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He’s been trailing after the Witcher long enough to know what to do. He knows what the path can do to him, and what sorts of monsters, both otherworldly and human, lurk and stalk within the shadows.
Jaskier can count on one hand the number of times he’s worried about the Witcher. Hunts that last longer than they should; the colour of Geralt’s skin and the amount of blood spilling out of him when he does come staggering back. Geralt can look after himself. But it doesn’t stop Jaskier’s chest from tightening when something goes wrong.
In those years, he’s learned what to do. His heart will still quicken and his hands will still shake, but it’s nothing like how they used to. Geralt’s vials of potions had once been a mystery to him. Strange scents that lingered in the air and hissed as soon as their caps were opened. Now, he’s able to pluck them from his satchel without even glancing at them, knowing how each of them weighs in his hand and what their vial is shaped like. He’s more adept than any trained medic or healer, knowing what to do and how to do it. There are scars scattered throughout Geralt’s body that Jaskier knitted together and relentlessly staved off infection. He knows the stories of all of Geralt’s scars – stories lured out by sated afterglows when they lay in bed – but he was there for some of them. He doesn’t ask about those scars. Best not to pick at them, in case something festers.
There’s been only one occasion where Jaskier’s heart has nearly crawled up his throat and spilt out of his mouth. When his breath caught and his stomach churned, all because of the Witcher being hauled into the tavern looked like death had already taken him.
He doesn’t remember much of the night before the moment the door opened. He had been singing, he remembers that. The tavernkeep was a kind older lady, happy to let him lull around the tavern and lure people into song. As long as they were merry, the ale and mead kept flowing; and the room the bard and the Witcher had upstairs would remain free of charge.
And then, during a particularly rowdy rendition of some sea-fairing shanty, the door to the tavern flew open, and the hunting party stumbled in. It must have been raining. He distantly remembers the pools of water tracked in through the tavern’s floor and up the stairs towards their room. A hunting party of a few gathered men from the town, all intent on helping Geralt kill whatever monster was plaguing the fields outside of their walls, didn’t even bother shucking off their soaked and muddied cloaks as they hauled the Witcher towards his room.
Geralt has returned to him beaten and bloodied and pale in the past. But never like this. He barely winces or grunts out a harsh breath as the men holding him set him down into the bed. Another pair of hands set about stripping off his armour and clothes. There’s blood. Even before Geralt can really sink into the bed, blood already starts to seep out and stain the sheets. The tavernkeep hovering by the door, clutching at her chest in shock, doesn’t seem particularly bothered by that. It seems to be the last thing on her mind. Through the rushing of noise in his ears, Jaskier distantly hears her and a huntsman discuss calling the nearest healer. Something bumbles out of Jaskier’s lips. I need his bag. Get me his bag.
Jaskier sets his hands on him and tries not to shudder at how cold and clammy the Witcher’s skin is. He’s deathly still, barely flinching as the last of his clothes is stripped away and the full extent of his injuries is laid bare. A cut, a deep cut, delving deep into Geralt’s chest. Blood wells out of it and trickles into the centre of Geralt’s chest. Something has soured his blood. Even though his senses might not be as finely tuned as Geralt’s, Jaskier’s nose wrinkles at the sharp, acrid scent of poison souring the air. It stings the roof of his mouth and almost chokes him.
Jaskier swallows. There’s no point in panicking. He swallows at the lump trying to catch in his throat and takes Geralt’s bag from one of the huntsmen. They all keep to the shadows of the room, not quite knowing what to do or where to stand. Jaskier grunts out an order. Someone will need to hold Geralt’s arms and legs down. Even with death luring him under, the reactions to some of his potions will have him seizing. Two pairs of hands grab wrists and ankles just as Jaskier sets the lip of a vial to Geralt’s mouth. White Honey and Kiss. Whatever Geralt hunted, Jaskier can still smell the sour scent of poison lingering on him. Blood still swells out of Geralt’s chest, despite the rags Jaskier holds down on the wound. It’s a mess. He doesn’t even know where to start.
A shudder trembles through Geralt, one that barely makes it to his arms and legs, once the potions slip down his throat. His body doesn’t do much else than worm underneath them, but then all falls still and silent again and Jaskier wants to scream, to do nothing but break the deafening silence stubbornly trying to settle over them.
You will not take him, Jaskier thinks firmly. Whether it’s to a god or some other deity, he’s not entirely sure. But he’ll make them listen. He is mine now. You don’t have any right to take him from me.
The gods have all the rights in the world. It’s a world they created. If a triad of crones gathered around a spinning wheel want to cut the Witcher’s already too-long thread short, then they will. And Jaskier will march down into the underworld and demand that his be cut too. There’s no life without Geralt.
The thought of him slipping away has Jaskier’s throat trembling.
He can’t remember anything else. It was a flurry of movements and bumbled out orders to those huntsmen that remained, eyeing the Witcher cautiously as Jaskier worked. With the potions slowly seeping into Geralt’s blood, worming their way through his body, he could at least see to the wound on his chest. One of the men, Leif, stood by Jaskier’s side, dutifully handing him clean and dry strips of cloth when Jaskier held out his hand for one. They soaked through with blood quickly, with them barely being placed on Geralt’s chest for more than a minute before Jaskier had to take them away again. The sour scent of poison slowly began to ebb as the minutes dragged on, but the blood remained. It stained his fingers and made holding his needle and thread difficult. Jaskier bit the inside of his cheek until he was sure he felt copper in his mouth. He kept his attention on knitting muscle and skin back together again. He has done it before, and his hands didn’t tremble like they used to. They’re sure in the way he works, a needle delving in and out of Geralt’s skin and tugging the stitches tight enough to help skin heal, but not suffocating anything that could lie within.
Gods only knew how much time had passed. The huntsmen eventually shuffled out of the room, whispering prayers to the gods under their breaths, and the tavernkeep left two plates of reserved food on a dresser by the door.
And then there’s now – the moment when the last threads of control slip through Jaskier’s fingers and a wave of emotion breeches over him. A sob wrangles out of his throat as he takes in the sight of the Witcher lain out in the bed, pale and cool, despite the blankets and furs bunched around him and the hearth crackling at the other side of the room.
Jaskier reaches out, curling his hand into Geralt’s. He entwines their fingers, squeezing and holding. “Please live.” The whisper rushes out of him. If he was the one to be joined with that djinn, this would be a wish right now. Give him back to me. He isn’t yours to take. He breathes the would-be wish anyway, hoping that even through death’s fingers, it can worm its way through and reach the Witcher trapped inside.
Sleep doesn’t bother coming for him. The moon perches in the night sky and lingers, keeping company with the stars until it’s time for them to part again. At the first few stray beams of sunlight stretching in through the windows, Jaskier rubs at his eyes. They’re sore. He’s spent his hours staring at Geralt’s face and chest, praying to any god he can remember the name of to keep him breathing. His fingers cramp from where they’re locked around one of Geralt’s hands, his thumb doing its usual lap of circling the back of his hand; a gentling touch, but enough to assure Geralt that he’s here, that he needs to come back to him.
The waiting is always the worst. There have been nights where the only company he keeps is with the moon and stars overhead. The faint murmur of the tavern below slowly began to din as boarders returned to their rooms and merchants and shopkeeps stumbled back to their homes. The sharp scent of blood lingered in the air; soaked and soiled rags strewn off to one foot of the bed, forgotten about while Jaskier kept an eye on the fresh bandages. They prickled with flecks of blood, but the worst of the bleeding seemed to have stemmed. Still, he parted with the sight of Geralt’s body for a moment to peer into the Witcher’s satchel; slumped against his leg where it hung off of the bed. Sitting perched at the side of their bed won’t do anything good for his back, but he wanted to keep his vigil as close to Geralt as he can manage without laying flush against the Witcher.
Morning comes to greet him. The watery bright light streaking in through the windows has him squinting. He should sleep. Some rational part of him tells him as much. But sleep knows not to come and bother him when he’s like this. Not that he would let it take him under anyway. He’s too fraught with worry to even consider slipping off to sleep. He could miss something. Geralt’s wounds could fester and bleed again, or his chest and heart could still. And Jaskier would be sleeping. No. He sets his jaw. He’ll keep his vigil over his Witcher.
At the first flickering of Geralt’s eyelids, all trace of exhaustion flitters from him as he straightens. His hold on Geralt’s hand tightens as he leans over the Witcher, carding his fingers through the man’s hair. “Geralt?” Jaskier tries luring him out of whatever clutch death had around him. It’s a persistent thing, a shadow that has slumped over Geralt like a heavy cloak for all of his life. And while he’s good at shrugging it off, Jaskier forgets that there will be times, like this, where he’ll trip and the cloak will choke him.
The Witcher lies still, barely bothered by the world around him. Jaskier’s throat bobs. His voice is nothing more than a rasping whisper, not wanting to raise it for fear of shattering the quiet settled in the room. “Geralt, darling,” Jaskier squeezes their hands.
There’s a flicker of something. Brows twitching as they try and knit together. Geralt’s wading towards life again, slowly trudging back towards Jaskier’s voice. The slow thump of his heart quickens, steadying out as his breathing starts to level. Jaskier brings their hands to his lips. He presses a firm kiss to Geralt’s fingers. They’re cold, only hanging on to a shimmer of heat from Jaskier’s own skin. “My love,” he whispers, watching Geralt’s face.
He can lull and lure all he likes, but it’s up to Geralt to find his way back. Potions still drift through his veins, staving off the worst lashings of poisons and bleeding as his body tries to knit itself back together again. While Jaskier can do all he can, it’s always up to the Witcher’s body to keep him alive. And it’s a stubborn thing. There are moments like this where he should have died. This is the closest he has danced with death; letting her take him by the hand and twirl around her while she leads him down. A Witcher can only laugh in her face for so long before her claws dig into his palms and wrists and haul him away.
So Jaskier waits. He forgets about the food still waiting for him by the door, not even registering the tavernkeep gently rapping on the door, barely taking a step into the room before taking the plates and replacing the food with something fresh.
Jaskier’s stomach trembles at the scent of food. But his hand tightens around Geralt’s. He stays where he is, and he’ll stay until Geralt is back with him.
It lasts a day and a half. He’s eventually pulled away at one point by a very persistent tavernmaid, armed with a tankard of ale and a bowl of stewed venison and winter root vegetables. The smell of it alone blooms some warmth back into his bones, but his stomach churns. He doesn’t want to eat. He can’t. But the harrowing glare the girl gives him tells him that he has no say in the matter at all.
He picks at the stew, but it’s good. The venison is tender and juicy, and the root vegetables are sweet. It’s enough food to stave off the lightness in his head. And the ale keeps him awake, at the very least. He’s slow to eat it, picking at what he can and savouring each bite on his tongue. But he keeps his watch over Geralt. He sticks to his perch on the edge of their bed, with the mattress dipping underneath him. He pulled a corner of the blankets over his lap, staving off the worst of the winter chill.
He’s watched and waited, all the while the tavern churns below him. Patrons come in after their shifts of work; miners from neighbouring hills and caverns, merchants from the inner markets and passing through the town. Farmers from the outside fields gather too, with Jaskier’s ears twitching at a low rumble of thanks regarding the Witcher for dealing with their problem. A drink is raised for Geralt downstairs. Jaskier’s chest tightens.
They appreciate you. They appreciate everything that you do for them. He hopes that Geralt at least has his hearing; that he’s distantly aware of what’s going on around him. Because Jaskier has been rambling whenever he can, keeping Geralt company. And it could be a special version of hell where the Witcher is trapped, but he’s kept his hearing, and all he has for company is Jaskier’s insistent conversations about anything and everything. But he hopes that Geralt can hear the crowd below. And he winces when a chorus of Toss A Coin strikes up.
Jaskier looks down at what’s left of his dinner – or breakfast, lunch? He isn’t sure anymore. A few chunks of vegetables and some thick broth. His tankard is still half full of ale, but for the first time in a long time, he could do without the alcohol.
A low murmur of noise comes from the bed. It takes Jaskier a moment to realise that it’s words.
“I’m dying and you’re eating dinner?”
Jaskier nearly drops his bowl. Still sprawled on the bed, still pale and clammy but blearily looking up at him, is his Witcher. A faint shadow of a smile ghosts his lips.
“You—You brute,” Jaskier splutters, a frown deeply etching into his brow. He barely has the wherewithal to set his bowl on to the bedside table, before turning his attentions back to Geralt and laying into him. “You absolutely horrid man! Do you know how much time I spent by your bedside? Hmm?! You had the nerve to return to me in the way that you did and here you are now saying I don’t care?!”
A huffing sort of laugh trembles out of Geralt. “I didn’t say that—”
“-You bloody well did, you ungrateful prick!” Despite all of it though, Jaskier’s hand curls into one of Geralt’s, letting both of them rest on Geralt’s chest. It lifts and falls, and Jaskier can finally feel his shoulders relax. Jaskier clicks his tongue. “You try and wrangle a Witcher back from the claws of death, and this is the thanks you get.”
A low laugh rumbles through Geralt, but one that has him wincing and coughing after a time. Jaskier’s hold on his hand tightens. A pitcher of water sits close by, but to get his Witcher to drink some of it, it would mean moving him. And he isn’t quite happy to do that just yet. He has to check on his wound. Has it finally started to knit back together again? Has infection been kept away? What kind of scar will be left behind this time?—
The hand around his tightens. Jaskier blinks. His eyes sting. Whether it's from tiredness or tears prickling the back of his eyes, he isn’t sure. Maybe it’s both. And the sight of his Witcher awake, breathing, and lashing him with the same dry and droll humour he keeps as company. Geralt’s eyes soften at the sight of Jaskier. He can only imagine what he must look like. The corners of Geralt’s lips twitch downwards. “Thank you,” he rasps, voice crackling and dry.
Jaskier’s chest tightens. “I was so afraid,” His words tremble as they rush out of him. His breath catches in his throat. “I was afraid that this might have been it. You were finally taken from me.”
He’s not an idiot, though Geralt might disagree in certain instances. Jaskier knows what a Witcher’s life is like. He’s been with Geralt for years now, he knows what kinds of things try will try and kill Geralt if given the chance. It’s an awful thing; to love something that death can touch. But if he has any say in the matter, he would like death to come later, when Jaskier has convinced Geralt to settle, and they’re by the coast in their cabin, away from everything else. When they’re both aged and their bones are starting to wither, he wants death to come then. And he wants it to take them both, at the same time, so one won't be without the other.
But this might have been it – Geralt might have died here, in this merchant’s town that he can’t remember the name of. And only for the huntsmen who brought him back, Jaskier might have had to go searching for a body in the thickets of the nearby forest. The thought of Geralt being out there, bleeding out alone and away from Jaskier, it almost stops Jaskier’s heart.
He’s here. Jaskier assures him of that. Jaskier is here, with him, breathing and tugging his hand closer to his chest. Their joined fingers sit on the dry strips of cloth sitting over Geralt’s wound. The cloth is still dry, and it’s still white. The bleeding must have stopped. Jaskier’s tongue sits heavily in his mouth as he watches Geralt strain to look down at himself. A sheet slung low on his hips, a bared chest cleaned from blood and remnants of poison. One pectoral completely covered in cloth to shield the wound. And he’s still pale. Jaskier shifts his seat. His muscles protest and his bones groan, but he needs to get closer. He shuffles until the edge of his hip presses flush against Geralt’s. Even through the blankets, he can feel the heat slowly blooming back into the Witcher.
Geralt grunts. “A lone manticore,” he breathes, letting his head drop back against the pillows. He’s slow to gather his words. His eyelids flutter closed. Tiredness still sits deep in his bones.
Jaskier hushes him, squeezing their hands. He reaches out to card his fingers through Geralt’s hair. It’s still soaked with sweat – the remnants of the fever sweated out during the night. Jaskier moves the stubborn strands back from Geralt’s face, carding them back to splay out among the pillows. “You can tell me that story later, darling,” he mumbles, letting the backs of his fingers brush along the ridge of Geralt’s jaw. Underneath his touch, he can feel how it clenches. “Sleep now. You need to rest.”
They’ll need to move soon. Winter is tumbling in quicker than expected. The manticore job would give their joint coin purse enough gold to carry them to the village at the base of Kaer Morhen. But with Geralt now crawling away from death’s grasp, he won’t be able to lead them up the mountain. It’s a difficult journey for most years. He won’t ask Geralt to guide them up now, not until his wound has healed.
Geralt’s eyes strain to open again. Golden eyes blearily look back up at Jaskier. He knows it too. They need to move.
But not now.
Jaskier’s gaze softens. “Sleep,” he whispers, lulling Geralt down to sleep himself. It hasn’t wandered too far away. A long, tired sigh wisps out of the Witcher before he’s slipped away again. A slight hue of colour begins to settle back into his skin. Warmth blooms underneath Jaskier’s fingers.
He doesn’t want to part with him. He wants to stay here and continue his vigil. But his muscles cramp and his bones and joints hiss and spit at him as he tries flexing his back out when it starts to strain. There’s a small sliver of space on either side of Geralt. He wouldn’t dream of asking the man to move. But he does shuffle down beside him, lying on his side flush against Geralt. Their hands are still joined on the Witcher’s chest. Jaskier watches it rise and fall with every steady breath he takes. Jaskier coils an arm over Geralt’s head, resting his fingers on his far shoulder. His touch is light, but just enough to let the Witcher know that he’s there,
He’s just about to slip away. Sleep has been stalking the edges of their room, waiting for him to lower his shoulders. Just as it drags him under, he can just about make out Geralt turning his head slightly, touching the ends of their noses together. A small smile tugs at the corner of Jaskier’s lip. He brushes his nose against Geralt’s. I’m here.
A low hum rumbles out of Geralt’s chest. I know.