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“You should have let me come along,” Jaskier says quietly, helping Geralt get comfortable, lugging his long, heavy legs onto the bed and wincing when he notices the blood seeping through the bandages around his torso.
Geralt grunts. “Then you’d be dead,” he mutters, head lolling back on the pillow with exhaustion, white hair a dirty, blood-streaked mess.
“No,” says Jaskier, “then you would have had someone to carry your broken body back to safety.”
A snort. “Or the alghoul would’ve ripped your head off and I’d have to carry your body back.”
Jaskier just sighs and fetches the needle and thread that Geralt keeps amongst his things. Geralt watches in silence, taking a long swig of the cheap vodka they’d bought to take the edge off and sanitize the needle. When Jaskier starts to unwrap the bandages, Geralt says, “Careful, bard.”
“I know what I’m doing,” Jaskier says softly. “Trust me.”
Geralt looks him in the eyes for a long, silent moment before nodding. “I do.”
Jaskier swallows, then immediately cringes when he sees the mess beneath the white cotton. It’s not as bad as it could have been - Geralt had already downed his Swallow, and it’s beginning to close, but it definitely still needs stitches and probably a few days of rest. Not that Geralt will actually take the needed time, of course. Jaskier steals the liquor from Geralt’s hand and pours it onto a clean cloth, and when he presses it against Geralt’s side, he grunts, the muscles of his abdomen twitching beneath Jaskier’s touch.
“Sorry,” Jaskier murmurs.
“Hn,” says Geralt, “S’okay.”
Geralt keeps his eyes closed while Jaskier stitches up the wound in careful, neat rows. There are three long gashes, but only two of them are still open, and so he concentrates on those, pulling Geralt’s torn skin together and sliding the needle in and out through his body, breathing as quietly as possible as he does so. Geralt, he notices, is loose and pliant beneath him, exposed, trusting. Not that Jaskier doubts for a moment that Geralt could kill him even like this, should he have the need to. But Jaskier also knows from years of following the Witcher around that Geralt doesn’t let anyone but him see him like this.
Once the stitching is complete, Jaskier rubs some of the healing ointment along the cuts and carefully tapes new, clean bandages over them. By tomorrow, the stitches will come out and the wounds will have closed and Geralt will be back on Roach, already looking for his next job, no matter that Jaskier begs him to take it easy.
When Jaskier is done, he looks up to find Geralt’s eyes are still closed, and so he lets himself keep looking. Geralt is - Geralt is beautiful, even like this. Maybe especially like this - not the wound, not the exhaustion, but safe. Better, he knows that he’s safe. He lays still and relaxed, his breath rising and falling evenly, and even with the bandages and the dried blood and the bits of monster gore and the sweat… he’s still the most beautiful thing Jaskier has ever laid eyes on. It’s a pity, he thinks, that no song will ever truly capture this. Not like Geralt deserves.
“Bard,” Geralt rumbles, and Jaskier’s eyes snap up from where he’s been staring at Geralt’s bare thighs, the Witcher undressed of everything besides his stained braies. When Jaskier looks up again, Geralt’s eyes are open, his golden gaze fixed on him.
Jaskier swallows. “Geralt,” he whispers.
“Mmm,” Geralt hums. Jaskier nearly jumps when he reaches out and takes Jaskier’s arm in his hand, his long fingers encircling his wrist, his palm rough and calloused along the exposed skin of his forearm where Jaskier had rolled up his shirtsleeves so they wouldn’t get in the way of his stitching. “You’re worried,” the Witcher says. “Don’t be. I’m fine.”
Tentatively, Jaskier puts his hand on Geralt’s chest, above the bandages. He can feel Geralt’s heartbeat, slower and steadier than any human’s. His skin is warm, smooth. “You almost weren’t,” he says softly. Geralt had barely made it back to the inn they’re staying at, collapsing on the bar floor and scaring Jaskier half to death.
“Jaskier,” Geralt says gently. “I’m fine.”
Jaskier cracks a weak smile. “Allow a man to worry about his best friend, Geralt, honestly.”
“You’re not my friend,” Geralt says quietly.
Jaskier grimaces. “No, I know -”
“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts, sitting up slowly, and Jaskier nearly stops breathing entirely when Geralt cups his face with both hands and looks him in the eye, his hold gentle but strong, not allowing Jaskier to look away. He says, “You’re not my friend. You’re my bard.”
“...Oh,” says Jaskier, faintly.
Geralt cocks an eyebrow. “‘Oh?’”
Laughter bubbles out of him, too much emotion to contain. “Melitele’s tits, Geralt, what the fuck do you want me to say? ‘Well, Geralt, it’s sure nice of you to say that after I’ve been pining after your moody ass for twenty fucking years,’ honestly -”
Geralt’s lips silence him, and Jaskier gasps into it, tasting the vodka on Geralt’s tongue, and the dried blood, and salt of his skin, and it’s messy and gross and filthy but Jaskier moans because - because - because -
“Stop thinking,” Geralt growls against his lips, and Jaskier shudders.
“Can’t,” he breathes out, his hands itching to touch Geralt more but being painfully aware that he’d just stitched the man back together. “You’re hurt,” he says.
Geralt leans back with a sigh, one hand on Jaskier’s neck, making it hard for him to think straight. “For now,” he says, and then gives Jaskier a look of curious promise that sends heat dripping down his spine. “Tomorrow, though…”
Jaskier shivers. Nighttime had never seemed like such a long time, before. “Tomorrow,” he says.
Despite it, he sleeps well. Geralt’s arms around him helps.