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Jaskier had tried, he’d really tried, but instead of focusing on the lovely backside of the Witcher in front of him (because of course Geralt wouldn’t ride Roach, it was Roach who needed a rest after the exhaustion of that last attack, not Geralt), all he could see was the splattering blood slipping between Geralt’s fingers. Geralt might have thought he was walking a straight line, but Jaskier knew him well enough to note Geralt’s increased staggering, the slower steps that dragged just slightly, grinding his own blood into the dust and dirt.
“For the love of-would you just fucking stop, you giant idiot!” Jaskier bellowed out from behind Geralt, and Geralt finally paused, hand pressed firmly to the wound still dripping blood down his chest. “Oh, so that’s what gets to you finally, huh, great!” Stomping forward, the bard ripped his pack off and hurled it to the ground, looking like he would quickly follow it with his lute.
Geralt reached a hand out. “Jaskier, don’t-“
“Oh, and he talks too, fucking fantastic, knows two whole words, doesn’t he, Roach?” Jaskier refrained from throwing his lute, instead letting it swing from its straps as he paced violently back and forth. “Not all muscle, no, he’s brains too, of course, knows better than fucking anyone!” The last bit Jaskier deigned to yell directly at Geralt, before turning away again.
“Jaskier-“ Geralt tried again, and this time Jaskier whirled to face him, eyes blazing.
“No, no you don’t get to talk, I changed my mind, you get to shut up,” Jaskier shouted, and he reached a finger out to poke Geralt square in the chest. But he froze, mouth still open, but eyes stuck on the sight of the blood still finding a path from inside to outside, now staining the tip of Jaskier’s index finger.
Geralt went to catch his hand, but Jaskier shook his head, almost frantically, shuffling backwards as quickly as he could, before letting his body drop next to his pack.
“No, see we’re just going to sit down right here, we’re going to sit down, Geralt, and I am going to clean that deep cut you just keep pretending isn’t there, stitch it up, and get some potion in you,” Jaskier said firmly, crossing his arms over his chest.
“No, we’re not,” Geralt responded, peering down at Jaskier. “I told you, there’s a Kikimora in the next village.”
“And it will wait,” Jaskier insisted, already reaching into his pack and pulling out a clean fabric scrap. “I thought I heard a river just through the trees, so I can get some water there to wash out the wound.”
“Just listen, Jaskier!” Geralt raised his voice, but Jaskier didn’t flinch, didn’t move a muscle. “The longer it takes for us to get there, the more people die!”
“And the longer it takes for you to let me look at that bleeding chest wound you’ve insisting on pretending doesn’t exist, the more chance you die! And I never asked you to die for me, Geralt!” Jaskier screamed out, and then dropped his face into his hands, shoulders sagging.
“I didn’t,” Geralt said, eyes wide with confusion, moving slowly nearer to Jaskier, as if afraid he would scare him with too-quick movements.
“But you almost did!” The words were muffled by Jasier’s hands, but still loud enough for Geralt to hear him clear as day. And Geralt finally took a second to let the smells around him come into focus, and realized that every pore of Jaskier’s body was emanating fear. Terror.
“But I didn’t,” Geralt repeated, tilting his head slightly, and Jaskier scoffed.
“Clearly, that would be your take away, wouldn’t it,” Jaskier sniffed, and then his shoulders started to shake, and his hands tremble, and Geralt could see tears slipping through the spaces Jaskier’s fingers couldn’t hide.
Roach calmly settled into the grass as Geralt knelt next to Jaskier, reaching his hand out again, hesitatingly. This time, Jaskier didn’t move away, and Geralt gripped the bard’s shoulder, shaking it slightly. Jaskier kept his eyes down and Geralt let his hand drop with a sigh.
“Fuck,” he mumbled, and Jaskier let out a shaky laugh.
“I’ve said fuck more than you these last few minutes,” Jaskier said into his hands. Dragging his fingers over his face, he wiped any remaining tears on his sleeve, still keeping his gaze on the ground.
“Can you look at me?” Geralt asked, keeping his voice soft. “Please?”
“And now you’re using manners, what is this world coming too?” Jaskier laughed again, voice still shaky, as he lifted his head to face Geralt.
Taking in the red-rimmed eyes, Geralt reached out again, this time his hand finding its way into Jaskier’s now-tangled hair. Smoothing his fingers slowly through the brown locks, Geralt met Jaskier’s gaze. “Jask, a talon slash isn’t going to kill me. It would kill you. I jumped in front of you because it’s better if I take the hit. I’ll heal. I’m already healing.”
“I know, you’re a Witcher, it’s what you do,” Jaskier murmured, stress-filled shoulders starting to drop back down as Geralt continued running his fingers through his hair. “Big, strong, scary Witcher, destroyer of monsters, protector of all.” A small smile flitted across Jaskier’s face, bringing a smile to Geralt’s lips as well.
“Protector of you,” Geralt said softly, cupping the back of his bard’s neck, and Jaskier stared at him for a moment, before a grin lit up his face. Beaming, he reached across the small space between them, interlacing their fingers before pulling Geralt back to his feet.
“Well, even my strikingly good looks can take a beating from some dramatic tears, and while I know you’re used to using mud as wrapping for a wound, you filthy animal, you’re worse than Roach, at least she has some dignity, there’s a perfectly good river over there where we can both get cleaned up, and you will let me clean you up, Geralt, no more arguments from you-“ Jaskier continued to let the relieved words pour out of him as he kept his grip on Geralt’s hand, moving them towards the water.
“No more arguments from me, bard, not this time,” Geralt said, a smile still creasing his lips as he let Jaskier lead the way this time.