Work Text:
The day had dawned grey, overcast, and chilly, but by the time Jaskier and Geralt reach the lake that bounds the forest where the monster of Geralt’s contract is said to live, the chill had lifted and the sky peeking through the clouds is a brilliant bright blue, a shade that Jaskier wishes he could find in a doublet. It would suit his eyes.
Geralt leaves him and Roach on the edge of the lake, and Jaskier sets about making camp, humming and singing snatches of unfinished songs as he completes the dull work that is so familiar by now he doesn’t need to pay attention to it.
With a fire built, Jaskier turns to settling Roach. His first step, as it always is when Geralt isn’t around, is to dig out a sugar cube from deep within a pocket. He carefully feeds it to Geralt’s temperamental beast, stroking her luscious mane that his fingers itch to braid. “What a wonderful, beautiful girl you are. Such a magnificent steed.” Roach stamps a foot and tosses her head as if to say ‘Yes, of course, I am, you idiot’. Jaskier pats her and nods as he finds another sugar cube and some wild fenugreek he’d picked just for her. She neighs her appreciation, and Jaskier takes that as his cue to start untacking and currying her.
Roach taken care of, the packs laid out less haphazardly than usual, with Geralt’s extra potions carefully placed on the witcher’s bedroll, easily in reach in case Geralt returns from the hunt in need of them, Jaskier fetches his lute from its case and sits on the log he’s dragged in front of the fire. He stretches out his legs, crossing them daintily at the ankle, and his fingers automatically begin to run through scales and warm-up exercises before transitioning to a complex piece he’d composed for a final exam during his Oxenfurt days.
He fishes out some jerky from Geralt’s pack and absently munches on it as he considers the tune he’s writing now, holding the dried meat strip with his lips when he needs both hands free to try how a note here or there would sound, slowly whittling the music into a pleasing shape. A quire of parchment and quill join him, though he doesn’t remember pulling it out, and he works for a few hours until his mind and fingers grow tired.
Coming to from the creative fever he’s been lost in, he grimaces as he finally notices how his clothes cling to him, soaking with sweat. He kicks some dirt towards the fire. Perhaps a fire had been unnecessary so early on in the afternoon.
He sets his lute back inside its case, blows on the parchment to dry the ink before closing it, and then quickly shrugs off his jerkin. That brings little relief, and Jaskier scowls as he wipes his forehead, grimacing at the wetness there and wiping his hand on his trousers. He stands, and the sparkle of the sun on the water catches his eye. His head tilts as he considers.
Geralt would have told him if there were drowners or other nasties lurking under the overly reflective surface of the lake, he reasons as he unlaces his trousers just as quickly as his musician’s fingers can go. Not only that, Geralt wouldn’t have left him, a helpless mortal, all alone by an infested lake. He steps out of his trousers and leaves them in a pile on the ground. His doublet and underclothes soon join them.
“Be a good girl, Roachie!” He yells to the horse, giving her a little wave when she snorts and flicks her ears, as he dashes to the lake’s shore. He skirts around the reeds growing on the bank and yells with delight as he walks, then wades and swims, into the blessedly cool water.
He swims until his toes can no longer touch the bottom, even when he points them and stretches his legs as far as they will go, and he rolls to his back with a happy sigh, eyes slipping closed. He floats on his back like a starfish basking in the sun. “Should’ve brought the soap,” he murmurs to himself. It would be nice to be bathed and smell of lavender and honey. He sighs again and lets the water carry the thought away.
Eventually, he grows bored and swims closer to shore where he can stand to wash his hair and skin of the sweat and road dust that clings to him. He hums as he does so, his mind awake and alive again and the new song still begging to be brought forth, pausing only to dunk his head to give his hair a good finger scrubbing.
A slimy hand grabs his ankle and yanks. With a flail and a shout, he falls under the water and disappears.
***
The hunt through dense forest for the creature – a small endrega colony, as it turned out – took longer than the kill itself, the fight so simple he hadn’t even needed the second dose of Golden Oriole he’d taken with him. After harvesting the creatures for a trophy to prove the contract’s fulfilment and as many usable parts as he could carry, Geralt wipes his silver sword mostly clean of insect entrails on the grass and sheathes it.
No longer tracking prey, the trek back through the forest and around the lake to where he’d left Jaskier to make camp is much quicker. He sees Roach first, standing away from where Jaskier has strewn their belongings – though, he acknowledges to himself, it is slightly less chaotic than usual - to graze.
His gaze roams over it all until he finds Jaskier. The sight of his bard erases the vague tension lines around his eyes, and his shoulders feel just a little lighter. The bard appears to be having fun, as he usually does, floating like a log in the water. Geralt dumps the endrega parts, removes his swords and armour, and then begins to sort through everything, storing it away appropriately and cleaning up his equipment. It’s almost too quiet and distant to hear, but he catches snatches of his bard humming to himself, and Geralt’s lips turn up.
A breeze blows over the lake, and he immediately stills, nose twitching and pupils constricting. His head jerks towards Jaskier as he shoots to his feet, just in time to watch his bard disappear. “Fuck!” In one motion, he grabs his silver sword from the ground at his feet and sprints to the lake, diving in.
He grasps Jaskier’s forearm and wildly and ineffectually stabs at the nearest drowner. But it’s enough for the drowner to let go of Jaskier, and Geralt yanks with all his might, sending Jaskier towards the surface.
The angry drowners follow after him, chomping and grabbing at his ankles. He kicks and twists away from them. Gasping as he breaks the surface of the water, his free arm wraps around Jaskier and hauls him towards the shore. He keeps his back to it, facing the drowners surging after them, silver sword swinging to keep them at bay long enough for him to deposit the bard on solid ground and draw the drowners away from Jaskier’s vulnerable form.
There are only three drowners, and once on land where his sword is accurate and deadly, Geralt makes short work of them. Threat neutralised, his silver sword drops from his fingers, forgotten before it hits the ground, as he turns and rushes to Jaskier’s side. He crashes to his knees in the mud. “Jaskier!” He bends an ear to Jaskier’s chest and puts a hand in front of the man’s nose, holding his breath for three long counts.
There’s no sound, no movement, no breath. His vibrant bard is always moving. Heart beating far faster than it should for a witcher, Geralt gathers Jaskier up and slings him across his shoulders – the bard is far broader and heavier than he looks in his dandy clothes – to carry him with haste back to the camp. As gently but quickly as he can, Geralt lays his bard on a bedroll, dragging it close to the fire pit and re-lighting the fire with Igni.
Heart still racing, time feeling slower with the way it presses in on him, Geralt grabs every blanket they have and lays them over Jaskier, working through the checklist their trainers at Kaer Morhen had taught them as boys to bring a human back to life after drowning. He props Jaskier’s legs up on the log, then turns his face to the side. If - when - the water comes back up, it needs to go out, not back in.
Jaskier lies still. His face is pale and drawn, and he remains unnaturally quiet. Geralt moves on to the next step, beginning compressions on his stomach and stroking his throat. “Please, Jask. Breathe.”
He grinds his teeth against a premature wave of sorrow rising up to choke him. Jaskier will live. He has to. The world could never be the same without Jaskier in it. He would never be the same without– he can’t finish that thought. The bard will live. He pushes more firmly on Jaskier’s abdomen, but still the water remains where it shouldn’t.
He sucks in a deep breath and with no further thought, leans in and presses his lips to Jaskier’s. But before he can release the air into Jaskier’s lungs, in the hopes of clearing the water, Jaskier convulses, spitting and coughing. Geralt feels faint with the relief, never so happy to have someone spit on him.
He turns Jaskier to his side and strokes his arm and back with both hands as his bard curls up into a ball and continues to cough up every last drop he’d inhaled. His hands still as Jaskier’s breathing grows easier, lingering on Jaskier’s wrist where his thumb digs in to feel the pulsing beneath, needing the reassurance even though he can once more hear the whooshing of Jaskier’s fast-beating human heart and his inhales and exhales.
Jaskier turns to him with teary and unfocussed eyes and, for once, seems at a loss for words. He almost smiles at the furrow that forms between Jaskier’s brows.
“Did you kiss me?” Jaskier rasps. His throat aches, and he coughs again, wincing at the burn.
Geralt huffs and finally sits back, his hands falling away from Jaskier to drop into his lap. “No, bard. I saved your life.”
Jaskier blinks. “Oh.” The recent past is very fuzzy. He slowly rolls to his back, and his face twists with his confusion. “Am I…naked?”
“Hm. Yes.” Geralt’s eyebrow raises at the sly look overtaking Jaskier’s features. “Don’t get any ideas. You were bathing. You got caught by drowners. I saved you.”
Jaskier smiles softly. “A story of three whole sentences. Must be a record.” He laughs at Geralt’s pout, though it’s quickly cut off by the pain it brings. “Hmm.” His gaze wanders around, trying to get his bearings, until it settles on Geralt again. A cheeky grin slowly forms. “Would you kiss me, if I asked you? It is only fair, after all, that my valiant knight receive a kiss of thanks.”
Geralt snorts. “Usually we get paid.”
“Oh, but for me?” Jaskier bats his eyes. “Surely a kiss?”
“Fine, bard.” Geralt leans over and tenderly presses his lips to Jaskier’s. “Rest, Jask,” he murmurs as they pull away. His hands smooth down Jaskier’s side again. “I’ll make dinner and get you clothes when you’ve dried off.”
Jaskier nods and settles back on the bedroll, ready to be pampered after his horrific ordeal that he can’t quite remember yet. His witcher, his tender witcher, always saving him.