Work Text:
“And it...swallowed that Witcher whole!”
“Oh, this is brilliant .” In the silence that follows Jaskier’s comment, one could hear a pin drop. He rushes to explain himself. “Oh, oh, sorry. It’s just..Geralt is just usually so stingy with the details.”
The man who had been speaking gives him an incredulous look.
Jaskier stares back, pen poised to copy down the tales of Geralt’s exploits. “And then what happened?”
“And then,” The man chokes back a sob. “He died.” The crowd gathered around gasps.
“Eh..” Jaskier turns back to his journal, unconcerned. “He’s fine.”
The man sputters, outraged. “Look, bard! I was there, I saw it with my own--”
A bang cuts the man off, and Geralt strides in through the door to the inn. He looks absolutely atrocious, covered in blood and other fleshy, unidentifiable things, but he seems to be unharmed.
“See!” Jaskier sounds more smug than he means to, but he has an endless supply of faith in Geralt. “Told you he was fine,” he mutters, ignoring the way the man stares at Geralt like he’d grown a second head.
“What is that stench?” The man asks, holding his nose like the rest of the crowd.
Geralt grunts. “Selkimore guts. Had to get it from the inside. I’ll take what I’m owed.”
The man tosses a coin pouch to Geralt, who catches it one handed. The Witcher wanders over to the bar, where he’s greeted with a pint of ale. It must not be very good because he spits it out and is glaring at the barkeep as Jaskier walks up.
“You’re welcome,” Jaskier starts, leaning against the counter and making himself comfortable. If the smell coming off of Geralt bothers him, he doesn’t show it. “Now, it’s time to repay your debt. I need a favor.” He picks up Geralt’s discarded pint and takes a drink of the ale. It really is horrible. “From you,” he clarifies.
Geralt only agrees to help the bard with the promise of food, women, and wine, and Jaskier tries not to focus too much on that.
But first, before the promised food, women, and wine, a bath is necessary.
Jaskier dumps a bucket of water of Geralt’s head, ignoring the water that splashes back onto his shoes. Geralt grunts in irritation, but leans forward to scrub blood and gore off his face. Jaskier sucks in a tight breath at the teeth marks marring Geralt’s back and shoulders.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jaskier circles around the tub to get a better look. “These look awful, Geralt, don’t they hurt?”
Geralt leans back against the tub, hiding the marks from Jaskier’s view. He tilts his head back to fix the bard with an unimpressed glare. “I don’t need your mothering, bard.”
But Jaskier has been travelling with Geralt too long to be bothered by the man’s standoffish nature. He sends an unimpressed look right back, though his isn’t as effective as Geralt’s. “I’m not mothering you, Geralt. I’m helping you, as a friend.”
Geralt mutters out a “not your friend” that Jaskier can barely hear.
Jaskier wanders to the other side of the room, where their bags are stored. “Now, the green one is the healing salve, right?”
The grunt he gets from Geralt is of the affirmative nature, so Jaskier grabs the green bottle and makes his way back to the tub. He kneels down behind Geralt. “Let me help, please?”
Using just his fingertips, he pushes Geralt forward. For a minute, it seems like Geralt is going to resist, to snap and push back, but then Geralt’s shoulders relax and he leans forward enough for Jaskier to reach the wounds on his back.
First, Jaskier takes the softest rag he can find (it still feels like sandpaper, but it’s better than the others) and frees the skin around the teeth marks of gore. Once the wounds are mostly clean, Jaskier takes the discarded bucket, fills it, and pours the water down Geralt’s back.
With the blood out of the way, Jaskier can see that there’s a tooth stuck in one of the wounds near Geralt’s shoulder. “Geralt?”
The man sighs, but doesn’t move. “What?”
“There’s a tooth stuck in this one.” Jaskier runs a finger around it, so Geralt knows which one he means. “I’m going to remove it, I just wanted to warn you first.” He wraps two fingers around the jagged edge protruding from Geralt’s flesh. “Ready?”
Geralt takes a deep breath. Jaskier yanks on the exhale. He doesn’t miss the hiss of air that comes from Geralt, nor the way the man tenses up.
“Sorry,” Jaskier mutters, already popping open the cork on the healing salve. He dips two fingers in before setting to work diligently slathering it over the Witcher’s wounds. “How did you do this by yourself?”
“I didn’t.”
Jaskier’s hands still. “So you just...what, bled until you stopped? Walked around with open wounds until they got infected?”
“Jaskier…” The tone of Geralt’s voice is one of warning. He doesn’t want to talk about this, but Jaskier is already going.
“You weren’t going to tell me, were you? You were just going to leave this tooth,” he grabs the selkimore tooth and brandishes it in front of Geralt’s face before letting it clatter to the floor. “In until it what, festered? Fell out?” Jaskier goes back to rubbing salve on the Witcher’s back. His movements are quicker, harsher than before. “You’re an insufferable idiot.” He puts the cork back in the bottle and gets up.
Geralt leans back against the tub as soon as Jaskier is standing. Jaskier notices he’s tense, keeping the wounds off the harsh wood of the tub’s edge. “Why do you care?” Geralt asks, eyes tracking Jaskier as the bard moves around the tub to grab the soap.
For a fraction of a second, Jaskier is hit with the wonderful mental image of pelting the Witcher in the head with the bar of soap in his hands. But Geralt would catch it, and then be irritated, and that whole scenario was less than ideal. Jaskier settles for pointing a finger threateningly in Geralt’s direction. “I know you don’t like to admit it to me, or to yourself, but we are friends.”
Geralt snorts, mouth open to say something snarky when the bard cuts him off.
“You’re a man of actions, Geralt, not words. I’ve traveled with you long enough to know this.” Jaskier makes his way around the tub again, and settles behind Geralt. He dips his hands, still holding the bar of soap into the water. He scrubs the bar of soap between both his hands, sets the soap aside, and then sets to working the suds through Geralt’s still nasty hair. “If we’re really not friends, then tell me to stop. Push me away.”
Geralt moves like he’s going to get up and out of the tub, so Jaskier pulls his hands back. But then Geralt pauses and settles back down. Jaskier’s grin is brighter than the sun.
"Knew it.”
“Fuck off, Jaskier.” There’s no heat behind the words. In fact, the more Jaskier works the soap through Geralt’s hair, the more the man seems to relax, until he’s almost boneless in the warm water of the bath.
Jaskier takes the bucket again and rinses out Geralt’s hair, much nicer than the first time when he just dumped the whole bucket over water over the Witcher’s head. Geralt makes no move to get out of the tub when he’s finished, so Jaskier finds a comb and gets to work on brushing out Geralt’s hair.
The room is quiet, interrupted only by Jaskier’s humming as he works.
“What are you humming?” Geralt speaking startles Jaskier, and Geralt curses softly as Jaskier accidentally pulls too hard on a tangle.
“Oh it’s uh...a song that my mom used to sing to me when I was little.” Jaskier had paused his ministrations on Geralt’s hair without realizing. “There are lyrics too, but I don’t remember them all.” He resumes combing, nimble fingers gently working through the snarl he had yanked on earlier.
“What do you remember?”
This time Jaskier doesn’t startle, doesn’t pause what he’s doing. He takes a deep breath and begins to sing, softly.
Love run, love run
For all the things we wished we’d done
Run from all you know that’s coming
Run to show that love’s worth running to
“That’s all I remember, though.” Jaskier has finished combing Geralt’s hair and is tying the top part back so that it’s out of Geralt’s face. “There,” he pats Geralt’s uninjured shoulder as he stands up and makes his way so that he’s kneeling in front of the Witcher. “One clean Witcher.”
Geralt is looking at him with an expression he can’t place.
“Look, Geralt.” Jasker dips his hands into the luke-warm water to wash off any remaining soap or gore. “I know I’m not that much help, but when I’m here, I will help. But I don’t know if you’re injured if you don’t tell me . I want to help you.”
Geralt’s mouth says, “I don’t need you,” but his eyes are soft. “And I don’t want you needing me.”
“And yet,” Jaskier cracks a soft smile, looking up to meet the Witcher’s golden gaze. “Here we are.”