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“It’s alright, Ciri,” Triss says, her voice low and soothing as she adjusts something in the general area of Geralt’s torso. With her and Yennefer bustling around where Geralt lies on the bed, Jaskier can’t quite tell what it is they’re doing, but the mild panic has receded from both of their eyes and their movements, assured, confident, are no longer frantic, so Jaskier figures they have the situation well enough in hand. “Geralt’s going to be just fine.”
She looks over her shoulder and winks at both Ciri and Jaskier where they stand hovering near the door, and Jaskier has to give her credit: her accompanying smile doesn’t look one bit forced.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Geralt’s gruff voice chimes in. “Nothing to worry about at all.”
There’s still a tightness to his tone that Jaskier doesn’t much like, pain sliding in around the vowels, but Geralt cranes his neck so he can see around Triss, and while he doesn’t smile as she had done, he makes eye contact, gives them both a nod.
I really am fine, the nod says. Really. You don’t have to worry.
Jaskier nods back and manages a weak facsimile of his usual broad grin. You don’t have to worry. Sure, of course. He’ll get right on that.
To his right, Ciri edges closer to him. She hasn’t said anything since the unexpected encounter with the archgriffin--since Yennefer and Triss arrived via portal to Ciri screaming and Geralt bleeding and Jaskier, frenzied, trying to keep them both calm and brought them all back to safety--and her silence is starting to become unsettling. Her arm brushes against his, and Jaskier looks down, sees her hands grasped together so tightly her knuckles are white, and his heart aches for her, this young girl, a child still, for all that she’s now a teenager, who has seen such horrors in her short years. Wordlessly, he opens his arms, and Ciri steps into them.
“There now,” he croons, stroking her tangled hair. “He’ll be right as rain, you’ll see.”
Her arms slide around his waist, and he holds her tightly to him. He wishes she would turn away, hide her face in his chest or his arm, but she stays facing forward, her eyes fixed on Geralt, and he hopes that she’s not seeing her lost family superimposed on the sight before her, but he knows that she is.
“There was so much blood,” Ciri whispers, and her voice breaks on the last word, and Jaskier hugs her tighter, as tight as he can.
Jaskier sees how the pain and the terror in her voice strikes at all of them, and Geralt struggles to sit upright, allowing Yennefer and Triss to help him up with, for once, absolutely no complaining. He opens his arms, and Ciri runs to him, throwing her arms around his chest and burying her face in his shoulder. The uninjured one, thankfully. Geralt winces at the force of her colliding with him, but it passes quickly, and he drops a kiss to the top of her head.
“I can’t promise you that I’ll make it through every time, you know how the world works, you know I can’t promise that,” he murmurs into her hair, and she sniffles loudly before nodding. “But if I go down, it’ll be fighting, and I will do everything in my power to get you to safety. You know that, too, right?”
There’s a long pause, and Jaskier shifts his weight from foot to foot, waiting, trying to resist the urge to fly across the room and gather them both up into his arms.
“I know that,” Ciri finally whispers.
Geralt pulls back slightly, tips her chin up so he can look her in the eye. He nods once more. “Good. I really am going to be fine.”
“He will be,” Triss says. She runs a hand down Ciri’s back, a gentle caress, and when Ciri relaxes into the touch, some of the tension starts to seep, slowly, but noticeably, out of them all. “As long as he doesn’t go getting flung around by archgriffins again in the next three or four days, it’ll be as Jaskier said, right as rain.”
“He just needed to be extremely dramatic first,” Yennefer says, flicking Geralt behind the ear before resting a hand on Ciri’s shoulder.
“Yes, in a room with you and Jaskier, I’m the dramatic one,” Geralt mutters. He flinches from another assault on his ear. “Ow! Damn it, Yen!”
“Serves you right,” Yennefer huffs. “Now, Geralt, call your bard over here so he can hug us all before he explodes with the anticipation.”
Jaskier splutters in indignation, ever on the wrong foot around Yennefer, but he knows there’s no use in making a serious effort at denying that that’s what he really wants, the opportunity to hold his makeshift family, all of them, yes, all, in his arms and hold them close and hold them tight and keep them safe, if only for a moment.
Geralt sighs, as deeply as he’s able to while in pain and with his ribs wrapped up, but there’s a sparkle there in his eyes, and Jaskier can tell the sigh is an affectation, a nod to the last vestiges of his reputation as a grumpy and solitary Witcher. “Come on, then, Jaskier. Hug us all. I’m sure Triss would not look kindly on an explosion in her spare room.”
Triss moves in close to Geralt and Ciri, pulls Yennefer along, too, and holds out her hand, welcoming Jaskier into the group hug, even as she says, in that kind but severe way that only Triss Merigold can master, “No explosions in my spare room, Jaskier.”
“Fine,” he bites out, pretending at ire, unable to hide his delight at Geralt participating in the gentle teasing. “If you insist.”
Jaskier doesn’t run across the room; he just walks over very quickly, that’s all.
There’s still a hint of pain in Geralt’s gaze when their eyes meet over Ciri’s head, but Geralt smiles, sweetly, genuinely, as Jaskier joins the hug, and Ciri makes a soft, contented sound, and if there’s any tension still remaining in the room, it flees in the face of a moment of pure serenity.
*
Hours later, after they’ve all eaten supper, Triss, wonderful and devious Triss, pulls out a giant astronomy tome and a number of strange looking instruments, and she looks at Ciri expectantly.
Ciri is clearly loath to leave Geralt’s side, but he gives her a nudge and a reassuring I’ll be right upstairs, I’m fine, and her curiosity gets the better of her, and she heads outside with Triss and Yennefer, both of whom do absolutely nothing to hide their sly looks, for a practical lesson and a spot of stargazing.
Left alone, Jaskier takes it upon himself to help Geralt up the stairs and back into bed. There are, perhaps, entirely more wandering hands and gentle caresses than are necessary for such an endeavour, but it has been a rough day, and Jaskier will not let the opportunity pass him by.
“I don’t need the help,” Geralt murmurs as they maneuver up the stairs, but he makes no effort to pull away, and Jaskier resolutely ignores any and all protestations.
Once they’re in the spare bedroom, it only takes a fleeting glance before they’re in each other’s arms, clutching each other, holding tight. Jaskier turns his face into Geralt’s neck and breathes out around a sigh, his lips brushing soft skin, “I was so scared, Geralt.”
“I know, I know,” Geralt whispers in his ear. Geralt pulls back, but only enough so he can rest their foreheads together. “I can’t promise you that I’ll make it out of every hunt, every battle, you know that.”
Jaskier bites his lip, bites back a sob. He tightens his arms around Geralt, tries to hold him closer, but they’re already so close, as close as they can be. “I know.”
“But we’ve all just cobbled together this little family,” Geralt says, and he’s so close the words are practically spoken into Jaskier’s lips. “And I’m not about to give it up without a fight.”