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In the settled darkness of a grubby inn in a nowhere town, Geralt found himself – inexplicably - counting Jaskier’s breaths.
In, out, one, in, out, two, in, out, three, in, out, four…
There was no reason to. The town was fresh for both of them, which meant no cuckold husbands or wives were liable to sneak into their rooms to try and slit the bard's throat. Nor was Jaskier ill. They had received about as warm a welcome as Witchers got, nobody muttering about his mutations in the sparsely populated tavern they'd dined in.
There was no need for Geralt to stay awake for their protection, no need for him to keep a close eye over Jaskier. What they both needed was rest after a trying day.
And yet.
In, out, nine, in, out, ten, in, out, eleven…
Geralt couldn’t stop counting Jaskier’s breaths.
He shifted on the threadbare mattress. Uncomfortable, but not the worst place he’d ever slept and certainly better than a bedroll and a tree root sticking into his back. When it came to Witchers, this might be the extent of what could be classed as luxury. He wasn’t getting rained on, after all.
So it wasn’t the mattress or the inn room itself with it’s two slim beds. It wasn’t fear of being attacked. There wasn’t, truly, anything discernible that was keeping him awake. Not really at least. Nothing that should bother a Witcher like him.
In, out, twenty, in, out, twenty-one, in, out, twenty-two, in, out, twenty-three…
Geralt let out a low growl of frustration, careful to keep it low enough not to wake his companion. He didn’t need an audience for this, and certainly not Jaskier of all people. He was too worked up. His heart beat quicker than its usual monotonous, slow drum.
He couldn’t help but focus on Jaskier’s steady breathing.
He was – annoyingly, unfortunately, unfairly - panicked.
Probably because of the day's events, if he was honest with himself (which in truth, was the last thing he wanted to do). The past twenty-four hours had been difficult, yes, but not entirely unusual. He was used to the bard getting himself into danger and he was used to pulling Jaskier out of it when he got in over his head; be that getting too close to monsters or else dodging a cuckolds blade. This wasn’t even the first time Jaskier had been kidnapped by someone who thought they could use him to wager a hefty ransom. Jaskier had always attracted trouble like a moth to a flame.
But it was the first time that the bandits who had taken Jaskier were skilled. It was the first time that he had walked in and been uncertain if Jaskier would make it out alive. There had been a mage and her ornate, jewelled knife had been held to the curve of Jaskier’s throat.
Jaskier had almost died, there. Would have done, if Geralt hadn’t managed to get the bitch's attention away long enough for Jaskier to kick her in the shin (a risky move, a stupid move).
In, out, sixty-three, in, out, sixty-four, in, out, sixty-five…
Fuck.
Why did it bother him so much? Geralt almost died on a daily basis. Humans were even worse for keeping their skin on their backs. Morality – his own or otherwise – had never kept him awake before.
Without warning nor any real conscious thought, he pushed himself up from his bed. Laying still was not helping anything. Perhaps he could go for a walk, shake off the lingering adrenaline from the fight. Fresh air would do him good, he thought. It might remind him that everyone in that godforsaken group of bandits who had stolen Jaskier was dead. No, not just dead, butchered. He’d torn them to shreds. He’d set an example. Never again. Under my protection. Mine.
Jaskier had spent an awfully long time trying to convince people Geralt was not a monster, was not the famed Butcher of Blavikan. There was a certain irony then, in the fact that Jaskier was one of the only ones who could drag the Butcher out of him.
He meant to step towards the door, he truly did. So he was surprised when instead he found himself stepping deeper into the room, towards Jaskier’s bed. Yet he needed… something. He didn’t know what. The emotions crashing against his chest were volatile, and far more demanding than he was used to.
In, out, ninety, in, out, ninety-one, in, out, ninety-two…
Considering his inner turmoil, it was almost jarring to see how peaceful Jaskier looked curled up on the bed. The moonlight spilling through the window was weak, but it allowed Geralt’s eyes to better track the steady rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest. Geralt’s heart seemed to beat to the rhythm: he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive.
He shifted to move away, the floorboards creaking under his weight as he did so.
Behind him, there was a slight stirring, “Hmm, Geralt?”
Geralt went still.
“What you doin’?” Jaskier mumbled, clearly still half asleep. When Geralt dared to glance over, he could see the barest crack Jaskier had opened his eyes, searching blearily for Geralt’s form in the darkness. Human as his eyes were, Geralt was likely nothing but a shadow to him.
“I—” Geralt began to explain, but then realised he had no fucking clue how to answer that question in a way that wouldn’t sound pathetic as fuck. What are you doing? Counting your breaths so I don’t have to imagine a knife drawing blood from your throat. Contemplating your morality. Protecting you from nothing because apparently, you’ve gone and made me care for you, you bastard.
Jaskier seemed to give up on waiting for an answer long before Geralt could find an appropriate one. He began to shift. Fuck, Jaskier was going to get out of bed to try and deal with Geralt’s crap, wasn’t he? Geralt never should have got up, Geralt should have gone for his fucking walk, Geralt should have known better than to get so fucking attached to a fucking fragile little human bard of all people in this vast continent.
Except Jaskier didn’t get up. Instead, he did the opposite, moving so he was pressed up into the crease where the bed met the wall. “Come here, then, hmm?”
Geralt blinked.
What?
“Don’t make me say it again,” Jaskier muttered, around a yawn, “come get into bed so we can sleep.”
Geralt should say no. He should get back into his own bed. He wasn’t a child; he had no need to be coddled by Jaskier. He was not fragile. He was a witcher. He’d told Jaskier a million times before, he didn’t want anyone needing him and he certainly had no need of anyone else.
If he was a stronger man, he’d do what had to be done. He’d let the bard fall back asleep, and then leave with Roach in tow, careful to never cross Jaskier’s path again. Jaskier could get into plenty of trouble by himself, yes, but such trouble was exasperated by his friendship with Geralt. If Geralt truly wanted to protect Jaskier, to stop any more repeats of today, he would shake the bard off like he’d always planned to but never gotten round to doing.
It was Geralt’s fault, what had gone down today. It was always, completely, Geralt’s fault.
He needed to leave.
Instead - because he was a weak fool underneath the shell of his armour - he found himself perching awkwardly on the edge of Jaskier’s bed.
Jaskier sighed, sounding so put upon Geralt almost stood up and dashed for the door. But before he could, Jaskier was grabbing the back of his shirt “Geralt, I said come here.” There wasn’t a lot of room for the two of them, and Geralt tried to keep himself flat, tried not to touch where the touch of a monster might not be welcomed.
Jaskier, it seemed, had no qualms with monsters.
Sometimes Geralt wondered if Jaskier had been dropped on his head as a babe. Maybe that was why he was so foolhardy and so unable to believe that Geralt was the thing others made him out to be.
Because nobody would touch a monster like this. Jaskier’s arms moved around him, tugging him closer, arranging them both to his liking as if it was all so simple. Geralt was surprised to find that his head ended up on Jaskier’s chest, Jaskier’s arms around his body. He’d paid extra coin to lay beside whores and prostitutes after sex more than once, but in those scenarios, he always did the holding not the other way round. He was a witcher. Big, and strong. It was what was expected.
Jaskier had never given a damn what was expected.
In fact, he’d gone pretty far out of his way to try and make sure that people stopped expecting the worst from Witchers.
It was…disconcerting. Geralt didn’t know how to deal with this. The affection he was granted by the bard was casual, simple, innocuous. He didn’t think before giving it, it seemed. He touched Geralt’s shoulder to get his attention, he invaded Geralt’s personal space, he rested his head on Geralt’s shoulder when they were sat by a fire and he was composing. It was touch without reason, and it was…terrifying.
This was more terrifying.
That he might be this scared for Jaskier’s mortality, that he might be kept awake by the thought of the bard's death and – worse – that he might crawl into bed beside him and listen to the beat of Jaskier’s heartbeat like it was all that was keeping him steady.
Beat, beat, beat, beat.
Better than breathing, a heartbeat. More solid. Firm.
“Today scared you,” Jaskier murmured, after a while, a hand finding its way into Geralt’s hair, stroking over the white strands as if they weren’t a sign of his mutations, of his monstrosity. As if his hair was nothing but that; hair, and Geralt’s, and fit for a talented musician’s fingers to play with. “Why? I’ve gotten myself into worse situations. I’ll get myself into more, no doubt.”
Geralt didn’t speak, couldn’t speak. Why couldn’t Jaskier be the same as everyone else? Why couldn’t he assume Witchers didn’t have emotions, that they didn’t get scared? It would make all of this so much easier. The arm that he’d slung attentively around Jaskier’s waist tightened its grip slightly.
Jaskier clearly wasn’t close to sleep anymore. Geralt should apologise for waking him. Except before he could Jaskier sighed, dipping his lips to the top of Geralt’s head, “dearheart,” he breathed, “I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. I’ll stay by your side until my bones are weary and my skin – heaven forbid – sags, and I’m no longer charming but old and decrepit. I’ll stay. I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”
Geralt tensed, for just a second, then felt that same tension dissipate, unable to be held up under the weight of Jaskier’s arms around him.
When was the last time he’d been held by someone who just…wanted to? For the sake of wanting to? For no ulterior motive?
Geralt was pretty sure the answer was never.
Jaskier was, as ever, a grand exception to every rule.
After a moment of no response but Geralt’s bonelessness, Jaskier chuckled, “one day, dear, we’ll work on your methods communication, hm?” And then, light-hearted and calm, he began to hum. Geralt couldn’t place the tune, exactly, but he knew it was Jaskier’s own. He could tell, these days. Jaskier’s music. Jaskier’s songs. Even when they travelled apart, and he heard someone else take up something Jaskier had penned, he could tell where it originated from.
He knew his bard.
And sometimes – even more terrifying – he believed his bard might know him. Might understand. Understand in how he held Geralt right now and how he knew Geralt needed holding before Geralt had.
“No songs about this,” he grumbled, finally, throat dry around the words, but at least they were words.
Jaskier’s chuckle was one of Geralt’s favourite sounds, “never, dearheart. This is just for us.”
Just for us.
I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.
Geralt fell asleep, finally, to Jaskier humming for him and in Jaskier’s arms, perhaps the terrifying reality of his emotions for the bard wasn’t too much to manage.