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“That’s— weird. Even for you,” Lambert says, crossing his arms over his chest and wrinkling his nose.
Geralt ignores him, quickly wrapping up the jar in cloth and binding it in leather to protect it. “What are you still doing here anyway?” he says instead of addressing the remark.
Lambert bares his teeth. “Forgive me for wanting to hang around a slightly— only slightly, mind you— friendlier face for a minute. I’ll be waiting for the bard to have an actual fucking smile directed my way and share a drink, no matter how much you gripe about it, pretty boy.”
Geralt growls wordlessly.
Lambert grins. “Tough luck. I’m not leaving. I haven’t seen Jaskier since winter. I’d like to hear what new songs he’s come up with, oh great and noble white wolf,” he says mockingly, though Geralt knows well enough it’s the bard himself Lamb is actually looking forward to seeing.
“I’ll tell him you’re missing him,” Geralt retorts, and Lambert makes a face as if he just bit into something sour.
Geralt stills his hands, the jar covered and bound. “I’m glad you were there,” he says, voice rough. He still feels the vicious sting in his shoulder where the sprite had buried its teeth into the meat. She’d very nearly succeeded in dragging him into the depths of her underwater lair. If his brother hadn’t intervened, she might have.
Lambert shrugs. “Aquatic shrew was a bitch to kill. Easier with the two of us. I was close anyway.”
Geralt stands and claps him on the shoulder. He’s grateful Lambert was with him on this particular one. He doesn’t much care to think about Jaskier returning from his bardic competition to find that Geralt never came back from his hunt at all. As it is, the bard will throw enough of a fit once he notices the deep puncture marks in his shoulder.
He can’t help the curve of his mouth as he looks at his brother. Jaskier fussing over him might make Lambert laugh, but he’s pretty sure the bard will do exactly the same to the other witcher, once he spots the long cut along the edge of Lambert’s jaw.
His brothers had been surprised, last winter, and maybe even slightly envious, when Jaskier tended to Geralt’s scrapes after training with soft hands and softer words. The grumbling ceased entirely when they got the exact same treatment for their own bruises and cuts, and then took on an entirely different nature, pretending to protest being coddled. Geralt knows better. He saw their eyes follow his bard with uncertain wonder, and smelled their shocked reverence at a human touching them without reservation and with kindness.
Lambert hasn’t bothered to stitch the cut back up, and Geralt knows exactly why.
Both of them hear more than enough of the common room noise down below, to hear the bang of a door being thrown open. Jaskier loudly exclaims that the good folk of this town won’t need to languor in boredom any longer, since entertainment has arrived.
“He sounds happy,” Lambert says. “Think he won?”
“Hmh,” Geralt answers. Jaskier does sound happy. His rich, warm voice has something tighten in his stomach, and he briefly bares his teeth at his brother as Lambert rolls his eyes at what he must smell on him.
“Lets get down there then, pretty boy. Before you collapse from all your pining.”
—000—
When they get down to the common room the bard is already in the middle of a song, and Jaskier grins wide when he spots Geralt across the crowded space. He sees exactly when Jaskier’s gaze finds Lambert behind him, a sparkle of delight in his blue eyes. They haven’t seen each other for a week, and Geralt wants nothing more than to stride across the inn and envelop Jaskier in his arms. As it is, he knows to keep his distance, and tries to be discreet when he flares his nostrils to take in the bard’s scent. Lambert’s snort tells him his brother definitely hasn’t missed the action.
Jaskier plays while Geralt and Lambert eat the meal that had been included in their contract, sipping the better than average ale. They’re getting quite a few stares, but Jaskier sang Toss a coin right after both witchers settled in the corner, and though the looks are fearful, it could be worse.
Geralt thinks Jaskier finishes his set sooner than he usually would, watching how blue eyes drag over him repeatedly and trying to keep a handle on the low burn of arousal that has started to smoulder in the pit of his belly.
Jaskier doesn’t kiss him when he reaches their table. Though the crowd likes the bard, sentiment might turn all too quickly if they were to see that kind of open tenderness toward a witcher. He feels a stab of regret and shame that Jaskier has to curb his affectionate ways because Geralt is what he is. He releases a breath when Jaskier presses his palm to the side of his neck softly, the gesture innocuous enough but intimate, blue eyes crinkling at their corners.
“You are a sight for sore eyes, my darling,” he says quietly. When Lambert grumbles something under his breath about bards being overly sentimental, he grins and claps the redhead on the shoulder. “And so are you. I haven’t heard near enough creative curses these past months, Geralt just goes with fuck,” he says gleefully, before sliding into a seat next to them and stealing a few quick bites of Lambert’s dinner.
It’s rather telling that except for a low growl, Lambert lets him.
“The competition?” Geralt rumbles, allowing himself to steal glances at Jaskier while he eats, keeping an ear out for any discontented mutterings about a pretty bard consorting with witchers in the meantime.
Jaskier smiles broadly and proceeds to cheerfully boast about his performance. Geralt rolls his eyes a little, and Lambert calls him a ridiculous, frilly peacock. The bard laughs at them, and just keeps talking.
—000—
They’ve got one room with the three of them, the innkeep shaking his head and telling them the establishment is fully booked, even when it’s Jaskier asking. When they come back up to the room it’s clear one of them will have to make do with the floor, the narrow bed barely big enough for two, let alone three. It hadn’t been as obvious when Geralt and Lambert dropped off their packs earlier, but with the three of them in the small space, it is.
Jaskier deposits his lute and his pack into a corner of the room, and twists around the only chair with a flourish. Lambert already has his arms crossed over his chest, a scowl on his face.
“Don’t look so grumpy,” the bard says with a wink, beckoning Lambert and playfully pointing at the chair.
“What in the ever loving fuck makes you think I’ll listen to you, bard,” Lambert grits between his teeth.
Geralt knows this ritual. He’s been privy to it all winter. He thinks he might have felt some small amount of envy for the bard’s attention to his brother, if it weren’t for the fact he can smell how Lambert’s scent softens where his tone doesn’t. He also knows that Jaskier will inevitably get to him, and he doesn’t begrudge Lambert the care.
Jaskier puts his hands on the chairback and tilts his head with a smirk. “All I want is to help, Lamb. Besides, do you want me to tell Aiden that the scar on your jaw was entirely preventable if not for your stubbornness, when I see him next winter?”
Geralt freezes where he’s needlessly checking over his armour. They haven’t talked about Jaskier coming again next winter, and part of him had been dreading hearing the bard say he won’t. Last winter had been something, with Jaskier at Kaer Morhen with him, but Geralt hadn’t dared to hope that he’d find it worth it to forgo another season of being at Oxenfurt. He swallows heavily, fiddling with a few leather straps and clasps.
There’s another loud grumble from Lambert, and then his brother stomps over to the seat and all but throws himself down in it. Geralt watches from the corners of his eyes when Jaskier lays his long fingered hands against Lamb’s jaw to tilt his face this way and that. The bard is just looking, inspecting the wound that really does need stitches, and Geralt thinks he has no idea what it means that Lambert allows the movement, letting his chin be tilted up to leave his throat exposed.
“What in all Melitele holds dear did you witchers fight this time?” Jaskier murmurs, glancing at Geralt.
“Sprite,” he shrugs.
“Even with the two of you,” Jaskier sighs, shaking his head.
“She was a wretched fucking thing,” Lambert defends.
Jaskier raises his eyebrows. “Well, I can certainly see that,” he says. “Now, where is our needle and thread?”
When Lambert is all stitched up, Jaskier shoots him a look. Geralt knows that the bard is looking for any injury on him he might have neglected, but it’s enough to have longing creep its way up his spine. Jaskier has taken off his doublet and his sleeves are rolled back to expose the muscles of his forearms, shifting under lightly tanned skin. His chemise lies open against his chest, and Geralt’s eyes fasten onto the V of trimmed, dark hair that’s exposed. He swallows, and when he looks up Jaskier meets his eyes.
“Oh for all that is—. I can’t be in the fucking room with both of you like this, let alone sleep. You are stinking up the place. It’s like you haven’t seen each other for months. What’s it been, a fucking week?”
Jaskier chuckles and shrugs, addressing Lambert but still looking at Geralt. “It’s been seven long, long days and nights of loneliness, dear Lamb.”
“I’ll be in the stables,” Lambert grumbles, stomping toward the door. “The horses’ll be better company than you two.”
Jaskier laughs. “If you wanted to go and think about Aiden somewhere private, all you had to do is say so.”
“Fuck you, bard,” Lambert says, but Geralt spots the twitch at the corner of his mouth before he slams the door shut, leaving them by themselves.
Jaskier turns back to him, and all Geralt wants to do is step in close and press his nose up under the bard’s ear to inhale his scent. He doesn’t. Jaskier is sure to be tired. He has competed and travelled all the way back here, he has performed, and stitched up Lambert’s wound. Geralt needs to let him be and let him rest. Jaskier’s blue eyes narrow on him for a moment, and Geralt’s heart beats a little faster.
“Sweetheart,” Jaskier begins, and Geralt feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “Do I need to make you strip and inspect you myself, or are you going to tell me where you’ve been injured?”
“What makes you think I’m injured” Geralt grunts, but he sits down on the bed without protest, pulling off his chemise over his head. Part of it is genuine curiosity. Somehow, even when his injuries aren’t all that extensive or even visible, the bard always knows when he’s hurt from a hunt.
Jaskier just raises one brow at him, and then his eyes fall to his shoulder where the sprite sunk in her teeth. The punctures have long since stopped bleeding, and swallow will take care of the injury to where Geralt will barely feel it tomorrow. Still, the corners of Jaskier’s mouth pull down slightly, and the bard comes to stand between his thighs. Like he’d done with Lambert, he tilts Geralt’s head to the side to get a better look, but he does it by winding his hand into his long white hair.
Geralt can’t help it, they’ve been apart for a mere week, but the simple touch is enough to have a soft groan spill past his lips. His nose is filled with Jaskier’s scent, and he swears he can feel each of the bard’s individual fingers against his scalp when he scratches lightly with his nails, while making a soothing noise at the back of his throat.
“Stay still, darling,” Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt wouldn’t dream of moving, not when the bard asks him to stay put.
Jaskier inspects the punctures carefully, long fingers pressing against the muscle, prodding to feel how deeply they penetrate, and for any sign of infection. Eventually, he makes a noise that Geralt has come to interpret to mean he’s still upset the witcher is injured, but that he’s not dissatisfied with the state of said injury. When Jaskier makes to step away from between his legs, Geralt lays his hands against the backs of his thighs to keep him close, and looks up.
“Hmh?” Jaskier hums gently, one of his hands coming up to card through his hair.
Geralt swallows, and then pulls the bard closer still, until he can press his face to his belly. He breathes in deeply and rubs his cheek there, feeling the coarse hair that runs below his navel through the thin material of his chemise.
He scents Jaskier carefully for any tiredness or hesitation, he always does, but right now the smell of his arousal is heady and overwhelming. Geralt makes a rough noise at the back of his throat, and then suddenly he has a lap full of bard. Both of Jaskier’s hands are in his hair now, and when their mouths meet it feels like it has been much, much longer than seven days apart. Geralt can’t get enough of the taste of him, overlaid with hints of ale and their evening meal. Underneath, the bard tastes like himself, like welcome and warmth and affection.
When Geralt slips his hand under Jaskier’s shirt to lay it over the base of his spine, the bard leans back and pulls off the garment in a single, graceful movement. When Jaskier kisses him again, pressing their chests together while he cups Geralt’s cheek with one hand, steadying himself with the other, he groans with longing. Part of them is skin to skin, but he wants to be entirely bare under the bard.
When it comes to Jaskier, Geralt wants everything. Jaskier knows. He knew even when Geralt was still carefully guarding the secret of it, convinced knowing would have the bard’s lips curl in disgust and leave him behind. Jaskier knows what Geralt wants, and the bard knows that it’s not easy for him to ask. Instead, Jaskier has always let him show it without words.
Geralt breaks their kiss to look into hungry blue eyes. Then he lays back on the bed, Jaskier still seated over his hips. He tilts his head back slightly, voluntarily replicating the gesture of showing the bard his throat. Jaskier’s eyes darken, and he leans forward to press a kiss right against the side of it, where in public he’d laid his hand.
It feels like a claim to Geralt, and his hips twitch upward. His cock has been hard since Jaskier inspected his shoulder. The bard has undoubtedly been aware of it, but at the involuntary movement he reaches down to press his hand against Geralt’s erection and makes a sound as if he’s pleasantly surprised. Geralt huffs a breath that gets him teeth pressed into the muscle at the side of his neck. His hips twitch again, a low, rough sound leaving him that would have been a whine had its register been any higher. He shudders when Jaskier presses another kiss to his mouth and gives him a gentle squeeze.
When the bard gets off him, he feels the loss keenly. His eyes snap back open where they’d fallen closed. He’s aware his witcher slow heart beats at an almost human pace, as he tries to swallow past the reflexive thought that Jaskier doesn’t want him, after all.
Jaskier looks down at him and presses his palm over the harsh thump of his heart for a moment. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Just getting rid of this,” he says, deft fingers opening the laces of Geralt’s trousers and peeling them off. When Jaskier nudges him, he moves until he’s entirely on the bed, naked, while the bard stands in nothing more than his breeches.
He can feel himself flush as lust darkened blue eyes rove over him. Despite the vulnerability of it, or maybe precisely because of that, Geralt spreads his legs for Jaskier, so the bard can see all of him. Jaskier’s breath catches, and the spike of arousal in his scent is obvious. Geralt watches as he slips long fingers into the waist of his breeches to shuck them off.
Jaskier is as hard as he is, and Geralt wants.
“Do you know what you do to me when you bare yourself like that?” Jaskier says, and Geralt recognises the way his voice has lowered in register, the way it always does when he’s aroused.
He can’t find the words to answer, so he just makes a plaintive noise instead.
Jaskier smiles at him. “If you don’t know, I’ll just have to tell you, darling,” the bard says, his voice still low and sensuous.
Geralt shudders and watches him as he steps closer to the bed.
“Whenever you do something like this, bare your throat, your chest and your belly, your cock and your hole to me, I just want to have you. And not just have you, love. It makes me want to keep you and never let you go.”
Geralt feels heat travel down his throat, and knows the pale, scarred skin of his chest is likely pinkening. He closes his eyes. He feels it when Jaskier puts a knee on the bed, his weight denting the mattress just before his fingers brush over his cheek.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” the bard says, and Geralt has no choice but to look up. “Do you want that? Do you want me to have you?”
It’s clear that Jaskier wants him to ask. It’s something Geralt has gotten better at, yet it still isn’t easy. Uncertainty and shame mix for one fraught moment, and then he releases an explosive breath. “Yes,” he grits out, and sees Jaskier’s happy smile, the crinkle of the skin next to his expressive blue eyes.
“Then I will, love,” the bard says.
It’s been no more than seven days without him, but they still reminded Geralt of parting, that first winter. It reminded him of the doubt that he would ever see Jaskier again, that the bard would want to. Now he has the other man kneeling between his legs while he lies naked before him. Now he has bright blue eyes with large, dark pupils fastened on his every breath. He has the warm, pleased curl of Jaskier’s mouth as he makes broken, desperate noises at the press of slick fingers against him and inside of him.
When Jaskier finally presses his cock against his hole and takes him, Geralt wraps his legs around his waist and his arms around his torso and clings, so much so that it’s impossible for the bard to move.
“It’s alright, darling,” Jaskier murmurs in his ear, before trailing kisses down the side of his throat. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” He keeps murmuring sweet nothings that don’t even really register in Geralt’s brain, while petting over every stretch of warm skin and taut muscle he can reach.
Geralt doesn’t know how long it takes, but eventually he untenses with a shudder, giving the bard enough space he can move.
He makes a low, broken sound of loss when Jaskier pulls out slowly, and the bard answers with a soft, soothing noise, and doesn’t go far. There isn’t much force behind it when he thrusts back in, there can’t be, with what little space he was allowed. Still, Geralt shakes below him, his back arching and heat rushing over the surface of his skin with the feel of Jaskier’s cock slowly dragging against his rim.
He forces himself to loosen his legs around the bard’s hips, and expects Jaskier to pull out further, to pick up the pace and momentum of his thrusts. Jaskier just smiles at him, and repeats what he did before, at the exact same, slow, languorous pace. It makes Geralt’s breath catch, his eyes flicking up to the bard’s.
Jaskier moves unhurriedly, pulling out no more than halfway before sliding back into him, with barely any force. It makes it so Geralt can feel every hard, hot inch of him inside, and the moan that leaves him spills over his lips unbidden. Jaskier unwinds Geralt’s arms from around himself and slides his hands up the insides of them, to press his hands back against the bed above his head. He intertwines their fingers, putting on light pressure, and when he kisses Geralt at the same time he slides back into him in that slow, inexorable way, Geralt suddenly realises he’s going to come.
He makes a strangled noise in warning. Jaskier’s lips curve into their kiss, and he slows down even further as Geralt starts to twitch under him, rhythmically tightening around his cock as he spills with a groan. The skin of their bellies is wet with his spend, but Jaskier doesn’t seem to care as he keeps kissing him, slowly picking back up. Geralt’s cock hasn’t softened, and now it’s not merely pressed between the heat of the both of them, but it slides, slick with the result of his pleasure, with every slow movement of the bard inside him.
He half expects Jaskier to snap his hips a little harder now, and the bard smirks, clearly aware of his expectations. He keeps to that same, tortuously arousing rhythm, slowly pulling out, before sliding back in. The only change is the stimulation to Geralt’s cock, and the way Jaskier pushes just a little harder toward the end. It has soft, shocked gasps of breath punching out of him. When he looks at Jaskier his blue eyes are nearly eclipsed by his pupils, and he looks enthralled. There is a light sheen of sweat that makes his skin seem like it glows in the low light, and with every movement the muscles of his lean body shift to make shadows dance over the surface. Geralt watches, and is still staring at him when the next wave of his pleasure overtakes him by surprise. This time his groan is loud enough other guests of the establishment might hear, but there’s not a single concern in his head for them. All he can think about is Jaskier.
Like the first time, the bard slows as Geralt comes, and this time he sees and feels the way his clenching body makes Jaskier shudder. When he has no more to spill, Geralt sags back into the bed, panting, hands still pressed to the mattress by Jaskier’s, their fingers still intertwined. He feels like he can hardly keep his legs up around the bard, and instead lets them spread to the side, giving himself up to the man inside him.
“Sweetheart,” Jaskier groans, and Geralt gets exactly one, hard, rough snap of his hips, their skin coming together with a slight sting to his ass. He moans roughly, the sound lightening into a definite whine when Jaskier’s movements go back to their previous, unhurried pace.
It strangely feels like Geralt’s orgasm hasn’t entirely left him, the tail end of pleasure still buzzing under his skin. He knows he’s still hard and that Jaskier can feel it, his cock sliding slickly between them. He’s distantly aware the space smells strongly of the two of them, and that there are rumbling growls breaking the silence. He must be the one who’s making those noises, but there’s nothing he can do about it. It feels like the orgasm never left, and like he’s experiencing the peak of pleasure in reverse. With every drag of Jaskier’s cock over his prostate it builds back up, until he’s returned to just before the point of breaking. The noise he makes is swallowed by Jaskier pressing their mouths together, and then suddenly, right as Geralt is about to fall over the precipice, the bard starts to move.
Jaskier’s hips slam into him, and Geralt’s body feels like it might ignite and burn him up from the inside out. Wave after wave of all consuming pleasure sweeps over him, and if it weren’t for Jaskier anchoring him to the here and now, Geralt would be lost to it. In the midst of it Jaskier groans into his mouth and there is heat spilling inside of him, but he’s unable to respond, shuddering and shaking with the intensity of it all.
He’s unable to so much as make himself move when Jaskier very slowly pulls out of him. He thinks he makes a soft sound when the bard leaves the bed for a moment, but then Jaskier is back, cleaning him up with a moist cloth. His eyes are closed, and Geralt feels like he’s floating. When Jaskier presses a hand to his cheek he blinks his eyes open sluggishly.
“Are you still with me, sweetheart?”
Geralt forces himself to make a sound, though words are hopelessly lost to him at this moment. He does manage to grasp the bard’s hand though, tugging on it half heartedly. Jaskier’s smile is warm and fond, and Geralt makes another unintelligible happy noise when he gets back in the bed and slots right against him. He winds his arms around Jaskier’s body, and presses his nose against the sensitive skin below the bard’s ear. Jaskier says something, but Geralt is too far away already to parse the meaning of his words. With a deep sigh, covered in Jaskier’s scent, the man himself warm and pliant in his arms, he lets himself drift off into sleep.
—000—
When they enter the stables the next morning, Lambert’s gear has been packed and his horse has been saddled. There’s various stalks of hay stuck in hair, but he looks well rested. Jaskier greets him jovially, grasping onto his face with both hands to inspect how the cut to his jaw is healing. Lambert growls at him loudly, but doesn’t shake him off. Geralt sees his brother’s nostrils flare on a breath, his nose wrinkling at the undoubtedly intense scent of the both of them.
“Glad I slept in the fuckin stables,” Lambert grouses, and Jaskier just laughs, plucking the blades of hay from his hair with a flourish.
“Can’t deny I’m glad for it too, Lamb,” he says impishly.
They leave together once Roach has been tacked, but they part on the first branch in the road, one path leading south, the other west.
“You’re going to meet Aiden?” Geralt rumbles, noting how Jaskier takes interest.
“You walk the path with Aiden?” the bard asks.
Lambert shrugs. “On and off,” he says. “It’s been a couple weeks, more than seven fucking days, at least. We have a place we’ll meet,” he answers.
Jaskier grins. “Give him my warmest regards,” he says, before he steps in quickly and embraces the witcher. He’d done the same thing when they left Kaer Morhen at the end of winter, and just like they did back then, Lambert’s ears tinge pink. He grumbles something under his breath even Geralt has no chance of making out, but when he shoves the bard away after a few seconds, it’s with barely any force.
When Geralt quickly embraces Lambert as well, the redhead makes absolutely zero effort to lower his voice, knowing full well Jaskier will hear. “You fucking stink like your bard, pretty boy. Guess he liked that weird present after all.”
—000—
Jaskier does surprisingly well, not asking. Geralt knows that he heard Lambert mention the present, and he half expected Jaskier to start badgering him as soon as the other witcher was out of earshot. The bard holds his tongue though, doing nothing more than shooting him a curious glance every now and again.
Eventually, Geralt is the one who breaks. They’re by the fire one evening, Jaskier lounging with his feet in Geralt’s lap, his fingers idly strumming his lute in an aimless melody Geralt has never heard before.
“I have something for you,” he says hesitantly. He knows Jaskier joked he wanted one, but getting this is far different than the pretty cockatrice feathers that now decorate the strap of his lute.
Jaskier gasps as if he’s surprised, and chuckles when Geralt raises an unimpressed brow. “Yes, I know darling, Lambert spilled the beans. Doesn’t mean I can’t still be excited by the anticipation of it.”
Geralt leans to the side, laying one hand around Jaskier’s ankle while rummaging through his pack with the other, until he encounters the leather wrapped gift. Slowly he pulls it out, swallowing against a dry mouth. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to accept it,” he rumbles.
Jaskier clicks his tongue against his teeth. “How many times do I need to say it, darling? It’s something that you think I’d like, something that you took time and effort to give me. I’ll like it because of that alone.”
Geralt rolls the gift from one hand to the other, and then hands it to Jaskier.
The bard sits up straight, and he can hear how his human heart starts beating faster in the cage of his chest, his scent filling with happy excitement that has Geralt smiling faintly despite his doubts.
He’s wrapped ties around the leather to hold it in place, and Jaskier’s deft fingers make quick work of picking the knots until they’re loose and he can slide them off. When he folds away the leather he encounters the cloth Geralt wrapped it with first, and he looks up at him with a grin. “Something fragile?” he says, curious.
When the cloth falls away, Jaskier’s eyes grow wide, and Geralt holds his breath, looking for any sign of disgust.
In the bard’s strong, elegant hands, is a crystal jar of good size, a faceted motif worked into the bottom and the top. The middle of it is clear like pressurised glacier ice, and it is filled with fluid. Right in the centre of it floats one, pristine, eyeball. It’s both slightly macabre and rather pretty, if Geralt is honest. The iris is large and multicoloured, shimmering with iridescence where the light hits. The globe of white itself is see-through and silvery, and if it wasn’t so very clearly an eye, it could almost be mistaken for some kind of precious gem.
Jaskier stares, and Geralt’s heart is just about to skip a beat, when the bard throws his head back and laughs with utter delight.
“Oh! Oh but this! this has got to be the best pickled eyeball I’ve ever seen!”
—000—
A few weeks later they’re in Oxenfurt, and Geralt is waiting in a shadowed alcove just outside of Jaskier’s office. They’d come close enough to the great city that Geralt could hardly ignore the lucrative contract to get rid of the population of Zeugls in its sewers. He got back from that hunt filthy and smelling of shit strongly enough even Jaskier’s eyes had watered. The bard had smuggled him into his rooms at the university and ordered a bath, though how no one noticed a mucked up witcher sneaking through the halls behind one of the renowned school’s professors, Geralt has no clue.
While here, Jaskier had been asked to teach a short summer course. The bard had promised him it’d be four days tops, maybe five. They’re on day six now, but Geralt is loath to tell Jaskier they need to go. After all, he’s still hoping Jaskier will spend another season with him at Kaer Morhen, and that means the bard won’t return to teach for the winter semester. Jaskier has assured him it’s not a problem, but it makes something tighten uncomfortably in Geralt’s belly every time he thinks of it.
Students pass by the alcove without spotting him, and he breathes carefully, dropping into a light meditation while he waits. It’s a few soft, whispering voices that pull him back to alertness eventually.
It’s a couple of students, their heads bent closely together. What they’re whispering about is professor Pankratz’ office, and Geralt tilts his head to listen.
“I swear, if you lie to him about why you’re late, if you’ve plagiarised, or cheated, the thing turns and looks at you!” A young woman says, horror and fascination both equally present in her voice.
“That can’t be true,” another answers her. “That would mean it’s alive. It— it can’t be, right?”
“I’m telling you, if it had eyelids it would have blinked at me. I felt like it was reading my thoughts!” a third person adds, and Geralt can hear the shudder in their voice.
“Why—WHY would professor Pankratz put such a thing on his desk?” the first woman says, slightly shrilly.
When they turn the corner Geralt stops listening to them, and when the last student of the day finally leaves Jaskier’s office, looking elated at acing the course, Geralt slips from his hiding place.
Jaskier is behind his desk when he enters, carefully writing something in a large ledger before looking up at him with a smile and slamming it closed. Right there, at the front of his desk where it indeed seems like it’s looking at whoever sits across from him, Jaskier has put the crystal jar with the pickled eyeball.
Geralt shakes his head fondly and raises his eyebrows. Jaskier just shrugs. When Geralt tells him what he overheard, the bard throws his head back and laughs.