Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Geralt and Jaskier’s nightly routine would give anyone who heard of it a strange sense of near-domestic normalcy. Which is ridiculous, because Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, Butcher of Blaviken, is so unerringly not-domestic that whoever was thinking such a ridiculous thing should feel like kicking themself as soon as they realised who, exactly, was sharing the scene.

Which is how Jaskier feels at the moment, reclining on the furs of his bedroll with his lute. It’s too much grief to even entertain the notion of normalcy when Geralt is involved, the big honking Witcher.

Roach nickers from the tree line, a sure sign that Geralt is near; Jaskier continues to coax a melody from his lute, singing softly in Elder.

The witcher emerges from the trees a few moments later to seat himself on a log on the opposite side of the fire. Jaskier grins over at him, making eye contact with his stoic friend as he sings the next lyric, sure he won’t understand what it means. There’s no harm in asking for a kiss if Geralt doesn’t know that’s what he’s asking, right?

“Caen me a’baethe?” he sings, though he realises belatedly the words are less sung and more spoken, and his voice is raw. He shakes his head to clear it, nearly missing Geralt’s mumbled reply a moment later.

“Aefder,” the witcher rumbles as he skins the hare in his hands, and Jaskier physically feels his jaw drop.

“You― speak Elder? You horse’s arse, why the hell did you never tell me? Where did you learn? Oh, you bastard witcher, I should have known, you bloody devil, you’re full of secrets and―“ He goes silent as the word finally sinks in. “Geralt―” he begins in a warning tone, but the witcher has already pushed himself to his feet without a word and walked back into the wood, and Jaskier scrambles to his feet to yell after him. “Geralt, you bloody worm, what do you mean by later?”

***

He hadn’t meant to say that.

Jaskier’s shouts echo through the forest and make him cringe― he's warning every creature with ears in a mile radius of their presence. So much for subtlety. He realises he’s still holding the hare and s, looking down at the half-skinned animal.

Gods, he is such a fool. He should have just kept his mouth shut as he usually does, as he’s gotten so good at. He’d been talkative before the Changes, always curious and asking questions. After, he’d learned the value of blessed silence.

And then, of course, because nothing in his life could be easy, Jaskier had waltzed into his life with his lute and his songs and his endless chatter. He doesn’t know when he’d grown used to having him constantly talking his ear off, when it stopped being a nuisance and started being… more. A friend. But someone’s heart didn’t speed up when they shared a bed with a friend. Their chest didn’t constrict when their friend stumbled back from someone else’s rooms in ungodly hours of morning.

He’s so absorbed in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice Jaskier’s shouts are growing closer― not until the bard is right behind him and he realises he’s been standing in one place, staring at the hare gripped in his hand.

“Geralt!” And his voice is right behind him, and he whips around, avoiding his gaze before brushing past the bard.

He’s a fool. And he hates himself for his slip― more every second that Jaskier stands, likely open mouthed and offended, behind him. He stalks back to the campsite to cook the hare, sinking heavily onto the same log as before as he turns it over the fire. Jaskier, too, returns to the warm circle of light from the fire, but he’s still standing, arms crossed and clearly cross himself. In the glance Geralt sneaks at him, though, he seems more morose than angry.

Geralt frowns to himself. It’s strange of Jaskier to stay so quiet for as long as he has and―

“Did you mean that?”

Fuck. Seems he jinxed himself.

***

Jaskier isn’t sure what prompted him to speak up. Perhaps it was the glance Geralt took over at him, none too subtly, or maybe it was his complete and utter lack of ability to stay silent for an extended period of time. (By extended, he means more than two minutes.)

Geralt doesn’t even look at him, though, and Jaskier can tell from the positioning of his body that he doesn’t exactly intend to answer anytime soon. Ah, well. It was worth a try.

He can’t for the life of his figure out what made Geralt stalk off like that. It seemed like one of Geralt’s rare attempts at a joke― or it would have, if the man himself hadn’t reacted so negatively to his own reply.

Ah, well. His own proposition had been a joke, too, hadn’t it? Even as he thinks the words to himself, he knows they aren’t true. He’d wanted to say them, regardless of if Geralt understood― shouldn’t he be happy the witcher had even deigned to reply? Well. He’s never been one to be happy with what he’s got, anyway. If he was the hero of a song or story he might even call it his fatal flaw.

He’d made Geralt the hero and couldn’t even get a kiss for his troubles.

The bard huffed as he returned to his bedroll, staring morosely into the fire and resting his cheek on his fist. The silence is palpable between them, and Jaskier hates it. He hates silence, generally, and usually would not hesitate to fill it with chatter or music, but he can’t bring himself to pick up his lute and strum as he usually would. Geralt hates his music, anyway, so why does he even bother?

When, some time later, Geralt hands him a plate of food wordlessly, Jaskier doesn’t bother to look up at him with a smile as he usually does. He just accepts the plate with a mumbled thanks, still feeling oddly hurt by the not-quite-rejection.

Their meal is eaten in uncomfortable silence, during which Jaskier nearly goes mad, and even afterwards, as the pair cleans up, neither has spoken in some time. When the bard returns to his bedroll, this time to sleep, he stares up at the trees above them and sighs. “Goodnight, Geralt,” he says to the dark lump across the fire.

“Hmm.” is the witcher’s only reply, and Jaskier sighs dramatically before turning over and falling asleep.

***

The morning is as silent as the previous night, and Geralt is actually beginning to miss the sound of Jaskier chattering away. He doesn’t know how to go about actually getting Jaskier back to his usual talkative self, though, so he, too, remains silent, brooding quietly to himself as he tacks up Roach and glances around the campsite.

“Jaskier. Let’s go,” he grumbles, meeting his gaze for the first time that morning. “There’s a storm coming.”

“Oh, a storm. How lovely,” complains Jaskier, and Geralt smiles slightly to himself in victory. If he’s complaining, he’s half-way back to normal. “I mean, come on. I am so bloody sick of rain, Geralt, you don’t even know. Do you have any idea how much these boots cost? Well, I suppose you don’t, because you’ve been wearing the same gods-forsaken pair for the last, what, twenty years? Where’s your sense of fashion? Your sense of…”

Geralt, satisfied that his bard is nearly back to normal, tunes him out, grunting when it seems like Jaskier expects a reply to one of his endless comments. They aren’t as annoying as they usually are; instead, he takes comfort in the endless drone of Jaskier’s voice in his ear.

A few hours later, Geralt interrupts him mid-sentence. “Did you really think I couldn’t speak Elder?”

Jaskier blinks up at him, looking mildly offended. “You really want to talk about this now? I mean, I was in the middle of a scintillating story about this time when the Countess―”

Geralt again cuts him off. “I’ve heard the story. Answer the question,” he replies shortly, avoiding his companion’s gaze.

“I― well― I mean, I’ve sung and spoken in Elder around you all the time and you’ve never said anything about it!” he exclaims, brows knitting together. “I mean, gods, Geralt, I’ve been following you around for twenty years and you’ve never before spoken a word of Elder! Not even with those bloody elves, so pardon me for assuming that you didn’t speak it!” Geralt shoots him a look, and he swears Jaskier inflates with the breath he takes to continue his tirade.

The witcher just raises a hand to stop him. “You’ve never said anything to me.”

Jaskier stops walking, and Geralt glances over his shoulder. “Are you kidding me, you bastard? You didn’t say anything about knowing Elder because I didn’t speak to you in it? Geralt, no one speaks to people in a language they don’t think they understand! Where’d you even learn it, anyway?” He starts walking again, hurrying to catch up.

Geralt hums under his breath, and Jaskier swears so loudly in Elder that Geralt is sure that the last of the elves, wherever they are, can hear him. “Answer me, for once, you great bloody brute!”

“Kaer Morhen,” he replies, and from the corner of his eye, he can see Jaskier pinching the bridge of his nose and staring up at the gathering clouds like he can see the gods themselves. He’s not sure why the bard is so surprised. Witchers aren’t just monster hunters and brutes― they learn Elder to read the texts describing the horrors of the Continent, which are so damned old they feel like they could fall apart at the slightest touch and most certainly are not in the common tongue.

Not that there are many of those left, anyway.

Jaskier is staring at him, clearly waiting for an answer, and Geralt realises he has no idea what he’s just said. He just grunts in reply, leaning down to stroke Roach’s mane.

The next time he glances over at the bard, his eyes, those sapphires that have brightened his days for twenty years, are as hurt as he’s ever seen them.

Chapter Text

Jaskier should have learned by now, he thinks bitterly, to not ask Geralt important things when he isn’t listening, but he’s never asked the witcher something he wasn’t prepared to repeat before.

Why did he have to ask again if Geralt’s words― well, word― was true? And why couldn’t he bring himself to ask a third time, now that the witcher was actually listening?

He’s not sure how his Elder proposition landed them into this stinking, tension filled mess, but it surely did. Avoiding Geralt’s gaze, he pulls his lute from where it had rested on his back into a playing position, plucking a few broken chords before realising he can’t summon up his usual cheery traveling songs. Instead, what flows from his fingers is a song of heartache, about a girl too terrified of rejection to ever make a move on one she loves. It’s funny, he realises as he sings, how much he crafted her story to mirror his own.

There’s a droplet of water on his hand, he realises, and another, in a steadily worsening drizzle. Jaskier curses under his breath and jogs a few steps forward to catch up to Roach and Geralt, reaching onto her flank to grap his lute’s case before the wood sustains damage. He slings the case over his back and tilts his face up to the sky, trying to appreciate the sensation as the droplets slide over his features.

A glance at Geralt reveals the witcher hunched over in Roach’s saddle, light hair already dampening as the rain worsens. He turns to adjust the leather over the blades of his swords, and his gaze meets Jaskier’s, who looks away quickly. His fingers itch for his lute.

“Will we be making it to an inn tonight?” he asks over the steadily worsening sound of droplets hitting the ground. Roach nickers hopefully, and Geralt nods. Both bard and horse huff a sound of relief. “Thank the gods. I was not looking forward to another night of rain.”

His blood runs cold as he realises what it means that they’ll reach an inn, and he is really not in the mood to share a bed with Geralt while they’re in this strange limbo.

***
The sun has nearly set once they reach the outskirts of Novigrad, yet the rain has refused to let up. Geralt’s damp hair sticks to his neck. By the time they reach an inn, it’s pouring, and Geralt is thankful that they’d been able to make it― now would not be an ideal time to spend the night outside, and he’s not sure Jaskier would actually keep (following him around) traveling with him if he makes the bard sleep outside in the rain again.

Jaskier precedes him into the inn with his lyre, presumably to secure them a room and entertain the patrons, and Geralt leads Roach to the stables. Slinging their bags and his swords over his back, the witcher tosses the stableboy a silver and a glare to ensure the best possible care of Roach, and makes his way inside.

He pushes his hair out of his face as he enters, knowing before he enters that he’ll find Jaskier in the centre of the room, likely singing― and he’s correct; the bard is regaling the customers with Geralt’s latest ‘adventures.’ They’re all rapt. The witcher is able to slide in unnoticed except by Jaskier, who blessedly does not call out news of his entrance. A table in the corner is claimed for his use, and the barmaid, likely sent by Jaskier, brings out two plates of a rich-looking stew, half a loaf of bread, and two ales.

A few minutes later, Jaskier finishes his set and joins him, digging into the food enthusiastically. Geralt chuckles slightly, taking a sip of his drink and watching the bard eat. Jaskier doesn't notice his gaze, so the witcher allows himself to trace the lines of his companion’s face with his eyes, cataloging his features. He breaks himself out of his reverie, standing.

“What room?” he asks, shouldering their bags again.

“Upstairs, second on the left,” Jaskier replies, and Geralt nods.

“Goodnight, Jask.”

***

Jaskier stays in the tavern, drinking and singing and even playing a few rounds of Gwent (which he won, even drunk), for what feels like hours but is realistically probably only one. Or two? He’s not sure how long it’s been, but when he finally stumbles up to their room, the world spinning around him, he realises he’s more drunk than he thought.

He’s pretty sure Geralt hates it when he comes back drunk, but he can’t bring himself to find someone else to spend the night with, so his witcher’s going to have to have to deal with it. Hm. His witcher.

Strange. He’s never thought of him that way before.

And he’d better not start now, with how Geralt is ignoring him more than usual. Gods.

He pushes open the door to the room to find the bed empty and Geralt― oh, wonderful. The witcher is sitting in the moonlight spilling from the window, sharpening a dagger. He looks up as Jaskier enters, and the bard just rolls his eyes.

“My Gwent skills haven’t diminished,” he slurs. “If that’s why you’re looking at me with that face.”

Geralt’s only reply is a grunt, and Jaskier rolls his eyes, dropping his clothes to the floor. He avoids Geralt’s gaze as he pulls on his sleeping clothes after digging through the bag that Geralt had so helpfully brought in.

He’s asleep before his head hits the pillow, and his dreams begin with an odd sight of Geralt perched on the edge of the bed, stroking his hair. He’s pretty sure he’s hallucinating.

***

Jaskier is a flirty drunk.

Geralt knows this. He’s accepted it. It’s no secret when Jaskier has been in someone else’s bed; Geralt’s sensitive witcher senses have no trouble discerning the scent of sweat and sex clinging to his skin. He frequently wishes he couldn’t.

It took him a long time to realise that it was jealousy that made him so upset at the scent, and longer to accept that fact.

It’s almost worse when Geralt is the object of his affections for the night, because he’s always been sure that Jaskier has no real interest in him, seeing as the only time before the previous night he’s expressed any interest in the witcher is under the influence.

Gods, the previous night. He can’t erase Jaskier’s expression as he speak-sang those words from his mind― can’t forget his own slip in letting himself be caught in the moment, revelling in the attention enough that he promised what he’s only dreamt of giving the bard.

He sighs, shakes his head. Enough of that. What’s done is done, and he’s going to do his best to forget it.

Standing from his post by the window, he sinks into the bed beside Jaskier and prays that his companion will stay on his side of the bed.

***

Morning breaks, and it seems that Geralt’s prayers were in vain. When he wakes― with the sun, as always― Jaskier is curled around him like a baby monkey, clinging to him like his life depends upon it.

Geralt allows himself to revel in the feeling before he gently eases the bard’s vice grip off of him. Jaskier, of course, cannot just be moved, and holds on tighter (if that’s even possible), burying his face in Geralt’s neck. The witcher just lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Jaskier,” he grunts quietly, still trying to gently ease his grip. “Let me go. Come on. Jaskier.” He’s finally beginning to stir, much to Geralt’s relief. “There we go. Good morning, sleepy bard,” he huffs, finally disentangling himself and standing up.

Jaskier just groans, throwing an arm dramatically over his face to block out the early rays of the sun. “Must we wake up this early every morning?” he complains, as he does nearly every dawn.

Geralt, for his part, just huffs. “Yes. Have to find a contract today,” he replies shortly,

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Fuck your contracts,” he mutters. “Actually, forget that. I can think of, quite literally, seven thousand things that would be more pleasurable to f―”

The witcher interrupts him with a grunt, tossing his clothes at him. “Get dressed,” he commands and Jaskier rolls his eyes again but starts dressing. Geralt turns away to take stock of his weapons and ensure he isn’t leaving anything behind, and by the time he turns back to the bard, he’s dressed and somewhat ready to go.

“Breakfast,” he grunts, tossing him half of the remaining bread and shouldering the bags. “Let’s go.”

***

Jaskier knows how bullshit a day of ‘looking for a contract’ is. There’s either an obvious monster in or around town, and in a town the size of Novigrad, there’s always a monster. It’s just a matter of finding whoever has the coin to pay a witcher to exterminate the thing.

So they loiter in the market, Jaskier browsing and Geralt looking intimidating near a wall or obvious exit point, occasionally examining community message boards or staring down someone who gets too close.

“You’re brooding again,” he complains. “Why are you always brooding? This is why people don’t want to talk to you.”

Geralt just hums in reply, and Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Exactly my point, Witcher dear.”

They eventually do find a contract― at least, Jaskier finds a contract to send Geralt off on. There’s been reports of a wyvern, (which is apparently odd, seeing as they’re nowhere near the usual mountainous nests of their kind, according to Geralt), and Jaskier feels a strange curdling of excitement.

“Now this will be worthy of song!” he exclaims to Geralt as they make their way back to the inn. Recent jobs have been mostly run of the mill monsters that, while dangerous to humans, are quick and boring work for a witcher. Such things make for boring ballads, and Jaskier has been itching for a good new story to tell. “I expect all of the details upon your return― actually, no, I don’t expect that, because you are an arse and I’m sure you will give me nothing more than usual upon your return! Selfish witcher. Selfish, selfish witcher. Go, kill me a wyvern, Geralt. And for Melitele’s sake, make it gory.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier hated waiting, he remembered, situating himself at a table in the inn. Oh, sure, he was all talk, sending Geralt off with well wishes and a gentle jab, but the separation actually made him want to bite his nails to the quick to ignore the gnawing worry in his belly.

He knows Geralt can handle himself. He does. It’s just hard to remember that when he has no idea what’s going on outside the inn.

People are always talking about the witcher when he’s in the midst of fighting whatever monster he’s killing for them. Some argue that witchers are unnatural, and mutants, and shouldn’t be allowed near the town. Others claim that they’re helpful but unfeeling and dangerous, which is closer to the truth, but still false. Jaskier knows about witchers― at least, he knows about his witcher. And his witcher, whatever great lengths he goes to hide it, has a big heart and a genuine desire to help.

Maybe that’s why Jaskier has such a strong desire to seize him by bloodsoaked lapels and kiss him until he’s blue in the face every time he comes back from a fight.

Not that the witcher shares such a sentiment, of course.

***

Why was he always surprised when the humans were wrong about what the monster plaguing them was? They were farmers. Shopkeeps. Barmaids, sometimes. Certainly not hunters of any sort.

This time, the man who’d hired him had been close, at least. But when he’s sent into a fight expecting a wyvern― six feet long, not too many teeth, killable even on a bad day― and ends up facing a Royal wyvern, well.

Royal wyverns are massive, big enough that they could pick Geralt up and throw him, and that’s exactly what this one does. He hits the ground with a grunt and scrambles to his feet, silver sword raised to guard.

A few scratches drip blood, black from the potions he’d earlier ingested, onto the dirt, but they’re not mortal. If his strikes don’t start hitting soon, his strength is going to fail long before this great beast’s.

They are also incredibly venomous, he remembers dimly through the haze of potion enhancing his strength. Wyvern venom is a bitch to deal with, causes hallucinations and all sorts of assorted side effects, and Geralt really cannot afford to be out of commission for any amount of time, with the current weight of his purse.

The thing screams at him, and the sound echoes in his bones.

A swing, and a hit. Blood drips into his eyes and he’s too pumped to be able to tell if it’s his or the wyvern’s. He swipes a forearm across his brow, dodging another blow.

It lunges again, and Geralt rolls beneath it, opening a long wound in its belly. The resulting screech sounds like it’s going to split his skull. He presses his momentary advantage, aiming for the muscle connecting wing to body, but underestimates it’s agility, narrowly dodging a swipe with an alabaster claw.

He aims for the muscle again the next time the wyvern dives. This time, the strike hits true, and the wyvern careens off course with only one usable wing, crashing into a tree with another almighty noise. Geralt’s head is pounding.

The wyvern turns to face him again and hisses, exposing a mass of teeth in the great maw. Geralt doesn’t hesitate, just thrusts his sword forward and through the roof of its mouth. Again, he underestimates the thing in how damned fast it can clamp its jaws shut, and narrowly escapes with his arm attached to his body.

He doesn’t stop to examine the wounds, instead unsheathing the silver knife at his waist and stabbing it through the head for good measure. Black blood, almost matching his own, spills over his boots, and he grunts his displeasure, staring down at the creature as the fight drains from it.

A nearly imperceptible sigh escapes his lips, and he crouches to remove his weapons from the royal wyvern, and to retrieve what’s left of its head. He wipes the blades on a tussock of hardy grass growing nearby and makes his way back to Roach, who’s waited some distance off, decidedly out of harm’s way.

“Alright, girl,” he mutters, patting her neck. “Let’s go get our coin.”

***

It’s hours before Geralt slams open the door of the tavern, reeking of monster even from where Jaskier is seated halfway across the bar.

“Geralt!” he cries out, but the witcher is already making his way to the townsperson who’d hired him― Jaskier, as always, close behind.

“It was a royal wyvern,” he grunts. “That’ll be extra coin.”

Jaskier elbows him out of the way, sliding into the seat across from the man. “Riiight. What my very dear friend means is that, for his hard work slaying the monster that’s been harassing this city, he’ll need you to cough up what he’s owed, and, since you were wrong about the monster and it was actually more dangerous than you thought, what he’s owed is significantly higher than originally.”

Geralt glares. “That’s what I said.”

A scoff escapes Jaskier’s lips even as a slight smile quirks them. He’s in his element. “No, it really isn’t. Anyway,” he continues, turning back to the customer. “About the bonus―”

Jaskier spends nearly an hour haggling with the man, but in the end, he gets them the coin.

***

The potion is beginning to wear off as the pair returns to the road after picking up a few necessary items. His wounds are beginning to make themselves known in various ways, and his whole arm is throbbing where the wyvern had managed to get its teeth in him.

His head isn’t getting any clearer, though, which is not exactly reassuring as to how severe his wounds are.

Jaskier is singing again, as per usual, some song he’s composing based on the limited details about the fight that Geralt had foolishly grunted out in futile hopes of silencing his wild speculations.

In fact, the longer they trudge along the road, the woozier he gets. He starts trying to pay attention to what Jaskier is chattering about now― or, wait, is he still singing― he can’t pick out individual words or even his tone, and he suddenly feels himself listing to one side and desperately trying to remember how to sit up straight.

And then everything goes dark.

***

The next thing he knows, he’s dreaming.

It’s clear that he’s dreaming because Renfri is beside him, curled up against his side, and he distinctly remembers this not ever happening. No, that day he’d woken up alone.

“The girl in the woods will be with you always,” she whispers, and the dream changes.

Now, it’s Jaskier curled up beside him, holding him in a vice grip. Unlike in reality, though, Geralt allows himself to hum quietly, and wrap an arm around him, because it feels so right that he can’t help himself. He’s about to slip back into sleep when someone starts shaking him. No, he wants to groan and throw an arm over his face, just like Jaskier always does.

But the shaking doesn’t stop, and he reluctantly allows a sliver of light to enter his eyes, cracking them open just enough to take stock of where he is. Slowly, a face swims into focus, very close to his.

“―ralt! Geralt!” Jaskier is exclaiming, and Geralt groans and opens his eyes all the way.

“What the fuck,” he grunts, trying to lift his arm and hissing with pain. Forcing himself upright, he glances around the clearing and tries to take stock of his injuries. His arm, where the wyvern had managed to get its teeth in him, is throbbing aggressively and is likely swollen. This suspicion is confirmed as he glances over himself, frowning. “What happened.”

Jaskier looks very concerned at this question, nibbling at his lip. “You fell off of Roach right after we got on the road,” he replies. “I patched you up best I could but I think the wounds on your arm are going to need stitches.” Sure enough, even through the fog of his vision, he can see the strips of cloth they use to bandage wounds applied carefully to the more severe scratches.

It’s then he realises that he’s shirtless except for his cloak, and only a moment later when he realises he doesn’t have the mental energy to give a fuck about how clothed he is. He flops back again, staring up at the sky, which is swimming into a familiar violet hue and oh― Jaskier is calling his name again, but it sounds like he’s underwater, sinking slowly away from Jaskier’s concerned face.

***

“You know, Geralt, I never thought you’d find someone who truly finds your coarseness charming,” teases a familiar voice, and Geralt lifts his head to meet violet eyes with a grimace.

“Yennefer,” he grunts, crossing his arms. Something feels wrong, but he chalks it up to Yennefer’s magical signature and ignores the warning bells.

“Geralt,” she singsongs. “The level of devotion your bard has to you is so touching. Almost as much as you do for him.”

There’s a growl starting low in his throat before he realises what’s happening. “Leave Jaskier out of this.”

One perfectly manicured nail is dragging along the underside of his chin, moving his face to meet Yennefer’s gaze. “Haven’t you figured it out, Geralt? I can’t hurt him. I’m in your head.”

“Still speaking things I don’t want to hear, though,” he replies under his breath, and she laughs.

“I’m a figment of your imagination telling you things, and you’re still so defensive,” she smirks. “It’s right in front of you, can’t you see it?” Her face swims into Jaskier’s concerned one for a moment before returning to normalcy. “He’s worrying himself sick over you night and day and all you do is string him along like a starving mutt.”

“He’ll realise his mistake eventually,” he grinds out, gritting his teeth to keep from spilling his true feelings. Figment of his imagination or not, Yennefer has a way of making him talk that no others have.

Well. One other does, and it seems to be who she’s not-so-subtly referencing.

Imagination-Yennefer just looks at him in disappointment. “You are so melodramatic. He’s been travelling with you, what, twenty years now? What parts of you has he not seen?” His vision of her is becoming distorted, pain seeping into the― dream? Hallucination? Her face swims between her own and Jaskiers, her next words interrupted with the bard’s cries. “You― Geralt! Lo― You big dumb witcher! ve― him. Listen to me!”

His eyes flew open.

Chapter Text

Never in all his years had Jaskier found himself feeling so helpless.

Geralt tossed and turned on the ground beside him and nothing he did could wake him or calm him down.

“Yennefer,” Geralt whispered, and Jaskier felt a pang of unreasonable jealousy clang through his chest. This was ridiculous. His petty squabbles with the sorceress should have no place on Geralt’s deathbed.

No. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t allow him to die here.

Grabbing the witcher’s bag of potions from where he’d dropped it beside the man earlier, he rifles through, looking for something, anything to help. He’s wracking his brain to remember anything he possibly can about wyverns― royal wyverns, specifically, but is coming up dry.

It must be some kind of poison, he surmises, because Geralt’s had more severe injuries and hadn’t been passed out and muttering on the floor.

“Leave, Jaskier,” groans Geralt, and the bard’s gaze snaps to him fast enough his neck cracks.

“Geralt? Geralt!” he cries, leaning over him again and shaking him. “I’m not leaving you. Oh, come on, you bloody oaf, don’t ignore me now!” Grabbing the bag again, Jaskier searches through it with renewed vigor. He must have something, some kind of healing potion or antivenom, but none of the vials are labelled and Jaskier is going to have a serious chat about that when― when, not if― he wakes up.

Finally, his gaze catches on one of the potions that he’s… fairly certain he’s seen Geralt drink after an injury. He stares at it for a moment. Well, it can’t make things worse, can it?

He carefully unstoppers the potion and trickles some between Geralt’s slightly parted lips, leaning over him a few moments later. “C’mon, Geralt, you big dumb witcher. Listen to me,” he pleads, brushing stray hairs off the other’s sweat soaked brow.

It makes him jump when Geralt’s eyes fly open so suddenly. He sits back on his heels, gently squeezing the witcher’s shoulder as he awakes. His eyes are cloudy and unfocused, still, so Jaskier leans closer, shaking him again. “Wake up, Geralt. Wake up,” he says, and Geralt lets out a long groan.

“White… potion…” he spits from between gritted teeth, seemingly fighting against an invisible force to get the words out. Jaskier scrambles again for the bag of potions, riffling through it desperately.

“Jaskier,” murmurs Geralt, looking in the complete opposite direction to where Jaskier is and sounding significantly more relaxed than he had a moment before. His next words are in Elder: “Is it later yet?”

Jaskier’s eyes widen, and he almost drops the vial of pallid liquid clutched in his hand. There’s no way Geralt is referring to― shits. “Y-you’re not thinking clearly, Geralt,” he says softly, tilting the witcher’s head back to tip the potion into his mouth. “Here, drink this. You’ll feel better.”

It’s not long before the witcher’s eyes flutter shut, sweat beading on his brow. His muttering continues, possibly the most Jaskier has ever heard him talk at once. The bard is only able to catch every other word or so, though, and most of what he hears is nonsensical. “Bard… Yennefer, no… alone… back… we…” Jaskier just shakes his head and shoves the remaining potions back into the bag and sets it aside, reaching for the already-bloodsoaked cloth over his shoulder and pouring water from one of their waterskins on it. Carefully, he sponges the blood off his less severe wounds, exposing which need the most immediate care.

There aren’t too many wounds on him― a shallow scratch on his left bicep and another on his upper thigh. The worst by far are on his sword arm, long, deep scratches from elbow to wrist. The bleeding has slowed, but even Jaskier’s limited healing expertise tells him that at least a few of them should probably be stitched up. He hasn’t the faintest idea how to do that, though, so he wraps the wounds tightly and waits for Geralt to wake.

At some point, he must have fallen into a fitful doze, because when he startles awake to the sound of Geralt stirring beside him, the sky is darkening.

Immediately, Jaskier can tell that the antidote worked. Geralt’s amber eyes have returned to their usual alertness, and Jaskier allows his lips to curve into a smile. “You’re awake,” he says.

Geralt just nods.

***

Everything aches.

It’s not the worst he’s ever felt, but that doesn’t mean he likes feeling like he’s been, well, attacked by a royal wyvern.

Jaskier’s brows are still creased with worry as Geralt forces himself to sit up, gritting his teeth as a spark of pain shoots up his arm. Once upright, he peels back the bandaging to examine the wounds. They’re uninfected, thankfully, though removing the fabric covering has opened the two bigger ones again. Well, that’s enough indication for him of which need to be sewn up, at least.

He sighs and looks up at Jaskier, who’s still kneeling beside him and has been uncharacteristically quiet since Geralt awoke. There’s an expression of utmost relief upon the bard’s features. Geralt wants to reach for him, but his body, exhausted from the fight and subsequent healing, refuses.
However, Jaskier suddenly moves and envelops the witcher in a hug, arms wrapping tightly around him. Geralt, stunned, freezes, overwhelmed by the sudden scent and closeness of him. The scent of salt is intermixed with Jaskier’s natural scent, and Geralt’s brows furrow; however, when the bard pulls away from him a moment later, it’s clear why. Tears dampen the bard’s cheeks, and he sniffles before he speaks.

“I thought I was gonna lose you,” Jaskier mutters, avoiding his gaze and scrubbing at the tears on his cheeks. Geralt glances around helplessly for a scrap of cloth that isn’t blood soaked, and finds nothing. Knowledge of what to do when someone cried exhausted, the witcher sits awkwardly, staring down at his injuries. He’s never seen Jaskier cry, not even after one of his many splits with the Countess; he’s entirely at a loss for what he should do― not that he’d have any more of a clue if it was anyone else.

“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” Geralt rumbles, and Jaskier shakes his head, laughing through his tears. A questioning look appears on the witcher’s features, and Jaskier snorts.

“You’re so damn dense, Geralt,” he says with a sniff. “You fell off Roach! Gods, I thought you were already dead, just keeled over and died right there. And I swear, I―” He cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “How’s your arm?”

Geralt’s head is spinning, and he’s not sure if it’s from following Jaskier’s dizzying confession or an aftereffect of the venom. He chalks it up to a combination of the two and shrugs. “These two need stitches. There’s a needle in a pouch―”

“This pouch?” Jaskier asks, picking it up from beside the empty potion bottle and cloth. “I thought they might need it, I just wasn’t entirely sure how.” Geralt nods and reaches for the pouch, and the bard tuts and holds it out of his reach. “Let me help you. I’m pretty sure I know what to do, you just sit there and make sure I’m doing it right.”

Geralt gives him a long, searching look, but finally assents. The bard immediately busies himself, untangling the witcher’s once-carefully-packed supplies and frowning down at the exposed lacerations on Geralt’s arm.

“Thread the needle,” Geralt grunts helpfully, and the bard makes a face at him. Even so, he does as instructed, then settles himself close beside the witcher, so close that Geralt is absolutely not thinking about how their thighs press together as he offers his arm.

Jaskier gnaws at his lower lip, threaded needle pressed against Geralt’s skin. Before the witcher can make another comment, his skin is pierced, and he clenches his teeth. He’s had plenty of stitches in his long life, but that doesn’t make the first pinch less fierce. He watches Jaskier’s first few stitches to ensure his technique, but despite his inexperience (how has it taken this long?) they’re neat and tight.

Satisfied, Geralt turns his attention to Jaskier’s face, tracing the furrowed lines the bard’s concentration carves into it. The needle piercing his skin fades into background noise as he examines his companion, the face that at this point is as familiar to him as his own. He wonders again when things had shifted between them – when he’d trusted the bard enough to let him see him at his weakest, let alone literally piece him back together. It had just… happened.

“There,” Jaskier says, an unknown amount of time later. Geralt tears his gaze from the other’s face to examine the rows of stitches, nodding his approval. When he looks back at the bard, there’s an expression on his face the witcher can’t place. Neither have shifted apart, and they’re practically face to face now that Jaskier is sitting up straight.

The silence stretches between them, uncharacteristic in their relationship, and it looks like Jaskier is about to say something when Geralt grabs his wrist. Jaskier snaps his mouth shut as his gaze falls to Geralt’s hand on his, then back to Geralt’s. “Is it later yet?” he asks in Elder.

***

Jaskier couldn’t help himself from parroting the Witcher’s words back at him – he’s not even sure if Geralt remembers saying it, honestly, with the state he was in, the odds are not good. His heart feels like it’s trying to crawl up his throat and out his mouth as he holds Geralt’s gaze, the action almost a challenge.

Honesty, if a bard can’t get a kiss after all the stress of the last day, what’s the point, anyway? Not, he supposes, that it’s all that much more stressful than many other days they’ve endured together.

He doesn’t bother wishing he could take the words back after they fall from his lips, and he stares into Geralt’s dark gaze, not daring to hope. Time stretches between them, long enough that Jaskier shifts uncomfortably. “Look, it’s fine. We can ju―”

The words are cut off by Geralt’s lips crashing into his, the witcher’s grip tightening on his wrist. It isn’t gentle, though little about his witcher is. It’s messy, and he’s pretty sure their teeth just clacked, but it feels so damn right he has no complaints.

It’s a long moment before they break apart, but when they do, neither go far. Jaskier rests his forehead against Geralt’s and grins wickedly. “I’m going to sing in dead languages more often,” he murmurs, bringing a hand up to tangle in the witcher’s unkempt locks. “See what else I can’ ask for.” Geralt huffs a laugh at that, and Jaskier’s smile becomes fond.

He’s rather glad Geralt knows Elder.