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They've been on the road for almost eighteen hours now.
It's almost sunrise—Jaskier can see the deep blue-black of the night sky beginning to lighten, ever so slightly, just on the horizon. The interstate is quiet and empty, nothing but a long stretch of silence in front of them.
It's silent in the car, too. They'd gotten into a spat over the hunt and whether Jaskier should even be here, because It's dangerous, Jask, I can't have you getting hurt but I'm a fucking adult, Geralt, I can make my own goddamn decisions about my well-being and Besides, you think I like it when you come home bleeding, with broken ribs and punctured lungs? I don't care that you're a witcher, it upsets me greatly, you stupid oaf and Get out of the car, Jaskier, I won't ask again and No.
It's the only true argument they've ever had. He knows Geralt means well, but really, centuries on the planet doesn't give him the right to tell Jaskier what he can and can't do.
But now—now Jaskier just aches, guilt crawling up the back of his throat and settling heavy in his gut.
He hates fighting with Geralt.
Still, his words are caught in his throat, stuck to his tongue, and Jaskier picks at the hem of his hoodie (Geralt's hoodie). He'd slept, some, after the first hour of silence between them. Geralt had angrily turned off the radio when Jaskier refused to listen to him, and there had been nothing but deafening, choking quiet ever since.
He glances at the dashboard clock—that had been nearly seven hours ago, Jesus. He'd been out longer than he thought. No wonder his neck hurts so bad.
But that also means—
Jaskier finally, finally, looks over at Geralt out of the corner of his eye. He's got his own eyes trained on the road, his grip on the steering wheel relaxed, but there's tension in his shoulders and a set to his jaw that Jaskier recognizes: it's his deep thinking face, the one he makes when he's replaying conversations and things he's said over and over in his mind and wondering where it all went wrong, what he'd done that just wasn't enough.
He'd made the same face for weeks after he'd broken up with Yen. They'd fought, too, and she'd left him. Jaskier hates seeing it now.
Geralt is also exhausted; Jaskier can tell from the dark circles under his eyes, the way they're half-lidded and almost glassy. He'd been driving the entire time before their argument, and from the look of it, he'd continued even after Jaskier had fallen asleep. It means he's been awake for almost twenty-four hours now, and it breaks Jaskier's heart that he wouldn't just wake Jaskier up to switch like he'd offered, even though Jaskier never gets to drive.
But Geralt needs to rest. He needs to be at top performance, sharp and quick so he stays alive. So he comes back to Jaskier.
And Jaskier wants to apologize, wants to reassure him he's not going anywhere. Because he's not—he's going to stay right here with Geralt for as long as he can. He's not sorry for holding his ground about coming on the hunt, but he is sorry they fought about it.
He bites his lip, and he watches as Geralt blinks the encroaching grogginess from his eyes to no avail. At this rate, he'll fall asleep at the wheel.
Gods, he's in love with an absolute fool.
"Pull over," he says, too sudden for the quiet, and Geralt looks over at him immediately, eyes wide despite the fatigue. He gentles his tone and adds, "Let me drive for a while. You're absolutely exhausted, dear heart, I can see it in your face."
It's a peace offering. I'm sorry for arguing isn't said, but it's there. I'm not going anywhere. Trust me.
But Geralt has always been better with actions than words, and he understands the gesture. The tension leaves him, and he lets out a sigh. "Yeah."
He pulls over, as requested, and Jaskier stretches as he gets out of the car. They both take a moment to just stand on the side of the road, breathing in the crisp air. On the horizon, the sun has finally started peeking out, lifting her buttercup yellow head. The sky goes pink and red and orange and yellow, smoothing out into blue, and Jaskier takes a deep breath.
There's a warm hand on his arm, and Jaskier looks at it before looking up at Geralt. Geralt meets his eyes and squeezes gently, and Jaskier offers him a smile.
I'm sorry, too. I do want you here. I just want you to be safe.
Forgive me.
Jaskier already has.