Archive of Our Own ^beta

It had been seven months since Geralt had last seen Jaskier. Seven months since the mountain, seven months since he’d hurled those terrible words at the bard that he’d immediately regretted but been too fucking proud and angry to take back, damn him.

He’d hoped Jaskier wouldn’t actually leave. But he did, of course; Geralt had looked away in grief-stricken fury and closed his eyes and when he’d turned back around again the bard was gone.

So that had been that.

Geralt didn’t expect to ever see Jaskier again.

Seven months and three weeks after the mountain, he dropped a bloody, dripping, slimy kikimora head onto the mayor’s desk. The man paled, looked at the grimacing head, looked up at Geralt, looked at the head, looked back up at Geralt.

“Th-thank you,” the mayor said finally. “The town owes you.”

“No one owes me anything except for the coin,” Geralt said flatly. “I’ll take what I was promised and be on my way in the morning.”

The mayor swallowed, nodded, handed a pouch over. He still looked vaguely green.

There was an inn not far down the road. It didn’t look like the better inns he’d stayed at before, but its stables were more than adequate; dry and roomy and warm. Roach nickered gently in appreciation when he turned her into her stall for the night.

Rooms were fairly cheap but comfortable enough, and the food, though a tad bland and overcooked, was at least hot, and served in generous portions. He sat alone in the corner as usual, resolutely not thinking about the cold empty seat beside him and lack of chatter in his ear.

Months, and it still felt too quiet without him.

It didn’t make sense. Geralt had been completely fine on his own for years before Jaskier had bumbled his way into his life, and in more ways than one the bard had made everything vastly more inconvenient. He needed constant watching over, constant worrying lest he be mauled by a monster or speared by a woman’s angry husband or brother or father or son, and his relentless chatter alerted everything within a hundred-meter radius to their presence. Yet there had been something there, before the end, when Geralt had felt a tug in his chest watching the bard slip into sleep that, had he been human, he would have called fondness. There was an urge to protect that he might have called care, a flutter in his too-slow heart when the bard turned and smiled at him that he could have called affection.

Witchers weren’t supposed to feel. They weren’t made for that. But he’d felt for Yennefer when she’d left, and he’d felt for Jaskier too.

Still, he told himself, very strictly, that he didn’t miss him.

Someone called for music, and Geralt called for beer. He mulled over his watery mug as a lively tune struck up on the other side of the room, did not think about Jaskier and how much this bard’s voice sounded like him, how much the faint scent of floral and spice that drifted over smelled like him, how much the gaudy silk he wore looked like something Jaskier would have worn, even from the back—

He blinked.

It was Jaskier.

Geralt blinked again, scowled, ignored the sudden thump of his heart. A small town in the middle of nowhere was the last place he’d have expected to see Jaskier again. The bard had done well on his own, from what he’d gleaned from other towns and cities he’d passed through; the songs sung there were familiar and praise for him ran high. After that, the bard wouldn’t need meager amounts of coin from a tiny town no one had heard of.

“You’re the Witcher,” a voice said from his right. Geralt turned to see a woman standing several feet away, features stern and cold.

Geralt looked her over once, returned to his beer.

The woman slipped onto the bench across from him, folded her hands on the table. “You’re the Witcher,” she said again. “I’ve got a job for you.”

“Already finished one,” Geralt grunted.

The woman shrugged. “Everyone’s always itching for some more coin on the side, aren’t they? Especially wanderers like you. It’s a small job; easy. Especially for a Witcher. Can’t imagine it would take you more than a few minutes to do and then clean up after. Could’ve asked others to do it but I know you’re quick and efficient and don’t tell tales, and that’s exactly what I need. I’ll give you enough reward for a month’s food and board at any of the best inns anywhere.”

Geralt looked up at her again for a long moment. “What’s the job?” he asked finally.

The woman smiled. “The bard,” she said. “The one singing on the other side of the room.”

Geralt frowned. “What about him?”

“I want you to kill him.”

“What? Why?”

The woman’s smile wasn’t friendly anymore; it was hard, and bitter. “He fucked the healer. My husband,” she said. “Repeatedly. He seduced an honest loyal man, that bastard, and I want him dead.” She paused. “And I’d be paying you to get the job done, not to ask questions.”

Geralt turned back to his mug. “I kill monsters, not men,” he said.

“But men can be monsters,” the woman said emphatically.

Geralt downed the rest of his beer and didn’t respond. That was true of some men, of course, but not of this man. Absolutely not of this man. He knew that. This man loved and fell out of love and fell back in love again with almost anyone he met, but it was an honest, pure love, not a monstrous one.

The woman tilted her head, pushed a rather large bag of coin toward him across the table, stopping just shy of touching him. “So? What do you say?”

“No,” Geralt said.

“But he’s—”

“I said no,” Geralt said again.

The woman’s gaze turned cold. “Alright,” she said after a long silence. “I’ll find someone else.” She stood with a swish of her skirts, snatched up the bag, and was gone.

Immediately, Geralt looked back at Jaskier. The bard’s back was still to him and the crowd seemed to be enjoying his songs; something about women again, a merry jig about having loved and then lost love but then fucked his way around the world. For all he knew, Jaskier was completely oblivious to the fact that a very angry woman wanted his life.

He’d have to warn him.

But they hadn’t spoken in over seven months; Geralt hadn’t even apologized for what he’d said on the mountain, and Jaskier probably hated him for it. The best thing to do would be to tell him what he’d heard, make sure Jaskier got out of town safely, and go on his separate way. Jaskier had survived all this time on his own, and there was no reason to assume he wouldn’t be able to do so this time too.

The last thing I want is someone needing me.

And yet, here we are.

The words sounded like they came from a lifetime ago.

He stayed in his corner as the festivities of the night drew to a close. The people gathered around Jaskier trickled down to four, then three, then two, collapsed and snoring over their tables next to half-full pitchers of beer. Jaskier let out a pleased sigh, clearly happy with how much he’d earned that night, turned around to leave, and immediately caught Geralt’s eye.

Both of them froze. From across the room, Geralt saw the bard swallow.

There was a long silence. Jaskier looked tense. Geralt was about to stand, to go over to him and tell him about the woman who wanted him dead, when Jaskier wrenched his gaze away and headed upstairs.

Right. Change of plans. He’d just have to quietly watch out for him from the shadows, then, until Jaskier was safely out of town.

The night passed uneventfully; whatever the woman was planning for Jaskier, nothing happened that night.

Geralt knew because he didn’t sleep.

Morning found Geralt in the same corner he’d been in the previous evening, eating a much nicer breakfast than he’d expected based on the quality of the inn’s dinner. He saw Jaskier come down the stairs several minutes later, hair still mussed from sleep, the front of his shirt lazily half-open.

Geralt felt his heart do something funny. It did something funny again when Jaskier spotted him, wavered, and ultimately decided to head towards him.

Jaskier slid into the seat across from him, a little shyly, very much quietly. “Um. Hey,” he said.

Geralt grunted.

A small smile curved Jaskier’s lips. “Ever so eloquent. You can, uh, keep eating,” he said, and Geralt could hear some of the old humor in his voice again. “And you don’t have to keep staring at me. Tempting, I know,” he said, and yep, that was a bit of the old humor, and Geralt realized that he had frozen with his fork half in the air when Jaskier had started walking towards him and that he probably hadn’t blinked once the whole time.

He looked down at his plate, speared a piece of sausage, and shoved it resolutely into his mouth.

Jaskier cleared his throat. “So uh, what are you doing here? I mean, obviously you killed the kikimora, no one else could’ve done it like that, so, stupid question, I suppose. It’s not like you were here following me or anything.” He paused, swallowed, looked uncertainly up at Geralt. “Were you?”

“Kikimora,” Geralt grunted, and ate another piece of sausage.

Jaskier nodded. “Yes. Right. Of course,” he said quickly. “Always on the hunt and all that. You know, you really should get a life these days. An actual normal life, I mean, I’m not saying you’re lame. Find a woman, find somewhere quiet, settle down…but I guess that’s not really a Witcher’s life, is it?” he mused. “Shame, really. Not that I’d know about settling down myself, I’ve been off traveling the world, getting to know more of its wine and women in intimate detail—”

“There’s a woman who wants to kill you,” Geralt said, rather more bluntly than he’d intended. “So you should leave.”

“A woman—what? Who?” Jaskier paled. “Shit. Is it Elise?”

“She didn’t tell me her name. Tall and thin, brown hair and green eyes. Was wearing a—”

“A brown skirt,” Jaskier said. He swallowed, suddenly fidgety. “Yeah, that’s Elise. Fuck.”

“You slept with her husband,” Geralt said.

Jaskier laughed nervously. “Ah, yes, well—”

“I didn’t know you slept with men,” Geralt interrupted, and that was not what he intended to say because that was none of his business and quite frankly he shouldn’t have cared, but for some reason he did care, and the question slipped through his lips almost without him meaning to.

There was a slight flush to the bard’s cheeks, turning them a rather lovely shade of pink. “Well I do,” he said, almost defensively. “And what about it? People are people and it’s easy to love them all the same.”

“People are people, huh,” Geralt said. Distantly he wondered if this philosophy of his included Witchers; this question, however, he kept to himself.

Jaskier was watching him. He was still fidgeting with his hands—always movement, with him, moving moving moving, nonstop, always something about him that wasn’t completely still. Even when he slept, when Geralt had kept watch over him without him knowing, there had been fluttering eyelashes, the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

Said chest was currently peeking out from beneath the bard’s half-open shirt, smooth pale skin with a light dusting of hair, collarbones straight and elegant on either side of his tender fluttering throat. Geralt knew how those collarbones blended into shoulder, where the hair thinned and gave way to soft skin; he knew the slim waist and elegant back, the way Jaskier was harder and more muscular under his silks than Geralt had expected but still soft, so soft, so young and gentle next to a battle-hardened Witcher. The bard had bathed often during their travels together, and months ago Geralt wouldn’t have considered his skin an unfamiliar sight. Today was different, though, and Geralt hadn’t seen him for too long, and he felt something raw clutch at his heart.

“I should leave,” Jaskier said, pulling Geralt out of his thoughts.

Geralt grunted again. He turned back to his breakfast, which was half gone now. By the time he'd almost finished it, the bard was still there, watching him.

“I thought you said you were leaving,” Geralt said.

“Well, I am,” Jaskier said. “Just, um, figuring out where I should go.” He paused, took a piece of scrambled egg from Geralt’s plate almost absentmindedly as if this were seven months ago and the terrible words had never happened. “There’s a town across the river, maybe I can head there—”

“Too close,” Geralt said.

“Right, of course,” Jaskier said quickly. “You’re absolutely right, don’t want to get in your way or anything—”

“No,” Geralt said. “Too close to here. She’ll find you.”

Jaskier blinked. “O-oh.”

Geralt looked at him. He looked small, suddenly, and there was something quiet and sad about him that hadn’t been there before, lurking under the outward cheer and performative bravado.

Ah, fuck it.

“I’m going towards the mountains,” Geralt said. “There’s a town hidden there, past Ellander. Several miles of rough land. Hard to track.”

“You…are you saying I should go there?”

“It’s safe enough.”

Jaskier hesitated. “Can I…come with you?”

Geralt grunted. A small smile spread itself across the bard’s face, and Geralt told himself that his heart did not flutter.

Maybe Jaskier didn’t hate him for what he’d said.

They set out an hour later, after Jaskier had time to eat and gather his things. Geralt rode Roach and Jaskier walked by his side; for a moment, it felt almost like it did before, Jaskier singing and strumming his lute in the lazy heat of summer, not a care in the world, confident that Geralt would protect them both and finding safety in a Witcher’s shadow.

And Geralt—he found a strange solace in the nonstop noise coming from the bard, a comfort in the wonder that was a bard running to a Witcher. It had been incredibly annoying at first, and that had only faded to a mild annoyance by the end, but it had become familiar despite the irritation it brought and he’d found that he’d missed it when Jaskier had been gone.

Jaskier was singing softly now, almost absentminded, strumming chords on his lute, and Geralt recognized the song he’d written after they’d been captured by the elves; two decades ago now, and it felt like lifetimes.

They crossed a small stream, no more than a foot or two wide, emerged into a clearing, and then Geralt pulled Roach to a sharp halt.

“Toss a coin to your Witcher, oh valley of—horse arse!” There was a light thump followed by Roach’s irritated snort as the bard bumped into her, having not been paying attention where he was walking. “Geralt, why are we stopped?”

“Shh,” Geralt said sharply, and for once, the bard fell silent.

And that was it. It was too silent.

Something was wrong.

Geralt dismounted, landed lightly on the ground, drew his sword. Several paces ahead in a thicket of trees, he heard a branch snap.

He narrowed his eyes.

“Um, Geralt, what’s going on?” Jaskier asked.

“You fucked the healer,” Geralt said. “I think that’s coming back to bite you in the arse.”

Jaskier paled. “Elise?”

“Not Elise, but most likely a bunch of hired swordsmen. Stay back!” Geralt said harshly, stepping forward so he was between Jaskier and the two men who he could hear waiting in the trees up ahead, but then there were three other men who appeared behind them, a few more on either side, and he realized with a sinking feeling in his chest that somehow they had been surrounded.

“Fuck,” he said, with a lot of feeling.

There was a tremor in Jaskier’s voice despite the smile he still wore on his face. “Uh, Geralt, I don’t think staying back is going to be any safer than staying forward, so if it’s all the same to you, I think I’d rather stick closer to your sword than to the ones held by those very scary men over there.”

Geralt growled. “Take Roach,” he said.

“Take—what?”

“Take her and go,” Geralt said, turning and shoving the bard towards the horse, who snorted and pawed anxiously at the ground. “She won’t buck you off; ride her as far away from here as you can. She’ll know where to go.”

“No!” Jaskier resisted, taking Geralt’s hand and trying to push it away. “No, I’m not leaving you and Roach won’t either!”

Geralt growled again, teeth bared in frustration and mounting panic as he heard the men stepped closer, closing the circle tighter, making it increasingly difficult for anyone to escape even on horseback. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ve dealt with worse. But I don’t want to have to worry about defending you, so get the fuck out of here.”

“I can’t even see them,” Jaskier protested. “They’re all hidden in the trees still and I don’t have your senses, I don’t want to ride her right into their hands—”

“Trust Roach, goddamnit,” Geralt snapped, but then it was too late, because the men hidden in the trees suddenly became very visible as they charged forward.

“Shit!” Jaskier yelped, and he stumbled back towards Roach, scrambling to get on her back—

No, scrambling to hide behind her, not even trying to get up into the saddle and ride her to safety, the stupid, stubborn boy—

And then Geralt couldn’t pay much more attention to him, because seven of the men were closing in on him and he knew his way very well around a blade but these men were skilled hired hands and dealing with seven of them at once was no small feat. He ducked under a swung sword, parried another, hissed as a third bit into his thigh. He heard Jaskier yell out a warning and spun to the side just in time to avoid a fourth that he’d heard coming, cutting the air next to where his ear had just been, and then he gasped and only just narrowly avoided a sliced throat because the wound on his thigh suddenly throbbed, searing pain shooting through the muscle into the bone, the distraction slowing him down just long enough for the tip of another sword to sink into his ribs, and he knew that the blades were poisoned.

He gritted his teeth, threw himself out of the way of two of the men, his own sword nicking the calf of another and causing him to stumble with a shout. His Witcher blood would slow the poison’s spread, perhaps even stop it completely, so pain was all it was, nothing more. He’d dealt with worse.

And then Jaskier screamed.

“Jaskier!” Geralt yelled, whirling around, the fury of his sword slicing one of the men clean through. He’d been so stupid, how could he have been so stupid, he’d heard a dozen men in the trees but only seven had attacked him, of course the other five were going to go after Jaskier—

Roach reared, neighing and pawing at the air, eyes rolling white and nostrils flared, held at bay by three flashing blades. The last two men had pulled Jaskier away from her and were pummeling him even has he tried to fight back, fists and knees and boots cracking ribs, bruising his sides—

“Jaskier!” Geralt yelled again, and a second man fell under his sword as the wound on his side and his leg burned to blacken his vision, and Jaskier was wheezing and already heaving up blood, and Geralt had to get to him. He blocked two swords coming in from the side, letting out a grunt of pain at the stress the movement put on the wound in his ribs—and it burned like fire but at least the pain was localized, his Witcher blood had indeed prevented the poison from spreading—and put a hole through the face of a third man unfortunate enough to have had just slightly too-slow reflexes. He arced around another swung blade and lopped off the arm that held it before spilling the man’s innards onto the dusty ground, and that was four down.

The next one fell almost easily then, in a flash of blades and spray of blood and no small amount of burning from his wounds, and Geralt turned to block the sixth blade just in time to see Jaskier try to draw a dagger, just in time to hear one of the men hurting him shout a warning to the other, just in time to see Jaskier hurl the dagger into the back of the seventh man about to drive his sword through Geralt from behind, just in time to see the other man at Jaskier’s side react by sinking his own dagger into Jaskier’s gut.

The next few events seemed to happen in slow motion. He saw the shock on Jaskier’s face, mirrored by the shock on the four men’s faces as they fell under Geralt’s fury, and the man with his hand on the dagger buried to the hilt in Jaskier’s gut snarled and wrenched it to the side, ripping open a bloody smile and causing the bard’s body to go rigid in a scream, and Geralt threw his sword the rest of the way across the clearing and sent it clean through the man’s head.

“Jaskier!” Geralt said yet again, and it was less of a yell as it was a huffed breath this time. The man toppled over, the force of his fall pulling the dagger from the bard’s body, and the bard cried out in pain, falling back, but then Geralt was there to catch him, to hold him steady, and he refused to think about the fact that it was only his Witcher blood that was stopping the poison from spreading in his own wounds and that Jaskier didn’t have that defense.

“G-Geralt,” Jaskier gasped as Geralt knelt beside him, laying him gently on the ground before pulling off his shirt and ripping it into strips. “Hey.” He was trying to smile, even now. “Nice throw. Guess I…guess I should’ve listened to you and left, eh? My bad.” His chest was heaving, his face so pale it was almost white, but he was smiling through the wet wheezing of his breaths. “You don’t have to strip to…to show off, you know. I mean, I app-appreciate it, anyone can see you’re hot, but now is…perhaps not the right time. Not exactly in…the right shape for foreplay.”

“Shut up and stay still,” Geralt growled, and he slipped an arm under Jaskier’s shoulders.

“Well it’s not like I could move if I—fuck!” Jaskier let out a cry of pain as Geralt lifted him halfway to seating, tension ribbing his body and his eyes squeezed shut, curling around himself as best he could with his belly split open.

“Sorry,” Geralt muttered. He pulled the blood-wet silk away from the wound, wrapped the makeshift bandages tightly around it, trying to stop the bleeding, ignoring the painful clench of his heart as the front of them was almost instantly soaked through.

He wadded up a last strip, slipped it between Jaskier’s teeth. “Bite down.”

The bard did, eyes wide and terrified, betraying what his voice would not. Roach was kneeling beside them now; Geralt slipped his arms under the bard’s shoulders and behind his knees, lifting him as he got into the saddle, gritting his teeth on the muffled scream, the way the bard’s muscles pulled tight with pain, the way the bard reached for him and dug his nails into his shoulders to bleeding.

“Sorry,” Geralt muttered again, holding the bard close to his chest and feeling the shaking, the wet, heaving breaths, and there were tears of pain leaking from the corner of Jaskier’s eyes as he convulsed and heaved blood over Geralt’s leg. The wadded-up strip of shirt fell on the ground, wet with blood.

“’M sorry,” Jaskier choked out, fingers curling against Geralt’s skin. “Sorry, it’s gross, I—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Geralt said, because it wasn’t really gross, he’d had worse, but it was Jaskier’s blood this time and that was supposed to be inside his body but it was now far too much on the outside and that scared him. And it was his fault, his fault for not paying attention, his fault for not letting Jaskier ride Roach to begin with, his fault for not forcing the bard to run when he could—

And the bard had flung his dagger into the back of a man trying to kill him, Geralt of Rivia, who would have been fine, instead of fighting to save himself as he was being beaten into a bloody pulp, and he couldn’t believe Jaskier’s stupidity, the foolish heroism that might cost him his life—

“Geralt,” Jaskier whimpered, as Geralt adjusted him carefully across his legs. “Geralt, it burns.”

The poison.

“I know,” Geralt said gruffly. “Not much longer. We’ll get you to a healer.”

Roach stood as soon as they were secure, setting off on as fast a pace she could without jostling Jaskier around too much, but the bard gasped as she began moving, his fingers tightening. “Is she—is she trying to hurt me?” But he was still trying to smile, still trying to be lighthearted, even as all his blood was exiting his body.

“It’s as slow as she can go,” Geralt said. “You need a healer.”

The bard’s voice was small. “They hurt you too.”

“It’s nothing.”

He saw Jaskier swallow, followed the movement of his throat. “You’re…you’re bleeding.” He slipped a hand down to Geralt’s ribs, fingers feather-light around the burning wound and much too cool, much too weak.

Geralt grunted. “It’s fine.”

“Just another scar, eh?” Jaskier tried to huff a laugh. It came out as more of a wheeze than anything else, wet and rattling and dissolving quickly into coughs, which caused fresh waves of blood to soak the bandages and drew a whimper of pain from his throat.

Geralt growled. “Stay still, idiot.” Broken ribs, no doubt, and likely a punctured lung.

“Burns,” Jaskier said again, and his voice was barely audible. Geralt lifted the blood-soaked silk of his shirt further away from the wound, hissed as he saw angry red lines of poison spiderwebbing out from under the makeshift bandages; he touched them gently, and Jaskier let out a high keening, muscles going rigid and turning to bury his face in the crook of Geralt’s arm, fresh tears hot and wet against his skin. Geralt knew he would have been sobbing if he’d had the strength, if every movement didn’t bring a fresh wave of pain and blood.

Geralt held him. He could feel the bard’s heartbeat against his fingertips where they were curled against his ribs, and it was shallow and far too fast; weak and fluttering, like a dying candle about to go out.

No. Don’t think of it like that.

“Your hands are trembling,” Jaskier whispered. There was blood on his lips, and his arms were limp now. To weak to hold onto anything anymore.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Geralt snapped, which in itself was ridiculous, because his hands were shaking and he knew it.

Jaskier’s arms curled weakly around himself. “Breathing hurts.” The words were choked out. “Everything—everything hurts.”

Geralt swallowed, tightened his grip around the bard. “I know. We’re almost there. Another mile and I know someone in Ellander who can help you. You just—just stay awake.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier mumbled, and his breaths were rasping, and his skin was cold. “Just stay awake. Not so…not so hard, is it? Just stay awake, when I’m bleeding out—”

“You’re not bleeding out,” Geralt lied, and Roach blew out air loudly through her nostrils.

“See? Roach agrees with me,” Jaskier said with a faint smile. “She likes me more now.”

“Just stay awake,” Geralt said.

Jaskier’s face was drawn with pain, even though he tried to hide it, even though Roach had the smoothest gait Geralt had ever felt on a horse and there was barely a shift or a jolt as she leapt over another little stream. “Sorry for…getting in the way,” he mumbled. “I know you wanted me off…off your hands. Didn’t wanna worry ‘bout me.”

“Shut up, that’s not what I meant,” Geralt growled, but he felt a pang in his chest at the bard’s words, at knowing that he’d hurt him again.

“I p-put you in danger,” Jaskier rasped. “She was after me.”

“And nearly killed you even with me there,” Geralt snapped. Jaskier was somehow, impossibly, still bleeding; he put a hand on the bard’s belly, pressed down to try and stop it, clenched his jaw against the answering sob and the way Jaskier’s hands flew down to his, trying to push him away. “Stop it, Jaskier,” he growled. “I’m trying to help you.”

Jaskier’s breaths were shuddering, rattling, wet. The redness and flush of his skin looked like it was coming more from the blood that was outside his body than inside, and it was a marvel that he was still speaking, that he was even still awake. “Hurts,” he whispered, and his eyes were wet, and Geralt knew he was terrified. “It hurts, Geralt, please, I can’t—”

“We’re almost there,” Geralt said again, his voice rough, and he hated that there was nothing else he could do. “Just hold on a little longer.”

“You haven’t got—haven’t got any potions?” Jaskier gasped, almost desperate with agony. There was a slight slur to his words now, which was a very bad sign indeed, and Geralt urged Roach faster.

“No,” Geralt said tersely.

“Oh, great,” Jaskier mumbled. His eyes fluttered shut. “Forgot you’re all…all macho. Don’t…don’t care about pain.”

“Stay awake, Jaskier,” Geralt said, and he couldn’t keep the slight tremor out of his voice as Jaskier’s fingers lay limp on his wrist.

Jaskier’s brow furrowed. “Tired,” he mumbled. “Tired, and it hurts…” He coughed again, bringing out a fresh wave of wet at his belly and fresh drops of red against pale, pale lips, and his noise of pain clawed at Geralt’s heart.

“Stay awake,” Geralt said again, more emphatically, giving Jaskier’s unbroken ribs a light squeeze and clinging onto the slight twitch of Jaskier’s fingers against his wrist in response. They were cold, so cold, sapping life and warmth and heat from him, and Jaskier’s body was cold too but his blood was so, so hot, hot and wet and sticky against Geralt’s fingers, and there was so much of it that it had soaked through the bandages completely and was spreading out across the light blue of his beautiful silks.

“You’re going to be okay, Jaskier,” Geralt growled fiercely, as if saying it more angrily would make it true.

Jaskier shuddered, sighed, opened his eyes to catch Geralt’s gaze. “Course I am,” he murmured. “I’ve got you to take care of me again.”

Witchers weren’t supposed to have feelings, but Geralt must have felt something because his heart broke, shattering in his chest and driving the shards of it into his lungs, and he exhaled in a sharp huff.

“You should’ve fought back, you idiot,” he snarled. “You had a fucking dagger, you should’ve fought back, or at least done something other than fucking throw it away.”

“He was gonna…gonna hurt you,” Jaskier mumbled, and his eyes were glassy and half-closed. “Couldn’t let that happen.” He smiled faintly, patted Geralt’s arm with hands that were far too weak. “See? You need someone too.”

“Not if you’re going to be a fucking self-sacrificing idiot, Jaskier!” Geralt couldn’t lose him, he couldn’t—

“Hey,” Jaskier slurred, that maddening smile still on his face like he knew Geralt was going to save him—or worse, like he didn’t care what happened to him, as long as Geralt was safe. “It’s…it’s okay. Gonna be okay…with you.”

And then his eyes drifted shut, and his hand slipped limply from Geralt’s arm.

“No! Jaskier!” Geralt shook him gently, yelled, but the bard didn’t respond, and it was like the shards that remained of his heart had turned to ice. “Faster, Roach,” he rasped, and he pressed down harder on the bleeding because it didn’t matter how much it hurt if it stopped Jaskier from dying.

Roach snorted, quickened her pace to a fast canter, and Geralt arrived in Ellander with Jaskier limp in his arms and a panicked snarl on his face. Yennefer would be here, he thought in a haze. Yennefer and Ciri both, teaching and learning magic; they could help him.

“Yennefer will have you pay for that—Geralt! What a surprise—wait, what’s going on?” Ciri demanded, as Geralt kicked in the door to their house less than a minute later, Jaskier still unconscious in his arms.

“Yen can have my fucking life if Jaskier lives,” Geralt bit out. “Where is she?”

“Out getting herbs; she should be back any minute.” Her eyes fell on Jaskier, widened at the blood. “What happened to him?”

Geralt cursed. “Attacked. He needs a healer now—”

“I’ll tend to him before she gets back. She’s taught me a bit about healing; I should at least be able to stop the bleeding.” Ciri ran her eyes over Jaskier again. “Bring him to the back room.”

There was a bed there; Geralt lay the bard down, felt the dull thud of his heart as his hands brushed against cold skin.

“He looks terrible,” Ciri said, suddenly nervous. She looked at Geralt. “Wait outside.”

“I’m not leaving him,” Geralt snapped.

“Do you want me distracted while I heal him?” Ciri demanded; her eyes flashed. “Yennefer might be able to do this with people around, but I need to focus. His ribs are broken in a dozen places. His lung is collapsed. Whoever gave him that wound ripped him up inside, and it’s all bruised and bleeding, and I need to fix it, so get out now, unless you want to waste more time and have him die on me.”

Geralt flinched. “He won’t—”

“Not if I get started now. I can buy him more time but I can’t be distracted—”

Geralt turned and left the room.

The next few minutes were the longest he’d ever experienced. He heard Ciri muttering incantations under her breath, closing blood vessels, staunching the bleeding. She’d been frightened; he’d seen it in her expression, heard it in the sharpness of her voice, but she was calm now, focused on what she was doing.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, told himself Jaskier was in good hands, and then—

“Geralt?”

Geralt whirled around at Yennefer’s voice. She stood at the other end of the hall, a frown on her face, a basket of herbs on her arm.

“Yen,” Geralt rasped. Jaskier was still hurt; he couldn’t be relieved yet.

Yennefer’s frown deepened as she walked briskly towards him. “You look like shit. What—oh. I see. Jaskier’s injured,” she said. “I can feel it now with the spells. Is Ciri—”

“She’s in there with him,” Geralt said. “She said she could stop the bleeding.”

“But she doesn’t know enough to finish the process.” Yennefer was already opening the door. Ciri turned as she entered, eyes widening.

“Yennefer! Thank the gods. He’s dying,” she said, pointing at Jaskier. “I don’t know enough, I stopped the bleeding as best I could but I couldn’t—”

“It’s alright. I’ll take over from here,” Yennefer said. “Take care of Geralt.”

“I’m fine. I’m staying with him,” Geralt said. Yennefer didn’t protest as she began casting the spells, so he sat by the bed, took a pale, cold, limp hand between his, and told himself that Jaskier would be okay.

Three long, terrifying hours later, Yennefer straightened. She looked exhausted, her face drawn and hair damp with sweat, but there was a small smile on her face. “It’ll be a few days before he wakes and the days after won’t be pretty, but he’ll live.”

Geralt exhaled. “Thank you, Yen.”

The sorceress nodded once. “Try to keep him out of trouble in the future,” she said wryly. “I don’t want to have to save his life a third time.” She tilted her head, frowned. “What even happened? I heard you two weren’t traveling together anymore.”

“We weren’t.” Geralt grimaced. “I said something stupid. We went our own ways for seven months. I found him yesterday in a town a few miles back. He’d been fucking the healer, and the healer’s wife wanted him dead. Sent a dozen swordsmen after him.”

“That’s some revenge,” Yennefer said, raising her eyebrows.

Geralt grunted. “I don’t know how he survived the last seven months on his own.”

“Well, he almost didn’t,” Yennefer said bluntly. She waved her hand, muttered an incantation, and a shirt appeared in her hand. She tossed it to him, ran an eye over the wound on his ribs, the gash in his thigh, as he released Jaskier’s hand just long enough to slip the shirt over his head. “And you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Witcher blood localized the poison, then,” Yennefer said, but he felt skin and muscle knitting back up anyway, and when he looked up at her she gave him a small smile. “It’s no trouble, Geralt. A bit of poison and shallow wounds in a Witcher are nothing. Not like your bard here.”

Geralt grunted. Jaskier’s hand was still cold, but it wasn’t quite as cold as before, and his heartbeat was weak and fluttery but it was steadier now, a little bit stronger.

But he was still, so painfully still, so sharply devoid of the movement that always accompanied him. He was alive, and he would live, but death still hadn’t retreated long enough, and Geralt didn’t want to let go of him until he was safe for fear that he would slip away when Geralt wasn’t looking.

Yennefer watched him for a long moment. “You really care about him,” she said finally.

“He’s a friend,” Geralt said roughly.

“The last time I saw him, you wouldn’t even admit that of him. What changed? Besides seven months’ silence, I mean.”

“Nothing,” Geralt said, and his voice felt thick in his throat. “Nothing changed. I’ve always—always wanted to care. Just been too afraid to.”

“Because you’re afraid to lose him once you do,” Yennefer said softly.

Geralt clenched his jaw, looked away.

“But you already care,” Yennefer said with a small smile. “Even though you deny it, even though you push him away…you care about him. A lot. And he cares about you too, if only you would let him admit it. If only you would let yourself admit it.” She paused. “You have a long life, Geralt. It’s too long for you to go through it alone.”

“A Witcher’s life isn’t safe, Yen.”

“He didn’t seem much safer without you, either,” Yennefer said with an arched eyebrow, looking meaningfully at Jaskier, now dressed in a clean shirt, and Geralt knew the bandages wrapped around the bard’s middle, the fading bruises on his chest.

Geralt followed her gaze. He seemed to ache to his very core, seeing the bard like that. “He still looks like he’s dying.” It was like a stab in his heart to say it out loud.

“He’s still healing,” Yennefer said quietly. “It’s why he won’t wake for a while; the spells take a few days to take full effect. It was complex. He needed…well, let’s just say there was a lot that needed to be done.”

Geralt swallowed, gave the bard’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Did you do something for…for the pain—”

“I did as much as I could,” Yennefer said. “But there’s a limit to how many spells one body can take at once. I addressed everything that was immediately life-threatening and did as much as I could for the pain, but there’s a lot that he’s going to need to do on his own.”

“But he’ll live,” Geralt said.

“Yes.”

Geralt drew a shuddering breath. “What do I owe you?”

Yennefer was silent for a long moment, and then she shook her head. “You gave me a child, Geralt. You brought Ciri to me. This is repaying you more than anything.”

Jaskier slept for the next three days. He was feverish, his brow furrowed and sweat soaking his clothes, his eyes wandering aimlessly beneath their lids. Yennefer ended up removing his shirt, and the angry red lines that had been spiderwebbing out from beneath the bandages when Geralt had brought him to her were still there; a bit faded and purpled now, but still present. There were bruises covering the bard’s chest, not yet fully healed; he still wasn’t whole, and Yennefer said he wouldn’t be for a while.

Ciri sat with him sometimes, after she’d persuaded him to leave Jaskier’s side long enough to bathe and change. She liked it here, she said, and Yennefer was more than good to her. She tried not to think about Cintra too much. She had always been quiet with him, but Geralt thought she was blooming a bit now, becoming more self-assured when she spoke, not as frightened and lost as she had been when she’d first found him, barely two weeks after she’d lost everything she’d ever known.

“Sorry for snapping at you earlier,” she said softly. “I was…really scared when I saw him.”

“It’s nothing,” Geralt said. “You were right.” He nudged her gently. “You helped save him.”

“I did, didn’t I?” she said with a small smile.

When she left the room, Geralt stayed behind with Jaskier.

Geralt knew he was in pain. Less pain than before, for sure, but still far too much for his liking; the bard twisted in his sleep one night, his breath coming in gasps and his arms curled around his chest, and the gasps dissolved into quiet sobs and the clean white bandages wrapped around his stomach reddened with fresh blood.

“Help him,” Geralt said, when Yennefer came in, hair mussed with sleep, saying she’d felt a shift in the spells.

“It’s too much for him,” Yennefer said, and she sounded worried. “He’s too weak right now, he can’t take any more. Already the spells for the pain and for healing are fighting against each other; one of them has to go. If I stop the spell for the pain, it’s going to hurt him, but I can mend the wounds and help him heal faster.”

Geralt gritted his teeth. “How bad will it be if you keep the one for pain?”

“And stop the healing instead? He’ll bleed,” Yennefer said. “I don’t know how much. He’s pulled it open again. And his ribs are still fragile. Without that spell, I don’t know how long it would take him to recover. I don’t know if the magic has healed him well enough yet that he can handle the rest on his own. He’s lost so much blood already.”

And blood was still spreading. Jaskier’s breathing was rattling again, wheezing in his throat, far too wet. Geralt gripped the bard’s hand tightly, felt a wrench in his chest. “Heal him,” he bit out, and Yennefer did.

The bandages were changed, blood-soaked linen replaced with fresh white. Geralt winced as the wound was exposed; it looked worlds better after Yennefer’s magic but was still red and bruised, skin just barely knit back together. Jaskier’s chest heaved as the spell for pain faded, his body tense and face pale, and Geralt didn’t want to think about how much it hurt him.

“Geralt,” he moaned, and Geralt was there, but Jaskier was still unconscious, breathing Geralt’s name in his fevered sleep. Geralt touched his cheek, felt the radiating heat from his skin, held his hand as his body slowly and painstakingly pulled itself back together.

On the fourth day, the fever broke.

Geralt sat with him, watched over him. He hadn’t woken, but the bard’s chest rose and fell gently in soft breaths under the covers, a touch of pink on his cheeks. He was warm again—a healthy warmth, now, not the burning heat of fever.

Not too long ago, he’d been cold as death.

Geralt clenched his jaw. Jaskier had almost died, and he’d felt like the heart had been ripped from his chest. He didn’t want to think about how it would feel when he really did slip from this world for good.

And he’d almost slipped away once already; not from life, but from Geralt, and that had been painful enough. Geralt thought he was quite good at finding things when he wanted to, but Jaskier had eluded him for seven months after the mountain, seven months after Geralt had shouted at him to leave.

He swallowed. That had been his fault, through and through.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said aloud. “I was wrong on the mountain. I was angry and frustrated and you were the only one there and I…I lashed out. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” He swallowed, clenched his hands into fists. He shouldn’t have waited this long, shouldn’t have hurt the bard like he did; what if he hadn’t found Jaskier? Or what if Jaskier had died? What if Jaskier has gone to his grave still thinking Geralt wanted nothing more to do with him—

“That sounded like it was physically painful.” The hoarse voice pulled him out of his thoughts, and relief surged through him until he was weak; it was Jaskier, Jaskier was finally awake, he was going to be okay—

“Glad to know you’re actually capable of apologizing,” Jaskier said with a faint smile. “Even if it’s only when you think I’m asleep.” He paused, slipped a hand onto his belly and touched the bandages gingerly. “You know, that’s one thing they always leave out of the epic tales; perforated bowels smell like shit. I mean I guess that makes sense, but still. It’s fucking disgusting.”

Geralt smirked. “At least you were out for most of it. How are you feeling?”

Jaskier let out a sigh; Geralt could hear the tightness in his voice when he spoke. “You know me, always covering up unpleasant situations with humor.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “How’s the pain, I mean?”

Jaskier made a face at him. “I’ve been trying not to think about that, Geralt, thanks.” He let out a breath. “I’ll live. Though I think maybe sometime I would like very much to go back to sleep because if it’s going to feel like this the whole time the next few weeks are going to be horrid.”

“It won’t take that long,” Geralt grunted. “Another week at most.”

“Ah, magic healing, is it? And the healer just happened to not have anything for pain?”

“Your body couldn’t take that many spells. She did what she could.”

Jaskier sighed again. He looked down at his bandages. “Wound these pretty tight, didn’t she? Well, I guess it’s better to suffocate a little than to have my guts fall out of me again. That wasn’t pleasant. Anyway,” he said, looking at Geralt, “at least I woke up. I wasn’t sure if I would.”

Geralt felt a stab in his chest. He reached out, hesitated, let his hand fall gently on Jaskier’s arm. “I’m glad you’re okay.” He paused. “Well, alive.”

Jaskier’s smile was a little bit shaky. “Good thing you were there. I’ll be fine now though; you can be on your way. I’ve held you up long enough.”

“What? No, I’m not going anywhere,” Geralt said.

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Big bad white wolf is taking my advice and settling down? What is it now, a really nice inn caught your eye? Some nice beer? Hanging around for some really nice girl—shit, don’t tell me Yennefer is the one you came here for, don’t tell me she was the one who—”

“She healed you,” Geralt interrupted. “But I’m staying for you.”

Jaskier blinked, eyes wide and owlish. “Are you…are you okay, Geralt? Has she bewitched you or something?”

Geralt chuckled, which only seemed to spook the bard more. “No,” he said. “I’m not bewitched.”

“Poisoned? Under any kind of spell at all? Coerced?” He frowned. “Have you eaten or drank anything funny lately?”

“No,” Geralt said.

Jaskier blinked again. “You…you actually want to stay. Here. With me.”

The tense coil around Geralt’s chest softened. He reached out and brushed his hand gently against the bard’s cheek, let his fingers linger by the straight jawline, the softness of skin there. Jaskier’s eyes were still wide and owlish as he stared at Geralt for a few moments, his face a comical mixture of confusion and complete shock, and then his eyes fluttered closed and he leaned into Geralt’s touch with a soft exhale. Geralt hummed, stroked the rise of his cheekbones, felt the warmth of life and let it flow through him. Jaskier shifted, as if trying to sit up or move closer, and then his eyes flew open and his face went white as a sheet, hands tightening around his belly through the covers.

“Fuck. Lie down, you idiot,” Geralt growled, the hand on Jaskier’s cheek slipping down to his shoulder and the other covering Jaskier’s hands over his wounds, still knitting together inside and out.

“Yeah,” Jaskier gasped, flat on his back again and stiff as a board with the pain. “Yeah, that sounds smart. Fuck.” His chest heaved, hands tight around himself, until finally, several minutes later, the aching subsided. He glanced at Geralt, his breathing slowly starting to quiet, the tension in his muscles relaxing. “Always thought maybe you cared a bit,” he mumbled.

Geralt grunted.

Jaskier raised his eyebrows. “Wow, is that confirmation I hear?” he asked, cheeky, but he still sounded unsure, as if he still didn’t quite believe Geralt had meant what he said about being wrong, eight months ago atop that mountain, as if he thought that Geralt must be staying with him out of duty more than care.

“I meant what I said,” Geralt said. “You’ve gotten me into a lot of trouble, no one can deny that, but you’ve…you’ve also brought me a lot of good.” He grimaced; it sounded awkward.

Jaskier looked up at the ceiling. “I’m going to spare you the indignity of pointing out how that also sounded incredibly painful for you to admit and just hazard a wild guess that you’re talking about Yennefer.”

“Well, yeah, I’m happy she saved you with the djinn and I’m happy she saved you now,” Geralt snorted.

Jaskier’s eyes slid over to him. “And you love her,” he said slowly, as if the point he was trying to get at should’ve been obvious and Geralt was missing it. “She makes you happy—well, she did, before the mountain, I don’t know anything about now. But surely that was also good?” He grinned crookedly. “And the sex, I can’t imagine that was anything less than fantastic.”

“It was good with her,” Geralt said bluntly. “While it lasted. It’s over now.”

Jaskier blinked. “Oh.”

Geralt looked down. His hand was still over Jaskier’s on his belly; he could feel its gentle rise and fall with each breath. The bard was thinner now than he had been, bones emerging subtly from where he’d already been slim before, and suddenly Geralt wanted very badly to protect him because humans were so fragile, so easily broken, and not long ago Jaskier’s insides had been shattered in the span of minutes and Geralt never wanted anything like that to happen to him ever again.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier murmured, about Yennefer.

Geralt glanced at him. “I’m over it. Been over it.”

Jaskier hesitated. “So…no one else now? Since then?”

“No.”

“Really? Not even someone you’ve set your sights on who maybe hasn’t even looked your way?” A mischievous smile spread itself over his face. “Aw, you can tell me, Geralt. Trust me, I know the feeling.”

Geralt just stared at him.

Jaskier chuckled, then winced at the pain the movement brought, fingers curling into his belly; Geralt growled and tightened his grip on Jaskier’s hand. “Alright, alright,” Jaskier said, just a hint of a gasp in his voice until the pain subsided again. “Keep your secrets, Geralt. I know Witchers aren’t supposed to care about anything so I won’t make you pretend you do. Just wondering what you’d been up to—”

“I do care,” Geralt interrupted.

“—since we haven’t seen…wait what?”

“I do care,” Geralt said again.

Jaskier blinked. “About…?”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Whose dumb arse am I sitting next to right now when I could’ve gotten up and left anytime?”

“Hey! Maybe you’re just realizing that sometimes you need someone to save you just as—” Jaskier broke off, his eyes comically wide. “Oh,” he said quietly after a long moment of silence, a little bit breathless. And then, “…Me?”

“Idiot,” Geralt grunted, staring determinedly at Jaskier’s bandages instead of at his face.

“Wait, you care about…how much do you care? What kind of care? Because in hindsight, the Countess de Stael just kind of strung me along whenever she wanted and cast me away when she was done with me, and that’s one kind of care, but I’d like to think you’re not just stringing me along, so are you caring just enough to bring an old friend to a healer and leave once he’s recovered, or do you actually enjoy my company and singing, or…?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, then stopped. His chest ached with things he didn’t know how to express; he’d never been good with words. Not like Jaskier—well, in his songs anyway, when he wasn’t attempting to flirt by comparing a woman’s neck to a sexy goose.

Jaskier raised his eyebrows, waiting. “Yes?”

Geralt swallowed, looked down. “When I saw you getting hurt, I didn’t think of anything else other than getting to you and making it stop. I don’t know if I’ve ever killed anything as fast as I killed then. And I didn’t even think about the possibility of losing you. I couldn’t, or I’d have...” He glanced briefly at the bard, looked down at their hands again. “I can’t lose you, Jaskier. That’s the kind of care.”

Jaskier bit his lip. His eyes followed Geralt’s, lingering on their hands still resting on Jaskier’s body. Geralt realized he’d been absentmindedly stroking the soft skin with his thumb; Jaskier swallowed, took a shuddering breath, shifted his hand to lace his fingers together with Geralt’s.

Geralt’s breath caught in his throat.

“Al-alright?” Jaskier asked quietly.

Geralt blinked, forced himself to breathe. “Yes,” he said.

Jaskier looked at him, a small frown furrowing his brow. “Why…why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Did you expect me to?”

Jaskier pursed his lips. “No,” he admitted. “I suppose not, now that I think about it.” He swallowed again; there was a slight flush to his cheeks. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For saving me. Even though you had to bring me back to the very scary witch to do it.”

“I couldn’t let you die,” Geralt said. Gruff but simple. Honest.

“What do you owe her?” There was a tinge of pink to Jaskier’s cheeks and a fluttering urgency in the way he held Geralt’s hand, but his smile was light now, the humor back in his voice. “Come on, Geralt, she’s very sexy but she’s very mean and scary and nothing comes without a price, especially me. So what do you owe her this time? Apple juice? A good fuck? Another djinn?”

“Nothing,” Geralt said.

“Bullshit,” Jaskier said.

Geralt did a half-shrug. “I brought Ciri to her, she gave your life back to you.”

Jaskier snorted. “Wow. That makes it sound like you used the girl as a bartering tool. I know, I know!” he said quickly as Geralt growled. “She’s not currency, she’s a person, and you and Yennefer do actually care about her. It was a joke, Geralt, calm down.” He was silent for a moment, then frowned. “Anyway, what happened to my lute? I think I dropped it when I was, you know, very rudely pulled away and mauled.”

“I don’t have it.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. “You don’t have it?”

“I was a bit preoccupied with saving you, Jaskier! I didn’t have time to look around for your damn lute.”

Jaskier let out a dramatic moan, flinging an arm over his eyes. “But what’s even the point of saving me if you don’t save my lute too? My poor instrument, out there all alone in the cold and dark…it’s probably destroyed by now, lugged off by some animal, trampled underfoot…hey!” He tightened his fingers around Geralt’s and tugged him back as Geralt made to withdraw his hand. “I didn’t say you could move.”

Geralt resisted for a moment and then gave in with a sigh, letting Jaskier pull his hand back to rest over the bandages wrapped around his waist. “I take it the pain is better, then, if you have the energy to be so theatrical?”

“No,” Jaskier said. “Absolutely not. I am still in incredible amounts of pain and therefore you should stay here instead of being cruel and abandoning me to mope about it on my own.”

“And how long do you expect me to stay?”

“As long as I want you to,” Jaskier said with a cheeky grin. “Or until you need to leave.” He paused, his grin fading. “It…it does actually hurt,” he said quietly, and Geralt could hear it in his voice again. “Talking with you helps. Keeps my mind off it, you know.”

“I wasn’t actually planning on leaving,” Geralt said.

“Oh.” Jaskier bit his lip, smiled quietly again. “Good.” And then he was off again, talking about the different towns and cities he’d been to since they’d been apart, about a particularly delicious dish he’d had in one of the courts he’d visited, about how this encounter would make a terrific song, and Geralt couldn’t say that the warm feeling in his chest was anything other than fondness.

“So I really do wish you’d saved my lute,” Jaskier was saying. “It was a really nice one, been with me on many adventures. But I guess you only have two hands and they were full with me, so it’s partly my own fault.”

Geralt sighed. “Damn it, I’ll get you another one,” he said gruffly.

“Really?”

“No.” Geralt chuckled as the bard’s face fell. “I don’t know a damn thing about lutes, Jaskier, I’m not spending coin on something that might turn out to be a shit instrument. But when you can walk, I’ll accompany you when you get one on your own.”

Jaskier stared at him for a long moment, eyes wide. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect that,” he said finally with a small smile. “Is this perhaps making up for what you said on the mountain?”

Geralt grunted.

“I was um…quite brokenhearted, you know,” Jaskier said, and there was a flutter of a smile on his face like he was trying to play it light but Geralt could hear the aching in his voice. “When you said those things on the mountain. I think I moped for days. Might have even written songs about it.” He paused, huffed a laugh. “That was a dick move, Geralt.”

“I know,” Geralt growled.

“But you’re here to stay now, right?” Jaskier asked, the tenderness of his smile seeping to sweetness in his voice, his eyes bright with hope. “And I can stay with you?”

“You realize I’m a Witcher and what that means, Jaskier,” Geralt said.

Jaskier’s eyes widened and he nodded. “Yes,” he said, a little breathlessly in mock-awe. “It means you’re very big and very scary and I should be scared of you because you’ve got horns and pointy teeth and like swinging your big sword and you don’t let anyone see your soft side even though we both know you have one.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, smacking his arm gently.

“Is that a yes? I can stay with you?”

“Just don’t be a fucking idiot and throw your life away like that again.”

Jaskier’s smile widened. “As long as you don’t need saving. Come on, Geralt, you know I saved you back there. He was about to put a sword through you.”

Geralt huffed. “I know.” He paused. “Thank you.”

Jaskier gave his hand a light squeeze. “See?” he said softly. “Told you there’d be something in the world you needed.”

“I didn’t need you, Jaskier,” Geralt said. “I’d have managed on my own.” He paused, reached up with his other hand to brush the hair back from the bard’s face, let his features soften with a smile as the bard closed his eyes and leaned into him. “But I want you. I want you with me. More than I’ve wanted anything else.”

Jaskier huffed a laugh, eyes still closed; his smile trembled as he covered Geralt’s hand with his own. “I’ll take that,” he whispered.

Ciri brought them dinner that night. Jaskier hadn’t eaten during the last few days since he’d been unconscious, and he was thinner now, the hollows of his cheeks and eyes just a little bit deeper than they had been, chest and shoulders a bit more angular than before and muscles just a bit softer.

“How are you feeling now?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier scrunched up his face. “Still hurts, but less like I got kicked by a horse and more just like if you punched me. Which is still formidable, I assure you, in case you’re feeling competitive with Roach,” he added quickly, as Geralt rolled his eyes and sighed, “but it’s a tiny bit better, I think. I’m well enough to eat, anyway.”

“Good.” Geralt helped him up, sat next to him on the bed and brought spoonfuls of soup and pieces of bread to his lips.

“I can do it myself, you know. I’m a full grown man,” Jaskier said, a flush coloring his cheeks, and Geralt loved it, to see the warmth of his skin instead of hot blood weeping from a cold body.

“You’re not to move,” Geralt growled. “You’ve already pulled your wound. You sit there, chew, swallow. That’s it.”

“I can’t even kiss you?” Jaskier asked, and then he froze, eyes wide, breath seemingly stuck in his throat as if he really hadn’t meant to say that out loud and was now thoroughly spooked because he had.

“Uh.” Geralt blinked, hesitated, settled for pushing the spoon between Jaskier’s lips. “Finish your dinner, then we’ll talk.”

Jaskier’s cheeks were wholly red now. He sniffed, looked resolutely away from Geralt, accepted the rest of the soup and the bread without protest.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said quietly, a little uncertainly, after Geralt had brought the bowls and spoons to wash. “Will you…um, will you stay with me tonight?”

Geralt snorted. “I’ve stayed with you every night since we’ve been here.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes; his cheeks flushed red again. “You know what I mean, Geralt.”

Geralt’s eyes softened. “I know,” he said. He slipped into bed beside the bard, being careful not to jostle him, shifting closer until the other man’s body was pressed in a hot line against his side. Jaskier was still a bit stiff; he nudged at the bard’s head gently until Jaskier lifted it so Geralt could slip an arm around him and pull him into his chest.

“Okay?” he asked.

Jaskier nodded, let out a shuddering breath. “Okay.”

Geralt hummed.

“You’re very warm,” Jaskier mumbled, after a few minutes.

“Too warm?”

“Didn’t say that,” Jaskier said. He was trembling slightly, though more out of nerves than anything else; his touch was fluttering, and his heart was fast against his ribs. For all his adventures in sleeping around, for all his songs about sex and wandering love, he still didn’t quite seem to know what to do with his hands as he lay there next to the Witcher.

“Relax,” Geralt murmured, thumb rubbing a soothing circle into Jaskier’s shoulder, rumbled a laugh as he felt the bard make a conscious effort to still his shaking, to loosen tense muscles, to rest an arm tentatively over Geralt’s chest.

Jaskier looked up at him, bit his lip. “Do I get that kiss now?”

Geralt hummed, leaned down and pressed his mouth against the bard’s. Jaskier’s intake of breath was sharp, almost surprised as if he hadn’t expected it, and then he was kissing back, mouth opening up eagerly for Geralt’s tongue, fingers reaching up to Geralt’s shoulder, to his cheek, to tangle in his hair. Geralt hummed again, his free hand skimming the bard’s body, mapping out the contours of him, committing him to memory in sight and touch and smell and taste and sound, wanting to hold Jaskier like a promise in his heart, wanting to hold him forever.

Jaskier let out a breath like a sigh, sucking on Geralt’s bottom lip, shifting onto his side and hooking his leg over one of Geralt’s, hardening length pressing against Geralt’s hip. He ground against him once, and then abruptly stopped, stiffening with a groan, fingers tightening in Geralt’s hair. “Fuck,” he said, with enormous feeling. “Hurts to do that.”

“Easy there, Jaskier,” Geralt said with a soft laugh, gently rolling the bard onto his back again, slipping a protective hand onto the not-yet-mended wound and catching the pained hiss with his lips. “You’re still healing. Take it slow. You can have another go at it when you’re recovered.”

“You’d better wait for me until then,” Jaskier said, mock-threatening. “Been wanting this for years, Geralt. Pining and pining and pining, spending all my orgasms on other people because you never said anything, you absolute buffoon. So now that you’re here, you’d better not leave me. Ever.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Geralt promised.

“Mm. Good.” Jaskier tilted his chin to press his lips against Geralt’s neck, and it should have been threatening, to have someone’s teeth so close to his carotid, but here it felt sweet and gentle. Jaskier hummed, mouthing kisses against his skin, fingers releasing their death-grip in Geralt’s hair and coming to Geralt’s chest, sides, shoulders, his touch almost lazy, eyelids fluttering against Geralt’s jaw.

“I love you, you know,” Jaskier murmured into Geralt’s throat, and Geralt’s chest felt tight. He couldn’t quite bring himself to say the words back; they felt too raw, as if they would rip their way through both of them and come back to hurt them like all the hurt that had been dealt to those he’d cared for in the past. So he settled for holding Jaskier tighter, pulling him close until Jaskier was surrounded by his warmth and his body like a shield between the bard and the horrors of the world, and his thumb stroked the soft skin of Jaskier’s belly above the angry wound as if it would make him whole again faster, and he knew Jaskier understood the unspoken words, pressed like a promise between their bodies tangled together as they slipped into sleep.