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"I've been telling you since you locked me in this filthy excuse for a cage," Jaskier sighed, leaning back against the bars. He had long ago given up on trying to keep his doublet clean, a sure sign that he had also given up on getting out of here, one the captors may not have picked up on, but Geralt would have-No, Jaskier told himself, that is not a name I will be thinking about, ever again. "I don't know where he is, and he won't be coming for me."
"You're the White Wolf's bard, he'll come," the man in the corner sneered, the one Jaskier had identified as the leader.
"Not anymore I'm not," Jaskier said softly, staring down at his dirty fingernails, broken and splintered from his previous attempts to pick the lock or break the bars. "Apparently, I never was. Apparently, I am merely a shoveler of shit. It's a long, sad tale, a very personal one I don't feel like sharing with you to be honest. If I ever put it in a ballad, you all can be the first ones to listen, how about that for a deal?"
"That's not what I hear," the leader replied, as he idly cleaned his nails with a knife. "I heard that you were dying, choking on your own blood, and your Witcher carried you on his horse and did whatever it took until he got you healed. Me, I would have left you in the dirt, but he didn't."
"Well, I am glad you weren't there then," Jaskier said wryly, but then his voice softened again. "And he was just doing what Witchers are supposed to do, stop bad things. He would have done it for anyone."
"See, now you're just lying," the leader said, with a laugh Jaskier certainly did not like the sound of. "And I think I have an idea. You bleeding got that Witcher running before, maybe it'll work again now." The man pulled a key off his belt, unlocking the cage and roughly yanking Jaskier out of it, tossing him face first into the dusty floor surrounding them. Jaskier attempted to stand, but his muscles were too weak from disuse and no food, and he collapsed immediately.
Shoving Jaskier onto his back, the leader spun the knife he was holding between his fingers, before casually stabbing it into Jaskier's side, right above his hip. Jaskier screamed, curling in on himself, fingers scrabbling to try to staunch the flow of blood. "Don't," the leader said cruelly, slapping Jaskier's hands away. "We need that blood. If your Witcher smells it, it should bring him right to us-"
Any other words the man had planned to say were drowned out by the sudden screams of terror sounding from the entrance of where Jaskier was being kept. The door of their room was suddenly and violently kicked open, and through the haze of pain, Jaskier saw two swords flashing and what seemed to be endless spurts of blood. The man who had been the main sense of his entrapped torment slumped to the ground, his head landing beside him.
"Jaskier?" came a voice Jaskier had never expected to hear again, and now that he thought about it, there was no way he was actually hearing that voice. This was further confirmed when an achingly familar pair of sword-calloused hands pressed on his wound, and when Jaskier cried out in pain, the voice said, "I'm sorry, Jask, I have to, I'm sorry."
"I must already be dead, then," Jaskier mumbled. "Geralt doesn't apologize, or care." And with that, he felt his eyes slip close and a quick slide into unconsciousness.
***
As his eyes slowly opened, Jaskier winced at the bright sunshine coming through the window. Where he had been kept had been so dark and dank, actual light had his head absolutely throbbing. He felt a hand squeeze his and then reach up to throw a dark shirt over the window, relieving the majority of the light.
"Thank you good-Geralt?" The words froze in Jaskier's mouth, as his tired eyes stared in disbelief at the Witcher, who was hovering over his bed clasping tightly to Jaskier's hand. "So not dead, then?" Jaskier stammered out, taking in the bed he was on, the blanket he was tucked under, the sharp pain in his side, and just how-well, once upon a time, Jaskier had believed Geralt to have emotions, and if that were still true, Jaskier would describe him as looking deeply sad, and tired, and yes, scared of something.
"Not dead," Geralt said softly, slumping down in the chair pressed against the side of Jaskier's bed, keeping his hold on Jaskier's hand. "Luckily, he was terrible at stabbing."
"I wasn't aware that was something one could be terrible at," Jaskier mused, which startled a laugh out of Geralt. Jaskier almost smiled, but looking at Geralt made his heart hurt more than his wound, and so he turned his head away, pulling his hand out of Geralt's. "I didn't tell them anything, so you don't have to worry about that. I know that's the only reason you bothered hunting them down, in case I spilled some sort of secrets I would never have been privy to anyway. I told them you weren't going to come for me, but they didn't believe me. Hence the ridiculous nonsense of stabbing me so you would smell my blood, I told them it-"
"Didn't need that," Geralt cut in, staring down at the floor.
"What?" Jaskier couldn't help but turn to stare at Geralt. "You're going to have to give me more to work with here than that." He watched Geralt take a deep breath, then another, running his hands over his face, and hold on, were those tear tracks on Geralt's dust-smudged face? "Geralt?"
"I was following you, already," Geralt admitted softly, seeming suddenly fascinated by a loose thread on the bedsheet. "Had been since the mountain. Wanted to talk to you, but I thought you wouldn't want to see me. So I followed you, made sure you weren't in any danger. But then there was a child, taken, and her parents begged me to get her back. I did, but in the time I was gone-" He gestured to Jaskier, hand hovering near the stab wound, before dropping his hands between his knees. "I'm sorry, Jaskier."
Jaskier felt his mouth drop open in shock, his mind reeling, his heart stutter stepping. "Sorry?"
"I'm so sorry," Geralt said, and Jaskier heard the soft shake in Geralt's voice as he brought his hands back up, laying them on the blanket, less than an inch from Jaskier's leg. Finally, Geralt raised his eyes and Jaskier met his gaze. He had been right, those were tears on Geralt's face, and Jaskier couldn't help himself, couldn't stop himself from reaching out and resting his hand on top of Geralt's. He watched the tension in Geralt's shoulders ease, his jaw unclench, and Jaskier tugged on Geralt's fingers.
"Hey, come here," Jaskier said softly, and pulled gently, and Geralt came so willingly, like this was all he had been waiting for. As Geralt's knees hit the side of the bed, Jaskier reached his hand up, cupping the side of Geralt's face. "It's okay."
"It's not okay, Jask," Geralt insisted, shaking his head, but Jaskier kept his hold on Geralt's face.
"It is," Jaskier answered, stroking Geralt's cheek with his finger. "Hey, It is, I promise. Not only did you apologize, you were with me the whole time."
"You got hurt," Geralt mumbled, "by idiots. I don't need to smell your blood to know it's you. Know what you smell like."
"You saved me, dear heart," Jaskier said with a smile, and the endearment brought the light right back into Geralt's eyes. "But you will need to explain, what do I smell like? Inquiring minds must know."
And Geralt leaned forward, burying his face in the crook of Jaskier's neck, taking a deep steadying breath. "Chamomile, spring flowers, and-and love. You smell like home, like my home."
Jaskier gasped, wrapping his arm around Geralt, and Geralt came willingly, curling up around Jaskier. "That-oh Geralt, oh love, I-that is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me," Jaskier whispered, blinking back tears. The Witcher raised his head, and Jaskier held Geralt's face in his hands. "I love you too," he promised, staring into Geralt's eyes before gently bringing their lips together. Geralt leaned into the kiss, running a hand through Jaskier's hair, cupping the back of his neck, sliding his hand down to rest over Jaskier's heart.
Geralt pulled back just far enough to lift the blanket and slide under it, turning so he could wrap his arms around Jaskier, so Jaskier could rest his head on Geralt's chest. "Get some rest, lark," Geralt said softly, kissing the top of Jaskier's head. "We've got more adventures ahead of us."