Archive of Our Own

Eskel for once is happy to leave Kaer Morhen come spring. While the rest and company will be missed —the harsh reality of the Path provides a stark contrast to the life in the keep— Geralt’s constant “Jaskier did this” or “one time Jaskier…” was starting to grate on Eskel’s nerves by the time the Midwinter approached.

Eskel has met the bard multiple times during the past decade that his brother and the little songbird were acquainted. He’s witnessed Geralt’s begrudging acceptance of the foppish young man blossom into affection. He’s seen the meaningful glances, the honest care, the delicate balance of years of companionship. 

Eskel should be happy for his brother— it’s not common for a witcher to find true love on the Path. He should be overjoyed even but the truth is he’s not. A vile bitterness rises to his throat every time Geralt speaks fondly of Jaskier and his dreams are plagued by blue eyes and soft-looking lips, of rough calloused hands and a sharp witty tongue. 

The bard has stolen Eskel’s heart —years now— and Eskel hates himself a little bit more with each passing day.  

He intends to stay away from Jaskier, even going to the lengths of making sure he doesn’t cross paths with his brother. He’ll have his ears focused and his eyes peeled at any sign of bardic festival, of marriage celebration or tavern that feels like the bard would want to perform in. 

Maybe a year alone of monster-contract-coin will help Eskel forget him. Maybe he’ll stop wanting to wrap the silken clad minstrel in his arms, press his lips against the warmth of his body, trace his digits over the swell of his firm ass— 

Fuck. 

Eskel shakes the thought away, painfully aware of his now uncomfortable breeches. 

Luck is rarely on Eskel’s side. 

It’s cold still, the last of the snows still clinging tenaciously to the patches of dirt on the ground, to the dark green needles of the fir trees of western Kaedwen. Eskel trudges slow and careful through the woods, Scorpion gaiting lazily by his side when a very familiar voice —that one voice that plagues his dreams— sounds loud and clear in the distance. 

“I believe,” he can hear Jaskier say, voice dripping venom, “that you’ll come to regret this…  quite pitiful really, ambush.” 

Hearing the word ambush come from Jaskier’s mouth makes Eskel see red. His plans of avoiding the man his heart should not beat for are forgotten as the witcher rushes between the trees as fast as his legs allow him to. He has to get there before Jaskier’s false bravado leads him to an inglorious death. 

He has to— 

Eskel stops at his tracks as a bolt sings through the air. He’s not even five metres away from the small clearing which, from the looks of it, Jaskier chose as a camping site. He watches, unable to move, as Jaskier with feline-like grace dips to the side, the bolt missing him barely. He watches as a dagger, curved and sharp, dances in Jaskier’s hands as he stabs and cuts at the six bandits that have him surrounded. 

Eskel sucks in a sharp breath when the rusty pike of a dingy man grazes Jaskier’s doublet and without a second thought, he rushes into the fray, steel sword in his left hand and Aard in his right. 

He barely registers Jaskier drop his weapon unceremoniously, backstepping away from the flurry of chaos and steel.

The bandits aren’t much of a challenge.

Eskel is not in the business of killing humans but when those humans behave worse than monsters — when those monsters in human skin threaten Jaskier’s life — he makes an exception. He cuts them down, one by one, their dying screams echoing in the vast forest.

When he’s done, when the only other sounds in the dimly lit clearing are his own ragged breathing and Jaskier’s ever-calm heartbeat, he drops his sword and moves to the treeline where the bard is hiding behind a large fir tree. 

“Jaskier,” he says as calmly as he can muster. He can't— won’t let his worry, his feelings for the bard, show. “Did they hurt you?” 

Too-pretty blue eyes meet Eskel’s amber, and Jaskier shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says, “If it weren’t for you, my friend… I fear they would have cut me down—” 

They wouldn’t, Eskel thinks . He knows what he saw; the feline, almost liquid, movements, the confident grip on the dagger. Jaskier, despite looking as frail as a songbird, knows how to fight. Well.     

Curious as the bard’s competence in a knife fight may be, it’s not completely unfounded. The bard has been travelling with Geralt —the famed White Wolf, the best fighter in Kaer Morhen— for a decade, if not more. It makes sense that Geralt would want his partner to be able to defend himself from possible threats. Especially since said partner, from what little — or a lot — Eskel has heard, draws in trouble like a flame draws in moths.

Still, this technique with the dagger is like nothing Eskel has ever seen in his eight decades of living. 

Jaskier is still rambling, voice quivering dramatically as he plays the damsel in distress. This only serves to make Eskel more suspicious than he already is about Jaskier’s surprisingly good and foreign combat skills. But if the man wants to play the helpless victim, Eskel isn’t one to deprive him of it. 

“Can I travel with you for a while, Eskel?” Jaskier asks, his pretty blue eyes wide in faux-fear. “I swear I’ll be but silent backup! Just— After this,”--he gestures at the clearing strewn with bloody corpses—“I don’t think I want to travel by myself through the Kestrel Mountain pass.” 

Despite Eskel’s mind protesting that this is precisely the opposite of his plan for the year, namely to forget about the bard and everything he means to him, his heart beats in the prospect of spending more time with Jaskier. 

“Sure,” he ends up saying, “let’s travel together for a while.” 

After all , he says to himself, if something were to happen to Jaskier, Geralt would never forgive him.   And if the bright smile Jaskier shoots him makes his heart skip a beat, and songs fill his mind, that’s no one’s business but his.  

Travelling with Jaskier is the best and worst thing that has happened to Eskel in years— if not decades. 

Jaskier seems to try very intently to hide his astounding competence from Eskel, going as far as tripping over his own feet every once in a while and proclaiming himself "king of clumsiness". Which is utter bullshit to say the least. 

But for all the idiotic attempt at keeping this horrible terrible secret, Jaskier can't hide how much he cares.

Eskel was already aware of the bard’s sharp tongue and his bright mind. What he didn’t know though was how goddamn defensive Jaskier gets whenever a stingy alderman, a bigoted innkeeper or merchant intends to stifle Eskel’s payment, refuse him a room in the inn or trade with their wares respectively. 

No story of Geralt’s prepared him for the spitfire that is the bard. It’s almost like the mistreatment of witchers is personal to him. 

Apart from that, the easy smiles, the gentle teasing and the song—the goddamn song— Jaskier wrote for Eskel for saving him from the vile bandit’s clutch , make for a fucking health hazard. 

Eskel, for one, is glad Jaskier can’t hear his frantic heartbeat, can’t smell the arousal Eskel can almost constantly smell on himself. 

He’s utterly fucked. 

They are in a no-name shitty little hovel again when Eskel leaves in a hurry to take care of some rotfiends that took residence at the burial grounds. Jaskier has been awfully sweet to him since early in the morn, braiding flower crowns for Eskel and Scorpion, claiming that the flowers bring out the handsome features on Eskel’s face. As if a burly scarred witcher like Eskel can be considered handsome.  

He’s afraid he stays a minute more, he’s afraid he’ll do something he regrets. Like, profess his love for his brother’s partner. 

Gods save him. 

“Where are you going?” Jaskier jogs after him, Eskel’s potion bag in hand. Eskel walks faster. 

“Stay back, I got this,” he almost snarls. 

“At least take a bottle of that weak necrophage oil with you! Rotfiends are nasty beasties!” Jaskier shouts but Eskel doesn’t turn to face him. He can’t face him, not ashamed and half-hard like this. Not when he’s moment’s away from kissing him senseless. 

Eskel can already smell the stench of the rotfiends when he realises what Jaskier said to him before he left in a hurry. The words “weak necrophage oil” tingle something in his brain. It makes no sense for Jaskier to know the quality of the various potions and poisons Eskel carries with him. It’s impossible for a human to know, as the species’ senses aren’t as advanced as those of a mutant. 

It could be by chance, he reckons. Jaskier can’t possibly know, can he? But this is not the first instance of something similar happening. Eskel realises, upon thought, that Jaskier knows suspiciously too many things concerning not only monsters (which isn’t that much shocking, to be honest, considering he’s been travelling with Geralt of Rivia for a decade) but also alchemy. Combined with his experience in combat it makes for incriminating evidence regarding how much of Jaskier is true or an act… 

An alghoul lounges towards Eskel, and lost in his thoughts as he is, he barely manages to form Quen around him. He pivots on his heel reaching for the dagger on his belt as the alghoul swipes a large clawed hand just as the shield dissipates, but he’s too slow. 

Pain, hot and sharp, blooms from his arm and Eskel knows he has minutes left before the alghoul’s venom paralyses him whole. He remembers Jaskier running after him, Eskel’s potion bag in hand, and he curses silently.  He’s been so preoccupied with running away from the bard —from these shameful feelings the man causes him to feel— that he went into the contract without preparation. Fuck. 

Eskel shoots a strong Igni blindly in the general direction of the alghoul hoping that it’ll scare it off for enough time for him to retreat, to make it at least halfway to the village before the poison renders him helpless.  

“Oh, no you bloody cock!” he hears Jaskier yell and for a brief moment, Eskel thinks that he’s already started hallucinating, but then he sees the bard in his forest green silk doublet slide beside him, two curved daggers lodging themselves on the alghoul’s skull before a quick and calculated movement of Jaskier’s hands sends its head flying.  

Poison coursing through his veins, Eskel must have fallen to his knees at some point, because the bard is now hovering above him, brows pinched in concern, holding a bottle of something to his lips. 

“There, drink it all, dear,” Jaskier says softly, “It’s White Honey Eskel, I promise I have nothing to gain from poisoning you further.”

Barely cognizant, he wills himself to down the liquid, his paralyzed muscles screaming in relief as he regains autonomy of his movements. His gaze shifts to Jaskier who’s crouched beside him, daggers now back in his hands, his eyes flitting left and right scanning the area for danger. 

“We’re safe for now,” he whispers, “Surprisingly, the rotfiends haven’t noticed us yet considering,” —he gestures at the very dead alghoul. “How are you feeling Eskel? Think you can fight soon?”

“Better,” Eskel grits between his teeth. He has so many questions for the bard who’s now looking more like a trained assassin than anything else. So many questions but who’s he to Jaskier to ask them. He’s not Geralt and he’ll never be. 

Jaskier lets out a deep sigh which catches Eskel’s attention. He can’t possibly know what Eskel’s been thinking, can he? The question is answered for him immediately because Jaskier says, “I’ll let you in on a secret. But you have to promise me Eskel that you won’t tell a soul. It’s really quite important no one knows.” 

Eskel arches a brow instinctively but he quickly schools his face into a serious expression and says, “I promise. Whatever it is, you can tell me.” 

“I’m undercover,” Jaskier says. “Have been for… look at that! Nigh three decades now! In any case, the time doesn’t matter, what matters is that I’m a Viper — yes of the witchery kind,” — he brings out an intertwined snake medallion from one of the hidden pockets of his doublet— “whose job is pretty much to scour the Northern kingdoms and ascertain which jobs —assassination contracts mainly— are what we say in the business ‘legitimate’ and which are traps for my fellow Vipers.

My point is, that I am trained in combat, not as rusty as you’d think I’d be having spent a good part of my life as a bard, and I intend to help you finish this contract because quite honestly I’m worried about your safety. Plus, I have the feeling you’ve suspected something was amiss since that brush-in with those bandits so the more a reason to stop hiding from you.” 

Eskel feels like he can only gape at the man who he thought human for so long. Sure, he suspected some training, but a Viper? That’s insane. 

Oh, gods! He could probably smell Eskel’s arousal this entire time, and he said nothing! Eskel thinks he might feel nauseous. 

“Does Geralt know?” are the first words out of his mouth after the initial shock. 

Jaskier snorts and rolls his eyes. “Wait, you’re serious.” Eskel nods, eyebrows scrunched together in a mix of irritation and question. “Of course he knows! He’s my very best friend in the whole wide world!” 

Best friend? Not partner? Lover? Boyfriend?

The question must show in his eyes because Jaskier blinks in disbelief and says, “Ew, you thought that Geralt and I,” —he makes a disgusted choking sound— “Ew, nooooo nope never. Not in a million years. He’s my dearest friend and I love him as one would love a brother, yes, but nothing more, I promise you this.”

That's something Eskel didn't know needed to hear. A wave of relief washes over him. He hasn't betrayed his brother for feeling so strongly for the bard, his feelings weren't— aren't— uncalled for, vile and foul. A sigh threatens to leave his throat but he chokes it down.

Jaskier studies him for a while with inquisitive eyes. He opens his mouth once or twice to speak but he promptly snaps it closed. 

"Out with it, Jaskier," says Eskel, his gaze meeting those pretty blue eyes. 

"Never you mind, dear. Let's kill the foul-smelling beasties and we'll sort whatever this,-- he gestures between them— "is over a copious amount of ale. Don't look at me like that, I'm not going to— "

"To what?" Leave Eskel once he realises how much in love he's with Jaskier? Laugh at his face for loving a man? No, the songbird wouldn't do that, Eskel tries to rationalise all those dysfunctional anxious thoughts. 

Jaskier tilts his head slightly to the side, a warm smile blooming on his face. "I promise you that you have no reason to worry. I just prefer not to talk about those things in the presence of disgusting necrophages. It's not a very romantic setting, you see." His smile turns into a smirk as his hands play his twin daggers. 

Eskel feels like his heart might explode, beating so hard against his chest as it is. 

He clears his throat and says, "I don't know, there's something about the stench of decaying flesh that makes for a very romantic mood."

"Was that- are you- Are you flirting with me Eskel? Are you finally reciprocating my advances? Is that it?" 

Before Eskel can ask "what advances?" and "for how long has Jaskier been trying to flirt with him", Jaskier spins on his heel and lounges himself to a rotfiend that in the meanwhile had approached dangerously close to where they've been standing. 

Eskel readies his silver longsword and follows suit, hitting at the small herd of rotfiends and quickly moving away as they start to bloat and explode into a nasty cloud of smoke and guts. 

Thankfully, there isn't another alghoul between them and the battle is resolved in record time. 

"Wow!" Jaskier exclaims, hands laid atop his hips, gazing at the mess the exploding monsters made. "You're right, this is a rather sexy view!"

"Nothing sexier than this particular brand of necrophages," Eskel winces at the words coming out of his mouth. "Save perhaps, you."

Jaskier bites his lip, cheeks flushed and stalks closer wrapping his arms loosely around Eskel's head. "Let's get your payment and I'll show you proper sexy," he says in a sultry voice before he presses his lips against Eskel's in a slow, heart-melting, kiss. 

It's what Eskel had always imagined and so much more. He's eager, impatient even, to find out more about the bard-turned-Viper, to explore every nook and cranny of his body. 

But for now, he has to do the hard job of procuring evidence of the kill(s) to bring to the alderman. And well, it's all worth it if he's going to spend the next hours (and hopefully days) at the bard's embrace.