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Geralt remembers stumbling back to where he’d left Roach to graze, feet unsteady and vision swimming. He remembers rifling through the saddle bags with clumsy fingers, fumbling with the vial of antidote and nearly dropping it twice before he’d finally managed to pull the cork free with his teeth.
He remembers;
Leaning on Roach when his knees had threatened to buckle.
Sucking in too quick, wheezing breaths.
Lungs burning.
Limbs growing heavier and heavier and—
And then.
Nothing.
Nothing until—
Geralt’s eyes snap open and he moves to sit up, immediately regretting that decision when what feels like every nerve in his body flares up with sharp, white-hot pain, his muscles seizing up and screaming in protest. He screws his eyes shut again against the bile rising in his throat, acrid and bitter, forcing him to swallow convulsively, over and over.
Something cool touches his forehead, making him flinch and tense even further, but then a familiar scent hits his nose; buttercups and teak and amber.
“Jaskier,” Geralt rasps, his throat feeling scraped open and raw. “Fuck.”
“Lie back down, you fool,” Jaskier chides, though it sounds mostly fond. Geralt’s too exhausted to do anything but comply, letting Jaskier guide him to rest back against the pillows and brush some of the sweaty hair away from his cheeks. “It hasn’t been long, it’ll be hours yet before the venom’s out of your system.”
“How—” Geralt starts hoarsely, squinting up at Jaskier. “Here?”
Jaskier carefully dabs what Geralt now recognises to be a wet cloth against his cracked lips, then wrings some of the water out into Geralt’s mouth. “Roach is a clever girl. Carried your unconscious arse right back to town.”
Geralt hums and allows his eyes to close again. Clever girl, indeed.
“Try to get some more rest,” Jaskier suggests quietly while he swipes the cloth down Geralt’s neck. “And if you’re up for it come supper time, I’ll have the barmaid bring up some broth for you.”
He lays the cloth back against Geralt’s forehead and Geralt lets himself drift off again.
*
The warm broth feels wonderfully soothing against the ache in Geralt’s sore throat. Propped up against the headboard, Geralt sighs appreciatively around another small sip, content enough with the momentary relief that he can’t even bring himself to mind that Jaskier has to help him hold the bowl.
He does growl at Jaskier, though, half an hour later, when he’s leaning over the edge of the bed, heaving and coughing as the broth makes its way back up his throat.
“I know, I know,” Jaskier says gently, holding Geralt’s hair away from his face. “No one enjoys being sick.”
Once he’s relatively sure there’s no more for him to throw up, Geralt rolls back onto the bed proper with a groan, face mashed into a pillow.
He falls back asleep to the feeling of fingers running through his hair.
*
It’s the sound of his own chattering teeth that wakes Geralt a few hours later.
He’s been covered in heavy furs, he notices when he tries to move, but they do little against the chill that seems to come from within himself. Still, he burrows himself deeper, until only his face is left free.
Glancing around the room, Geralt’s eyes fall on Jaskier, who’s crouched by the hearth, stoking up the fire. He watches, quietly, as Jaskier tugs a small copper pot away from the flames and, briefly, presses the back of his hand against it. He hisses, muttering under his breath, and straightens up to carry the pot over to the bed.
He smiles when he sees that Geralt’s awake. “Move over,” he instructs and helps Geralt resettle, then places the pot at the end of the bed, throwing another piece of thick fur over it. “There we go.”
The pot is almost too hot when Geralt presses his feet against it, but he keeps them there nonetheless, shivering as the heat slowly begins to seep into his freezing body. He sucks in a hissed breath when Jaskier lifts the furs to climb in next to him, but Jaskier’s mercifully quick about it.
“Hush, you,” he laughs softly as he wriggles closer, moving around until he’s tucked firmly against Geralt’s side. “Come here, before you freeze to death. I’d rather you die heroically, give me something to work with—”
He’s still laughing from behind Geralt’s palm, but also reaches out to wrap an arm around Geralt, warm hand pressed firmly against Geralt’s back. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs quietly when Geralt removes his own hand. “You’ll feel better come morning.”
*
They must have moved while asleep; Geralt finds himself snug against Jaskier’s back when he blinks awake again, one leg wedged between both of Jaskier’s and his nose pushed into Jaskier’s hair.
He takes stock of himself, relieved to find that, while he’s still feeling weaker than he’d like, the centipede’s venom has mostly run its course. He stretches a little, moving his stiff joints, but stills again when he feels Jaskier go tense against him.
“Good morning,” Jaskier says, trying for his usual cheerfulness, but his voice is shaking and, now that Geralt is focusing on him, he reeks of nervousness. “I’ll just—”
Jaskier squawks when Geralt tugs at him, turning him around, and he won’t quite meet Geralt’s eyes once they're face to face. Geralt understands why a moment later, when Jaskier’s hard cock brushes against his thigh.
And there’s so much Geralt could say, like;
This is normal, it happens.
Or;
This is not the most embarrassing thing I’ve seen you do, not by far.
Or;
Don’t get shy on me now.
Or;
I don’t actually mind.
None of that sounds right, though, so what Geralt does instead, almost on instinct, is cup the back of Jaskier’s neck, thumb stroking at the soft skin behind his ear, and press his lips against Jaskier’s forehead.
Jaskier’s breath hitches at that, in clear surprise, but then he hums and melts against Geralt, going soft and pliant in Geralt’s hold.
Geralt kisses his forehead again. “Thank you.”
Jaskier is smiling, mouth twitching against Geralt’s throat, when he whispers back, “Anytime, dear Witcher.”