Bard of Surprise

Part 7

As the hours go by, Jaskier's heat begins to fade. They have sex a few more times, though it's lazy and unhurried-- the desperate need that the omega has felt the past two days is slipping away steadily, until he's more or less feeling like his regular self. By late afternoon, his appetite has returned and he and Geralt finish the last of the bread and meat that had been left for them, then share a pint over a game of gwent.

He will miss Jaskier, Geralt thinks. This omega is so unlike the others; sharp, witty, and crass, yet unapologetically kind and gentle, and completely unafraid of the witcher whose company he keeps. It's so rare for Geralt to find someone like him; individuals like Jaskier come around once in a lifetime. It will be difficult to return to the life he knows after three days spent like this. Perhaps they'll run into each other again someday and Geralt can see if he finally became the bard he dreamed of being. (Or a unicorn tamer.)

Sometime in the evening, Jaskier's heat finally breaks. They take the opportunity to open the window and air out the room, then indulge in a nice long bath where Jaskier insists on scrubbing every inch of his body as well as Geralt's, until their skin is pink and glistening and each of them smells of chamomile and rose petals. They change the sheets on the bed, abandoning the old ones in the laundry hamper along with their soiled clothes from the first day. Geralt's inner alpha silently mourns the loss. The mixture of sweat, spend, and slick coating their sheets had felt pleasing. He wanted to roll in it. It smelled of Jaskier, it smelled of them, and the heavy musk of heat and sex was like a warm blanket around his shoulders, a sign that his mate was happy and cared for.

Wait.

Mate? No. Not mate. Jaskier. Jaskier. Not his mate. Witchers don't have mates, and even if they did, Jaskier doesn't want him, not really. The hold his instincts had on him almost made Geralt forget that.

Finally, fresh and clean, (and with Jaskier no longer smelling like he belongs to Geralt) they settle into the new sheets for a night of much needed sleep. Jaskier cuddles into the witcher's side and presses a lingering kiss to his lips.

Something in Geralt's chest aches that night. A certain feeling weighing him down that he can't quite identify. He spares on last look to Jaskier, asleep on his chest and runs a hand through the omega's hair until sleep comes for him as well.

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Geralt wakes holding Jaskier in his arms, nose buried in the chestnut locks of his hair. Since his heat dissipated the omega's scent is softer; like the subtle scents of dew on the morning grass and orange blossoms on the breeze rather than the heavy perfume it had been yesterday. Geralt closes his eyes and allows himself a few deep breaths before reluctantly pulling away from Jaskier, careful not to disturb his slumber.

To his surprise, he finds his armor has been laid out on the table and quickly dresses himself, cheeks heating at the prospect of servants coming into Jaskier's rooms while they slept and seeing them bare and tangled together. Once he's dressed, he collects the remains of his things, then pays one final glance to Jaskier before he slips out of the room and into the hall.

The halls of Lettenhove manor are long and twisting, the house something akin to an ornate maze of rooms and doors, carpets and wallpaper. He wanders aimlessly through the building, relying on what hazy memory he can recall of where he'd been led when he arrived. Finally, Geralt comes across a pair of important looking doors and pushes them open to find a dining room with a large table where Jaskier's father sits, eating breakfast.

He drops his fork when he sees Geralt, quickly dabbing at his shirt with a napkin where bits of egg have fallen. "Ah, witcher," he says nervously. "I see you're up and about. Is it finished?"