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“Can you not think with your head for once?”
It had been a while since his temper had snapped so. Geralt could not stop pacing, his boots snapping twigs beneath him, his blood racing and roaring in his ears. The forest loomed around them, dark even to his vision, branches heavy with damp leaves and reaching towards the ground and them and Geralt could not breathe for the anger in his veins.
All the bard could do was try to catch his breath. Hands on his knees as he doubled over, bangs sweat dampened, silken doublet torn here and there from their frantic escape, its light blue coloring ruined by the stains of blood soaking through it-
He was bleeding.
Geralt was over next to him in a heartbeat, straightening Jaskier up and not even processing whatever protest his bard had as he touched the slick fabric of his doublet. Blood had colored it dark, and Geralt felt his hand tremble but fought whatever wanted to escape his control back - now wasn’t the time for any of that, not when Jaskier was bleeding .
“Sit.” Despite giving the verbal order Geralt sat Jaskier down himself, crouching in front of him and pulling out one of his silver knives Eskel had gifted him the last winter they’d spent together. Its sharp blade made quick work of the shirt Jaskier was already bemoaning, Geralt carefully cutting the fabric away to get a good look at the wound.
“I’m fine, Geralt, it’s just a scratch-”
“You only ever say that when it’s serious,” Geralt growled at him, making sure to steady him now just in case the blood loss might be making him dizzy. It was hard to tell whether his pale coloring was due to the exhaustion of running or the wound, or from panic even, but any of those options were not good.
“It’s really not that bad. I can barely feel it.”
Geralt grinted his teeth but managed to not bite him, moving him gingerly to lay him down on the damp forest floor. Not the best or most comfortable place to lay but he couldn’t exactly run him off to an inn just to keep him a little warmer while he tried to patch up his wound.
It was a blessed relief that Jaskier laid still for him, barely squirming even as Geralt wiped enough blood away to actually see the cut on his side - but it was nothing compared to the relief that swept through him to find that the cut wasn’t as deep as it seemed. Still worrisome, still in need of stitches, but not life threatening.
He swallowed back the fear that had been trying to take him over, the repeating thought of what would I do without him shoved to the back of his mind, firmly locked up tight as he patted himself down and located his travel medkit.
That fear was quickly replaced with aggravation when Jaskier shot up, Geralt quickly trying to push him back down before he could escape. “Wha- Geralt, it’s fine, I don’t need stitches! See? I’m- ow owow , you don’t have to be a prick about it!”
“Lay down,” he snarled, still trying his best to not make the wound any worse, jerking his hand away to grip Jaskier elsewhere when he’d accidentally pressed too close to it. When Jaskier continued to be an idiot and stay still, whining about not wanting any stitches - despite the numerous times Geralt had stitched him up before - Geralt felt his temper snap, and before he could stop himself he grabbed the front of his bard’s shirt and dragged him in for a searing kiss.
Jaskier was the single most infuriating person he’d ever known, if only because of how he made Geralt’s heart stupid with emotions. He fed that frustration into the kiss and felt Jaskier moan against his lips, but before Jaskier could tangle his hands in Geralt’s hair Geralt broke the kiss and nipped his bottom lip once to chide him.
“Lay still. You’re getting stitches.”
For once since he’d first met the bard, he was without words, only nodding with a dazed look and parted, far too tempting lips. Something else for Geralt to think about later and not now, because the last thing he needed was for his bard to faint from blood loss just because Geralt found his mouth irresistible.