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“Ughhh! Geralt, it has been months since my back had the pleasure of resting comfortably! Months! Your buddy’s getting old! I don’t have your annoyingly good Witcher physique as a counteragent to a damaged spine!”
“It’s been exactly 8 days. And you are always welcome to leave.”
“Now, you don’t mean that!”
Jaskier very pointedly pretends he does not see the meaningful look Geralt gives him. Nor the way Roach seems to sidestep and almost crush his foot under her hoof.
Sometimes he can’t tell if she’s warming up to him or biding her time until there’s a chance to trample him.
“You’re killing me here.” He whines. “And there’s no one but you around to appreciate my musical talent, either!”
“Trust me when I say you would notice if I’d kill you.”
Jaskier snorts. „Yeah. But foreplay, remember?“
„Yes, if I ever initiate foreplay, run.“
„Duly noted, dear Witcher. Now, where were we? Right. Inn. And a proper bed.“
Truth be told, the only reason that Jaskier is so desperate for proper lodgings is the pub that usually accompanies mentioned lodgings.
Geralt‘s behavior had taken a subtle but noticeable turn towards.... something, lately. And he is starting to feel uneasy by the relentless focus the Witcher has on his activities. Like Jaskier had spontaneously become some kind of suspicious mage. Like that blasted Yennifer.
Ok, let‘s not go there.
Anyway, the bard had hoped that maybe some good ale and... well... women could turn him back to normal. Or what could be considered normal for a Witcher.
„There should be a village half a day‘s ride from here.“
Jaskier perked up at that, almost tripping over a root. „Truly!? Then we should- wait...“ his eyes narrowed to a wary glare. „If you plan to just leave me there Geralt, so help me, I will-„
„Calm down. Or you‘ll give yourself a heart attack... old man.“
Jaskier gasps. „Oh-oh gods, Geralt, was that a joke!? Are you sick!? Dying!?“
The Witcher rolls his eyes, fastening the pack he’d been carrying to Roach‘s saddle, completely ignoring the fussing bard. Again. That, at least, he‘s used to.
The glare that Roach fixes him with... less so.
Geralt swings himself onto the mare‘s back in one fluid motion, and Jaskier already prepares himself for a rigorous walk through the woods when Geralt stretches out a gloved hand, beckoning the bard to grab it.
Jaskier just stares... for a good ten seconds, unsure, before Geralt becomes impatient and growls softly. So he grabs the offered hand and swings himself on the horse behind the Witcher, feeling Roach‘s muscles move and shift underneath him to accommodate another person atop her.
To her credit, though, she doesn‘t start bucking to throw him back off again.
He takes a moment to enjoy the way it feels, sitting on a horse again behind Geralt. The last time, immediately after the Djini incident, he‘d been quite literally on the verge of death. Terrified in a way he‘d never been before. And even though the Witcher always claimed that there was nothing, not even the thinnest ties of friendship, between them Geralt had gone further to save him than most (or anybody really) would have.
For all that the stories make witchers out to be heartless monsters, Geralt had proven to have more of that than most humans do.
Roach falls into a slow trot, winding her way through the trees expertly without any hint that Geralt had even so much as touched the reigns.
„Alrighty! I don‘t suppose this is considered foreplay? Because seeing as getting down would take precious running seconds away from me, that would be cheating.“
Geralt grunts, scanning their surroundings and the sky with vigilant eyes. But his posture is more relaxed now that they‘re both off the ground. More at ease.
And it‘s most likely Jaskier‘s wishful thinking, but it almost feels as if Geralt sinks back against him a bit, closing the gap between their bodies the bard had been trying to maintain.
„If Roach can keep this pace, we might make it before nightfall.“
As if in response, the mare gives an indignant snort and goes a little faster.
„Hold on.“
He obeys without a word, trying to keep the awkwardness in which he looks for purchase on Geralt‘s armor to a minimum.
After about ten minutes of being jostled thoroughly by a few too powerful kicks of Roach‘s muscular hind legs, however, he throws caution to the damned wind and just snakes his arms around the Witcher’s chest. Geralt could kill him later for it.
There‘s a low rumble from below where his hands are placed, and the bard isn‘t quite sure if it signifies a low growl or a laugh. Either way, there’s nothing immediately threatening about it, so he contends himself with the warmth and familiar smell radiating from the body in front of him.
He hates craving this. He hates loving it. He hates living for moments like these.
Jaskier really wishes he didn‘t have a heart. But that common human trait had conveniently skipped him.
Fuck life.
Jaskier admits he might have developed a rather unhealthy disregard for his own health at some point. He does not have a death wish, thank you very much, but he can‘t deny that he might have gotten less... cautious, somewhere along the way.
And then there‘s this whole thing about him just waiting to get killed by Geralt of Rivia and stuff, but that‘s a whole other story.
So when they do arrive at the inn before nightfall (Jaskier positively cheers) thoughts of death and impending doom are about the furthest thing from his mind, and he slides off Roach before she even comes to a complete halt. And promptly gets nipped at by her for that.
He pretty much barges through the doors, relishing in the noise and smells that hit him like a condensed wall of something so distinctly human that he almost sobs in relief. Anything to take his mind off bleached hair and inhuman eyes recently lacking their poorly concealed animosity.
It takes less than a minute to mingle with the townsfolk, sharing a few stories and songs with the pretty maidens at one table, joking with the elderly men at another, and chatting with farmers at the bar.
Geralt enters the inn five minutes after him, sweeping the room with a glance, barely stopping when he spots Jaskier, and makes his way to the innkeeper, swapping a few words with him before passing over a small pouch of coins.
The innkeeper, including the other guests, barely even blink when the Witcher enters, and the ill seated anticipation he hadn‘t even noticed before uncurls and turns fuzzy in his gut instead. Geralt would deny it as long as he lives, but the stories and songs Jaskier had started to spread amongst the humans so long ago had actually changed something.
It had taken time, like all things do, but Geralt has a decidedly easier time dealing with people nowadays. More who are willing to give his kind the benefit of the doubt.
Jaskier counts it as a win.
He tries waving the Witcher over after the innkeeper turns to attend another guest, but Geralt only lifts an eyebrow, eyes darkened by the gloom indoors, and lifts a cup of what is probably ale to his lips, taking a long drag.
His loss.
The bard turns back to the people he‘d been chatting with, all the while aware of the heavy stare in his back. But it‘s been a long time since he‘s been bothered by it. By now he knows enough of the Witcher’s behavior to say that it‘s almost like an instinct for the mutant to keep people (or animals) he‘s traveling with within easy reaching, or preferably seeing, distance. An odd little quirk. Nonetheless something that makes him feel, in his mind, at least slightly special.
So when Geralt passes him on his way to the rooms, pushing a small brass key into his hand and turning down his invitation to join them for some ale, Jaskier has absolutely no reason to believe that this evening could go completely down south in the span of only thirty minutes.
The first sign is the snippet of a whisper only ten minutes later from two burly guys passing their group, keeping to the shadows. Something about a Witcher. Which is nothing to be immediately worried about, perhaps, but coupled with the menacing daggers, secretive glances towards the corridor leading to the rooms... yeah, Jaskier is starting to have an uneasy feeling about this.
Geralt comes back from the rooms a good fifteen minutes later, having shed his heavier armor, and heads towards the door, probably to feed and clean Roach.
That is also why he regretfully excuses himself from the company and hurries after Geralt when the shady group stands in almost perfect synchronicity, making for the door as well.
Night air always has something faintly terrifying and quiet to it, Jaskier muses absently as he slips out the door only seconds before the others, momentarily loosing his footing in his haste to get to the stables. He manages to regain his balance just in time to come to a skidding stop in front of the bemused Witcher who had just finished tying his mare the a post outside her assigned box.
„Geralt!“ he huffs, near panic. “There’s guys coming! Bad guys!” A stretch without knowing the details, maybe, but better to have an alert Witcher than a dead Witcher.
Geralt frowns, stops, shoves a yelping Jaskier behind him and rounds on the men that are just now entering the stables. A sigh escapes one of them.
“Told ya his pup would go tattling.”
Another scoffs, exposing yellowed teeth in a leering grin. “So what? Pretty boy’s not gonna get special treatment. Might even fetch a nice coin with some.”
“Geralt!” The bard hisses worriedly, eyeing the sharp knives in each of their hands. He’s already witnessed Geralt take down worse, yes, but never unarmed. Without armor. Not six men who seemed like they had at least a slight idea of what they were doing.
Geralt, as is his usual brooding style, doesn’t answer. And Jaskier sincerely wishes he had the nerves to hit him over the head for it. The bard is basically pressed up against Roach now, with the way the Witcher had backed up almost imperceptibly. Confusingly enough, the horse doesn’t move an inch. Just eyes the men clearly bent on murdering Geralt with the same assessing stare as her master.
“What do you want?”
The man up front, Jaskier assumes he’s the leader, chuckles darkly. “What do we want, he asks.”
His comrades echo the hollow sound, murmuring insults and foul curses towards Geralt.
The Witcher tenses, and Jaskier watches wide eyed as the leader takes a step towards them, drawing a jagged dagger with a very recognizable insignia on it.
Nilfgaard.
The man smiles. “We want your head on a spike.” he says, and charges.
Everyone who says that battles happen in slow motion are fucking liars in Jaskier’s opinion, because he does not remember anything between this moment and the one where Geralt is suddenly several feet away from him, dodging swipes from two opponents while two are dead on the ground with their necks snapped and the two remaining ones are trying to strategically creep up on him.
He almost heaves at the sight of the unnaturally bent necks. This could have very usually been him only days ago-
Roach neighs right next to his ear.
Focus, Jaskier!
Geralt is still expertly dodging the swipes, but the two others are getting closer from behind, having him cornered and-
He really doesn’t know why his response to that sight is to untie Roach, but it in hindsight it’s a good idea, because the horse doesn’t waste any time spinning around and head butting one of the men, sending him sprawling on the stone floor.
The momentary distraction is enough to throw off the others, too, and Geralt quickly knocks out one, then sends the others two flying against the wall.
And that should really have been it. Geralt apparently thinks so, too.
Which is probably why he doesn’t immediately notice when one of them lifts himself up to a crouch, throws back his arm and sends the dagger he’d been holding flying.
And again, those who say battles are slow motion need to seriously have a chat with Jaskier, because he certainly does not remember making the conscious decision (or sprint) to throw himself in front of the Witcher and take a fucking dagger to the gut.
At least he was right about him ending with his guts spilled (one way or another).
And it hurts like a bitch, too. At least after the initial shock wears off. Which is much too soon.
The knife slides like butter through his clothes and the skin beneath, and he falls back against Geralt with guttural sound, almost surprised that there are arms saving him from continuing his descend to the floor in a virtual free fall. He thinks he hears a low whine behind him, but he can’t be sure when his attention is on the fucking dagger sticking out of his fucking abdomen!
The pain sets in only a second after, and Jaskier must have passed out momentarily, because when he comes to again, he has only a very short amount of time to stare at the butchered mess that he thinks used to be the valiant knife thrower, before his body is being jostled and a new wave of pain leaves him reeling and gasping. He might have screamed a little, too. But let’s be fair, stab wounds hurt like a fucking bitch!
Liquid gold. That’s the first thing that registers beside the sheer agony. Then, that said gold are actually crazed eyes, belonging to one Geralt of Rivia, whose face is even more ashen than usual. “-skier!”
“Hmmm”
Geralt looks a right mess. He has blood splatters all over his face, mouth slightly parted to reveal the blunt ends of his front teeth and a few of the sharper ones further down. The bard wonders when he’s ever seen him in a similar state. He can’t.
There are hands cupping both sides of his face, and Jaskier thinks it’s somehow wrong to see the Witcher so... frantic. “Jaskier, you need to stay awake!”
“Hmhmm” damn, his mouth feels as if it’s filled with cotton. “Sshhh...sure”
The hands vanish shortly, then reappear beneath his shoulder blade and his knees. “Sorry.” Geralt says. Jaskier wants to ask what for, but the next instant he’s being lifted and he can feel the dagger shift and pull inside of him. This time, he definitely screams.
Geralt has his lips pressed to his brow, mumbling assurances as he waits for Jaskier to breathe again, then leaves the stables with the bard in his arms at a pace that would aggravate the wound as little as possible. Fucking fuck, Jaskier would definitely prefer the snapped head right now, thank you.
It’s only a short distance to the inn, but now it positively feels like years. No matter how smooth Geralt makes his steps, the wound still throbs with even the smallest movement.
Not to mention that the ‘staying awake’ thing is getting kind of hard when your brain is turning to mush from the blood loss. “..’m I goin’ to die now?”
He can hear Geralt grind his teeth. “No.”
Jaskier thinks that over. “Ok.”
“You are a stupid fucking idiot!” Geralt snaps, opening the inn’s door with a well placed kick, using the same breath to yell for help and a healer.
The next few minutes (hours?) are a blur. He thinks he’s being brought to a room and gently laid on the bed. Probably not by Geralt, seeing as the guy apparently abhors the word within a 5 sentence radius of himself.
By the time the Witcher appears back at his side he’s conscious enough to gurgle something that was supposed to be an apology, but instead just leaves his mouth as some incomprehensible mewl and tasting oddly metallic.
“Fuck. Fuck! Get the healer now!” Geralt bellows, and whoever had been in the room with them flees. The pressure on his stomach is most unwelcome, considering there’s a knife sticking out of it, but the pain is starting to subside slightly... which probably isn’t a good sign, but hey. Jaskier isn’t picky.
“‘S ok, Geralt.”
“Shut the fuck up, Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice is strained, and he has a look in his eyes that conveys too many emotions at once. Starting with bottomless fear.
So much for the ‘Witcher’s don’t feel’ shite.
Jaskier sucks in a breath, trying to sort through the jumbled mess that used to be his mind. “T’was bound to happen.... some day.”
“Indeed. We will be having words about this death wish of yours when you’re healed.” Geralt growls, but it’s lacking the usual bite.
He thinks there must be something very unnerving about the smile he gives the Witcher next, because Geralt’s entire face just falls like the walls of Cintra. “T’s ok if it’s you.”
But there’s no time to contemplate any of it further, because Jaskier can feel his eyes roll to the back of his head and consciousness leave him like an autumn leaf floating out of reach.
“No! JASK-“
Jaskier... wakes up. Which is a surprise in and of itself.
More so though is the distinct lack of agony ripping through his body, so he chances a look downwards, relieved to see his midsection tightly bandaged and no dagger sticking out of it.
Ok, no dying today. That’s actually quite splendid. And ties in perfectly with the rest of his plans.
He sighs softly, relaxing again and snuggling back into the body beside— wait what?
Jaskier jolts a little, not enough to wake Geralt but enough to have him scrunch his face adorably in his sleep. But what the fuck is he even doing in bed with—
Nevermind. Jaskier does not tend to look a gift horse in the mouth. He will worry about this come morning. When he’s running on more than just adrenalin and leftover panic.
The bard sinks back into the embrace, making himself comfortable on the arm pushed beneath his neck and around his shoulder, sighing softly. This, this is safe.
Geralt hums and pushes his nose against Jaskier’s neck, the breath ghosting over his throat making him drowsy and feel at ease.
“Sleep.” Geralt says, his other arm coming up to rest lightly above where the bandages end.
Jaskier does.