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Jaskier huddles in on himself, trying to remember what Geralt had taught him about keeping warm. All he can think of is Geralt's face and it only makes him more miserable, so he gives up on the attempt altogether. He's still so cold.
As a last resort, he pulls himself toward the edge of the cliff with the desperate hope that some of his own body heat might bounce back at him. It doesn't work and Jaskier is left shivering under his thin blanket, wishing he hadn't been quite so stubborn after they had parted ways on the mountain. If he had gone after Geralt like he wanted to, like he almost did dozens of times, he might not be here, on the brink of death frozen and alone.
He wonders vaguely what Geralt is up to these days, whether or not he'll miss Jaskier when he finds out about his death, wonders if he'll hear about it. He's probably off somewhere with Yen - nothing can ever keep them apart for long. He hopes he's happy. Geralt is the last thing he thinks about before he shuts his eyes against the world.
Geralt is hesitant as he enters the city, acutely aware of his surroundings, ears pricked to any sign of danger. He's fully aware that most of the people here probably hate him, but the offer for the contract had been too good to pass up. Things haven't been great lately - or maybe that's just him - but he hasn't been taking as many jobs as he should and the winter will be setting in soon, he needs provisions before he heads north.
He heads to the mayor's house because the notice was unsigned, but he's quickly turned away, sent in the direction of the academy. It feels like a trap and he's not enthusiastic about walking right into it. But he knows he was awful to Jaskier, knows that if this is a trap, he probably deserves whatever he has coming. He's not at all expecting what he gets.
The professor he's been sent to is a young woman close to Jaskier's age and she smiles at him when she sees him, but he can smell the nervousness on her.
"Master Witcher," she says, "I wasn't expecting you to be quite so prompt."
"Monsters don't just wait around to be killed," he says and she gives him an odd look. He's used to odd looks, especially when he mentions killing things, but this one is new. It's less nervous, more sheepish.
"Ah, well, about that. Actually, sir, there is no monster. It's just you see, our Jaskier's gone off somewhere and no one's seen him for days. It's getting cold and he never goes off without telling someone." Geralt stares blankly at her, waiting for her to get to the point and hoping it isn't what he thinks it is.
"You see," she continues, "we've all heard the stories about how you never turn down a man in need and how you're the best tracker there is and, well, who better to go and find Jaskier than his best friend?"
Ah, fuck.
But he's only been gone a couple of days. Surely, that isn't unusual? And if he's gone on purpose, surely the last person he wants to see coming to collect him is Geralt? How could he want anything to do with him after the things he said? Even Yen is still upset with him and he didn't blame her for everything wrong with his life.
Apparently, he's taking too long to respond because the professor shifts in place and looks up at him hopefully. And because Geralt is a hopeless fool, he agrees. Jaskier could be in trouble after all and Geralt will not be the source of any more hurt for him.
"Do you need something of his?" she asks and Geralt barely resists rolling his eyes.
"I'm not a dog." And besides, there's nothing in the world that could make him forget a scent when it's absence has been haunting him for months.
He sets out immediately, asking around for any information on where he would have gone and all of Jaskier's peers seem delighted to see him. He doesn't understand. It's confusing and overwhelming and Geralt is happier when he leaves the city gates and heads out into the wilderness. He keeps to the riverbank; a heavy snow fell only a few nights back so looking for tracks is useless, but Jaskier knows to keep to the edge of the Pontar. That's how they find one another every spring.
The thought eats away at him. This coming spring will be the first for years that he hasn't met up with Jaskier and it's an uncomfortable feeling not knowing what Jaskier will get up to, where he'll be. Whether or not he'll be safe.
It's hours before Geralt finds any sign of his missing bard and he's worked himself into a panic in the meantime. What if Jaskier's been taken? What if he's run off and gotten himself kidnapped - or worse? He can't keep his mind from reeling and when he finds signs of a failed campfire off toward the treeline, he stumbles in his rush to reach it.
It shows nothing, but there is a trail leading away from it, deep footprints made more shallow by the newly fallen snow. Geralt follows the path to a large, rotting stump and at its base- fuck.
Jaskier is huddled in on himself, his skin a haunting bluish-grey and Geralt drops to his knees in the snow. He tugs him close instinctively only now able to hear the sluggish thud of his heartbeat and a little of the fear eases away. He's still alive, at least, but Geralt needs to get him warm - and fast. He bundles Jaskier into his arms, relieved to find his limbs still moveable, and carries him to the first place he can find shelter.
Oxenfurt is much too far to travel with him like this, but Geralt is familiar enough with the area that he finds a shelf of rock without much trouble. He's loathe to leave Jaskier even for a second, but he needs to get a fire lit and there is little he can do with the few sticks lying around. He tucks him up against the back of the shelter, wrapping him in his cloak. For a second, Geralt pauses, pressing his forehead to Jaskier's and breathing a silent apology before tearing himself away.
It's hard to find usable wood under the snow, but he manages and clears a space in the snow to build a fire. It's rough, but igni will get anything lit, so he doesn't mind. Once it's burning, he turns back to Jaskier, cupping his face in one hand.
"Jask," he says, "are you with me?" There's no response and Geralt takes a steadying breath, his thumb rubbing absently over Jaskier's cheekbone. "Okay," he says to himself and gets to work.
The first thing he has to do is get Jaskier out of his clothes and while he knows it's necessary, it still feels like an intrusion. But his clothes are soaked from the snow and sitting in them will only make things worse. He gets Jaskier undressed and turns to lean against the wall himself, hauling Jaskier into his lap. Getting out of his own shirt is much more difficult, being unwilling to let Jaskier go for a moment, but it's necessary; skin to skin contact is the easiest way to warm someone.
He wraps both blankets around them and he holds Jaskier close, tucking his head under his chin and shutting his eyes. He focuses on every inch of the body pressed against his own, rubs his arms, breathes against his neck.
"Please," he whispers, "come back to me."
Geralt has no recollection of drifting off, but he wakes with a start to something - someone - moving against him. There's a pained grumble and Geralt's arms instinctively hold him tighter as Jaskier shifts slowly in his lap. He presses his nose into Geralt's chest, humming quietly before stopping abruptly and twist himself to look up at Geralt.
"You know," he starts and his voice comes out raw and rough. Geralt hates the sound of it. "If you wanted me naked in your lap, all you had to do was ask."
He's bleary and still looks half-alive, still too cold and pale for Geralt's comfort, but he's okay. Geralt could cry with relief. Instinctively, he hauls Jaskier closer, bundles him up against his chest and buries his face in his neck. It's another hour or so before either of them moves and then it's only for Jaskier to pull his cold fingers from Geralt's chest.
"Put them back," Geralt mumbles and Jaskier pulls back to look at him - as much as Geralt will allow.
"You always get mad when I touch you with my cold fingers," he mumbles. Geralt brings his own hand up, slipping his fingers between Jaskier's and lifts his hand. Without thinking, he presses a soft kiss to his palm, lingering longer than he should as he mumbles,
"I never will again, I promise.