Chapter Text
Geralt woke to the unfamiliar sensation of a warm body shifting lazily against him. For a moment, he remained frozen in place, mind racing to try to identify the mattress beneath him and the scent of cedar and sweat nearby. It wasn’t until he heard the satisfied hum rumbling through the chest he was curled on top that the tension in him eased.
“Morning,” Jaskier said in a sleep rough voice.
It shouldn’t have sent a curl of heat through Geralt’s body at the intimacy lacing the word. It shouldn’t have soothed the worst of the tension to know who was curled up around him. His mind returned to the events of the night before and a blush crested his cheeks.
Stay with me.
This was everything and nothing like what he’d imagined for his future. The events were so far beyond what he’d ever dared to expect after finding Vesemir on the other end of the sword in his gut. He’d told himself that the sexual element of their relationship was nothing more than an outlet for the adrenaline and pain of his betrayal from the people he’d trusted. That it wouldn’t last beyond their partnership in other matters.
Last night had been overwhelming and ripped away at the paper-thin beliefs he’d kept about the villain. The Dandelion was not the sort of man who would rescue an enemy or undress his partners with the sort of care that left Geralt off balanced and uncertain. Every day left him unraveling layer after layer of personalities away, searching for the truth lurking beneath and wondering if he would like what he found.
On the other hand, there was no escaping the truth of the darkness lurking within Jaskier. Geralt had seen the easy way he’d killed Fringilla or the countless others they left in their wake. There had been no hesitation or regret at the new blood staining his hands. No half-hearted apologies or guilt at the crime. Instead, he’d approached the murder in the same way he had the challenge of avoiding the police. It was a brutal reminder of the difference between the two of them.
Jaskier was and would always be a villain.
No matter how much Geralt might wish it was different. No matter how much he hoped things might change. Eventually, their budding relationship would be forced to face the reality of who and what they were. The only real question was–what would happen then?
A hand reached up to carefully run through the long strands of his hair, carefully pulling apart the knots he encountered along the way. “What are you thinking so hard about?”
“You.” There’s a painful truth in the simple response.
He felt Jaskier huff a fond laugh above him as his hand stroked over the exposed skin of Geralt’s back. “How exciting,” he said. “Anything specific?”
Stay with me.
“Did you mean what you said?” Geralt asked, choosing one of the dozens of questions swirling around his brain. “Last night.”
Jaskier shifted, nudging the Witcher into a position where he could look at him fully. “I’m guilty of many things, but I wouldn’t lie to you. Not about that.”
Geralt nodded slowly, eyes skirting away from the other man like it would keep him from recognizing the tangle of emotions in his expression. It was probably naivety that made him trust Jaskier’s word even that much.
He wasn’t sure if it would be better or worse to find out Jaskier had tricked him again. It was exactly the sort of thing that the last ten years had taught him to expect from Jaskier. The Dandelion had always possessed a knack for slipping through people’s defenses. It made it easier for im to slip his knife between your ribs.
The villain seemed to sense that Geralt wasn’t ready to talk quite yet because he carefully sat up and slid out of the bed.
“I’m going to take a shower,” Jaskier said with a rakish grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked like he wanted to say more, but finally settled on his usual flirtation. “Stay out here or neither of us will ever get clean.”
Contrary to his words, he leaned forward to give Geralt a kiss designed to leave him breathless. For the next few seconds, there was nothing in Geralt’s mind but wet heat and the primal need to touch, to taste. His body reacted like a live wire, erasing the last vestiges of sleep beneath a visceral need . Clever fingers drifted over his body, painting the edges of muscle from memory, and leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Jaskier grinned a little when the Witcher tried chasing after him, but still backed away with a bat of his long lashes. The only consolation for Geralt’s aching body was that the villain looked equally overwhelmed at how easy the attraction between them was. A few seconds later he disappeared into the on suite bathroom and Geralt listened to the sound of the shower turning on and Jaskier getting beneath the spray.
He was still considering following after him when the phone on the bedside table began to ring.
Briefly, he looked to where Jaskier was still showering and debated bringing the phone to him. He’d already met Yennefer and Aiden though and Essi was a familiar personality after her consistent help in their escapes. If it was time sensitive, Geralt was relatively comfortable with answering for Jaskier and giving the villain the information as quickly as he could. Jaskier deserved a hot shower if not.
“Hello?” Geralt murmured, pitching his voice low on instinct as he sat up and let his feet drop to the floor.
“Geralt. I’ve finally found you.”
It was only years of sword training that kept him from dropping the phone in his hand. Years of training and the same voice in his ear shouting for him to keep moving, to keep fighting. All of the warmth burning in the wake of Jaskier’s touch was erased by an icy chill.
“Vesemir,” he managed, hoarse and aching with the shock of hearing the old Witcher after so long. “How did you–”
“You didn’t really think we wouldn’t be able to find out you were working with the Dandelion, did you?” There was a gruff rasp of laughter and Geralt flinched away from the mockery in it. “We’ve known where you were from the moment you left the Tower.”
Geralt’s mind spun, trying to reconcile speaking to Vesemir after all that had happened. It was habit to keep himself still, body ready for the orders it had always obeyed. He had always been the old man’s favorite for exactly that reason.
Until he’d no longer been useful.
Until Vesemir had put him down to save his own position and power.
“Because of the tracker.” There’s a wealth of recrimination in the simple statement. It sat like a line in the sand between the man he’d been and the man he was becoming at Jaskier’s side.
Vesemir made a soft sound, full of regret. “You have to understand, my boy. I would never have done it if I’d known the truth.”
“And what is the truth?”
“That it was the Dandelion who was really responsible for Calanthe’s death. He was the one who planted the footage they used to label you the murderer.”
Geralt frowned, shaking his head even though Vesemir couldn’t see him. “Jaskier didn’t know about Calanthe. Not until I told him. It was Fringilla and Nilfgaard that killed her.”
“Geralt, don’t be so naive,” Vesemir chided, voice pitched to fond exasperation. “Why do you think he was so willing to help you get the footage from Aretuza? Why do you think he wanted to point fingers at NIlfgaard so quickly? He’s been playing with you.”
The Witcher stared at the wall and wished he couldn’t feel each point land like a blow against the tiny, fragile heart in his chest. He wanted to argue, to defend the man who had become the only point of safety in the storm he’d found himself trapped in. He didn’t want to think about hidden agendas lurking beneath the gentle touch or the fierce protective violence he unleashed at anyone stupid enough to go after Geralt.
He didn’t want to lose that small taste of happiness. Of trust.
Stay with me.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then believe what the man has been telling you over and over again for years now–the greatest achievement of his life would be to bring you down.”
He closed his eyes, refusing to let Vesemir hear the sound of his heart breaking.
Maybe it had been foolish to think that Jaskier would ever be able to look past Renfri. The villain had told him that, over and over again over the years. Geralt had killed the only family Jaskier had ever had. No amount of apologizing would ever undo the damage he’d done.
An inescapable weariness dragged his head down until it was cradled against one calloused palm. “What do you want?” he finally managed to ask.
“The Council has agreed to let you come back–free and clear,” Vesemir answered immediately. “All you have to do is help us capture the Dandelion.”
Geralt stood frozen, phone clutched in his hand and his mind struggling to recognize when the voice in his ear had become his enemy.
“I know it’s hard, but you have to do this,” Vesemir continued, “for the good of the city. The man is dangerous–he can’t be allowed to wander freely. He’ll only hurt more people.”
“He helped me.” The words felt childish, weak.
“He was just trying to help himself, Geralt. He never cared about you.”
It stung how easily Vesemir could carve out the fragile heart in Geralt’s chest. He wanted to argue, to describe all the ways Jaskier had kept him sane while he was running from everyone he’d ever loved. He wanted to go back to this morning with Jaskier curled up warm and soft against him, his breath anchoring him in this strange new reality.
“That’s not true,” he protested weakly, “He, he lov–cares about me.”
In the distance, he could hear Jaskier singing in the shower as he stood beneath the spray. He could smell him on the sheets and embedded into the Witcher’s own skin. On the table beside the bed was the gun he usually carried tucked into the shoulder holster he kept on throughout the day. The subtle act of trust felt damning against the racing heart in his chest.
“Oh Geralt–” Vesemir’s voice was full of pity and the ache growing in his chest burned with shame. “--Geralt, he’s trying to overthrow the Council. Always has been. It was all just another one of his games. It’s why he contacted us in the first place.”
There’s a roaring sound in his ears. His numb fingers tightened around the plastic phone case until it creaked in protest.
“Contacted you?”
“He offered to give you up in return for information on the Council,” Vesemir said slowly. “I had to convince the Council not to accept the offer. There was no way I was going to let one of my Wolves go to jail for a crime they never committed.”
“When…?” Geralt trailed off at the sound of the shower being shut off in the distance and swallowed the bile in his throat, shaking his head silently. “I have to go.”
Vesemir spoke quickly, cutting in before he could end the call. “All you have to do is bring him to the coffee shop on 9th and Western Ave. We’ll take care of the rest–he won’t get away this time.”
“Don’t hurt him.” The protest was out before Geralt could think better of it.
He hated the way it felt like a plea.
“We won’t,” the other man assured quickly, “He’ll be arrested and taken somewhere where he won’t be able to hurt anyone. I promise, Geralt. We aren’t the villains here.”
Behind him, he heard the door to the bathroom swing open with a wave of humidity. He ended the call without bothering with a goodbye. Quickly, he swiped through the settings until he could delete the call history, erasing any proof that he’d contacted anyone. Jaskier’s footsteps padded across the wooden floor a moment after he tossed the phone back onto its place on the bedside table.
“Geralt?” Jaskier called, one hand still rubbing a towel through his damp hair. He peeked around the corner and smiled a little at the Witcher. The expression on Geralt’s face made his expression shift into something like concern. “Is everything alright?”
He offered to give you up.
It was all another one of his games.
He never cared about you.
Stay with me.
“Everything’s fine.”
Jaskier gave him another quizzical look, but didn’t question him any further. He padded to the duffel bag on top of the dresser, gloriously nude. While his back was still turned, Geralt quickly erased the call log and set the phone back onto the nightstand.
He ignored the rising guilt with a brutal reminder of what he’d learned.
All of this was just another game to Jaskier, he told himself. The villain had probably spent hours laughing about it with Yennefer in their group chat. Poor little Witcher and his naive heart, he imagined Jaskier crooning. How could I have ever loved you?
“Are you hungry?” Jaskier asked, tugging a plain black shirt over his head. “I think we’ve earned ourselves a treat. It should be safe enough to go get something to eat while they’re busy looking into Fringilla.”
“Need something to wake me up,” Geralt grunted, hating himself for the way his body still reacted to Jaskier’s proximity. “How about some coffee?”
Outside, the day was gloriously sunny in glaring contrast to the shadows curling in Geralt’s soul. Jaskier seemed aware of the strange mood his companion had fallen into, but didn’t press him about the cause. In another life, he might have appreciated the subtle way he’d been given the space he needed to process his whirling thoughts.
As it was, it gave Geralt plenty of time to spot the plain-clothes police officers lurking in the small crowd near the coffee shop Vesemir had told him to find. A man wearing a simple baseball cap with a local team’s logo subtly lifted the collar of his shirt up to mutter information into the mic clipped inside when Jaskier was distracted by the sound of a street performer a few yards away. Geralt counted three more officers within a block of the shop and knew there would be even more stationed inside. He would be surprised if any of the patrons turned out to be civilians at this rate. Clearly, Vesemir was taking no chances in losing Jaskier this time.
The twisting mass of anxiety and anticipation in his gut only got worse the closer they came to the coffeeshop. He knew it was already too late to get away without someone seeing them, but he couldn’t help but contemplate their odds if he leaned forward to warn Jaskier that they were surrounded. Would Jaskier forgive him if he knew he’d regretted it? Or would he simply attempt to use Geralt in the same way he had in the past?
“Are you feeling alright, pretty?” Jaskier asked, startling Geralt out of his thoughts. “You don’t look so well.”
Geralt grunted and avoided his eyes. “I’m just hungry,” he lied.
“Maybe they’ll have a decent food menu at this place–or I could let you try one of my favorite little Chinese places nearby. They have the most delicious egg rolls in the city–”
Jaskier’s rambling continued as Geralt pulled open the door and ushered him inside. He hated the part of himself that still marveled at the subtle displays of trust Jaskier had used to set Geralt at ease. Had the villain always been so good at manipulating him? Geralt knew better than anyone what sort of atrocities Jaskier was capable of–somehow using Geralt’s feelings against him had been the only one he’d never expected.
They walked up to the counter and settled in the back of the small line formed in front of the cash register. There was a pop song playing on the speakers that Jaskier hummed along to as they waited for their turn. A family with two young children hustled through the door discussing their day at the zoo while a man typed feverishly on a battered laptop in the corner. The space had the sticky, bland decorations that marked it as a chain store and the scent of coffee beans was nearly overwhelming inside.
Geralt watched the barista subtly drop her hand to the counter and press the button beneath the cash register.
“It looks like they have a decent sandwich selection,” Jaskier said, oblivious to the growing tension in the room. “What sounds good?”
Without looking at him, Jaskier casually reached back to link his fingers with Geralt’s like there was nothing better than to hold hands with the man who’d been his enemy for ten years. Geralt stared down at the sight of them, feeling his stomach churn with nausea. “I’ve never gotten to do something like this.”
“Never gotten to do what?” Geralt managed weakly, trying to force himself not to notice the noose tightening around them. “Get coffee?”
Jaskier laughed, eyes bright. “Go out with someone like this. I can see why people enjoy it.”
The words felt like a blow.
“Jaskier–”
There was a clang of metal as something clattered against the ground at their feet. Geralt had enough time to realize it was a flash bang before the world erupted around him.
Instinct made him reach up to cover his ears, but all he could hear was a sharp ringing. His enhanced hearing made the sensation nauseating and overwhelming, threatening to send him to his knees. He could feel Jaskier holding onto his arm, but he couldn’t seem to get his eyes to focus on anything but the flood of soldiers and police moving into the cafe. Jaskier’s hand dropped to the gun he’d put on that morning, but Geralt reached out in a silent plea to stop. It’s obvious that there’s no hope for him if it came to a shootout.
“--you hurt?” Jaskier’s lips shaped when Geralt finally could focus on them. The villain’s eyes were narrowed in concentration as he considered the blocked exits and the men shouting orders at them.
Geralt shook his head, shame welling in him when he realized why Jaskier looked so concerned.
He was worried about Geralt .
He wanted to recoil from that concern, to fling out the details Vesemir had shared when he’d ripped away the veneer of happiness Geralt had felt in Jaskier’s arms, but couldn’t seem to acknowledge the hurt the memories now caused. All of it was tainted now. All of it just another lie Jaskier had crafted in order to twist the knife in Geralt’s back just a little more.
Not this time, Geralt thought with the last of his brittle outrage. This time I won’t let you break me so easily.
“Geralt?” Something must have shown in Geralt’s expression because the other man went still, a terrible sort of understanding bleeding through his eyes.
The Witcher started to open his mouth–to beg for forgiveness or to challenge him with the facts, he wasn’t sure–but another voice beat him to it.
“Hands where I can see them!” an officer bearing a sergeant’s stripes and a nervous sweat shouted. “Hands up!”
Jaskier made a derisive noise and didn’t bother to look away from Geralt. His face twisted in an emotion Geralt had never seen in him before. “Looks like I overestimated you, Witcher,” he said. “Even I didn’t think you were capable of this.”
“Hands in the air!”
Wordlessly, Jaskier raised his hands in surrender and didn’t fight when a group of soldiers swept in to shove him to his knees and began to cuff him. They were needlessly aggressive, clearly enjoying the excuse to arrest such a well known criminal. Geralt felt a protest tangle in his throat as he was shoved aside to allow more men to pin Jaskier to the ground.
Through it all, Jaskier remained utterly silent with his eyes fixed on Geralt.
“Geralt!”
Geralt turned in time to watch a familiar figure step through the doors, brushing off the security details covering the entrance. Eskel looked relieved and eager as he walked across the short distance between the police officers and the men at the center of the room.
He turned toward the other Witcher on instinct and allowed himself to be swept into a hug that felt like home. It was something he’d never expected to feel again since the night when Vesemir had tried to bring him down. His fingers clung tightly enough to bruise, but Eskel didn’t protest the rare sign of desperate affection from Geralt. Both of them recognized how unlikely it was that they were back together again.
Eskel’s fingers cupped the back of Geralt’s head in a gesture straight from their childhoods. “Are you alright?” he asked in a low voice. “He didn’t hurt you?”
“I’m fine.”
There was the sound of a scuffle nearby as the police began to pull Jaskier to his feet. They’d stripped him of the shoulder holster that Jaskier preferred to keep under his jacket out of sight and yanked off his shoes and belt. Another officer continued to roughly search him for any other weapons–barely avoiding a full strip search. It was obvious that they expected Jaskier to have more weapons hidden around his person.
Geralt was inclined to agree with them.
A bruise was blooming on one of Jaskier’s high cheekbones, promising a black eye before the end of day. His freshly cleaned shirt had a smear of blood on it courtesy of the officer on his right’s newly broken nose. Jaskier’s shirt was ripped and the collar stretched until the edges of his collarbones was visible. In his eyes, was an unholy fury that Geralt didn’t recognize even after so many years of fighting against him.
There was no sign of the man he’d woken up beside.
“Congratulations,” Jaskier sneered as the police officers started to drag him bodily through the doors. “You’ve finally won, Geralt. All you had to do was convince me that you actually cared about anything besides being the Council’s fucking pet.”
Geralt gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. “Don’t pretend like you’re the victim here.”
“No, I’m just the idiot who believed you.”
Eskel moved closer, glaring at the supervillain like he was offended on Geralt’s behalf. The White Wolf remained frozen in place, trying to swallow the bile rising in his throat.
Why should I feel guilty? He wanted to demand. You’re the one who betrayed me.
“It would be easier to just kill him,” one of the officers grunted as he tried to keep Jaskier from kicking him.. “No sense in going through with a trial. They’re a pain in the ass.” He gave Geralt a conspiratorial wink. “We’d make sure the report said he resisted arrest.”
“Go on then, Witcher,” Jaskier baited, lips twisted into a mocking smile that did nothing to hide the wretched emotion in his eyes. “Slit my throat. Let me bleed out in this alleyway like you did to Renfri. Let my blood splatter on your shoes so you can have a memento even. And when I’m gone, there will be no one left who ever thought you might be better than a fucking weapon .”
One of the officers yanked Jaskier’s arms hard enough that he stumbled, falling forward with nothing to catch him before his knees hit the ground. Blood still dripped sluggishly to stain more of his shirt from the cut above his eyebrow, but he didn’t attempt to wipe it away. Instead Jaskier surged upwards, but was kicked hard in his side, falling over to wheeze and cough against the unforgiving concrete.
Instinctively, Geralt reached out to catch him, but he froze when Jaskier flinched away from the gentle touch. It was the first time he’d ever seen any sign of weakness in the criminal.
He hated it.
Slowly, Jaskier curled his legs under him once more, refusing to let the police carry him out of the ruined coffee shop. He got to his feet slowly, painfully and ignored the snickering police around him. The villain didn’t look at Geralt as he was pushed into the police car, head tilted down so his expression was hidden beneath a curtain of dark hair. His shoulders were curved inward like he was trying to protect himself against the furious shouts and mocking laughter surrounding him. The sight of Jaskier being led away should have felt like a victory, a finale for the rivalry that had shaped the last ten years of his life.
Geralt had won.
So why did he feel like he’d lost everything?