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“You’re such a cock,” Jaskier mutters, grunting as he throws Geralt over his shoulders, “I told you you’d need Bindweed, you fucker, now look at you bleeding over my very fine, very expensive doublet.” Geralt doesn’t reply, not even when Jaskier eases him down onto their bedroll and tugs at his clothes.
His own hands are sticky with kikimore blood, having to take the last of the nest down (he makes a damn fine witcher if he does say so himself) as he works on cleaning Geralt’s wound. The neutralizer he’d made hisses where he pours it over wounds, keeping the last of kikimore’s fucking spit-acid from corroding any more of his witcher’s skin.
“But oh, don’t listen to me, I’m just a dumb little bard, huh? Made me fucking sword-fight a bunch of monsters because your dumb ass is too prideful— shut up and drink,” he holds up Golden Oriole to his Geralt’s lips, sloshing red-pink with the addition of Kiss, a concoction of Jaskier’s making to both rid his witcher of toxins and to staunch his bleeding.
He huffs, scolding away under his breath in favour of worrying his head off as Jaskier finishes up the bandages. “Jask—” Geralt stirs awake, “Need Golden—” Jaskier lays him back down.
“You’ve already drank it. Took down the rest of the kikimore nest, too— I struck exactly between the eyes, just like you told me the first time.” Geralt looks confused, eyes fighting to stay open.
“When?” He wheezes.
“Say twenty years ago? Before the summer solstice I think. You’d fought a queen kikimore that day,” Jaskier murmurs, tugging thin blankets over them. “Anyways, you need to sleep.”
Geralt’s brows furrow before he relaxes into the bedroll. “Fucking Infinite Knowledge Sponge,” he curses, no heat behind it.
Jaskier snickers, gentle as he curls in closer to his friend. “You’re alive ‘cause I’m a nerd. Now shut up and sleep.”
And sleep he does.