Chapter Text
Geralt hummed in discontent as he perused the noticeboard of the town they’d stopped in. He was experiencing an unusual dry spell in contracts, particularly for this region and this time of year, and they were running grievously low on funds. The last three villages they’d stopped in, Jaskier had played through several nights to pay for their room and board while Geralt resupplied. The witcher had argued, of course, but only on principle. They both knew that there was little choice in the matter. Geralt needed his potions, should he find a contract. Ingredients were expensive, and without a steady supply of contracts, he’d begun to run dangerously low on supplies that were usually easy to find in abundance. This meant that the only way he could pay for his stops at the apothecary was for Jaskier to take on the brunt of the work for a time. Geralt wasn’t happy about it. The bard was working himself to the bone, and though he wasn’t complaining (unusual in and of itself, but he clearly understood the desperation of their situation), it was plain for anyone to see that he was exhausted.
They’d found this village, surprisingly decent in size, deep in the heart of the forest. It was a good deal farther south than they usually found themselves, having been driven to uncommon paths in search of work. It was directly on the Path and a convenient stop for resupplying. Geralt had suggested that they stop and check for contracts, and Jaskier had wholeheartedly agreed upon the promise of an inn to play at, despite his obvious weariness.
The town was lively and refreshingly free of the usual prejudice it carried for his kind. Neat, small houses lined the streets, decorated with numerous plants and flowers. It was clean and surprisingly friendly. As they were greeted there was mention of another wolf school witcher ‘round these parts. He could only assume that it was Eskel, from the vivid descriptions of gruesome facial scars. Typical of him, to leave goodwill for witchers in his wake. He’d probably taught them how to care for their goats after killing their monster, or something equally ridiculous. This was a good deal farther north than his brother usually patrolled, and he guessed that the monster shortage was sweeping the continent, not just his own preferred region.
This had led to Geralt’s current predicament. He’d finally found a contract. He held the weathered paper in his hand, frowning. Of course, it had to be a leshen. They weren’t his usual game--he’d only fought a few in his entire career as a witcher. Taking one on alone was a phenomenal risk, and he had the scars to prove it. He’d barely made it out alive the last time. Normally, he’d prefer to have one of his brothers at his side; leshy weren’t easy to defeat and packed a punch much more dangerous than, say, a pack of drowners. Every time he’d engaged in combat with one, he’d come out looking more dead than alive, even with the help of a fellow witcher or particularly ballsy hunter. Leshy were eldritch spirits hell-bent on butchering any wandering travelers that crossed their path, and even the most seasoned of witchers practiced great caution when taking one on.
It was a common misconception for most peasants to assume that leshy were the ancient protector spirits of the forest. It was an easy lie to tell oneself, and much more comforting than the thought that they were beasts that killed ruthlessly and often without reason. After such a long drought in contracts, though, he felt he had little choice in the matter. The villagers were to the point of outright panic, and not hurting for coin; they would pay a hefty sum to have the beast slain. It was disrupting their trading patterns, and it wouldn’t be long before it started to have a very real impact on their livelihood.
His thoughts were interrupted by the crunching of feet across gravel. He quickly folded the paper and tucked it into his belt, turning to meet his company.
“What’s that, Geralt? Finally got a contract, have you?” He nodded tersely in response, and Jaskier lit up with excitement.
“Oh, that’s great! What is it? Pack of drowners? Werewolf? Oooh, is it a striga?” Geralt groaned, rolling his eyes. He’d known it was a mistake to share that particular story with the bard--he’d mentioned it once, and now every time the subject was brought up, he lamented his absence for the event.
“Don’t be foolish, Jaskier. If it were a striga, we would have heard rumors of her long before now.”
“Well then? Come on Geralt, don’t hold out on me. Ghouls? Griffin?” Geralt knew his bard would only continue to list off monsters until he relented, so he gave in with a sigh.
“Leshen. It’s bad enough that they’re willing to pay a decent sum for it.” Jaskier fell oddly silent, the smile dropping off of his face as he stopped in the middle of the street. Geralt kept walking, unbothered. When he showed no signs of turning around, the bard huffed in irritation and jogged to catch up, reeking of worry.
“Geralt, a leshen? Even I know that you shouldn’t take one of those on by yourself.”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t hmm me, Geralt! Put the notice back on the board. You can’t fight one of those!” Geralt sighed, pinching his nose in irritation and finally coming to a halt. Roach snorted with discontent and he patted her absentmindedly.
“And what would you have me do, Jaskier? You’re exhausted. We can’t keep on like this forever. Even your singing can’t sustain us for much longer, brilliant though the folk seem to think it is.”
“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment, Geralt. And I don’t care that I’m tired. I’d much rather continue to have my best friend, alive, at my side.”
“You’re being dramatic, Jaskier. I’ve fought leshy before, and survived.” He gestured at his own body as proof.
“Yeah, by the skin of your teeth. And you’re being idiotic, Geralt. I happen to know exactly how many of your scars have come from the beasts, and I also happen to know that it’s a ridiculously disproportionate amount, compared to the ones from your usual stock.” Geralt didn’t have a retort for that, so he hummed and took Roach’s reins in his hand, leading her down the street.
“You’re going to take it anyway, no matter how much I plead.” It wasn’t a question. The bard sounded resigned. A little of the tension seeped from Geralt’s shoulders as he realized he’d won.
“Hmm.”
“Fine, yes, okay. You just do that then. And while you go off to die dramatically, I’ll stay here and sing the songs of your untimely demise that could have been prevented if you had just listened to me.” Roach nipped at Geralt’s shoulder as if in agreement with his mouthy companion.
Mutiny, Geralt thought.
“I’m taking the contract, Jaskier.” He made sure his tone was final and didn’t betray any of his own doubts about the contract. Though judging by his self-satisfied reaction, Jaskier could tell anyway.
They checked into the inn several hours before sunset. Normally, Geralt would protest turning in so early, but he figured that getting in a few hours of meditation before the hunt wouldn’t hurt. Jaskier continued to give him the silent treatment throughout the afternoon, huffing around the room and making perhaps a bit more noise than was strictly necessary. Geralt pretended that it didn’t bother him and tried to meditate through the ruckus.
Eventually, Jaskier decided that he’d given him enough hell and settled down to tune his lute. The familiar routine washed over Geralt’s sensitive ears and he was able to actually sink into meditation, shifting his focus inward.
When he next opened his eyes, the sun was nearly touching the horizon. Leshy preferred the dark, so he would take advantage of the nighttime to draw his prey out. As he went about coating his sword in relict oil and collecting his potions, Jaskier watched with a sour expression on his face, uncharacteristically silent.
“So nothing I say will convince you that taking this contract is nothing short of suicidal.”
“We need the coin, Jaskier.”
“Yes, but I also need you. So what if you’ve killed a leshen before? What if this is the one that finally takes you down? What am I supposed to do without my muse? You’re my best friend, Geralt, and you’re being a stubborn bastard. I would gladly trade a few more weeks of playing in taverns for your wellbeing. ” The emotion behind his words was undeniable, and Geralt sighed, pausing his work. They’d recently entered a strange stage of their relationship, something far beyond friends, but not quite yet lovers. They’d drunkenly kissed and fucked a number of times, but come morning, the sobriety and light of day resulted in silences and awkward tensions. It was an uncomfortable limbo, and he didn’t like not knowing where he stood or what to do. He knew that Jaskier required some sort of reassurance, but he was at a loss for how to comfort him.
“Jaskier, I…hmph. Try not to worry. This isn’t as dangerous as you seem to think it is. I’ll be back before morning.” Jaskier slowly let out a breath and refocused his attention on his lute.
“You’re lying. It’s not that hard to tell when you’re nervous, Geralt.”
Well. He didn’t know how to respond to that, so he reverted to old habits.
“Hmm.”
A few minutes later, he was ready to set out. He clapped Jaskier on the shoulder and stood awkwardly next to him. The bard remained seated on the bed, refusing to make eye contact.
“I’m going now. I’ll be back.” He turned to leave, feeling strangely guilty. His hand was on the doorknob when Jaskier spoke from the bed.
“Is that a promise?” It hit Geralt like a solid punch to the gut. Jaskier knew he couldn’t say yes, couldn’t guarantee that he would be able to follow through on it.
“You know I can’t promise anything, Jaskier.” He kept his voice soft, gentle. Jaskier looked as though he’d expected as much, cornflower blue eyes looking surprisingly watery.
“Just...do your best. Yeah?”
“Of course.”
___
Roach was making it her personal mission to keep Geralt as miserable as possible. Though she was perfectly capable of adopting a pace that was much kinder to his sore ass, she was bumping along down the road as if her sole purpose in life was to jar his teeth out of his head.
“What is your problem?” He growled, rubbing her neck in an attempt to soothe her. She wasn’t having any of it and tossed her head to dislodge the offending hand.
“Alright, okay, fine. Have it your way.” She was remarkably intelligent and perceptive of his moods; he’d likely upset her with his stormy demeanor when he’d mounted up for the hunt.
“What? Am I the asshole for taking the contract? You know we were barely holding it together. Why are you angry?” True to her nature, she merely whuffed and shot him a meaningful glare.
As the last of the sun’s rays sank below the horizon, Geralt flicked open the pouch on Roach’s saddlebags and took out several vials of potions. He thanked the gods that he’d recently restocked, otherwise, he wouldn’t have been properly prepared for the coming hunt. Cat, he downed first for night vision. It would do no good to be caught blind by his target. He grimaced at the acrid taste as it slid down his throat--no matter how many times it coated his tongue, he would never get used to it. Next was Tawny Owl. He had a long fight ahead of him and without the increased endurance that the potion provided he knew he wouldn’t last the night. It tasted nearly as bad as Cat. He fingered the vial of Full Moon, debating whether or not he should use it just yet. Increased vitality would almost certainly be necessary before the night was over, as the leshen could summon packs of wolves on a whim to do its fighting. But if he took it too soon, it could wear off before he was ready. Full Moon was nearly the most toxic potion he’d brought with him, second only to Petri’s Philter. He didn’t plan to use that one, as it was far too toxic to combine with the ones he’d already used, but he’d brought it along in case of emergency. If worst came to worst, he would use it to finish off the leshen before he died himself.
He eventually determined that he would wait for an hour or until the leshen appeared, then take Full Moon. He didn’t want to use it in the heat of battle since its toxicity was high enough that he would likely falter when it took effect. He attached the rest of the potions to his belt--a vial of Swallow, should he start to feel himself slipping in the fight, and Petri’s Philter to increase his sign intensity.
The beginnings of toxicity seeped into his blood and the world around him grew sharper, brighter. He felt his heart rate uptick slightly to accommodate for the poison in his blood and he inhaled deeply. The sudden feeling of being alive that came with the potions was almost worth the horrible crash to come later.
With luck, he would be with Jaskier by then.
The problem with leshy was that they had a number of versatile abilities at their disposal. There was, of course, the ability to summon any number of woodland creatures to do their bidding. He’d fought no small number of wolves and nekkers in his past encounters with the spirits. Half the battle was getting close enough to deal damage, which was why signs were so important. They were particularly susceptible to Igni, their corporeal form being constructed mostly of flammable trees and bones. And then there was their ability to call upon plants to fight with; if one got too close, they could dig their arms into the ground and command the surrounding roots to strike, dealing a more considerable amount of damage than one might expect. That wasn’t to mention their rather irritating ability to dissipate into smoke at any time, often right as he was about to deal a critical blow.
So no, fighting a leshen was not fun by any stretch of the imagination. All in all, it was a rotten deal. Geralt preferred not to bother with them, as they tended to stick to their own territory and rarely ventured near enough to civilization to warrant a contract. He wondered what the folk had done to anger it. But that wasn’t why he was out in the woods when he’d much rather be sleeping; he’d taken the contract and now it was his job to follow through on it.
Dusk had fallen and Cat was now in full effect. He dismounted Roach and threw her reins over the nearest branch; she wouldn’t move unless she was in danger. He patted her reassuringly on the shoulder and she huffed. Still angry, then.
“Alright, Roach. Have it your way. I’ll leave you alone. Be back in a few hours, I hope.” He threw back the last of his pre-fight potions, bracing himself against a tree as the full effects of their combined toxicity hit him. He’d forgotten just how much he hated Full Moon.
Grimacing at the aftertaste, he stashed the empty bottle in Roach’s saddlebags, and with a final glance at the road, tore through the underbrush and into the forest. It was dark, oppressively so, and he took a moment to be thankful for his enhanced senses. The trees around him loomed high and ominous. Nothing stirred. It was quiet. Far too quiet for an area as densely wooded as this. At least the animals had some sense of danger. Now, if only the humans could follow suit, his job would be much easier.
There were dozens of suitable hiding places, but leshy weren’t the type of creature that could be ambushed. He would need to make noise, lots of noise. He went about trudging through the undergrowth, whacking branches and plants out of his way with as much carelessness as he dared. They didn’t take kindly to their territory being invaded, and even less so to blatant destruction. It was the best way to lure one out.
He continued this for the better part of two hours, and Geralt began to wonder if his hunt would turn out to be a bust. The waste of potions and being forced to come down from them without the chance to burn any of them off would be miserable, but he couldn’t say that he would lament missing out on this particular fight.
A few more minutes of actively destroying plants, and still nothing. Hm.
Resigned to a night of misery, he spun on his heel and began to walk back towards the road where he’d left Roach. The dew had settled heavy and to top off the unsuccessful hunt, he would be unpleasantly damp by the time he made it back to town. He wondered if Jaskier was performing. The bard would be happy to see him in one piece, at least. Probably absolutely insufferable for the next day or so, too.
I told you so, Geralt. This is what you get for not listening to me. Then he’d probably go about playing the most grating of songs, just to piss him off.
Geralt froze as, for the first time in hours, he heard something besides the sound of his own breathing. Leaves, rustling in the distance but getting closer every second.
The leshy had arrived.
He whipped around, hand on the hilt of his sword and eyes wild. And sure enough, looming in the shadows he could just make out the silhouette of the beast, dark, imposing, and impossibly tall. Already lamenting his sleepless night, he stalked closer to the beast, waiting for the first strike.
For a moment, they just stood, sizing each other up. Geralt was still a good twenty yards away, wary of coming any closer. His body remembered quite well the range of a leshen’s root attack, and this one was clearly ancient. Its size alone indicated as such.
But instead of attacking, it raised its arm and a flock of crows burst from the trees, flying directly at Geralt. He covered his face with his forearm, doing his best to dodge the montage of tiny claws and beaks. When they ceased, the leshen had disappeared from sight.
“Shit!” He drew his sword, feeling adrenaline dumping into his veins in excess. He was in full-on fight mode by the time he spotted the beast again, standing atop a small hill, framed by the moonlight behind it. From over the hill came a pack of wolves, growling and snapping and completely under the influence of the spirit. There were four or five of them, circling him so that he couldn’t keep eyes on all of them at once.
One leaped from the front, jaw agape and saliva spewing everywhere. He raised his silver sword to block it, swinging wide and slashing its throat open, deep and bloody. Before he could pull his arm back in, one to his side jumped and clamped its vice-like teeth around his forearm, piercing the gauntlet in a couple of places and bypassing it entirely in one. He grunted as he lost his balance, stumbling to the side. Blood dripped down his arm and into his hand, making his sword slick and difficult to hold. He tossed his sword to his left hand with a flick of his wrist and slashed at its face. It yelped, blinded, and released its grip before disappearing into the shadows. Judging by the amount of crimson coating his palm, the bite would probably need stitches later.
“Dammit.”
Two left. He growled, imagining momentarily what Jaskier might say about how poetic it was (The white wolf fighting real wolves, Geralt, the song writes itself!) and dispatched another as it went for his ankle. Then there was one, and he faced it head-on, trying to keep tabs on where the leshen had disappeared to at the same time.
The wolf made the mistake of leaping directly for his face, and he grimaced in sympathy when his sword fell between its jaws, killing it instantly. Slinging the blood off of his sword, he turned quickly to locate his real quarry.
It was standing motionless a distance away, framed by several trees. A few crows swooped around it, completing the unsettling image. It was a typical leshen: body constructed mostly of tree limbs and the odd bone, deer skull sitting atop its shoulders with moss-covered antlers. Where there should’ve been eyes, there was a shadowy void.
He ran towards it, wasting no time on the chance that it would unleash another woodland creature attack, and swept his sword across its ankles. It drove its arms into the ground as he did so, unfazed by the attack, and he had just enough time to roll away before several thick, angrily knotted roots burst out of the ground at its feet.
“Fuck,” he growled, feeling one knock into his foot painfully. He hoped that it hadn't broken anything.
He jumped to his feet, pushing aside the small twinge for now, and cast a powerful Igni in its direction, careful to keep himself steady. His aim was true, and the creature burst into flames with an angry screech.
While it was incapacitated from the flames, he ran full-speed at it and buried his sword to the hilt in its chest. Another inhuman howl filled the air and he launched himself away from it, ears ringing from the sound.
The flames began to die out, and darkness began to gather around it. Growling angrily, he ducked just as it dissipated into an intangible cloud of black smoke. It retreated a good distance away and manifested, still smoldering but no longer aflame.
The thing about fighting a leshen was that it had to remain on fire for him to deal any real damage. As soon as the flames went out, it began to recover. Meanwhile, he would only continue to tire and bleed. It was a vicious cycle and part of why he hated fighting them so much; normal monsters were at least mortal if a hideous distortion of the word.
He rolled as another flock of crows accosted him, covering his eyes to protect himself from their beaks. Crows he could deal with. He could only hope that there were no more wolves in this forest.
Running behind the leshen, he cast another controlled Igni at it and sighed in relief when it caught fire again. It had still been smoking from his previous attack and readily took to flame a second time. Another leap, and then he was dragging his sword down the length of its back, answered with a scream of rage.
He flipped backward off of its shoulders as it reached back with clawed hands to grab him. With deft fingers, he loosed one of the dimeritium bombs from his belt and tossed it at the ground, lunging behind a nearby tree to dodge the dangerous blast. He was suddenly hit with the distinct sense that something was amiss and poked his head out from behind his shield to survey the damage.
When the smoke cleared, the leshen had fallen to one knee and was still flaming merrily. Confused and unable to believe the extreme stroke of luck he’d had so far, Geralt didn’t let up. Though he knew his stamina was getting low, he cast another Igni in an attempt to keep the fire roaring. The leshen roared in anger, and he heard the telltale patter of paws on the forest floor signaling that there were more wolves incoming.
“Fuck.”
“Geralt, watch out!” The unexpected warning had the opposite of its intended effect. He froze, startled, and turned in the direction of the unmistakable voice just in time to see the newest pack of wolves spot a much easier target. Jaskier’s eyes widened in alarm and he turned tail and ran. The wolves followed with delight.
“Dammit, Jaskier, you were supposed to stay in town!” He snarled as he dispatched the nearest wolf.
“What, and send you out here to die without even a song to back your heroic demise?!” The bard called back, sprinting like a madman away from the teeth snapping at his heels.
“You never listen! This is how you get killed, bard!” Geralt scolded, vibrating with fury. He’d nearly been done with the hunt, and now Jaskier had gone and made himself a target. He knew without thinking that everything was about to go to shit.
“You’re one to talk!” He sniped back, yelping as a wolf’s teeth got too close.
“What happened to playing at the tavern?” Geralt growled as he took out another. There were still three pursuing Jaskier with hungry eyes. He thought he heard the sound of the leshen moving behind them. Fuck. He hated it when he was forced to divide his attention.
“Even taverns close, Geralt! Some people do sleep! I was worried! I waited for hours for you to come back!” Geralt was a bit surprised at that, but a glance upward confirmed his bard’s breathless words. Though it was nowhere near daybreak, the sky was beginning to lighten just enough to confirm that it was well past midnight. He did tend to lose time when he’d taken multiple potions.
He wasn’t even going to bother asking Jaskier how he’d found him. He had a strange knack for following him to even the remotest of places. The man in question squealed and jumped into the bushes, very narrowly dodging a lunge from the wolves pursuing him.
“Dammit, Jaskier,” Geralt growled under his breath, finally felling the last two beasts with a single swipe of his sword. Really, how many wolves did this forest have? And why, in Melitele’s name, was this becoming such a common occurrence that they could hold a casual conversation while fighting for their lives?
“Jaskier, get out of here.” He grunted, turning back to face the leshen. The relict oil on his sword had started to do its job and it was beginning to weaken. But if the bard stayed and continued to be a distraction, it would be well past noon before he was finished.
“Fine, fine, I’m going.” He stood up and dusted himself off, unfazed by the brush with death. Geralt would be having a long talk with him about self-preservation instincts as soon as he completed this contract.
The leshen was standing again, still smoking, but already beginning to weave itself back together. Geralt sighed and reached for another dimeritium bomb, but his hand came up empty. He looked down with wide eyes and then back at the beast stalking toward him.
Damn. He’d thought he’d packed more.
Suddenly, the spirit lurched forward, the force of an explosion at its back driving it nearly into the ground. If the thing were capable of showing emotion, Geralt thought he might’ve seen the surprise on its face. He was certainly caught off-guard.
“Geralt, what was all that talk about being prepared if you haven’t even bothered to bring enough bombs?”
“Jaskier!!”
Somehow, in the span of less than a minute, the bard had circled the battleground and scaled a tree. He was now sitting in one of its branches, grinning carelessly and swinging his legs as if he weren’t thirty feet off the ground.
“Be honest, my dear friend, what would you do without me?”
“Probably be done with this fight, bard!” He shouted, keeping his eyes on the slowly rising leshen. If his instincts were anything to go by, daybreak would be soon. Which meant that his potions would be wearing off any moment now, and he still had a ways to go. Fuck. Jaskier waved at him from his perch, showing off a large sack full of bombs.
“I’m not even going to ask where you got those.” He huffed, twirling his sword in his hand. He still had two potions attached to his belt, and even with Jaskier’s uninvited help, the battle would be hard-won without them. He fingered the bottles consideringly, watching as the flames licked higher onto the leshen’s torso.
“Geralt, I know that look…” Jaskier sounded wary. And it was true, the bard had known him for over a decade now and he could read Geralt like a book. So he knew when he was about to do something foolish.
“There’s no chance of winning this fight without more potions.” He said simply, his mind already made up.
“Don’t be an idiot.” Jaskier almost looked panicked now. He’d seen what toxicity did to Geralt, and it was never pleasant for either party.
“What, so you’re allowed to be an idiot, charge into a fight unwarranted and unprepared, but I’m not allowed to do my job, Jaskier?” Geralt raised an eyebrow, staggering slightly as he felt more of the potions wear off. Had it truly already been eight hours?
The leshen was beginning to look hazy again, and it was only a matter of time before it dissolved into a cloud of impossible-to-hit smoke. That would buy him the few precious moments he needed. Jaskier also seemed to notice the signs of its intentions, and for some reason thought it wide to taunt the eldritch spirit.
“Hey! Big ugly! Over here!” It jerked in the direction of his voice, incensed, and Jaskier grinned maniacally. While Geralt didn’t exactly approve of the choice, it gave him an opening to attack. He charged at its back, still aflame, and drove his sword between its shoulders. Its earsplitting roar made his teeth rattle. He pulled his sword out in one fluid movement and dropped to the ground at its feet, hacking at its ankles. He noticed only a little bit too late that it had buried its arms in the ground.
“Geralt, watch the--” The rest of Jaskier’s warning fell on deaf ears, because the next thing Geralt was aware of was a high-pitched ringing and the throbbing of his head in time with his heartbeat. The stars twinkled above him merrily, oblivious to the battle raging below.
He sat up blearily as sound started to filter back in and watched with alarm as Jaskier threw multiple bombs at the leshen, now hanging upside down with his legs wrapped around the branch and shouting obscenities. Geralt was propped awkwardly against a tree and realized that it must’ve been the source of his new headache. His reflexes were failing him--the three potions he’d had hours ago were all fading at the same time, leaving him shaky and uncoordinated. He was crashing.
He needed to use the others, now.
With trembling hands, he uncorked the bottle of Swallow and downed it in one gulp, too focused on the decreasing distance between his bard and the beast to even grimace at its taste. With a small pop, the second bottle was opened. He eyed it warily, debating the wisdom of consuming it, but then he heard another angry shout from Jaskier and he knew there was little choice in the matter. He could survive one (or two) too many potions, but Jaskier would not survive a direct attack from the leshen. He threw the other one back as well, shuddering.
Their effect was instant. He nearly keeled sideways into the rotting leaves, bracing himself against the tree at the last minute. He grimaced as he felt some of his more superficial wounds start to knit themselves back together, courtesy of Swallow. And then came the excruciating burning sensation that accompanied too many potions in too little time. He was thrumming with the artificial energy of it, felt like he was tearing apart at the seams. He staggered to his feet, sword somehow still miraculously in hand, and tried to focus on the figures in front of him.
The bard was out of bombs. He looked at Geralt in desperation, hoping that he’d given him enough time to do whatever it was that he needed to do. The witcher raised his hand unsteadily, the blurry masses in front of him refusing to converge into meaningful shapes. There was the bright red of Jaskier’s doublet in there somewhere, but he couldn’t make out a target.
“Jask--” he swallowed with difficulty, trying valiantly to keep his stomach under control--the potions would be wasted if he couldn’t keep them down.
“Bard, duck!” The splotch of red disappeared into the green, and Geralt chose to interpret that as his bard finally following directions.
Summoning the last dregs of his energy, he forced it all into the palm of his hand, clumsily forming the sign for Igni, and released it with a loud bang!
He thanked Melitele and all the gods above when he heard the leshen screech in rage. His aim had been true. Almost too true, it seemed. Igni was, by nature, a violent sign. But it didn’t usually cause explosions.
Flames shot outward from the leshen’s body on impact. Parts of it were sent flying in all directions, and Geralt knelt to the ground to dodge the projectiles. Well--actually, knelt was a strong word. What he did was much closer to collapsing.
One final, inhuman screech tore through the air, and then it was over. Rustling in the leaves, too loud for Geralt’s over-sensitive hearing, and a quiet grunt as Jaskier scrambled to his feet.
“Geralt? Where are you?” The words were like knives through his already aching skull. He groaned, trying to move his hands to cover his ears, but it was like moving mountains.
“Is that you? Speak up!” Jaskier had cupped his hands around his mouth to make his voice louder, and Geralt was certain that his eardrums had burst. A lance of pain shot through his body and he tensed involuntarily, baring his teeth. If he didn’t respond, the bard would just continue to shout.
“Over…here,” He hissed. His own voice made his brain rattle in his skull, and had he been human he might’ve wanted very much to pass out. But witchers don’t wish for such things, so he didn’t.
Jaskier must have heard him, because suddenly the voice, which he’d previously thought loud, was now right next to him with the volume of ten thousand men.
“Gods, Geralt, what happened?” The thing was, he wasn’t foolish enough to believe that the bard was truly yelling; there was little reason for that since he’d already found him. But the way the words grated on his ears, it was hard to argue with the evidence.
“Please,” and that was not a whimper, witchers don’t whimper, “stop.” He knew that he sounded like a petulant child, but his entire body was practically vibrating with pain and he couldn’t string together enough coherent thought to worry about how he sounded. All he knew was that Jaskier was being too loud.
“Stop what? I’m not doing anything--what’s the matter, Geralt? Please say something else. Just yell at me already, look, I’m not hurt, you don’t have to hold back--please just say something. You’re worrying me.” Geralt knew that Jaskier spoke more when he was scared; he’d been injured enough times in the man’s company to recognize the habit. And true to his nature, he was using far too many words to ask what had happened. The witcher felt his brows furrow in intense concentration as he tried to form a sentence that would make sense.
“Five--too many. Swallow. T’wny owl. Too…much.” He groaned tiredly, cursing his thoughts for not making it properly to his lips.
“Geralt, you’re talking nonsense. How hard did you hit your head?” His eyes widened in horror with some sudden conclusion, “Oh, gods, did you scramble your brains?” He cupped the witcher’s face gently in his hands, blessedly cool.
“Come on, old friend. What year is it? How many fingers am I holding up? Do you know your name? What about your horse’s name?” Geralt growled in irritation, wincing when the sound ricocheted around between his ears, and swatted at Jaskier’s hands weakly. The smell of rotting leaves was mixing with the stench of Jaskier’s cold fear and it was making his head spin. Or maybe that was all of the potions talking. He couldn’t be sure.
“L’d,” He groaned. Jaskier’s lips turned down in confusion.
“Geralt, what?” He huffed in frustration, wanting desperately to communicate and being thwarted by his currently failing body.
“I don’t know what you want.” The volume was returning to Jaskier’s voice as he became more agitated, and Geralt winced against the onslaught of sound. He tried again to pull himself together enough to say that one word.
“Loud,” Jaskier’s eyes widened and he nodded fervently, immediately understanding his witcher’s plight. Behind him, the sky had lightened to a very, very dark gray. He wondered how much time they had before daybreak.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I’ll keep it down. Can you tell me what’s wrong?” And this time when he spoke, it was at a tone so low it must’ve been hardly audible to human ears.
Geralt struggled to focus on the bard’s face, but the two blurry shadows in front of him refused to converge into a single person. He decided to focus on the one that was moving less, hoping that he wasn’t staring into the middle distance over Jaskier’s shoulder. He attempted to nod in the direction that he knew the potion bottles had fallen, but his head just lolled into the dirt. He flopped his arm that way for extra emphasis, clenching his fist when he felt the excess power from the Petri’s philter travel dangerously towards his hand. He distantly registered that his fingernails were drawing blood, pressed into his palm as they were.
Luckily, Jaskier was versed in the language of Geralt’s wordlessness and followed his gaze to lay eyes on the glass vials lying empty on the forest floor. Geralt watched, half-coherent, as the pieces began to click together. The bard squinted at the bottles, at Geralt, back at the bottles, the smoldering corpse of the leshen, back to Geralt. Then, his face lit up in realization, and a dark shadow of worry passed over his face.
“Geralt…did you say five? As in, five potions?” Oh. He couldn’t make out more than a vague blur where Jaskier’s face should’ve been, but he sounded irritated. He hated when he was the reason for that anger--it was very rare, so he had truly fucked up. Maybe this was the final straw, and he would leave this time. At first, he’d actually wanted to rid himself of the bard, but he would be the first to admit that he didn’t want that anymore. Instead of voicing his fears, he nodded miserably.
“D’nt… don’t leave. Please.” It took a monumental amount of concentration to force the words to form on his tongue. Jaskier’s face pinched in some unrecognizable emotion--was it grief? No, that would be wrong--and he squeezed Geralt’s wrist gently.
“Don’t be foolish, I’m not going anywhere while you’re in this state.” While you’re in this state. The unspoken later left off of that statement made his heart sink and he couldn’t make eye contact. Another tremor ran through his body and Jaskier’s expression lightened somewhat, concern overtaking anger.
“But gods dammit, Geralt, how many times have we been over this?” Despite his anger, he was careful to keep his voice low. Geralt thought he might cry at the kindness of it, only witchers don’t cry. And then this was the thing: he was sure they’d discussed this particular habit at length several times, but he was having a hard time remembering anything through the tremors of pain wracking his bones. He made a feeble attempt at a shrug but stopped when Jaskier firmly put his hands on his shoulders.
“Just. Don’t move. I’ll yell at you later when you’re able to properly understand me.” That sounded nice. He let his eyes slip shut, too weak to hold them open any longer.
“No sleeping. Where’s that one, the one you use when you have too many? You called it, oh, fuck, what was it, Golden Oriole? Wait, no, that’s wrong. That’s for poison. White Honey? Is that it?” Geralt nodded a weak affirmation.
“Good, right. White Honey. Where is it?” He patted Geralt down, searching for where he might’ve stored the all-important potion. Geralt felt the beginnings of embarrassment color his face a faint pink.
“Don’t have it,” he grimaced when Jaskier raised a judgemental eyebrow, “no f’ckn ingr’dnts.” And that much was true, depressingly out of his control. White Honey’s three main components--vitriol, rebis, and aether--all called for White Gull, which had become irritatingly difficult to acquire due to their shortage of coin. And without those, it was impossible to craft, and...well. The point was, he didn’t have any. He hadn’t bothered mentioning it to Jaskier because there was nothing more he could do and it wasn’t the bard’s burden to bear.
“And you just decided not to tell me about it.” The anger was back. The guilt must’ve shown on his face because Jaskier quickly shoved it aside to deal with more immediate matters.
“For all of your talk about your so-called ‘self-preservation instincts,’ you certainly aren’t very well certified to be lecturing me.” He lifted Geralt’s head, running cool fingers through his hair to check for injuries and wincing when he found the open wound. Geralt hissed dizzily, trying very hard not to let his eyes roll back and completely check out on Jaskier.
“I’m no healer, but I think you have a nasty concussion. You know, in case the whole poisoning-yourself-via-potion thing wasn’t enough for you.” Geralt was at a loss to tell if the sarcasm was a result of his worry or his anger. Perhaps it was the combination of the two that had put the bard on edge.
Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and pulled him upright into a sitting position. For a brief moment, they were so close that they could have kissed. Jaskier’s lips were pressed together in a thin line, concern obvious.
But he’d seen the bard kiss many people. He knew what they looked like, pink and swollen. He’d been friends with him long enough that the image came to mind with ease. For a brief moment, his pain disappeared as he thought about that. Kissing the bard. That would be nice. If that was something that he’d wanted. Which he didn’t. At all.
That train of thought quickly derailed as his stomach lurched, fighting valiantly to evict its toxic contents. He swallowed convulsively, eyes flying wide. He thanked every god he could think of when Jaskier turned him to the side quickly, recognizing the signs that he was about to vomit. He retched painfully into the bushes, trembling hands turning white on the ground. Jaskier allowed him the illusion that he was holding himself up, but the reality was that he was supported entirely by the bard’s strong arms. Without them, he surely would’ve fallen into the puddle of his mess.
Eventually, the outright vomiting turned into painful dry heaving. It felt like hours before it subsided, leaving him exhausted and shaking and aching even more than he’d been before. As he slowly became aware of his surroundings again, he realized that Jaskier had been rubbing steady circles on his back and humming in a low, soothing tone the entire time. When more than a few minutes passed between heaves, Jaskier paused and spoke.
“Are you alright?” Geralt didn’t justify the rather obtuse question with a verbal answer, understanding that it was mostly rhetorical. He shook his head weakly.
“I thought as much.” He sighed, pulling Geralt back to lean on his shoulder.
“We should go to Roach. She’s been waiting an awfully long time. Probably getting impatient.” Geralt hummed something that he hoped sounded like an assent, too tired to do anything more. He closed his eyes for a moment in an attempt to keep the world from spinning too quickly.
He’d nearly forgotten how excruciating going toxic on potions was. They were, essentially, poison, so it made sense that they were never any fun. But the high toxicity of Petri’s philter was something that he’d not experienced in well over a decade, not having a bad enough need for it to justify its use in that time. He was sure his blood was all but boiling in his veins; Jaskier hadn’t said as much, but the way his hands felt almost cold against his skin told him that he had a very high fever. His head was pounding from the combination of the collision with the tree and the potions, his sense of reality slightly warped. His heart thundered in his ears, racing hard and fast to try to dispel the effects of the toxins faster. It was nearly human in speed, which was worrying enough on its own.
When he opened his eyes next, he found himself moving, which was strange. He’d been taking a moment to rest on the forest floor, but now the trees were floating past him.
“Wh’th f’ck…”
“Are you awake?” The voice sounded almost like a rumble, vibrating against his head. He realized suddenly that a pair of strong arms were holding him, one under his knees and the other at his shoulders. His nose, even more sensitive than usual, was overwhelmed by the scent of linseed oil and cinnamon.
Jaskier.
His feet weren’t touching the ground. But there was no horse smell to indicate that they were riding Roach.
Jaskier was carrying him?
Fuck. Now was not the time to let his mind wander in that direction.
“I distinctly remember telling you, no sleeping. Then you go and pass out on me without a single word. Rather rude, don’t you think?”
“H’vy?” An incredulous laugh tore from Jaskier’s lungs, and he felt it in his bones.
“Oh, hardly. I’ve been traveling with you for over a decade now, Geralt, you must know that I’m more than capable of carrying one man.” And that was true, Geralt had known that. It was just rather strange to be carried by his best friend in such a manner.
Best friend. It was too bad--
No. We are not doing that now.
There was no way his swords could be on his back if Jaskier was carrying him.
“Sw’rds?” He slurred, fighting the way his eyelids seemed to be getting heavier and heavier.
“Only you would be this close to your deathbed and worried about your weapons, of all things. Don’t worry. I’ve got them.” And now that Geralt was listening, he could hear the faint brush of their sheathes against Jaskier’s silky pants. He must’ve fastened them around his waist.
“We’re nearly to Roach. Please do me the favor of staying awake, at least until you’re in the saddle. I highly doubt I can get you up on my own.” Geralt was skeptical of his ability to follow through, but he would try. Perhaps if he talked, that would soothe Jaskier’s nerves. He always seemed to like it when he talked. The bard was doing an excellent job of disguising the raw fear in his voice, but it did little to cover up his scent and the way his heart was skipping along in his chest. With his ear pressed up against Jaskier’s ribcage, Geralt was all-too-aware of both. And maybe, if he’d been more lucid, he might’ve been alarmed by that fact, because it took quite a bit to garner that kind of reaction out of his bard.
“Y’r an idiot.” He growled, burying his nose in Jaskier’s doublet and inhaling deeply. It was probably still several hours ‘til dawn and the sky was already far too bright for him. A scoff came from somewhere above his head.
“I won’t deny that, but it takes one to know one, Geralt.” Yet again at a loss for words, he changed the subject.
“Cinmonnon?” Melitele help him, the word came out so slurred he was sure it was unrecognizable.
“Cinnamon?” Jaskier sounded caught off guard. It was then that Geralt remembered that the bard couldn’t follow his thought process, hidden inside his head as it was.
“Smell nice. Cimanon,” He mumbled, his voice muffled by the fabric of Jaskier’s clothing. He wondered if he was bleeding on it. He wondered if Jaskier cared that he was bleeding on it. He vaguely remembered something happening to his arm. He couldn’t focus on any one injury in particular, too distracted by the all-consuming pain of his potions trying to kill him from the inside out.
He was too out of it to register Jaskier’s response to his explanation, but he thought there might’ve been another laugh involved. He liked it when Jaskier laughed.
“Okay, here we are.” Jaskier sounded oddly breathless, and then he remembered that the bard had carried him all the way back from where he’d fought the leshen. He didn’t know how long it had taken him to get there, only that it hadn’t been a short walk. He was surprised that Jaskier had been able to lift him at all, though he probably shouldn’t have been.
“Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll get one of your feet into the stirrups, and then I’ll help you the rest of the way onto her back. Does that work?” He managed a weak nod. Distantly, he felt his toes slip into a stirrup. Jaskier’s grip around his back tightened as he pushed Geralt up.
“Okay, okay, straighten your leg, Geralt.” His head was spinning, but the command gave him a priority. He could do that. He felt himself tilted into a more vertical position, one of Jaskier’s palms flat on his back, and his left leg was suddenly taking the brunt of his weight. His knee nearly buckled, but he stiffened the joint at the last minute.
“Good, good! Now swing your leg over the saddle. That’s it.” With his other hand now free, Jaskier braced it against Geralt’s torso, stopping him from overstepping and ending up in the dirt on the other side of Roach. Somehow, he was settled into the saddle and slumped over onto Roach’s neck.
There was a brief flurry of motion, and then a warm weight at his back. Hands on his shoulders, pulling. He struggled, suddenly terrified that he was going to fall off, but the hands were firm and a soothing voice accompanied their pressure. Then he was leaning back onto something warm, and spicy smelling, and-- oh. It was Jaskier.
“Don’ wanna bleed on you.” He mumbled, turning his head to rest more comfortably on Jaskier’s chest. His muscles were screaming in protest of the work he’d just done and he wanted nothing more than to pass out in his bard’s arms.
“Oh, dear, I do believe we’re already quite past that. You’re always the one telling me how head wounds bleed so much. I hope you weren’t a redhead before the trials--it doesn’t suit you.” In a clearer state of mind, maybe Geralt would have been able to remember. But that had been a long time ago, and his brain wasn’t currently functioning at full capacity. Jaskier clicked his tongue gently and Roach eased into a slow walk, keeping her gait as smooth as possible. Still, it jostled him and he groaned at the movement.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry.”
“Dn’ remember much.” Geralt wasn’t sure why answering Jaskier’s meaningless question had become so important to him.
“Much of what, Geralt? The fight?” The steady thrumming of the bard’s heart under his ear ticked up just slightly. Concern, maybe.
“My hair.”
“No, I imagine not. I have no doubt that you were an adorable child, regardless of whether you can recall.” Geralt responded with a weak shrug. Even normal humans remembered very little from early childhood, and what little he might’ve had was probably burned from his memory during the Trials.
“Let’s not worry about that right now. Do you remember how long the potions you took are supposed to last?”
“Eight,” The sound that came out of him was dangerously close to a whine. Roach turned around to nose him worriedly.
“Shh, it’s alright, Roachie. Let’s keep walking, please?” He stroked her neck and gently dug his heels into her sides, hoping she would get the message. She shot him a look that Jaskier would swear meant I know, bard, and resumed her easy pace. He returned his attention to Geralt, who was trying very hard to stop being upright.
“Surely not eight hours?” He asked worriedly, manhandling his witcher out of his steadily devolving slouch. Geralt replied with a weak nod that he felt more than saw. He bit his lip. Without White Honey to clear out Geralt’s system, he could be in legitimate danger.
The witcher in question finally stopped fighting to slump forward and bonelessly flopped against Jaskier’s sturdy chest. His head lolled nearly off Jaskier’s shoulder, and he gently nudged it so that he was resting in the crook of his neck.
“Mmm…too bright.” Jaskier glanced around in confusion; the sun was still well below the horizon, the sky just beginning to color a very dark gray.
“Geralt, it’s still nighttime.”
“I know.” Geralt grumbled. Something cool was back against his forehead, and he heard Jaskier hum in discontent. Roach’s gait picked up just a bit more, and this time it seemed she was actually making an effort to keep the ride smooth.
They were about a forty-five-minute ride out from the town--thirty if Jaskier pushed Roach hard enough. But he wouldn’t, because it wasn’t going to do any of them any good if Geralt fell out of the saddle at a hard gallop. He drifted in and out of lucidity as they made their way back, only half-listening to Jaskier’s soothing murmurings. There was the occasional gentle nudge of his head when he would begin to roll off of Jaskier’s shoulder, every so often another palm at his forehead and then the bard would grunt something unhappy. Geralt was aware enough to know that he was in deep shit, but he couldn’t bring himself to care when everything around him was too loud and too bright and too harsh.
The leather of the saddle, the cotton of Jaskier’s shirt, his own armor against his skin, was irritating, abrasive. Even the sounds of his own hair rustling near his ears made him want to grit his teeth together. Jaskier was perceptive enough to realize this, and went out of his way to jostle him as little as possible.
It was the transition from the hard-packed dirt path to cobblestones that alerted Geralt to their location. Roach’s hooves on the stones were enough to pull him from his half-aware state, and he bared his teeth at the sound. Jaskier felt him flinch, and gave him a reassuring hum.
“We’re back.” Geralt only nodded, trying to focus his attention inward to avoid vomiting on Roach’s back. He doubted his mare would appreciate it very much, and he’d already pissed her off enough for one night.
They came to a halt outside of the inn. The streets were empty, and Jaskier prayed that the door had been left unbolted.
With a word of reassurance to Geralt, he leaped nimbly from Roach’s back and tried the door, keeping one hand on Geralt’s leg to make sure he didn’t keel off to the side.
And what would you know? It was locked. Thoroughly locked, not even a rattle.
Typical.
He’d alerted the innkeep that he was going to fetch his witcher, and that they would probably be back late, but she’d been preoccupied with a few overly-rowdy guests to be paying attention. And Jaskier had been in too much of a hurry to worry about such things as leaving the door unlocked. That could be dealt with later.
Only now was later.
He glanced back at Geralt. His eyes were half-lidded, and he was watching Jaskier with that expression that said this wouldn’t have happened if you’d just stayed put.
And well, maybe it wouldn’t have. Actually it definitely wouldn’t have. But then there was no telling what might have transpired with the leshen if Jaskier hadn’t come to the rescue with more bombs. Geralt might have defeated it no problem, or he might be laying in a pool of his own blood on the forest floor at this very moment. That wasn’t something he’d been willing to risk.
Jaskier had tried to be good. He’d tried to stay put. But when he’d finally turned in early for the night, exhausted from entertaining the excited crowd and ready to crash, he’d spotted the sack of a few dimeritium bombs still sitting next to Geralt’s bedroll. And his stomach had dropped to his toes. So he’d decided that he would simply track the witcher to his hunt, hand off the sack, and be on his merry way. Or maybe lurk in the bushes to make sure everything went off without a hitch.
Then he’d picked up the bag and decided that it was too light, looked inside and only found a couple. And if he’d spent some of his hard-earned coin on some less-than-strictly-legal dimeritium bombs at a shady apothecary before he’d headed off? Well, that was his business, not Geralt’s.
So instead of justifying the witcher’s withering glare (which wasn’t very effective anyways, seeing as he was only half-conscious and being held in the saddle by his bard’s hands) with a response, he rolled his eyes and turned back to the door, trying to decide what to do.
Their room was on the first floor.
He was almost certain he’d left the window cracked open, stuffy as it had been. If he hadn’t, that was what lockpicks were for.
He glanced back at Geralt, who had progressed from glaring to trying valiantly to keep his eyes open.
A few minutes later, Roach was standing in the bushes at the side of the inn, and Jaskier was struggling to clamber through the window, just a bit too high for him to comfortably step into their room. He only hoped he had the right room, or things were about to get very awkward very quickly.
With a thud, he landed on the floorboards, relieved to spot his own belongings next to the bed. He scrambled to his feet and threw the window the rest of the way open, pointing his finger at Roach.
“Stay put. Don’t let your idiot fall off.” He whispered firmly. Her snort seemed to suggest that that was a preposterous idea, and she tossed her head lightly.
Our idiot, he imagined her saying. Geralt groaned from the saddle, clearly questioning Jaskier’s next move.
“I’ll be right back.” He hissed before rushing out of the room, not bothering to close the window or the door. He nearly tripped over a few uneven floorboards making his way to the front room, but then he was unbolting the door and circling the building back to Roach and Geralt, who hadn’t moved an inch.
“Melitele bless you, Roachie. You’ve earned so many sugar cubes.” She whuffed as if in agreement and followed him placidly to the front door, where Jaskier stopped once more.
“Much as I’d like to, we can’t bring you in here. The innkeep would have a fit and I reckon there’s not a bed big enough for you in this entire fine establishment. Would you stay put for just a little while longer while I take care of our witcher?” Jaskier spoke calmly as he removed Geralt’s feet from the stirrups. Roach didn’t respond, because she was a horse and she couldn’t speak. He interpreted her silence as an enthusiastic yes and proceeded to drag Geralt off of her back, somehow miraculously managing to avoid dropping him.
“Gods, Geralt, you’re lucky I’ve put on some muscle in the last decade or we’d really be in trouble. Could you imagine how unfortunate it would be if this had happened when I was still just a boy?” Jaskier grunted, angling them sideways to fit them through the door and wondering at the miracle that he hadn’t been forced to carry Geralt such a distance before now. He toed the door shut behind him, not quite getting it latched.
Jaskier tiptoed down the hallway, not wanting to make a scene out of Geralt’s condition, and remembered to avoid the loose floorboards. Then they were in the room, and he set Geralt down as gently as he could, wincing in sympathy when he hissed.
The witcher looked like hell. Dark veins still stood out on his face and his hand, bleeding sluggishly from what appeared to be a bite wound. The pillow underneath his head had already stained a deep red--no doubt they would be paying for a replacement before they left. He was alarmingly still, but his eyes were clear enough for Jaskier to know that he was still awake and aware of his surroundings.
He dug around in his bags for a few moments, grumbling, before finding what he wanted at the very bottom. Sugar cubes. He rose to his full height in fixed Geralt with as sincere a smile as he could muster.
“Right, sorry. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I just can’t leave Roach outside the front door all night. You’d have a fit as soon as you were well enough to throttle me.” He kept his tone lighthearted, but his chest clenched at the thought of leaving Geralt alone, even for the short amount of time it would take to lead Roach to the stables. Geralt merely raised an eyebrow.
“Go, Jask,” he grunted, grimacing at his own voice.
“Don’t do anything stupid.” He whispered before opening the door. Biting his lip in worry, Jaskier made sure he had the key to the room in his pocket before pulling it shut and locking it behind him.
He was more careful to leave the front door to the inn slightly ajar, sure that Geralt would not take kindly to him falling through the window a second time and creating a ruckus. Roach was, for once, easy to deal with. After a bribe of a sugar cube, she was happy to follow along as he led her to the stables.
The poor stablehand startled so hard out of his slumber when Jaskier pushed the door open that he lurched directly off of his stool and onto the floor. Looking flustered, he stood up and dusted himself off.
“I’m a bit short on time, so here’s the deal: a silver coin for you to give this mare the best care you’ve ever given.” Jaskier flipped said coin between his fingers, raising his eyebrows in question. The boy eyed it and nodded feverishly, eagerly taking Roach’s lead.
“Thank you.” Jaskier said, whirling around and rushing back to the inn before the boy had even gotten Roach to her stall.
When he got back to their room, his heart nearly slammed to a halt; Geralt was in the exact same position he’d left him in, his eyes closed, unmoving.
Unmoving.
“No,” Jaskier gasped, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut.
Dropping the key onto the floor, he stumbled across the room, fell to his knees beside the bed and gripped his witcher by the shoulders, tight enough that his fingers turned white against his armor.
Still, he didn’t move.
“Shit, fuck, Geralt--”
And then Geralt was hissing loudly through clenched teeth, his face twisting and scrunching in pain.
“Jask ier, stop--” His voice was strained, weak, but blessedly there. Jaskier backed off quickly, tears welling in his eyes at the thought that he could have lost Geralt, that he would have died alone. He buried his face in the covers of the bed, twisting his fists in the sheets as a litany of different emotions tore through him--terror, relief, guilt--a choking sob tore its way through his throat and he sniffled, the sound muffled through the bedding.
A heavy hand fell on his head, scratching his scalp clumsily through his hair even though the effort must have been monumental.
“S’alright.” Geralt slurred. Jaskier swallowed hard as another pang of rage struck him, and he lifted his head. Geralt’s hand fell limply to hang off the edge of the bed next to him.
“Gods, no, Geralt, it’s not! You could have died! And you were alone, and if you die then I’ll be alone and I don’t know--no, actually, I do know -- I can’t go back to a life without you! I can’t!”
“You’d be f--”
“Oh, gods damn it, Geralt, don’t you get it? I love you!”
Oh.
Geralt’s eyes went wide, pupils still blown huge. And then Jaskier snapped back to the present, backed away from the bed as if he’d been burned.
Why, of all the times, had he slipped up now? While Geralt was injured, toxic on potions because he’d had to save Jaskier’s ass, and half-awake. And now he’d gone and dropped that particular bomb on him, one he’d kept close to his heart and well-hidden for the better part of a decade. Geralt wasn’t even in a state of mind to be processing such a confession, let alone properly respond to it. He scrambled to explain himself, to backtrack, to do something to make that shell-shocked expression on his witcher’s face go away.
“Fuck, Geralt, I’m sorry, I-that’s not--”
“Jask.” His panicked tirade, just picking up steam, screeched to a stop.
“Yeah?”
“Shut up.” Geralt had closed his eyes again, a frown marring his expression.
Jaskier pressed his lips tightly together, his own eyes going wide. He twisted the fabric of his shirt into knots, watching Geralt’s face as he worked through his thoughts. His eyebrows scrunched together, a thin line appearing on his forehead. Jaskier could see his pulse in his neck, racing along far too fast to be healthy. He resisted the urge to interrupt whatever was happening in his witcher’s head--there was nothing they could do for his toxicity at this point anyways, besides wait for it to pass.
Finally, Geralt unclenched his jaw and spoke.
“Armor. Off. Now.” His tone was carefully controlled, which scared the bard a good deal more than yelling might have. Wordlessly, he helped Geralt sit up on the bed and began to undo all of the complicated buckles and straps on his armor. The worst was the gauntlet on his right hand, which had started to dry on his skin.
“This needs cleaned,” He ventured tentatively, ghosting his fingers over the blood. The worst part about bites was how easily they got infected, second only to how long they took to heal. Torn skin takes a sight longer to knit itself back together than a cut.
Geralt nodded tiredly, his arm trembling with the effort of holding it aloft as Jaskier did his best to remove the gauntlet as painlessly as possible. He glanced up, once, and the witcher’s gaze was far off, deep in thought. He wondered if Geralt had even registered his statement.
And then finally, Geralt had been stripped of his armor and his boots, and he sat on the bed in nothing but his shirt and his trousers.
“Innkeep’s asleep, no doubt, so no hot water. Bath’s probably not a good idea yet anyway,” Jaskier tried again, this time actually searching for an answer. Sometimes, a warm (read: nearly scalding) bath was just what Geralt needed when he had one potion too many. But other times, the water, the scents, the movement, were all too much for his overwhelmed senses.
Geralt shook his head, confirming Jaskier’s suspicions.
“I thought so. Different clothes, perhaps?”
“Hm.” That was one of Geralt’s affirmative hums, so Jaskier dug through his pack in search of the softest pair of pants and shirt he owned--those would be kinder to Geralt’s oversensitive skin than the scratchy sheets of the inn’s bed. When he found what he was looking for, he tossed them onto the foot of the bed and fished out the bundle of first aid supplies that Geralt always carried.
“Can I take care of your injuries, or do we need to wait?” Geralt didn’t answer immediately, taking a moment to decide. Eventually, he nodded and shifted towards the edge of the bed so Jaskier could sit next to him.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t move.” Jaskier skirted out of the room before Geralt could reply, intent on sneaking behind the bar to access the water pump he’d seen when they’d checked in. Jumping over the waist-level gate was easy, and he snatched a couple of bowls from a cabinet to fill.
He was desperately trying to keep himself busy to avoid replaying his earlier slip-up over and over again in his head. Fuck. Had he really said that? Maybe he would get lucky and by morning Geralt would forget it had happened. Or dismiss it as a fevered hallucination. Perhaps he could just pretend that it hadn’t happened--but that was wrong. He didn’t want to make Geralt feel like a madman on top of everything else.
Water splashed onto the floor.
Shit. He’d forgotten he was filling the bowls.
Shoving aside his thoughts, he focused on not spilling any more. When he was done, he carefully stepped over the half-height door to behind the bar and avoided the bad floorboards, toeing the door to their room open.
Geralt looked towards the door when he came in but didn’t bother to move at all. Jaskier set the bowls down on the side table and fetched a rag from his belongings.
“Anything besides the arm and your head?” He was careful to keep his movements gentle and his voice low as he sat down on the mattress. Geralt hummed a negative and a little bit of the tension left Jaskier’s shoulders.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“And you’re positive you can handle this? I know how potions make you sensitive.” Jaskier murmured, sweeping his gaze down Geralt’s body.
“M’ not made ‘f glass.” He grumbled, trying to disguise the way his voice slurred. Jaskier elected to ignore it, taking Geralt’s arm and pulling it into his lap. He dipped his rag into the closest bowl and began to clean the worst of the blood away from the torn skin. Geralt took in a sharp breath through clenched teeth and he grimaced in sympathy.
Jaskier bit his lip, debating if he should speak. But the tension in the air was unbearable and his nature was to fill silence with sound.
“Geralt...I know that you are, first and foremost, a witcher.” Jaskier received a raised eyebrow as Geralt tried to figure out what he was leading into. But for now, the bard at least had a captive audience.
“But--and I’m saying this to you as your best friend, don’t give me that look, you know it’s true -- I wish you wouldn’t dismiss others’ concern for your wellbeing so easily.” A quiet huff, and Geralt’s arm was free of all but the fresh blood still spilling out of the injury. They were definitely going to be paying for new bedding.
“It’s just. People care about you, you know? I’ve heard you speak of your brothers and Vesemir. And I care about you. Quite a lot.” He rinsed his hands in the bowl of fresh water and pulled a needle from the bundle of supplies, sterilizing it in the flame of a nearby candle before threading it.
“And I’ve gotten quite fond of having you around. A decade of time might seem short for someone such as yourself, but for most humans that’s decent while.”
Another long stretch of silence.
“Do you remember, Geralt, the first time I had to stitch you up?” He was rewarded with a snort of cynical amusement. Geralt remembered it all too well. Jaskier smirked, his eyes never leaving his work.
“I’d known you for less than a month and already, I was stitching you back together. Damn drowners and their pack mentality. I was a mess. You know, I hadn’t ever seen that much blood at once until then. You acted as if it were the most normal thing in the world. I don’t even remember you flinching even though I was doing a shit job of it . Meanwhile I think I passed out at least twice before it was over.” He got the sense that Geralt might’ve rolled his eyes if not for the promise of the movement causing pain.
“M’re like halfa’dozen.” He grunted, gritting his teeth together as Jaskier hit a particularly sore spot.
“You still have the scar to prove it happened.” He was delving back into sensitive territory, and rushed to backtrack before Geralt closed himself off again.
“The trick with stitches, I’ve learned, is that you just have to commit. No holding back, just jump right into the thick of things. Overthink it, and they’ll bleed out before you’ve even started. Too much hesitation, and it’s painful for both parties. Messy to boot.” He wasn’t sure where he’d been going with his rambling, only that he felt like he’d made his point.
Whatever that had been.
Geralt remained quiet and pensive as Jaskier got lost in his own musings.
He’d come a long way from the boy who had first put his witcher back together, but some things were still the same. He still paled at the sight of blood, especially when it came from one particular white-haired mutant. Geralt still pretended that it didn’t hurt even when they both knew it did. They both still skirted around talking about their relationship; Geralt because he was afraid of his own feelings, of the inevitable danger of loss that came with being close to someone. Jaskier because he was terrified of pushing Geralt too far and driving him away.
And they still had the same after-hunt routine. After Jaskier had gotten the hang of stitches and gotten used to the sight of blood, Geralt had been forced to admit that the bard did a much better job of suturing his injuries shut. Jaskier supposed it came from years of embroidery practice with the ladies of the court back in Lettenhove. And he didn’t mind putting his companion back together, especially if it meant preventing the addition of another scar. The witcher had enough without adding more to his collection. And while they didn’t bother Jaskier (aside from the reminder that he’d been hurt in those places, once), he knew that Geralt hated them.
Jaskier finished the final stitch and cut off the remaining thread with his dagger before sitting back, nibbling his lip.
“Sp’t it out.” Geralt grunted, inspecting his handiwork and shooting him a knowing glare.
“I don’t want to lose you.” Jaskier finally sighed, busying himself with the leftover thread to avoid looking up. The silence dragged on, but he was afraid to speak any more for fear of Geralt shutting down forever. As he packed away the stitching supplies and produced a roll of bandages for his head, he could feel those golden eyes boring into him.
He nudged Geralt forward off of the wall, purposefully staring over his shoulder, and felt around the back of his head for the gash he knew was there. Then there was a flinch, and he knew he’d found it. He pushed Geralt’s head forward and he complied easily, resting his chin on his chest while Jaskier checked the extent of the injury.
Parting bloodstained white locks, Jaskier inspected the cut and decided that it didn’t need stitches. Head injuries always looked worse than they were--Geralt had no doubt fallen hard, probably had a concussion, but it was impossible to tell until the effects of the potions wore off and he could properly check his eyes. And wrapping his head would help to stop the bleeding at the very least.
He dunked the rag back into the water, wringing it out before repeating the same cleaning process he’d done on Geralt’s arm. By the time he was done, the hair around the wound was almost white again, although it was quickly staining bright again as it had yet to stop bleeding. Not for the first time that night, Jaskier found himself cursing some of the less desirable effects of Geralt’s potions, one of which was increased heart rate. It caused wounds that didn’t heal immediately to bleed profusely until they were taken care of.
Finally deeming the condition of the cut acceptable, Jaskier shuffled closer and reached for the bandages and began to wind them firmly around Geralt’s head, being careful to keep his hair out of his face.
The problem with that was, it suddenly put them very close together, and it was obscenely difficult to avoid those eyes when he was only a few inches from them. He could feel the witcher’s warm breath on his skin, could easily see--even though he was trying very much not to--that Geralt was practically staring into his soul. Chewing on his lip and certain Geralt’s witcher nose could smell his discomfort, he went around a few times, not quite tight enough to hurt, and finished it off with a knot.
Unsure of what to do next, he stayed kneeling in Geralt’s personal space, fiddling with the ends of the linen and chewing on the inside of his cheek.
“Jaskier.” Geralt hummed, his voice so quiet he almost thought he’d imagined it. Then, with visible effort, he pressed the palm of his uninjured hand flat against Jaskier’s chest, pushing him back just enough that they were face-to-face.
Jaskier stubbornly kept his eyes downcast, not wanting to see whatever expression flickered in the depths of Geralt’s amber eyes. But it was maddening, and Geralt was patient despite the obvious exertion it was taking to stay awake.
An eternity passed.
With trembling fingers, he tilted the bard’s chin up.
And then, finally, Jaskier lifted his gaze.
He’d expected anger or disgust, or, perhaps worst of all, pity. After all, he was the fool who’d gone and confessed his love when the situation hadn’t called for it.
Instead, Geralt’s expression had gone soft, his head cocked slightly to the side, the corners of his mouth turned slightly up in a small smile. His irises had shrunk to a ring of gold around his pupils, dilated from the potions he’d taken in excess. The things that Jaskier might’ve expected to detract from the moment--bandages wrapped around his head, the smudge of dirt across his cheek, the tiny scratch on his chin--only served to make the image more endearing, somehow.
Gods, Geralt was gorgeous.
Jaskier wanted to melt under that stare, but he didn’t move, terrified of breaking whatever was happening between them in that moment.
Something hungry darkened Geralt’s eyes, and he leaned forward ever so slowly, his gaze searching, questioning. Shocked but not upset by the development, Jaskier absolutely did not want to discourage him. So he finally allowed a small smile to grace his features, his cornflower eyes darting from Geralt’s lips to meet his golden ones.
And then there was no hesitation, and his eyes slipped shut as they met.
It was the most innocent kiss he’d ever had, over almost as soon as it had started. Geralt’s lips were soft, a lovely contrast to how tough and battle-hardened the rest of him was. Jaskier could feel the heat radiating off of him, still far too warm to be healthy, but all he could focus on was the way the brief touch lingered, on the way his lips tingled, on the way Geralt’s hand had somehow drifted to cup the back of his neck, warm and heavy. The way that, even when they parted, Geralt’s thumb remained on his cheek, rubbing gently and leaving trails of sparks that shivered up and down Jaskier’s spine.
When he pulled back, Jaskier couldn’t stop the small whine that slipped out of his mouth, too quiet for anything but witcher ears to pick up on. And there was that smile again, precious and all too rare.
Jaskier wanted nothing more than to crash into Geralt, to embrace him and swamp him with kisses and soft touches and sweet nothings.
But despite his sudden forwardness, the effects that his toxicity were having on him were still painfully obvious. So against his own vehement wishes, Jaskier stayed put and only offered his hand. Geralt took it easily and he squeezed gently, trying to communicate everything he was feeling through the simple touch.
Geralt wasn’t out of the woods yet. Far from it. He had a long night ahead of him and an even longer day when the sun rose. He still needed to collect his pay for the successful hunt, and they still needed to restock on their supplies.
But his arm? And his head? Those would heal. And he would burn off the potions, and Jaskier would yell at him, and everything would be fine.
As Jaskier settled into the bed next to him, yearning to touch but careful not to overwhelm, they laced their fingers together under the sheets and he couldn’t help the brilliant smile that crossed his face.
Whatever came next, and whatever came after that, they would face it together.