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When Geralt found the tiny clay kitten in Jaskier’s pocket, his first reaction was to laugh. That was until Jaskier had told him in extremely colourful language to shut the hell up.
It was a tradition that one of his sisters had brought home with her from a visit to a city in the southern mountains, Jaskier explained. He'd returned to Corvo Bianco near Yule, his boots entirely worn out and his hair brushing his shoulders, with sunburned cheeks, a stack of papers to mark, and a tiny little clay kitten in his pocket.
Geralt had found it while scooping up Jaskier’s hastily discarded clothes after he’d flung himself into the bath. Geralt always had a bath ready in time for Jaskier’s return, heating it with a burst of Igni when he heard the bard’s horse in the stables. He always needed it after the long ride home.
No: not home. The long ride here.
He had placed the kitten on the table beside the spare bed, and later asked about it, teasing Jaskier's newfound sentimentality. Jaskier had laughed and explained the tradition - a handmade animal given as a companion to protect the giftee into the next year and beyond. It was important, he had stressed, that it be handmade: not purchased or traded. That's what made it work.
Apparently there was no particular symbolism behind the kind of animal made - it was purely whatever the maker felt was right, or felt their giftee would like. Or, as Jaskier had said, whatever they could actually make: apparently their whole family had been gifted kittens, painted in different colours.
It was a sweet, thoughtful tradition, and Geralt found himself lingering on it long after their conversation ended. When Jaskier left again a few months later, heading back to Oxenfurt for the new term, he took the kitten with him. But the thought stuck.
Because, well - Jaskier was out there alone, now. After all they’d been through Geralt was well aware that he could handle himself, but it still made him wary to think about him traipsing around the continent alone. Geralt had extended the offer to retire to Corvo Bianco more than once, and Jaskier had always laughed, and declined. I'm not done yet, he’d always say. There’s still more I want to see.
Geralt couldn’t be with him as he gave grand lectures at the university and then got into bar fights in the city afterwards. And he knew that a little clay creature wouldn’t do much to keep him safe, unless a hapless bandit managed to glance a dagger from it in a fight. But the idea made him feel better regardless.
He thought on it for nearly the full year, through planting and harvest. The days danced past but the seasons crept along, and - at last - there was a breeze in the air and the promise of winter. Or as much of winter as Toussaint ever got.
Jaskier would be returning. It was time to get to work.
Geralt had moulded clay before - it was a useful skill in Kaer Morhen, especially when the pass froze over and the way to the nearest town with a kiln was blocked for weeks on end. He could fashion passable bowls, and stout little stoppered bottles for brewing potions, although they inevitably fell apart after a month or so, crumbling away into lumps.
Bowls and bottles were easy, and his large, rough hands were well-suited for creating things that were useful, practical, and - as were all things he touched - destined for destruction. But this was… different.
He’d hauled the clay from the stream himself, walking down one wine-red evening to the little creek at the very bottom of the vineyards and scooping handfuls out, throwing it into a fine sack. He took far more than was necessary: enough that he could try again as many times as he needed without conspicuously returning to fetch more.
Geralt was thankful for his own caution the next day, with his hands covered in dried grey streaks and the table in front of him a mess of clay.
He was midway through his sixth failed attempt when he heard the voice behind him.
“What have we here?”
It took all of Geralt’s self control not to throw a punch over his shoulder. When his heart rate steadied, he turned around.
“Regis,” he said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
"You must be very preoccupied," Regis said. He plucked one of Geralt's failed attempts from the tabletop between two pointed fingernails. "Would it be rude of me to ask what this is?"
"It's a lark," Geralt mumbled, taking it back.
"Ah."
Geralt knew Regis well enough to interpret that single syllable.
"It's not very good," he added.
"I didn't say that," Regis intoned.
"You didn't have to."
"May I ask why?" He asked, looking at the mess of the tabletop. "Or have you just decided to become an artist?"
Geralt sniffed. He felt like telling Regis would be a confession, like something he should be embarrassed of. He was embarrassed, if only because his attempts were so lacking.
But this was Regis. His oldest friend.
That thought caught. Geralt thought of the long road from here to Oxenfurt, of singing till dawn and long, ink-stained fingertips.
His second oldest friend.
"It's a tradition," he said, shortly. "From the south. For protection."
"Ah yes, I'm familiar…" Regis muttered, thoughtfully. "For keeping loved ones safe?"
"Something like that."
Regis raised his eyebrows at him. Geralt was sure he was about to pry and ask who he was sculpting for, but instead he reached out to the fresh lump of clay.
"May I?"
"Of course."
Geralt watched as Regis plucked away a little ball of clay, then sculpted it with his long fingers, pressing in his nails just so, smoothing the surface with his fingertips until…
“Is that a bat?”
Regis placed the little figure beside Geralt’s aborted attempt with a self-depreciating chuckle.
“It is,” he said. “Conforming to type, I know, but I couldn’t resist.”
Regis stayed until dusk, cracking open a bottle of vodka and chatting with Geralt - occasionally giving him tips for the clay, but mostly simply keeping him company.
Geralt stayed awake long into the night after Regis bid him farewell, the pile of abandoned attempts growing ever larger. It was all too fiddly, the clay either too soft or not soft enough, his nails digging into it or crushing it every time he turned it over in his hands.
The torchlight wasn't enough for the intricate work, and it was gone midnight by the time he sighed, relented, and reached for a vial of Cat. He wondered if any other witcher in the history of his kind had ever used a potion for art. Likely not.
He carried on, keen not to be defeated now he'd used up a potion on the task. Each attempt was a little better as he learned the feel of the clay, the best way to press it, the tricks he needed to keep it smooth.
And— there. It wasn't perfect, but it was right. He just had to hope that it would survive being heated and painted: he couldn't bear to make another, not after all that work.
He put it aside while he cleared up the mess of the table. He could hear the chastising voice of Barnabus-Basil in his head, although at least it wasn't as bad as the time he'd dissected a drowner in the kitchen while harvesting potion ingredients. He hadn't heard the end of that for weeks.
When everything was clean, he peered again at the little animal.
It was a wolf. He remembered Regis' self-depreciating words at crafting a bat and felt similarly silly. But the long snout and pointed ears had been easy enough to craft, and he'd surprised himself by enjoying the fiddly task of feathering its tiny tail.
And, as the clay was already drying to a light grey colour, it would require only a few dabs of paint: yellow eyes, pink ears, perhaps a few white highlights. It might be typical, but at least it was done. And he was sure Jaskier would think it sweet.
The next morning he gave it a quick dry in the vineyard's kiln, then headed into town to pick up the paints he would need to finish the job. As he suspected, the painting had been even harder, and as he added tiny yellow dots for the eyes he was thankful that he wouldn't need to paint the rest.
When it was finally done, it looked… well, it looked like a poorly-made, wobbly wolf. But it would do, and moreso, Geralt suspected that his sanity would not survive another round of sculpting. He wrapped it in cloth, placed it in a little wooden box then placed that in the top drawer of the chest in his bedroom, where it would be safe.
Jaskier’s arrival two weeks later - loud and dramatic as ever - almost made Geralt forget the clay wolf entirely. He returned to the vineyard like a hurricane, his lute slung over his shoulder and his bags so heavy they were nearly dragging in the dirt. He was clearly not travelling light, this year, and Geralt wondered what the cause for such impractical packing could have been.
“Oh, my dear friend,” Jaskier said, dumping his packs on the ground as soon as he caught sight of Geralt lingering in the doorway to Corvo Bianco. “How I have missed you!”
He flung his arms around Geralt’s neck in a flying hug, Geralt catching him easily and returning the embrace, lifting Jaskier’s feet from the floor. It was so good to have him back. He was sturdy in his arms, and his brown hair, now streaked with white, tickled Geralt’s nose. It smelt of rosewater and parchment and that warm, comforting smell of bard.
He was home. When Geralt finally let him go, Jaskier’s face was flushed. Geralt was sure his own skin was hot too.
Jaskier always had this effect on him for the first few days of their reunion. When he was absent, Geralt could at least pretend to forget how soft his skin was, or the smell of his hair. When they were thrust together again it was all he could think of.
It had been years since they had tentatively attempted something more than friendship. Before Corvo Bianco, before the Wild Hunt. Before Rivia.
They’d attempted to make it work, a purely part-time infatuation, and neither of them had been able to. With Geralt’s witchering and Jaskier’s travelling, it was easier for both of them to step away from that aspect of their relationship than force it to work by putting aside the rest of their lives. They could only have a few months out of every year, and it wasn’t enough - and the lack of enough threatened to topple the whole friendship.
It hurt too much for both of them, a promise that never held out. They'd agreed to put an end to it a year or so after Geralt had come into possession of the vineyard. What for Geralt had been a promise of rest and well-earned relaxation, for Jaskier seemed to be an awful lot like being tied down. Geralt had tentatively hoped that having a sense of stability in his life would make it easier for Jaskier to stay. He'd been wrong.
The feeling would settle. It would never pass, not entirely, but it would be bearable again soon enough. He found himself wondering if Jaskier felt the same: if he too was holding onto the embers of something that they'd extinguished years ago.
He didn't have time to dwell on it as Jaskier immediately started chatting, hurling his bags into Geralt’s arms and walking past him into the house. It was the usual talk: the unbearable length of the journey, the ache of his feet and, as always, a string of virulent complaints about "those hacks at the university".
"Make yourself at home," Geralt muttered, as Jaskier grabbed a bottle of wine and dropped onto the chaise in the main room. "There's a bath waiting for you when you're ready."
"Ohh," Jaskier gasped, swallowing a huge mouthful of wine. "Wonderful, just what I need. I am covered in dust."
Soon, the house was full of Jaskier, his endless singing, his distinctive smell, his things, scattered everywhere. He really was like a miniature whirlwind, disturbing the typically tranquil life of the vineyard.
And despite the noise and mess and sudden busyness, Geralt wouldn't have it any other way.
They had a few weeks together alone, apart from the Corvo Bianco staff. Regis dropped in regularly to share wine and swap the same old stories they'd been telling for years, as well as sit in on Jaskier's newest gossip from the Academy. And then, at last, the rest of the family arrived.
Ten days or so before Yule, Yen returned in a fizzing, popping circle of purple light.
"Less pepper and more salt, this year, Jaskier?" she had said, one perfect eyebrow raised at his hair, before he pulled her into a crushing hug.
Ciri arrived a few days later with, much to Geralt's surprise, Eskel: they had run into each other on the path and had decided to travel to Toussaint together. Lambert came two days after them, shouting about being cheated out of his pay for a contract on a slyzard.
The house was suddenly alive, a crush of bodies and shouting and drinking. It was times like this that Geralt was particularly glad that he'd retired to a vineyard: he would never run out of wine. The house suddenly felt too small as everyone packed in. Geralt’s brothers were happy enough camping out in the lounge room - “Better than sleeping on the floor in the woods”, as Lambert had said. The spare bedroom was given over to Yen and Ciri, which found Jaskier in Geralt’s bed, something which didn’t pain either of them given how many times they’d shared beds before.
Decades ago, when they had first started travelling together, bed sharing had been a rather tense affair: all blanket-stealing and pressing oneself to the furthest edge of the mattress. Now, Jaskier simply flung himself into the bed, slipping his freezing feet between Geralt’s legs and slinging an arm around him. Geralt had missed his closeness, even if his toes were always cold and he snored like a gryphon.
Yule itself was a blur of laughter and singing and gifts. Regis showed up early in the morning with armfuls of seasonal flowers, weaving them artfully into festive crowns. Even Lambert wore one, although the more white-gull-spiked wine he drank the lower it slipped over his eyes.
Jaskier laughed at him, his own crown perched perfectly atop his white-streaked hair. His eyes sparkled, his mouth stained with red wine. Geralt found himself staring. When he finally allowed himself to look away, he spotted Yen and Ciri staring at him. They rose their eyebrows at him in unison - the expression near identical on both of their faces - and Geralt quickly busied himself with handing out gifts.
Geralt had decided that he wouldn’t give Jaskier the wolf until the day he left, instead gifting him a leather-bound notebook that he’d commissioned from an artisan in town, made from real draconid leather from a forktail that had been terrorising a nearby farm. Jaskier stroked the cover with a gentle hand, his lips in a soft, fond smile.
Geralt had nearly asked him to stay again, there and then. But he couldn't bear the rejection, swallowing the offer down and allowing himself to be distracted by Eskel's gift for him: a hand-carved bone dagger.
The rest of the day passed quickly, although Geralt was sure he could feel both Yen and Ciri watching him closely whenever he and Jaskier stood beside each other. Thankfully, neither of them said anything - likely cheered too much by Yule spirit and good wine to bother teasing him today.
Much to his surprise, the teasing never did come. The day after Yule was, as always, a rather subdued affair, and the knowing looks and admonitions that he’d been expecting never materialised. He was thankful for that: he didn’t fancy explaining the whole situation to them, unsure what the situation even was to begin with. He couldn’t even explain it to himself.
After a few days, the house began to empty again as everyone was forced to return to their real lives. Jaskier always lingered long after everyone else had left. The term didn’t start until some time into the new year, while witchering and the work of a sorceress never stopped. Geralt loved the few, precious days when he would be surrounded by his entire family, but over the years he’d come to deeply anticipate the week after, when it would just be him and Jaskier drinking wine and enjoying the cool winter sunshine.
This year, there seemed to be a hesitance in his friend. A full week passed, then another. Jaskier made no move to leave, and the longer he stayed the less he talked about the Academy, focusing more on the running of the vineyard or begging Geralt to take him visiting in the neighbouring towns. Geralt couldn’t complain - he missed Jaskier when he wasn’t here, and the surprising length of his stay was only a good thing. But as he listened to Jaskier spinning poetry about the winter flowers blooming on the trellis, he couldn’t help but feel that it would hurt all the more when he finally chose to leave.
It was less than two weeks before term was due to start. Jaskier was still sprawling on the chaise or accompanying Geralt into Beauclair. He would have to leave soon, Geralt knew, or he would never make it back to Oxenfurt in time.
They were lounging in the garden one evening when Geralt couldn’t bear it any longer. He’d taken to carrying the clay wolf around with him so he would be prepared for when Jaskier told him he was leaving, but that had never come. He didn’t want Jaskier to leave, but he couldn’t stand this waiting - waiting for the blade to drop.
“I, ah—” his words failed him immediately, making him feel foolish. “I made you this.”
He offered the little wolf, keeping his eyes down. Jaskier took it, eyes wide.
“Oh, it’s—”
“It’s like… last year, when you brought that kitten home? It’s to keep you safe. When you move on.”
Jaskier sniffed beside him. “Actually…”
Geralt turned. “Actually?”
“Surely you’ve noticed that I’m here rather, ah, later than I usually am?”
“I… have, yes. Putting off the journey?”
Jaskier looked guilty. He broke Geralt’s gaze, fiddling with the wolf.
“Geralt, I…” he swallowed. “I… cherish our time here every winter. You used to ask me if I was sure I didn’t want to stay. Do you remember?”
Geralt felt a stone in his throat. “Of course I remember.”
Finally, Jaskier looked back up. “Why did you stop asking?”
“What?”
“It’s just… you stopped asking, a few years ago. And now you’ve given me this, and it’s lovely, Geralt, it’s really lovely, but—” his voice quivered. Geralt rarely heard him sound so uncertain, not anymore. “I was going to take you up on the offer,” Jaskier said, barely more than a whisper. “If, of course, it still stands. But if you want me to go, to get back on the road—” he stared down at the wolf. “I can be out of your hair in a couple days.”
No.
“Jaskier…”
“Yes?”
“I stopped asking because you always said no. I thought I was… annoying you. Insulting your choice to carry on travelling.”
“Oh.”
“And—” it was painful, but he needed to get it out. “Fuck, Jaskier. I hated it when you said no. It hurt. So I stopped asking.”
“Oh,” Jaskier repeated, fresh and sudden understanding in his voice. “Oh, Geralt—”
And then, suddenly, he bundled himself into Geralt’s lap, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, pressing their lips together—
It had been so long since they had last kissed. Two years ago, in fact: Geralt could remember that evening in vivid, wine-soaked clarity, even though he’d been drunk on his own supply. The next morning, after waking sweaty and tangled in each other, they had decided that it couldn’t happen again. There was a reason why they had decided to end the thing that had grown between them, after all.
It was like coming home, after too long away. Like fresh water after a day of thirst. Like the first good meal after weeks on the road.
When Jaskier finally pulled away, there were tears sparkling in the corners of his eyes.
“Oh, how I’ve missed you,” he muttered, his low voice nearly carried away on the breeze.
Geralt stared at him. They’d spent months together this winter: they’d spent months together every winter for years. They’d exchanged more letters than Geralt could count - long, laborious things. They’d visited when they could, the few times Geralt returned to the road. They’d never left each other’s lives.
Geralt pulled him back, tangling his hand in his hair, kissing him again. He released him with a breathy sigh, brushing their lips together.
“I’ve missed you too.”