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Chapter 1 — Are You His Husband?
The contract had been dull.
Which, Geralt privately considered, was a blessing. A drowned ghoul in a half-dried well, dispatched quickly, with no villagers screaming, no unexpected complications, and no suspicious nobles asking inconvenient questions. They had been paid fairly. Jaskier had complained about the smell. Balance had been maintained.
The village itself was small—no more than a handful of clustered cottages, a crooked well, and an inn that leaned slightly to the left as though it had grown tired of pretending otherwise. Smoke curled from a few chimneys. Chickens wandered with absolute confidence.
Peaceful.
Jaskier stretched as they approached the square, rolling his shoulders and adjusting the strap of his lute.
"Well," he announced, "another grateful village saved by the heroic duo. You're welcome, unnamed agricultural settlement."
Geralt made a noncommittal sound.
They were halfway across the square when he noticed the child.
Seven, perhaps. Eight. Old enough to be curious, young enough to lack any instinct for caution. The child stood near the well, arms crossed, head tilted, gaze fixed on them with the intensity of someone studying a puzzle.
Geralt slowed slightly. Years of experience had taught him that children who stared this hard were either about to ask something deeply uncomfortable… or throw something.
This one chose the former.
The child stepped forward, planting themself squarely in Jaskier's path.
Jaskier nearly walked straight into them.
"Oh! Hello there," Jaskier said brightly, immediately shifting into his best public persona. "And who might you be, brave guardian of the well?"
The child did not answer this extremely reasonable question.
Instead, they looked up at him, squinting with solemn concentration, and asked:
"Are you his husband?"
The world did something odd.
Not stopped entirely. That would have been dramatic. But it did… hesitate. Like a lute string plucked too hard, vibrating strangely before settling.
Jaskier's brain produced absolutely no sound at all.
Geralt, behind him, blinked once. Slowly.
The child waited.
Jaskier became painfully aware of several things all at once:
The warmth of the afternoon sun
The fact that the child's shoes were mismatched
The fact that Geralt was standing directly behind him
The fact that he had not prepared, in his entire life, for this exact sentence
"Well," Jaskier said finally, with the sort of confidence normally reserved for people who had any idea what they were doing, "that is a… fascinating question."
The child did not look fascinated. The child looked expectant.
Jaskier glanced sideways, just slightly, toward Geralt. Help. Support. A grunt. A growl. Anything.
Geralt continued to exist.
"…We're," Jaskier said, turning back to the child, "we're traveling companions."
The child studied him with open skepticism.
"That's what my parents said before they married."
Jaskier opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"…Your parents sound very sensible."
Geralt shifted behind him. Leather creaked softly.
The child's gaze flicked to Geralt, then back to Jaskier. "You share food."
"Yes," Jaskier said weakly. "We do eat."
"You share a horse."
"Temporarily."
"You share blankets."
Jaskier made a strangled sound.
Geralt said calmly, "We conserve warmth."
The child absorbed this, unimpressed.
"That's married behavior."
Jaskier laughed. It came out slightly too high. "Children today. Very advanced."
The child stepped aside, clearly finished with the interrogation. "Mama!" they called over their shoulder. "They're like you and Da before the wedding!"
A woman near the bakery looked over, smiled broadly, and waved at them.
Geralt inclined his head politely.
Jaskier waved back out of reflex, then immediately regretted every life choice that had brought him here.
They continued toward the inn in silence.
Several villagers smiled at them as they passed.
Not unfriendly smiles.
Knowing ones.
Warm ones.
Jaskier leaned closer to Geralt without thinking, voice dropping. "You could have helped me."
Geralt glanced at him. "I was assessing the question."
"Assessing it for what? Its emotional impact on my entire sense of self?"
"It was… unexpected."
"Yes," Jaskier said faintly. "That is one word for it."
They reached the inn door. The innkeeper, a broad-shouldered woman with flour on her hands, beamed when she saw them.
"Ah! You must be the witcher and his husband!"
Jaskier made a noise that might once have been a greeting.
Geralt said calmly, "We require a room."
The innkeeper winked. "Of course you do."
Jaskier stared at the door as though it had betrayed him personally.
Behind them, the child watched with great satisfaction.
Chapter 2 — The Village Has Already Decided
The innkeeper did not ask how many rooms they wanted.
She simply reached for a key, slid it across the counter, and said, "You'll be in the back room. Quieter. More private."
Jaskier stared at the key.
Then at her.
Then at Geralt.
"Actually," Jaskier began carefully, "we might—"
"One room is plenty," the innkeeper said with absolute certainty. "You won't be disturbed."
Geralt nodded once. "Thank you."
Jaskier watched the exchange unfold as though trapped in a play he had not auditioned for.
They climbed the narrow stairs in silence. When they reached the room, Jaskier pushed the door open and immediately took in the scene:
One bed.
One blanket.
Two pillows.
He closed his eyes briefly, as though this might reset reality.
It did not.
"It's fine," he said quickly, too quickly. "We've shared worse accommodations. Remember that barn in Temeria? With the goats?"
Geralt removed his gloves with methodical calm. "The goats were disruptive."
"Yes, well. This is… quieter."
Geralt glanced at the bed. Then at him. Then back at the bed.
Neither of them suggested asking for another room.
They left the inn not long after to find food, which only worsened the situation.
At the bakery, Jaskier selected a loaf and reached for his coin pouch.
The baker waved him off cheerfully. "Couple's discount."
Jaskier froze mid-reach. "The what?"
The baker smiled warmly. "You two are sweet together. Reminds me of me and my wife when we were young."
Jaskier slowly completed the transaction using money he did not technically owe, then walked outside in a daze.
Geralt waited near the well.
"She gave me bread out of marital pity," Jaskier announced.
Geralt accepted the loaf. "It is good bread."
"That is not the issue."
They ate as they walked.
An older woman sitting on a bench watched them with fond eyes.
"You remind me of my late husband and I," she said gently as they passed. "Always bickering. Always together."
Jaskier gave her a startled smile. "I'm so sorry for your loss."
The woman patted his hand as he passed. "Hold on to each other. That's the trick."
Geralt inclined his head respectfully. "Thank you."
Jaskier did not know where to put his hands for the rest of the afternoon.
It did not improve.
A stable boy pointed at them and whispered to his friend.
A merchant greeted Geralt with: "Afternoon, witcher—and your bard-husband!"
A woman handing out apples said brightly, "One for you, one for your lovely spouse."
Jaskier accepted the apple automatically and stared at it in his palm like it had personally betrayed him.
By the time they returned to the inn, his composure was hanging by a thread.
They sat on the edge of the bed, boots off, the lantern burning low.
Jaskier exhaled dramatically and flopped backward onto the mattress.
"This village has fully written a narrative around us," he announced to the ceiling. "We are married, domestic, and possibly co-managing the bakery."
Geralt removed his sword belt and placed it carefully on the chair. "They appear content with the assumption."
"That's because they're not living inside my skull," Jaskier muttered.
Geralt sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
Jaskier turned his head slightly, studying the ceiling beams. "I don't even get called bard with this much confidence."
Geralt's voice was steady. "You are a bard."
"Yes, thank you, I am aware of my profession," Jaskier said dryly. "That's not the point."
Geralt looked at him. "What is the point?"
Jaskier opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
"…Nothing," he said finally, far too quickly. "Nothing at all."
Geralt watched him for a moment longer, then lay down beside him without comment.
The lantern flickered.
The bed creaked softly under the shared weight.
Jaskier lay rigidly on his back, hands folded over his chest as though awaiting judgment.
Geralt lay on his side, facing away, breathing slow and even.
Minutes passed.
Neither slept.
Jaskier became acutely aware of the space between them. Of how small it actually was. Of how easy it would be to close.
He did not move.
Geralt did not move.
The village outside slept peacefully, entirely satisfied with the story it had already decided was true.
Inside the small back room of the inn, two men lay awake in the dark, far too aware of each other's presence.
And neither of them said why they had not corrected anyone.
Chapter 3 — Public vs Private
By morning, the village had fully incorporated them into its daily rhythm.
Not as witcher and bard.
As a pair.
Geralt discovered this when a man with a ladder appeared at the inn door just after breakfast.
"You're the witcher," the man said, nodding politely. "Your husband said you'd take a look at the loose shingles on the roof."
Jaskier, halfway through buttering a roll, froze.
Geralt paused only briefly. "I did not say that."
The man looked confused. "The bard did."
Geralt turned.
Jaskier stared back at him with wide, innocent eyes. "I may have mentioned you were… capable."
"You said I would fix the roof."
Jaskier gestured vaguely. "You are a professional solver of problems. This is adjacent."
Geralt studied him for a long moment.
Then he stood, collected his gloves, and followed the man outside without further comment.
Jaskier watched him go, spoon hovering over his tea.
"Well," he muttered to himself, "that's one way to handle domestic labor."
It did not end there.
By midday, Jaskier had been asked to:
Help organize the delivery of grain sacks
Keep a pair of twins entertained while their mother fetched water
Write a short love note for a nervous young farmer
Pass along a message to "your husband" about a loose fence post
He did all of it automatically.
Not because he had been asked as someone's spouse.
But because he was… good at these things. People needed help. So he helped.
Still, the way the requests were phrased lingered.
"Your husband said you'd know how to arrange this."
"Your husband mentioned you were good with words."
"Your husband likes honey cakes, right? Take an extra."
By the time Geralt returned, boots dusty and shoulders faintly flecked with straw, Jaskier was seated on a low wall with a small group of villagers, coordinating the distribution of supplies like he'd been doing it all his life.
Geralt stopped.
Observed.
Jaskier was gesturing animatedly, charm fully engaged, laughter spilling easily as he redirected two men carrying the same crate in opposite directions.
"No, no, that goes to Marta's house—she's the one with the injured foot. You'll thank me later when you're not climbing the hill twice."
They listened.
They adjusted course.
The supply cart flowed more smoothly afterward.
Geralt approached as the crowd dispersed.
Jaskier turned toward him with a bright grin. "Ah! My fearless roof-repairer returns!"
"The roof is stable," Geralt said.
"Excellent. I, meanwhile, appear to have become the village's temporary logistics manager."
Geralt glanced toward the supply cart. "You organized it efficiently."
Jaskier blinked. "You noticed?"
"I observe."
Jaskier smiled faintly. "Apparently I am excellent at administrative spousal duties."
Geralt regarded him. "You organized the supply cart."
"Yes, yes, I am thriving in my new role," Jaskier said lightly. "Like a devoted husband would."
He waited.
Some quip.
Some correction.
Some refusal.
Geralt did not provide one.
He simply turned slightly so he was walking beside Jaskier again, close enough that their arms brushed when they moved.
Jaskier stared straight ahead.
They made it only halfway down the path before the child from the well appeared again.
This time, the child was holding something.
A scrap of parchment.
They marched up to Jaskier with great importance and held it out proudly.
"I made you this."
Jaskier accepted it gently. "For me?"
"For both of you," the child corrected.
He looked down.
Two stick figures. One with wild hair and a sword. One with a lute. Their hands connected by a long, deliberate line.
Above them, in very serious, crooked lettering, were the words:
MY FAVORITE HUSBANDS
Jaskier's chest did something unfortunate.
He looked up slowly.
The child beamed.
Geralt leaned down to examine the drawing. His gaze lingered on the tiny connected hands.
"It is accurate," he said.
Jaskier let out a startled laugh. "Accurate? You cannot encourage this, Geralt!"
The child looked between them. "You're not mad?"
Jaskier opened his mouth.
Geralt said calmly, "No."
The child nodded with immense satisfaction and skipped away, clearly convinced they had solved a puzzle no one else was brave enough to name.
Jaskier stared after them.
Then down at the drawing.
Then at Geralt.
"You realize," he said softly, "we are deeply misleading the youth of this village."
Geralt looked at the paper again. Then at Jaskier.
"You seem… content with the misunderstanding."
Jaskier swallowed.
"…I am many things," he said lightly. "Content is simply one of them."
Geralt did not respond.
But he did not step away either.
And when they walked back toward the inn, Jaskier noticed—only faintly, only just—that Geralt adjusted his pace to match his exactly.
As if it had never been any other way.
Chapter 4 — The Question They're Avoiding
The inn was quiet by the time they returned to their room.
The lantern burned low. The village outside slept. Even the floorboards had ceased their habitual complaints.
Jaskier sat cross-legged on the bed, plucking softly at his lute strings without really playing anything. Not a melody. Just sound. Just movement. Just something to keep the silence from becoming too loud.
Geralt sat on the chair near the wall, sharpening his dagger with slow, deliberate strokes.
Neither of them spoke for several minutes.
Jaskier broke first.
"Well," he said too brightly, "on the bright side, if we remain here another day, I believe we'll be invited to preside over the harvest festival. Possibly also adopt a goat."
Geralt did not look up. "You are unsettled."
"I am delighted," Jaskier said, plucking a dissonant chord. "Truly. The warmth. The community. The overwhelming assumption of my marital status."
Geralt set the dagger aside.
The sound of it touching wood was soft. Final.
He turned toward Jaskier fully now.
"Why didn't you correct them?"
The question was not accusatory.
It was calm. Quiet. Almost careful.
Jaskier's fingers stilled on the strings.
He smiled reflexively. "Ah. That."
Geralt waited.
Jaskier waved a hand vaguely. "Social fatigue. You know how it is. One corrects one person, and then another, and then suddenly one is explaining the complexities of emotional truth to a baker with flour in her eyebrows—"
"Jaskier."
The single word was gentle.
But it ended the performance.
Jaskier looked up.
Geralt was watching him with that familiar stillness. The one he used before battle. Before choice. Before honesty.
Jaskier's smile faltered.
He tried again. "Besides, it was harmless. A village misunderstanding. A temporary—"
"Jaskier."
Silence this time.
Real silence.
The lute slipped from his fingers and landed softly on the bed.
He looked down at his hands.
"…Because," he said quietly, "I didn't want to hear you deny it."
The words hung between them.
Unadorned.
Unjoked.
Unhidden.
Geralt did not react immediately.
He did not look away.
Jaskier risked a glance up—and found no shock there. No discomfort. Only attention.
"It would have been… reasonable," Jaskier continued softly. "For you to say no. To correct them. To clarify that I am simply a companion. A bard. A temporary irritation."
"You are not an irritation," Geralt said.
"That is not the point," Jaskier murmured. "The point is… I did not want to hear you draw a line I could not cross back over."
Geralt stood slowly.
Not abruptly.
Not tense.
Just movement.
He crossed the room and sat on the bed beside Jaskier. Close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.
Close enough that the air shifted.
"I did not correct them either," Geralt said quietly.
Jaskier's breath caught. "Yes, I noticed."
Geralt looked down at his hands. Then back to Jaskier. "Not because I was uncertain of how to respond."
"Then why?"
Geralt considered the question seriously.
As he did all things.
"Because," he said slowly, "it felt… peaceful."
Jaskier froze.
Geralt continued, voice low, unhurried. "To be seen as something ordinary. Not as a witcher. Not as a weapon. But as part of something. A pair. A life."
Jaskier stared at him.
"You mean—"
"It did not feel like a lie," Geralt finished quietly.
The words were simple.
They broke everything open.
The room felt suddenly too small.
Too full.
Neither of them moved.
Their shoulders were almost touching now. Not quite. A breath's distance. A choice left unmade.
Jaskier swallowed. "That's… a very dangerous thing to say to a bard."
Geralt's mouth curved faintly. "I am aware."
Silence returned.
But it was different now.
Not avoidance.
Not tension.
Just… weight.
Meaning.
Jaskier's hand rested on the bed between them. Geralt's rested on his own knee. Close enough that a single shift would bridge the gap.
Neither moved.
Not yet.
Outside, the village slept peacefully, convinced in a story they had written without knowing how close they had come to the truth.
Inside, two men sat in the quiet, shoulders nearly touching, both aware of the same fragile possibility.
And for once, neither filled the space with jokes.
Chapter 5 — The Kiss
Morning arrived quietly.
Fog hung low over the village, softening the edges of everything—the rooftops, the fences, the paths. Even the inn looked gentler in it, as though the world had decided to offer them a small mercy.
Jaskier stood behind the building with a mug of weak tea cradled in both hands.
He hadn't gone far.
He hadn't meant to.
He simply needed air.
Footsteps approached behind him. Slow. Familiar. Measured.
Geralt stopped beside him without a word.
They stood together, watching the fog drift between the trees.
For a long while, neither spoke.
Jaskier exhaled. "I dislike silence," he said lightly. "It gives my thoughts too much room to organize."
Geralt did not smile, but there was warmth in the quiet way he turned his head toward him.
Jaskier stared into his cup. "I've been thinking about what you said. Last night."
Geralt waited.
"I think part of me," Jaskier continued, voice softer now, stripped of its usual brightness, "wanted it to be true."
He did not need to explain what he meant.
The village.
The assumptions.
The picture with the joined hands.
The word.
Geralt said nothing.
The silence stretched.
Jaskier felt suddenly foolish for having said anything at all.
He laughed softly, already retreating. "Of course, that's ridiculous. Romantic projection, classic bard behavior. I see a narrative and I run headlong toward it—"
A hand closed gently around his sleeve.
Not forceful.
Not abrupt.
Just… present.
Jaskier froze.
Geralt's fingers were warm through the fabric, steady and deliberate. A grounding weight.
"Do not retreat," Geralt said quietly.
Jaskier turned slowly.
Geralt stood closer now. Not touching anywhere else. Just that small, firm hold at his wrist, as though anchoring him there.
"You have not misread anything," Geralt said.
Jaskier's breath caught. "You say that very calmly for someone about to upend my entire emotional infrastructure."
Geralt studied him. "You often upend mine."
That did something sharp and gentle all at once to Jaskier's chest.
Geralt released his sleeve.
Then, after a moment's consideration—as though acknowledging a choice already made—he stepped closer instead.
Not rushed.
Not uncertain.
Just inevitable.
He lifted a hand this time, fingertips brushing Jaskier's shoulder lightly, as if asking permission.
Jaskier didn't move away.
The kiss was brief.
Soft.
Unhurried.
It held no urgency, no hunger. Just a quiet, steady certainty—like closing a book that had already reached its final page.
When Geralt pulled back, the fog felt thicker somehow. The world smaller.
Jaskier blinked at him, dazed.
"Well," he murmured, breathless and faintly stunned, "that's new."
Geralt regarded him calmly. "No."
Jaskier stared. "No?"
"Only acknowledged."
Jaskier let out a soft, incredulous laugh. "You are infuriatingly composed about this."
Geralt tilted his head slightly. "I am not."
Jaskier studied him more closely.
The stillness. The control. The careful posture.
And beneath it, something rawer. Something chosen.
He smiled.
"Right," he said quietly. "Of course you're not."
They stood there for another moment, neither quite ready to move.
Then, together, they turned back toward the village.
Toward the baker.
The innkeeper.
The child with the drawing.
The people who had assumed and welcomed and believed.
They walked side by side through the fog, close enough that their arms brushed with each step.
Not hiding.
Not explaining.
Not correcting.
Just returning.
Together.
Chapter 6 — Nothing Changes (Except Everything)
The fog had lifted by the time they reached the village square.
Sunlight touched the rooftops. Chickens resumed their important patrols. The inn door creaked open as someone stepped out with a basket of laundry.
Life, it seemed, had not noticed anything significant.
Which felt oddly reassuring.
The child from the well noticed immediately.
They spotted Jaskier first and broke into a run, boots thudding eagerly against the dirt. They skidded to a stop a few steps away, hands clasped behind their back, eyes bright with anticipation.
"You're back!"
"We were never gone," Jaskier said lightly.
The child's gaze flicked between them, then up at Geralt. Their smile widened. "Did you walk together?"
Geralt answered calmly. "Yes."
The child nodded, deeply satisfied with the world's continued correctness, and scampered off again.
Jaskier watched them go with a faint, thoughtful expression.
"That child is going to grow up with dangerously idealistic expectations of romance," he murmured.
Geralt glanced at him. "Possibly."
They stepped into the inn together.
The innkeeper looked up from the counter, beamed instantly, and reached for two bowls without hesitation.
"Two bowls of stew for the married couple!" she called cheerfully.
Jaskier opened his mouth on instinct. "We are—"
"Thank you," Geralt said.
The innkeeper set the bowls down with a pleased nod and went back to her work.
Jaskier slowly turned to stare at Geralt.
Geralt met his gaze calmly.
"You just accepted that," Jaskier said.
"Yes."
"You didn't even hesitate."
"No."
"You didn't look pained."
"No."
"You didn't look like you were enduring a misunderstanding for the sake of social ease."
Geralt considered this. "Correct."
Jaskier stared at him for a long moment.
Then, helplessly, he smiled.
They ate in the corner by the window, shoulder to shoulder, listening to the murmur of the inn and the crackle of the hearth.
People passed their table.
People smiled.
People spoke to them as one.
It no longer felt like wearing borrowed clothing.
It felt… strangely fitting.
That night, the room felt different.
Not because anything had changed physically. The bed was the same. The lantern burned with the same soft light. The floorboards creaked with the same familiar complaint.
But the space between them felt… settled.
Jaskier lay on his side this time, facing Geralt, propped on one elbow.
Geralt lay opposite him, relaxed, silver eyes half-lidded in the dim.
Jaskier studied him for a long moment.
"You realize," he said quietly, "we never actually discussed what we are."
Geralt regarded him calmly. "We are here."
Jaskier huffed a faint laugh. "Romantic, darling. Terrifyingly so."
Geralt did not smile, but his gaze softened.
"We are chosen," he said quietly.
The words were simple.
They did not need to be larger.
Jaskier swallowed, something warm and unfamiliar sitting behind his ribs.
"…Yes," he said softly. "I suppose we are."
They did not make promises.
They did not define boundaries.
They did not draft declarations.
They simply shifted closer in the bed, instinctively, naturally, until their foreheads nearly touched.
Outside, the village slept peacefully.
Inside, two men rested in the same quiet space they always had.
Nothing had changed.
Except everything.