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Gods, why did drinking always have to come with such a hangover? Jaskier groaned as he rolled onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes to block the horrible terrible sunlight coming in through the window. As he did so, silently lamenting his pounding head, he noticed something tugging at the wrist not slung over his head.
Squinting, he tried to lift his arm to see what it was, but found himself trapped by something wrapped around his wrist. What in the world…?
He sat up too quickly and had to fight off the roiling nausea that filled his gut at the movement. Breathing deeply through his nose, he chanced a look at his wrist, hoping he hadn’t done something too wild last night in the throes of drunkenness.
What greeted him was the sight of a deep maroon ribbon, soft as velvet, wrapped firmly around his wrist and Geralt’s.
Wait—Geralt? Jaskier did a double take and found that he was indeed in bed with Geralt, both of them naked as the day they’d been born.
Oh, fuck. Oh, Melitele above, fuck. What had they done last night? He tried valiantly to remember, but came up blank. He remembered the hunt they’d been on—sirens, and it’d been practically a piece of cake—and then the celebration in the village afterwards. Skelligan celebrations were wild, with plenty of alcohol to boot, and Jaskier remembered getting very, very drunk. There’d been singing, and dancing, and plenty of carousing, but nothing stood out to him. He’d barely been able to understand the villagers’ thick Skelligan accents anyway, and had—
Fuck. Had resorted to just nodding and smiling at anything they suggested. What the fuck had he agreed to?
In the midst of his panic, Jaskier dimly noticed Geralt choosing now, of all times, to wake up. “What time ‘s it?” he asked, yawning widely, sharp canines on display. Any other morning, Jaskier would’ve appreciated the sight, but he was a little too busy freaking out at the moment.
“Jaskier? What’s wrong?” Geralt turned to look at him, arm tugging at the ribbon as he did so. He looked down, frowning, and if he hadn’t been so pale already, would have blanched at the sight. “Oh, tell me we didn’t,” he groaned.
“We did,” Jaskier said morosely. “We got—”
“Married,” Geralt finished, tugging at the ribbon again. It didn’t shift. “Fuck.”
“Fuck,” Jaskier agreed, because there was really only one appropriate reaction to finding out you’d accidentally married your best friend. “I’m sorry, I was too drunk, I couldn’t even understand what they were saying.”
Geralt, still frowning, kept inspecting the ribbon.
“We can get it annulled right now, I’m sure. Just tell them we’ve changed our minds and that really, they shouldn’t let just any old drunk couple get married.”
“Hmm,” Geralt grunted. It wasn’t his grunt of agreement, but it wasn’t one of disapproval, either. Jaskier ignored it and went to climb out of bed, but was halted by the ribbon, of course.
“C’mon, why don’t you untie that, and we can go explain that it was all a mistake?” Jaskier asked.
“Can’t,” Geralt replied, still inspecting the ribbon closely.
“What do you mean, can’t? Just pull the ends and it’ll come loose.”
Geralt shook his head. “Nope. It’s magic. My medallion is vibrating, look.” Sure enough, it was ever-so-faintly trembling where it lay on his bare chest. “Don’t want to undo it without knowing what it does—and even then, I doubt it’ll come off easily.”
“Oh, fantastic. Well, come on then, we’d better at least get dressed.”
It was much harder than it sounded to get dressed while tied together by the wrist. Jaskier ended up having to cut a slit in his chemise to fit it over his head, and mourned its loss even as he laced it closed with a spare bit of string. He forwent the doublet entirely, feeling uncomfortably exposed, but reasoning that at least the Skelligers weren’t too concerned with propriety. Pants, at least, were easy, though it resulted in some strange acrobatics as he tried to pull them up.
Finally they were dressed, and headed out of their inn room to find someone who could annul the marriage and safely untie the ribbon.
Geralt led him to the village elder’s house first. She took one look at them, a gleam in her eye, and shook her head without them even having to say a word.
“Ma’am, please! It was an honest mistake,” Jaskier begged. “We’ve learned our lesson about drinking too much and do solemnly swear never to repeat our mistakes.”
Tight-lipped, she shook her head again. Geralt growled, but led Jaskier out again. Come to think of it, he was getting rather tired of being led about by his wrist like a dog on a leash, or an errant child who needed an eye kept on him. He’d had enough of that in his childhood, thanks.
“Geralt just—hold on a second!” he protested as he was unceremoniously dragged across town. “Geralt!” He planted his feet. “Would you please listen to me?”
“What, Jaskier? I thought you wanted this—” he shook their trapped wrists, “—gone!”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy being tugged about like this! Just—slow down, will you?”
Geralt’s hardened expression softened into something more sympathetic. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“Quite right, too. It’s fine, just remember that I’m literally joined at the hip with you, alright?” And with that they set off again, this time heading towards the local witch’s house.
She couldn’t help them either. “Sorry,” she said, “but this is the kind of magic that isn’t meant to be broken. There is a failsafe built in, though. Can’t tell what will trigger it. You’ll just have to wait it out.”
“But we can’t stay like this!” Jaskier cried. “How are we supposed to make a living? How is Geralt supposed to do his witchering like this? How am I supposed to play the lute with only one hand?”
“Figure it out,” she said coolly. “As a married couple, you should be well-versed in solving problems together.”
Jaskier did not appreciate her sass, and was fully prepared to let her know exactly how much, when Geralt dragged him from the cottage once again. “Oh, come on! Let me at her!” he complained, but his heart wasn’t in it. The thought of being stuck to Geralt for a month was far too dire to focus on anything else.
He half expected Geralt to lead him back to the inn, perhaps to regroup while getting that breakfast they’d skipped, but instead they found themselves in the stables, Geralt walking over to Roach’s stall.
“Um, Geralt? Where are we going?” he asked, feeling vaguely like a puppet when Geralt started to tack up Roach and he was pulled along for the ride.
“Gotta find a fiend’s nest. Recently shed antlers can be used to break curses.”
“Right, that makes sense, as much as it sort of…doesn’t.” Jaskier's mind was whirling. Was he calling their marriage a curse? That hurt.
Geralt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If this is binding magic, then a cursebreaker might be able to undo it. They’re very similar in function.” He finished adjusting Roach’s saddle and put a foot in the stirrup, preparing to swing up onto her. Jaskier saw the impending disaster and yanked Geralt’s wrist away.
“Unless you’ve forgotten, we’re still tied together, Geralt. No riding Roach unless you want your poor husband dragged along too.” Husband. Somewhat guiltily, he thought that he quite liked the sound of that.
“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, frowning. “Give me your hand.” Jaskier did, and yelped when he found himself lifted onto Roach, Geralt swinging up right behind him. The ribbon meant that Geralt’s left arm was wrapped across Jaskier’s body, ending up in a pseudo-embrace. Jaskier subtly snuggled back against the witcher, because hey, he never got hugs from Geralt, and he would take what he could get.
They rode hard, heading for the nearby mountains, where fiends usually made their nests. A few hours later, Geralt pulled Roach to a stop near the edge of a ravine, sniffing the air intently.
“What is it?” Jaskier whispered, because that look usually meant there was something dangerous nearby.
“I can smell it. There’s a nest nearby. If I can find some tracks…” Geralt dismounted carefully, and narrowly avoided yanking Jaskier down off of Roach. Jaskier hopped down as well—but, off-balance as he was from the awkward way he had to twist his arm, ended up overbalancing and nearly stumbling into the ravine.
He teetered on the edge of the drop for a moment, feeling weightless, before strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him back from the edge. His fingers scrabbled at studded armor for a few seconds before latching on in a white-knuckled grip. “Thanks,” Jaskier gasped out, heart pounding from the near-accident.
“Don’t mention it,” Geralt answered, letting go. Jaskier clung for a few seconds more, getting his breathing back under control, before letting go himself.
Geralt led Jaskier away from the ravine and towards the undergrowth, cat eyes scanning the ground intensely. He was tracking—Jaskier’d seen it before. Evidently he saw some trail or another that Jaskier couldn’t, because he led Jaskier even deeper into the forest. They followed the fiend’s tracks until they came across a ledge in the side of the mountain, upon which branches and other forest debris were piled, forming a very crude nest not unlike a giant bird’s.
“Is this it?” Jaskier whispered, although signs pointed to yes. The question was more to prod Geralt into talking—Jaskier would never pass up a chance for a story.
Geralt nodded and eyed the ledge, judging its height; too far to jump, for sure, and with their hands tied, Jaskier wasn’t sure how they would climb up. He liked to consider himself strong, but he had nowhere near the upper body strength required to pull himself up ten vertical feet.
“Well, that’s just great. What are we supposed to do now?” Jaskier complained.
“Hmm,” said Geralt, the kind that meant I’m thinking, but not the one that meant shut up so I can hear myself think, so Jaskier took it as a sign to continue.
“If we end up stuck like this forever, I will be writing a strongly-worded ballad about this town,” he said, kicking idly at some rocks. “I’ll call it…hmm… The Marriage Curse? No, that’s too on-the-nose. What about…”
“How are you gonna play it with one hand?” Geralt asked drily.
“Wh—I—! Geralt! Rude!” Jaskier stammered, and it was at that moment Geralt took advantage of his distraction, snagging him around the waist with his joined arm and leaping up to grab the ledge with the other. He then proceeded to pull them both up one-handed, which was such an unbearably hot display of strength Jaskier had to close his mouth lest he drool.
Now on the ledge, Jaskier, feeling decidedly weak in the knees, took a moment to brace himself against the wall. Geralt had the audacity to laugh at his misfortune, which, really, was both unfairly mean and also good gods his laugh sounds so nice.
“Thank you so much for your support, husband,” Jaskier said snidely, pushing off the wall when he felt a bit steadier.
“Of course, dearest,” Geralt shot back, and he really needed to stop before Jaskier had a heart attack or something. “Come on. Help me look for antlers.”
They picked their way over the wall of the nest together. It was unnerving, being in the lair of the beast, so to speak, and Jaskier looked around in disgust.
“The antlers look like a deer’s,” Geralt said, rooting around in the debris covering the floor of the nest. Jaskier was pretty sure he saw the entrails of something or another in the pile of the corner, and fought back the urge to gag. He was getting better at suppressing it with every month that he spent on the road with Geralt, though.
“Great. It’ll be like finding a needle in a needlestack,” Jaskier said in dismay. How were they supposed to find antlers among all of the sticks?
Geralt didn’t answer, studying the nest intently, and all of the sudden dropped to his knees. Jaskier was forced to as well, or else bend over awkwardly. He silently bemoaned the filth that was surely getting all over his trousers. “You could have given me some warning,” he complained, taking a closer look at where Geralt was staring. He saw nothing interesting. “What is it? I can’t even see what you’re looking at.”
Geralt didn’t answer, didn’t even move, except to shake his head like a dog shaking off water. Jaskier looked at his face, now, and saw that his normally intelligent eyes were clouded over, expression slack.
“Geralt? What’s wrong?” Jaskier wasn’t panicking—he wasn’t. If there was fear in his voice, well, then it was just concern for the witcher. “Snap out of it!”
Geralt swayed on his knees rather alarmingly, and in desperation, Jaskier slapped him. Hard. Geralt shook his head again, more vigorously this time, just in time for an earth-shattering roar to ring out.
“Geralt!” Jaskier yelped, trying to scramble up out of the nest, but hindered by the deadweight that was Geralt tied to him. A massive furry head appeared at the lip of the nest, three bull’s eyes narrowed in anger. Jaskier squeaked and fell backwards, trying to tug Geralt back as well, to no avail.
Fuck, we’re gonna die, we’re gonna die… Despite his terror, he kept his eyes wide open. If these were to be his last moments, he wanted to face it head-on.
And then Geralt was in front of him, shielding him, silver sword flashing in the sunlight. Had he finally broken free from the haze?
Evidently so, because he wielded his weapon as deftly as ever, snarling, keeping himself between the fiend and Jaskier. Jaskier watched in equal parts awe and fear as Geralt slashed, blocked, dodged.
He was beautiful.
It would have been a fair fight had he not been hindered by their bound wrists. He was so obviously trying to be careful, trying to slow his movement so that he didn’t rip Jaskier's arm from its socket, but it meant that he sacrificed some of his fighting ability, and with horror, Jaskier realized that he was losing.
Jaskier scrambled to his feet. “Geralt, look out!” he cried, as the fiend swiped at them with one massive clawed foot.
Geralt dodged, Jaskier following after, but in the commotion, he caught his palm on the edge of Geralt’s sword. Blood welled up, bringing tears of pain to his eyes.
Jaskier fell back against the edge of the nest, clutching his hand to his stomach and doubling over. It hurt, more than even the time he’d been clawed by a drowner.
Distantly he heard the sound of silver striking flesh, a pained, inhuman scream, a massive thud. But he was too distracted by the throbbing, burning-cold pain in his hand to care that the fiend was dead.
And then Geralt was there, sword safely sheathed, gentle gloved hands carefully pulling his arm away from his body. Instinctively he tried to pull it back, but Geralt kept a firm grip on his wrist.
His wrist, which he just noticed, no longer had the ribbon tied around it. “What happened?” he croaked, staring at the ribbon, which was lying forlornly on the floor of the nest.
“Hush, Jaskier. The fiend is dead, now let me see.” Slowly, Jaskier peeled his fingers back from the fist he’d been making, wincing at the bloody mess that greeted him.
“This’ll need stitches,” Geralt bit off, anger evident in his voice.
Jaskier flinched. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get in the way…”
Geralt rolled Jaskier’s sleeve up, then, reconsidering, tore the sleeve off entirely and began wrapping it around his palm with quick, tight movements. Jaskier wisely didn’t say anything about the destruction of his chemise—it had probably been beyond repair anyway. “No, I’m not angry at you,” Geralt sighed. As more and more of the wound disappeared beneath the cloth, he seemed to calm. “That damn ribbon almost killed you. The failsafe must have been triggered—maybe when you got hurt.”
“Oh.” Jaskier lapsed into silence as Geralt finished bandaging his hand, flexing his fingers once Geralt let them go. It still stung, but he was just glad that they were finally free of the ribbon. And also shock might have been setting in—he couldn’t really tell for how badly he was shaking.
He was brought out of his thoughts by two strong arms wrapping around him, and then he was suddenly being lifted off the ground and thrown over Geralt’s shoulder, being carried out of the fiend’s nest. Jaskier clung tightly to his armor with his good hand, suddenly struck with vertigo.
The dizziness slowly abated as Geralt climbed down and walked back to Roach, Jaskier still slung over his shoulder the whole time. “Stay with Roach,” Geralt ordered, setting him gently down next to her and unrolling a bedroll for him to sit on. “I have to go find herbs to disinfect your hand, and make sure there’s nothing dangerous nearby.”
“I would really rather have you here with me,” Jaskier said weakly. “What if another fiend decides to drop by?”
“I would hear it coming.”
“Oh, because you did the first time?” Jaskier snapped back, regretting it immediately. Pain made him bitchy, who knew?
“It caught me off-guard, hypnotized me. It won’t happen again.”
“Please,” Jaskier pleaded, switching tactics. “I’m sure you have something in your pack that can help my hand, right? I just…don’t want to be alone.”
Geralt took one long, indecipherable look at him, and then sighed. “Fine, but only because you just got divorced.”
“Was that a joke? Is Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, making fun of his poor little bard? Oh! The indignity!” Jaskier swooned to cover his relief.
“Witchers don’t joke. Pretty sure blood vessels burst if we try,” Geralt returned, deadpan. Jaskier dissolved into laughter.
Geralt grinned and sat down next to him, having retrieved some sort of salve and clean bandages from Roach’s saddlebags. He carefully unwrapped the makeshift bandage from Jaskier’s hand and dribbled water from his waterskin over it. Jaskier hissed in pain.
“Sorry,” Geralt murmured.
“It’s fine.” Jaskier grimaced. “Small price to pay, overall. Could have been worse. I could have died before ever getting a honeymoon. Which you are taking me on, to be clear.”
“You’re not married anymore. Who says I owe you a honeymoon?” Geralt asked, dabbing salve on the wound.
“If you don’t, I think I shall just perish from unhappiness, and then I’ll die a bachelor, alone and unloved. Come to think of it, I might still die a bachelor.”
Geralt frowned. “You won’t die a bachelor. Surely there are scores of people who want to marry you.”
“Ah, yes, I do have many admirers, but would I marry them? Most certainly not.”
“Why not? You could live a happy life with them, instead of following me around everywhere. Instead of getting hurt,” Geralt said, gritting his teeth.
Jaskier took a deep breath. Well, now or never. “Darling, they can’t give me everything. They can’t give me…you.”
Geralt’s hand stilled where they were rewrapping bandages. Jaskier could feel his pulse in his fingertips, normally so slow and deep, now elevated with uncertainty. “We don’t have to do anything about it. We certainly don’t have to get married. I’m happy just being on the Path with you,” Jaskier was quick to reassure. “I’m sure you don’t want me dragging you down with such a silly thing as marriage.”
Geralt was still as a statue, and Jaskier worried he’d broken him for a moment. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid for so long. Stupid! Why did I tell him?!
“You…would marry me?” Geralt asked eventually, resuming his motions.
“Yes,” Jaskier said simply, heart pounding. “I love you, Geralt.”
“But your reputation. You can’t marry a witcher.” That…didn’t sound like a no. That sounded more like someone desperately searching for excuses, someone who didn’t dare to believe something could be true.
“I can do as I please. Providing the witcher is willing, of course. Everyone else can fuck off.”
Geralt was silent again, tying off the bandage neatly. Afterwards his hands lingered, and Jaskier dared to catch them in his own. “Geralt? Say something. Tell me if I’ve just ruined everything,” he whispered.
Geralt was quick to shake his head. “You haven’t.”
“Then what’s wrong? Tell me what you’re thinking, love.”
“We can’t…”
“Why not? I’d still get called a witcher’s whore. Bigots would still yell things at us. But there would be even more people who wouldn’t care. And you know what? Not one of them matters. All that matters is that you and I are happy.”
“But…your reputation. You’re a bard, you need—”
“Darling, my reputation is already in the gutter. Don’t worry about that. What do you want?”
And if he decided that he didn’t want that, that he didn’t want a romantic relationship with Jaskier, then that was fine. As long as he wasn’t doing it out of some misguided noble attempt to save him, or his reputation.
“I…would like that, I think,” Geralt said, haltingly. Jaskier smiled, wider than maybe he ever had before, and pulled Geralt into a kiss. He kept it light, but Geralt was the one to deepen it, hands settling around his waist, and then sliding up his back to tangle in his hair.
Jaskier didn’t know how much time had passed by the time he needed to break the kiss for air. He pulled back, grinning helplessly, and saw adoration reflected in Geralt’s eyes. “Let’s get married,” he whispered.
“Let’s get married,” Geralt agreed. “But no handfasting this time.”
Jaskier laughed. “Whatever you want, love.”