path back down towards the town. 

A gasp pulls him from the crushing thoughts. Back by the cave stands Yennefer with Villen beside her. 

Great , he grumbles out in his mind. Yennefer’s eyes widen at him. He’s forgotten that sorceresses possess talents with mind reading and communication. The jolt from his thoughts reminds him that a dragon can’t be seen flying in these parts for the sake of the egg. He steps towards her, shifting back into his human form.

“Best keep your mouth shut, witch,” he says plainly and stomps past her back down the path towards their camp. 

If Geralt didn’t want him, he wouldn’t burden him any further. He’ll just collect his things and head back down the treacherous mountain on his own. Afterall, he isn’t just a simple bard. He’s a fucking golden dragon and can handle himself...just ignore the tears lining his cheeks.

Chapter Text

Since leaving that dreadful mountain three months and sixteen days ago (not that he’s been counting), Jaskier’s been letting himself shift forms far more often. If he gets too cold, there’s no one there to make him think twice about finding a secluded spot and shifting so his hide can take the brunt of the weather and his eternal flame can keep him warm. It’s proven quite helpful as the leaves start to turn on the trees as autumn falls over the forests. And surprisingly, soaring through the air in the misty mornings when anyone would be hard pressed to spot him does wonders to bring new lyrics to the forefront of his mind--pieces about heartache and tunes of sorrow. 

He hasn’t been up for his more jaunty songs since before that damned trip. If he needs the coin, he can still rile up a crowd to fill his purse with songs of the man he’s trying to forget (because it hurts far too much to remember). After all, his songs are his everything. 

He’s left his family, taken on the life of a simple human bard with limited earthly possessions, and instead built up a hoard greater than any he’s witnessed in all his years, which still aren’t many in the grand scheme of things. No matter the contents of his poems and songs and tales, Jaskier will always cherish them. He’d never let anything take them from him, painful memories or not. 

In his months alone on the road walking from town to town, Jaskier has been avoiding something. Well, multiple somethings--a plethora of somethings really, but that’s not the point. What he’s been running from faster than he’s been running from a certain witcher is being a fucking golden dragon. While he does spread his wings and curl up at night with his scales tasting the brisk night air, he tries not to look at himself while he does it. If he ignores the new glint to his scales he can pretend that everything is the same. He’s just a red dragon run away from his clan parading as a human bard. Nothing suspicious or odd about it. 

He surely doesn’t let his mind wander, thinking about what it would be like to shift into something other than a human or even if his transformation includes the abilities he’s seen Villentretenmerth display like when he was a youngling at court when in one brisk step the dragon shifted from man to mouse, causing him and all he cousins to giggle with glee. He certainly hasn’t daydreamed about shifting into a singing bird and spending a while sitting on a branch chirping to himself, away from all the pressing shadows on the edge of his mind. 

Jaskier stretches himself out along the clearing, turning over and shifting into his bard-shaped form. He has never put much thought into the magic behind his transformations. As easily as breathing, his pale, human skin settles into place over his form with the doublet he was wearing before perfectly in place--unaffected by the wrinkles he usually expects when sleeping in his nice clothes (not that he has any unrefined clothing to speak of, thank you very much). 

He should reach the next town by this afternoon and finally have another opportunity to earn some coin. Maybe he’ll debut his newest song; that would be sure to earn him some extra gold be it from pity or awe, he cares not. Gold is gold. He is a dragon, after all. His meager belongings may be conducive to traveling unimpeded, but when has that sort of through ever dissuaded him from his lavish proclivities?Perhaps he’ll acquire a purse for herbs after his next performance. There’s just no replacing properly seasoned meat--in human form or otherwise, in Jaskier’s experience. 

He begins to clear his campsite and collect his things when something changes in the air. The wind seems to still and crackle around him so slightly he nearly misses it. He’s felt this shift before. His eyes widen, spinning in place trying to predict where the portal will appear. Not ten feet from the woods’ edge, the swirl in space expands until it’s large enough for someone to step out of. Someone he was dearly hoping he’d never run into again.

Yennefer of Vengerberg steps out of the portal with the same air as if she were taking a morning stroll down the lane towards the market. It snaps shut behind her with a twitch of her palm, causing some leaves on the branches above her to loose from their perches and flutter down to the ground. She spots him immediately and doesn’t bother keeping the loathing undercurrent out of her striking gaze.

“What the hell do you want?” Jaskier blurts out. 

Yennefer looks from him to the impression in the lightly frosted grass clearly outlining where Jaskier slept last night in his true form. She flicks her harsh eyes back to him with a bored look. 

“Geralt must be an awful witcher if you’ve been this obvious and he never suspected your fiery heritage.”

“As you certainly know, he’s nowhere near here. And I don’t need to explain myself to you. Hell, I don’t even have to talk to you! So, if you’ll excuse me, I really must be on my way.” He gives her a patronizing bow and begins stuffing his meager belongings into his satchel. 

“Keeping your secret from him is going to cost you, bard.”

“You do realize that I can kill you, right?” He rounds back on her. “As easily as breathing, I could have this whole clearing up in flames.”

Yennfer scoffs and examines her nails. “I’m not here to listen to your pointless posturing. We both know I could end you, but alas that would involve effort you aren’t worth. No, you’re much more valuable to me in one piece for the time being.”

Jaskier fights away a shudder at the prospect of what use he could be for her. He drops the bag and crosses his arms, waiting for her to elaborate. Her stare withers him down until he gives in, asking the question, “what do you want from me to keep your silence, witch?”

“So glad you asked. I need you to release a prisoner. Get him out of the city walls and my lips are sealed.”

He rubs his hands across his face, revealing in the pressure against his still sleep heavy eyelids. “Surely you can just portal into the cell and whisk the prisoner away. What’s the catch?”

Yennefer raises an eyebrow at him, almost in surprise at his admittance of her power. “It’s in Cintra. Mousesack keeps a tight lid on the city walls and the keep. Magic isn’t a solution to this task. Well, not chaos magic. Draconic magic is never considered when creating wards.”

“Cintra? Draconic magic? Do you even know what you’re talking about? I doubt you even laid eyes on a dragon before you met myself and Borch Three Jackdaws,” Jaskier scoffs at her. “Besides, it’s not as if I can do much besides shift from dragon to human and breathe some fire and I don’t doubt that Queen Calanthe would love to see my head on a pike after what happened on her wedding night.”

“I’m not even going to ask about the wedding night. I don’t want or care to know about your sexual endeavors,” Jaskier splutters at her, but she continues, “And that’s not what Borch and the legends say. Golden dragons can shapeshift into all manner of creatures.”

“The Queen and I--”

“Not the point, bard!”

“I didn’t even know I was a golden dragon until that damned mountain! You think I can just stride from one form to another out of the blue? Do you realize how long it took me to get my human form down? I’ll tell you, my mother’s excuses at court for keeping me from the public eye as an infant grew more ridiculous as each day passed.”

Yennefer sets her jaw in annoyance and strides up to him. He stumbles back a little, sticking his foot into the ashes of his fire. That’s going to be horrible to scrub out of the leather of his boots. He supposes he could use a new pair, anyhow…

“Nilfgaard is marching on Cintra and will be there within the week. There’s no time for your squawking and excuses.” 

She spins on her heel and throws her hands up. After motioning with them, a portal swirls open a few paces away. She nods at Jaskier. He doesn’t want to step through that wretched thing. He doesn’t want to help Yennefer of all people, especially not now. Yet he bends down to pick up his lute case and satchel. 

“How exactly am I supposed to explain to this prisoner that the cat in front of him holding the cell keys is actually a person, so please follow me to the exit? “

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Not my problem. You have a task. As much as it pains me to admit it, you have the ability. So why are you stalling?”

“Now you’re just poking fun. I haven’t even managed to shift into anything else and you’re just planning on throwing me at the city with a wave? Are you trying to get me killed?”

She looks at him in the mirror, pulling her focus away from painting her lips with a gaudy shade Jaskier refuses to admit she can pull off. 

“Instead of all this fretting, why don’t you use your time wisely and practice changing forms?”

“I-I can’t just shift . Not while you’re sitting there, watching me, probably coming up with a list of my weaknesses so if I do manage to save whoever the hell this is--you know, telling me who I’m looking for would help, but no you just have to maintain your air of secrecy--you can turn on me and harvest my organ for a beauty cream!” Jaskier’s heaving in breaths from the force of his outburst. For nearly a second he feels bad about the other patrons of the inn probably trying to sleep right now until he remembers Yennefer warding the room for sound. Can’t have anyone warning the guards with your big mouth blathering on about breaking into the dungeons . 

Yennefer forces out a sigh and stands. “Fine. I’ll go find you some less noticeable clothes and you learn how to transform. I’ll be back within the hour.”

“What’s wrong with this?” he asks, gesturing to his ornate doublet and matching trousers. She rolls her eyes at him before leaving. He looks down at himself. Okay, maybe baby blue isn’t the stealthiest of colors. Nothing he has suits hiding. Jaskier has always been out in the forefront gaining attention of all kinds--both positive and insidious. The dark brooding one was always...well, that doesn’t matter too much now, does it?

Without his permission, his mind’s eye focuses on dark, weathered shirts and slitted yellow eyes. He closes his eyes imaging those amber ones staring back at him, into him. With a heavy pull in his gut, he’s on all fours, far closer to the floor than he’s used to in such a position. He opens his eyes and yelps. Well, he tried to yelp but all that comes forth is a yowl. 

Jaskier looks down at his feet. Okay, maybe he was overreacting about the whole shifting thing. He leaps up onto the dresser and settles himself in front of Yennefer’s mirror. Staring back at him are his bright blue eyes now slitted and surrounded by black fur. Internally, he smiles wide with pride. He may stumble his way through life, but so far he’s mostly stumbled into success. Ha! If Geralt could see me now…

Cintra has changed in the last decade, and yet has stayed nearly the same. Some shops have received facelifts while others have changed hands or fallen into disrepair. There is still the musty bustle of too many people in close quarters as he makes his way through the lower city. 

Jaskier sneezes when the wind changes and he catches a whiff of the strong perfume Yennefer had insisted on spraying him with. “ If you smell like me, he’ll know I sent you. Now, close your eyes unless you wish to be blind as well as dumb.”  

He would never tell her, but the sorceress had been right about the clothing. His newly acquired drab outfit consisting of an ill-fitting grey top over his chemise and dark trousers aren’t catching the attention of any of the people he is passing by. He knows he should be glad to be ignored, especially while he’s trying to sneak about, but staying at the sidelines and out of sight is so far from his nature. He’ll be fine with one day of sticking to the shadows, he knows. He knows he’s being dramatic, too. 

When he nears the Keep, Jaskier walks with purpose into an alcove near a guard tower. He thinks back to the room of the inn, seeing himself in the mirror with black fur and cat eyes. The change doesn’t come as easily this time around. His thoughts buzz through his mind telling him how all of this is going to go wrong and he’ll be trapped and chained as some sort of sick pet for Calanthe. A golden dragon leashed. 

He blows out an unsteady breath. “Come on, Jask. It’s one task and you’re free from her and this madness. Just, do it already,” he berates himself. He closes his eyes again and thinks instead of what he did the first time: amber cat eyes, silvery hair, and everything he’s been faithfully ignoring all these months. He thinks of the witcher he once thought of as his. Within the minute, he is on all fours with his paw pads bare against the cool, stone ground.

Jaskier passes by another empty cell, wondering if Yennefer sent him on a wild goose chase. There aren’t even any guards this far into the dungeon. His teeth are aching from holding the heavy metal of the ring of keys, he smells like a whorehouse, and he’s hungry. Whatever person he’s been set out to free had better damn well be appreciative of his efforts. Hell, after all this Yennefer owes him! He’s not built for spy work; he’s a damn dragon for Melitele’s sake!

The sight he finds in the next cell freezes him in place, ears back and eyes wide. Forget Yennefer owing him--he’s going to kill her. In the center of the cell, none other than Geralt of Rivia the fucking White Wolf in kneeling in meditation. He’s stripped of his weapons and armor leaving him in his simple and worn black undershirt Jaskier remembers watching him patch over and over again instead of just buying a new garment. 

Geralt’s eyes flick open and connect with him immediately. His brow furrows. Jaskier watches as he takes a whiff of the air and cocks his head at him. Alright, Yennefer’s idea wasn’t a complete waste of time…perhaps it’s covering my own scent , Jaskier hopes. 

Jaskier creeps forward keeping his belly close to the ground until his whiskers are brushing the bars of the cell door and drops the heavy keys onto the earthen floor with as little noise as he can manage with the lacking dexterity in this form. 

Why didn't he press that blasted witch more about just who it was she was sending him after? Jaskier curses himself. Before him is the one person he's been trying to distance himself from--as per the witcher's wish. He shouldn't be here. Geralt wants him out of his life entirely. Jaskier's heart sinks in his chest with a familiar and resounding thud. One grace of this form is that he can't burst into tears as he so wishes he could. 

He's been travelling on his own dealing with the sudden shift in his identity going from a red dragon to a bloody golden one on top of his very best friend and--and, well he best not go there. Point is, he has enough on his goddamn plate right now between his mutation and being shunned by the one person that meant anything to him. Forgive him for being a little emotional being shoved right back into the Path and all the witcher bullshit it involves against his will and without his knowledge. Gods, he really does want to kill Yennefer. 

Geralt leans forward, snatching the keys from the ground and stands in a swift movement that Jaskier thought would have been impossible from how long he must have been kneeling there meditating. He knows his own knees would protest profusely, but of course, he's not a witcher. 

He stumbles backwards into the stone wall of the corridor when Geralt pushes open the cell door. He glances down both ends of the hallway and seeing no guards are near he turns on the cat. To Jaskier's surprise, again, he crouches down to be closer to his height before addressing him. 

"Can you, uh, lead me to my belongings?" Geralt asks him. His brow is so far drawn it looks as if he's about to burst. 

Jaskier opens his mouth to answer, but all that follows is a light chirp. Right. He's a bit too cat-shaped for proper words. Instead of voicing his answer, he steps to the side, back towards the store room where they must be keeping his armor and looks over his shoulder at Geralt, hoping he gets the idea. The witcher follows.

“Following a cat that smells like my ex-lover after being trapped in a dungeon...not my best work,” Geralt mumbles more to himself than Jaskier. 

He tries to hide the way his bristles at Geralt’s words. Ex-lover ? So he and Yennefer really are finished then. Jaskier wishes he could properly scoff. Geralt truly did rid himself of all the supposedly important people in his life. No wonder he wound up down here under Queen Calanthe’s hand, no doubt. If Jaskier had come along, he’s sure he’d have been able to distract her long enough or babbled enough sense to stop it all from coming to this. He’s done it before--but that isn’t his place anymore, is it?

They make their way around the guards with ease and dip into the store room unnoticed. He’s beginning to wonder about the competency of the Queen’s guards. Jaskier hops up onto a chest and watches Geralt dress himself and gather his belongings. It feels too alike to all the early mornings in dim rented rooms preparing to head out on the road again. Himself grumbling in bed while Geralt threatens to dump water on him to give him a proper wake up call, all while carefully packing away Jaskier’s oils and perfumes he’d used in the bath and on Geralt’s hair the night before. 

Jaskier rids himself of his wistful, longing thoughts to find Geralt no longer in the room with him. He dashes off of the chest and back out into the hallway. The witcher is already rounding the other corner. He makes chase after him. He didn’t go through all this just so Geralt can leave him behind. They have a plan to follow and he’ll be damned if he lets Geralt ruin it by getting captured, again. 

He does the only thing he can think of to stop Geralt from going the wrong way and dives under his foot (hoping to the heavens that his mutated senses will react before crushing his small form under a heavy boot). Geralt stumbles to the side with a growl. Jaskier follows him still and pulls at his pant leg with his teeth, back towards the direction where their carefully-plotted escape route lies. Geralt tries to swat him away, earning him a sharp bite from Jaskier’s pointed canines. 

“Damn cat, stop! I have to get my Child Surprise. I’m not letting a tiny beast get in my way,” Geralt blurts out, hopefully not loud enough to garner the guards’ attention. 

Jaskier feels for him, truly. For over a decade now, the man has avoided all mention of Cintra and destiny at great cost to him (and Jaskier). No matter how subtly Jaskier tried to lead in talking about his latest performance at court, Geralt shuts him down before he can even mention it was in the same hall where he called the Law of Surprise. Jaskier wants to rejoice at how his witcher has changed, but right now he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about destiny and Geralt finally taking up his responsibility in the Princess’ life; he can put his attention fully on his ex-traveling-companion’s growth as a person when said witcher is safe, outside of these city walls. There was a plan for fucksake and he was going to stick with it! Yennefer had been very clear and as much as he’d like to tell her to fuck off, she currently possesses his lute, along with all his other belongings back in that inn, and his secret on her tongue. 

He hisses, hoping to get across just how serious he’s being while probably looking right ridiculous. He can’t help, but think of what this image would look like if he were towering over Geralt in his true form instead of as a house cat with its hackles raised...but that would never happen. Hell, he can’t even tell Geralt it’s him, let alone that he’s actually not a human, but a dragon, and not just your average (well, above average, thank you very much) red dragon, but he’s suddenly become a mythical golden dragon all thanks to the songs their travels together helped him produce fulfilling some unknown mystical underlying requirement for perfect dragon hoards. When Jaskier comes back to the moment at hand, Geralt has stepped around him back towards the castle, his Child Surprise, and the Queen that wants him dead. He really needs to stop rambling in his mind when his mouth can’t follow. 

Jaskier bounds after him without a second thought to their broken relationship and secrets. If the witcher notices his shadow, he does nothing to acknowledge it. He’s far too busy stalking around the corridors, ducking out of sight before a handmaiden can spot him. Jaskier mirrors his movements, falling back into what used to be second nature--following his witcher’s lead directly into danger’s waiting arms. 

Into the risk of the Queen forcing Geralt to the gallows, Nilfgaard storming the city and taking everything in their wake, Geralt continuing to walk away from him when he’s only just found his witcher again... Perhaps he isn’t that man any longer. Their time apart may have done more for Jaskier than force him to feel so deeply he often wished to rip his heart from his chest. For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t just follow where Geralt leads. 

Yes, he does follow the man down the hallway, but that’s where it ends. He sets his jaw and focuses on looking Geralt in his stubborn eyes and properly telling him off. When he bounds in front of Geralt to stop him in his tracks and rounds on him, he’s meeting his eyes nearly at the same height. His mouth his forging ahead before he can spare a thought as to why that’s a terrible thing. 

“Would you stop for a moment and listen? We have a plan. Your Child Surprise is safe for now and we need to stay on schedule. When we get to Yennefer, we can make a better plan than stalking the halls until you come upon the Princess, or more than likely the Queen,” Jaskier hisses out at him as if his feline form rubbed off on his personality a bit. He keeps his words low enough to escape notice from anyone roaming the castle, but from the look on Geralt’s face it’s as if the man was on the receiving end of his screams. “There’s no time to explain.”

Jaskier grips his wrist and pulls. He breathes a sigh of relief when there’s no resistance. Geralt comes along, following back the way they came eyeing Jaskier the whole while. There’s distrust in those familiar amber eyes, but Jaskier doesn’t let his emotions overrun him. He has a task to fulfill. He doesn’t know how Yennefer will steal away the Child Surprise or how Geralt would ever be able to trust him again, but that’s for his future-self to deal with. Right now, they need to get out of Cintra.

Chapter Text

The city walls are still within sight, but Jaskier still feels the heightened sense of urgency leave his body. Yes, they have much planning to do in order to claim Geralt’s Child of Surprise, but for now they aren’t in danger. He breathes in relief for a moment as they walk down the road towards the village he’d come from. The ease in his mind knowing the Witcher is safe, for the time being, makes the walk back to the witch easier. In his experience, peace of mind never lasts long. 

All too quickly, his mind is dredging up the words the man spat at him on that blasted mountain, Yennefer’s little trick, and all that led up to him shifting forms in front of a bloody monster hunter without a thought of it, in the moment. Geralt hasn’t mentioned any word of his trick and it’s making Jaskier itch with worry. Of course the man is never one for words, but when it comes to monsters, doesn’t he always get to the bottom of things? Jaskier’s bore witness time and time again to people taking Geralt for a dolt, failing to realize that in his silence he’s watching and seeing far more than anyone anticipates. He’s a clever, observant man. 

Alright maybe not all the time considering he’s never thought me a dragon but… 

Geralt is silent walking a step or two behind him, but Jaskier can sense his presence without having to peek over his shoulder. He’s leading them back to the inn, but the situation shifts in his mind following his dark thoughts. It feels like he’s being followed, stalked. He could just tell Geralt where Yennefer is and fuck right out of this bloody quest. It’s not his Child of Surprise and Geralt made it clear what he thought of Jaskier the Bard all those months ago. Well, his lute and clothes are back at the inn. Once he’s collected his belongings, then he can leave the damned witch and witcher to their own devices. 

“How were you stupid enough to get caught?” he asks in an effort to feel less exposed in the silent walk. 

“Eist lowered the gates around me.”

“But why didn’t you just fight your way out of it? I highly doubt they had enough guards to properly subdue you of all people,” Jaskier scoffs. 

“If I fought, there’d be no chance of…”

“Of getting the Princess,” Jaskier finished for him. 

The Witcher’s continued and constant selflessness for strangers should warm his heart. It’s how his kind and noble heart shows itself and Jaskier has seen it for himself so many times. But his mind doesn’t agree with his previous interpretations, now. Why is the man so willing to die for people who mean nothing to him, but won’t even admit the one that stuck by his side for decades was his friend? Why is Geralt so full of compassion for them, yet tears Jaskier down again and again with his cutting words?

“How did you find me?” Geralt asks, tearing Jaskier from his fouling mood.

“You had best ask Yennefer that. She’s the one behind all this,” Jaskier sneers out. 

“Did she hurt you? Bewitch you? The cat back there—“ 

Is that worry lacing his words? No, that’s impossible. Geralt made it clear how little Jaskier’s wellbeing ranks on his list of priorities. He’s only here now because Jaskier gave him another option for following his Destiny—which most certainly doesn’t include him. He, Yennefer, and the Princess will take the Continent by storm with clouds of fate twisting around them. Now that could be part of a song… 

“I’m here out of an agreement with her. Don’t worry, once I collect my things from her I’ll continue fulfilling your wish.”

He jumps when Geralt grips his arm and spins him to face him better. 

“That wish—“

“Save your words, Geralt. I know how much they pain you,” Jaskier says in a jab. 

Geralt’s face falls and he wants to take a sick sense of victory from the sight, but all it does is make his stomach flip over. He takes his arm back from him and continues on walking. Forced with no other choice, Geralt continues on following him.

He yearns to fill the heavy silence that’s fallen over them like a bloody snowdrift. His usual inane chatter used to take the edge off of his thoughts, keep him from bubbling with worry or boredom, but now he knows his words aren’t welcome. Apparently, they had never been—only tolerated. No matter how Geralt keeps glancing at him with a similar expression to that he held in the keep when he revealed himself, Jaskier knows that once Geralt and his Child of Surprise are safe he needs to leave. Even if it weren’t for his jilted heart, winter will be here soon. He has a life to live that’s supposed to be removed from Geralt’s. His final gift to the Witcher: fulfilling his wish. If Destiny herself wouldn’t do it, Jaskier would. 

After all this horseshit, perhaps Jaskier should take a vacation. Most of his kind would fly deep into the Blue Mountains—far from where any humans can reach. Only problem with that is there’d be no one to talk to. But maybe just him and his hoard of songs could keep him company enough for the winter. It would certainly give him the time and privacy to grow accustomed to his newly shining scales and abilities--not to mention time composing. 

“She should be upstairs,” he says when the inn comes into view. 

Jaskier expects Geralt to barrel past him and run towards his ‘love.’ He wouldn’t blame him for running to her warm embrace instead of cursing himself with Jaskier’s presence a moment longer, but the witcher is a hard one to predict, it seems. He follows Jaskier into the building, up the stairs, and down the corridor. He pulls open the door. 

“Ah, it seems you aren’t entirely useless, bard,” Yennefer drawls out without looking up from her musing with the journal in her hands. 

“Fuck you, witch! Didn’t think to tell me exactly who I was being sent to free? I should burn you to embers where you sit.”

She laughs at him. 

“Careful, lose your temper and our deal will lose its purpose. Unless, that is, you’ve decided to do it yourself,” Yennefer says, finally looking at him properly. 

“Can this pissing contest wait? There are more pressing matters at hand,” Geralt speaks up. “I need your help.”

“Bit arrogant, demanding aid from your savior, wouldn’t you say? I orchestrated this out of respect, Geralt. Nothing more.” 

He closes the door behind himself and crosses his arms.

“My Child Surprise is in that city. Nilfgaard is on their way to sack the place. I don’t care what’s going on between us. All that matters is making sure she’s safe.”

Jaskier huffs to himself, noticing how quickly he was cast aside once the sorceress came into view. He ignores them in favor of changing back into his usual clothes and out of these drab rags. If he’s using it as an excuse to ignore being ignored then that’s for him to know. He ducks behind the changing screen (not too keen on Yennefer judging and commenting on his human form) and strips down, still catching bits of their conversation despite trying his best to stay out of it. 

He’s still fuming at Yennefer for sending him on this quest and at Geralt for, well, everything, but that damned witch is right; losing control here and now would do him no favors. It would more likely end with a sword at his throat than the satisfaction of making them realize just how terribly they fucked up by getting on his bad side. He’s a bard and a noble, for the love of the gods. He’s supposed to be a master of emotion and eloquence. Letting them see just how far they’ve gotten under his skin will just show weakness. His hide is far harder to penetrate than this human skin; he’s got to remember that. 

Tickling the back of his thoughts are all those feelings that perked right up like a daisy in the heat of summer getting an unexpected sunshower. He misses Geralt. Yes, the man said horrible things to him and cast him aside. Yes, he doesn’t trust Jaskier to keep his word. But he still followed him out of those castle walls all the way here. He can’t help the small ball of hope growing in his chest beside his flame. 

“If the girl has been promised to you by Destiny, of all things, do you really think avoiding a city about to be burned is going to jeopardize that?”

“Since when do you care about Destiny? And what about you yelling at me for abandoning the one thing you cannot have?”

Jaskier peeks around the changing screen to see Yennefer stand from the bed with ire in her eyes. He ducks back behind the screen and straightens his doublet. A good ale is calling to him from down below in the tavern. Their lover’s quarrel isn’t his problem and he refuses to put himself in a position to be a solution. Geralt is talking in more growls than words and Yennefer is seething. He walks out without looking at either of them, lute and satchel in hand. 

He’s too upset to make sure she holds up her end of the deal (which he now knows was far lopsided). Although what’s it matter now if Geralt learns of his heritage? Jaskier knows Geralt’s personal code and he heard it yet again when they first came across Borch. He won’t hurt him…not in that way, at least.

He’s already down the stairs before he can hear the two of them go silent at his departure. He doesn’t hear Geralt accusing Yennefer of harming him; he doesn’t hear her accusing him of the same thing.