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“This is exciting, Geralt! Don’t get all sulky on me now,” Jaskier was saying, following Geralt like a dog at his heels. Finally, after three long years of writing about and following around the Witcher, Geralt was allowing him to join a hunt. On purpose! Not as though he’d just stumbled into one, which had happened… a handful of times. Maybe 11. Who’s to say, really?
“I’m working,” Geralt stressed, and kept to trudging through the forest, still shady in the very early morning light. “When we get close to the river, stand back at least 40 paces. Maybe 50. Don’t want you getting scared.”
“Me! Scared! Nonsense.” The sounds of their boots slogging through the muddy ground below took over. It would have been nice to walk with, or as a treat perhaps ride Roach here, but the mud was too sticky, and they’d tied her a moment before to a sturdy tree before the ground became less solid. Geralt shifted directions a bit, and in the distance, Jaskier could hear the steady flow of a river running through a deep recess in the forest floor. “Well. Ah, actually—” he flushed when the Witcher turned back to him, eyebrow raised.
“No! Not scared! Forget I said anything. I’m confident, actually! Doing phenomenal, not even worried about getting all this mud off my boots. Nope. Doing great back here. Even better than you, probably!”
“Hmm.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Didn’t say a word.”
“You never do, do you,” Jaskier muttered. The summer air was crisp today, after a week of humidity, and he tried to take some enjoyment from it. This was fun! How many 20-year-olds got to follow a Witcher around to write songs and tales of their heroism, let alone see some action up close? “Besides. I want to see some monsters, for once.”
“That why you came dressed for target practice?”
“I…” Jaskier looked down at his outfit, a bright gold and red brocade that stood out in sharp relief against the dark greens and browns of the muddy forest around them. “I—Now see here! Fashion cannot be ignored just because we have valiant deeds to do! I have full faith in your abilities to keep me safe.” He slid a bit closer to Geralt. “Mostly. Besides! If I were to get lost, you’d be able to spot me quick. Gold card point right there.”
“Mmm. So, you trust me to do my job,” the witcher said, ducking under a branch, “but don’t trust your voice to be loud enough for me to find you. You have to rely on…” he looked back and sized Jaskier up. “Fashion.”
“I—Now—Listen here! That is not what I was implying! There—That’s not—! Ugh!”
At the sound of Jaskier’s sputtering, Geralt smirked and turned back to the babbling river below him. Jaskier shuffled closer and peered over the edge of the hill, looking for… oh, he didn’t know. A sign of monsters? Something to spark his poetic nerve?
The river cut through the forest floor and must have once been very deep, and much wider—now, it was fairly narrow and the ground sloped down to meet it. If he were to tumble down, it would take him at least a few rolls to hit the water. All the more chance to break his neck!
Jaskier shook off the thought and gazed at the many broken trees and branches littering the ground, some standing like small mountains, jagged and stiff. Ah, signs of death all around! Cheery. He looked back toward the river itself, the water clouded from the runoff moving quickly toward the south. He couldn’t… see any monsters. Drowners, these ones were called. He saw no shapes beneath the water, nor any sign of bodies being dragged through the mud.
“How do you know they’re down there?” he asked quietly.
“Disturbances in the ground,” Geralt returned, scanning the mud, and hoisting his bag of potions off his shoulder. He offered it to Jaskier. “Take this, and stand back by the trees.”
Jaskier scurried back, eager to stay out of danger. With a tree at his back, he faced Geralt again, the river out of view below the hill. Well, out of sight, out of mind, perhaps? He gripped the thick tree behind him with one hand.
“Alright, yes, definitely safe here. So… what are you going to do, just wait?”
Geralt shook his head. “No. Gotta set a trap. Then a potion. Then we wait.” He stepped back to get a better look at the area, one hand raised to cast a sign. Which allowed for some peaceful time of admiring the Witcher from afar for Jaskier.
“Our daring hero, our white wolf, sets a trap to lure in the ferocious monsters terrorizing a nearby village! Excellent beginning. The tempo on this one will be slow and steady and then viscously fast once the action sets in, I think. I’ve been meaning to play more with tempo changes.”
“Mm.”
His crush would probably have been more embarrassing if Geralt didn’t look the way he did, steady and strong, eyes that could cut right through to you like honey on the tongue. His long white hair was pulled half back today, allowing more appreciation for his profile, oh gods how Jaskier just wanted to get his mouth all over that jawline.
It also would have been far more embarrassing if Geralt were not so intent on doing good—he hadn’t known him long, in the grand scheme of things, and Jaskier knew he was… possibly a little naïve about life, but he’d never met someone who more desperately, and importantly, more quietly than Geralt did. He worked so hard at it, got almost no thanks, and saw so little in himself. But Jaskier saw it, saw that goodness working so hard to help others. He wanted Geralt to feel as good, as kind, as he truly was.
Okay, so, after three years of knowing him, maybe it was becoming a little more than a crush, but he didn’t want to dwell on that.
Said hopefully-still-a-crush also would have been more embarrassing if he was not making a frankly unbelievable living off of it. He wasn’t well off by any means, but he’d heard someone play his songs more than once, and he’d had enough for consistent inn stays for the past year and a half. Frankly, post-graduation life was probably not meant to be this comfortable, but Jaskier had never followed rules, written or otherwise.
So, as it was, he was not at all embarrassed to be ogling the Witcher, who was also possibly his closest friend at this point, though the jury was out on that one. He watched Geralt scan the forest floor carefully, and admired his backside as he knelt down to get a closer look. Watched his hand as it hovered, looking for the right place to cast, fingers twitching just slightly. Enjoyed the long plane of his neck as he tilted his head sideways, bearing skin enough for Jaskier’s stomach to do that twisty thing it so often did now around Geralt. He scanned the witcher’s armor, which may have hidden his muscles below but left him to cut quite a silhouette.
Gods. He was so fucking handsome. He wanted to get his hands all over that man, soothe his worries, give him comfort, feel the power beneath every one of his muscles and kiss every scar so sweetly, and then let the Witcher fuck him into next week.
Later, he’d chalk his antsy-ness up to being so far away from the action, rather than a deep and persistent youthful lust creeping in.
“Okay, really, not to rush,” his voice was as high as the forest canopy now, gods— “but are you planning to lay the trap any time soon?!”
He said everything in a rush, tumbling out of his mouth with enough velocity that he couldn’t stop himself by the time he noticed Geralt’s hand was, indeed, glowing with the energy of a sign about to be cast. Geralt straightened to his full height and turned slowly to face Jaskier, who was by no means quivering a bit.
“Suddenly don’t trust the daring he—” was all Geralt got through saying before he was whipped off his feet and thrown several meters away by something slimy, blue, and reeking of rot.
Oh, fuck.
Geralt recovered quickly, trying to throw his sign out but had to drop it in favor of grabbing his sword to parry a swipe from the creature as he regained his footing. It was fast, much faster than Jaskier thought it had any right being, given that it looked like a reanimated corpse. He held his breath to fight off the smell, and certainly not in fear as Geralt caught a swipe in the leg. But he had it now, taking his sword and thrusting down through the thing’s chest, sending goo everywhere.
And then, a dreadful sounding scream. He watched Geralt’s eye’s go wide as his hand flew out in another attempt to cast a sign, but in a moment he was wrestled by two more of the creatures, and the three toppled down the hill and into the water.
Jaskier couldn’t see them anymore and was paralyzed with indecision, to stay where he was or to rush toward the edge. But he couldn’t do anything, and Geralt had told him to stand back, and he really, really did not want to die here. The thought of retiring from bardship entirely entered his mind, but he shook it off to look down at himself. He could hear Geralt’s grunts and swings of his sword, the splashing of the river, and the screams of the Drowners. He had nothing—
Oh, the potions! That was something, right?
He saw a flare of magic, and the sounds of the Drowners went quiet. Geralt sounded like he was trying to get up the muddy slope—okay, this he could do, and the danger seemed over with anyway.
“Geralt?”
He got a grunt in reply. Alright, nothing else for it, he hurried over to the edge just in time to see Geralt nearly at the top. He leaned to give a hand and Geralt’s eyes went wide. “Potion! Green one!”
Jaskier stared and then fumbled through the bag, finding the green one and pulling it out with such force that two other small potions flew out of the bag and shattered on the ground. But he had the green one! He leaned over to give it but with a jolt, Geralt was being yanked back toward the water. In his surprise the bard tossed the green potion in the air, and Geralt caught it just before ducking under the water.
There was gurgling, and muted grunts, before Geralt was hurling himself out of the water, downing a potion and going back to swinging. Jaskier saw now—there were dozens of them. Geralt swung wildly, landing blows more consistently and brutally than he had before, and Jaskier watched as one by one, they fell, gushing slime all over the river banks and Geralt himself.
Fuck, if he just hadn’t distracted Geralt, they wouldn’t be in this mess, he would have had a trap ready to go—but the Witcher was making quick work of them now that he wasn’t being caught off-guard, and soon the forest was quiet again, no screams inhuman or otherwise coloring the air.
Geralt took a few deep breaths, gave a tired look over the river, and began to haul himself up the bank. Jaskier shook himself from his frozen state and knelt down, arm outstretched for Geralt to take. Geralt slapped his hand around Jaskier’s forearm and the bard let out a squeak. He leaned a bit forward to grab the armor by Geralt’s shoulder, giving him a better grip.
“Right, okay, I’ll pull on 3? 1, 2, 3.” Geralt pushed up against the mud, and Jaskier, muscles straining, hauled Geralt up just enough for him to get purchase on solid ground.
They heaved some breaths, and Geralt flopped against the ground. “What are you breathing heavy for?”
“I just— lifted a Witcher— out of mortal peril—perhaps I’m a bit—strained!” He walked further away from the river before collapsing; he didn’t want to be anywhere near that thing. There was a snort of laughter from Geralt, and oh, what a sound to hear after witnessing all that.
They sat there, taking deep breaths. Jaskier tried to process everything. He’d just seen his friend nearly die at least twice, demolish several dozen corpse looking things, and he was covered in the foulest smelling grime he’d ever had the displeasure to encounter. That… definitely wasn’t supposed to be hot, right? It wasn’t. But fuck. That had definitely been hot, in hindsight.
Geralt hauled himself to his feet, stretching. Honestly, aside from all the goop, he didn’t look much worse for wear. A little tired, a few scratches, but nothing life-altering. Probably wouldn’t even scar. Jaskier tipped his head back and closed his eyes for a moment.
He honestly thought the scream he heard was his imagination for a moment until Geralt’s cry ripped through him, and the bar’s eyes flew open.
Geralt, a ways away from where he’d last been, leaning against a broken tree, was finishing off a sign at a final drowner, who was sent flying and hit a rock. Its skull cracked, and Jaskier watched it tumble down the bank before disappearing from view.
“Fuck. You just can’t catch a break, huh, Geralt?”
Geralt gave a whine that slowly turned into a groan as a response. Jaskier looked at him with a frown. “Geralt?”
“Fuck,” Geralt bit out, and looked down at his stomach. “Fuck.”
Jaskier’s frown grew deeper and he carefully made his way over to his friend, before his stomach dropped.
Geralt wasn’t leaning against the tree, he was fucking impaled on it, the tips of the broken wood and bark peeking out through his left side. Jaskier tried to hide a gag but couldn’t—the thing was sticking out of him, albeit not very far, but imagining the pain alone was dizzying.
“I’ll be fine.” Geralt must have seen Jaskier’s face, eyes wide and panicked.
“You have a tree sticking out of you! Fuck, okay, what’s the potion for this Geralt?! What’s the potion for impalement!”
“I can heal.” He sounded exhausted, and abruptly Jaskier realized he was tensing just to ensure he didn’t fall back further onto the tree. He slipped a hand around to cradle Geralt’s back, holding him up a bit, and felt the Witcher relax minutely under his touch. “Didn’t hit anything important.”
“It hit you, isn’t that important enough? Never mind an organ or two, Geralt, this is not good.”
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t think this was—didn’t expect that many.”
“Geralt—”
“Was supposed to be a safer one for you.” He coughed. “Sorry. Fucked it up”
“Don’t—there is nothing to apologize for, just tell me what to do here!"
“Gonna have to pull me off of this thing.”
“I—okay, listen, I don’t know much about the body, but I do know that once you remove something sticking out of you, that’s when the bleeding starts. That’s bad!”
Geralt nodded. “If I stay here, I’ll heal around it. Get stuck.”
Jaskier’s eyes were wide as saucers before he was shaking his head, laughing. This could not be happening. “Oh, no no no, noooo no, absolutely not. You’re joking. This is a prank. Practical joke. You’re messing with me. Nope. Can’t! Won’t!” He stared down, and then back up at Geralt’s face, still looking pained. “You’re fucking serious, aren’t you?”
“Deadly.”
“Don’t—don’t say that, it’s not funny. Okay, how am I doing this?”
“Pull?”
“Okay yes but—”
Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s doublet and forced the bard to look at him. “You’re gonna lift me off of this thing, and put me on the ground, and then give me the potion in my bag—it’s labeled Swallow. Do that. That’s it. Then you’re on your own until this dies down.”
Jaskier gulped. “Is this going to hurt? More than it already does?”
Geralt frowned up at him. “Yes. Of course it is.”
“Fuck,” Jaskier whispered. “Okay. Okay. I’m so sorry about this.” He adjusted his feet, planting himself firmly. “You grab onto me, hold tight, yeah?” Geralt did so with a grunt, every adjustment seeming to hurt. “Okay. Great job. Alright. And—” he braced himself. “Now!”
He pulled, and the wood slid out of Geralt slowly. The Witcher was clearly trying to hold back on his pain, eye shut tight, hissing, twisting Jaskier’s doublet in his grip. Jaskier almost lost his hold on Geralt, the witcher’s armor still covered in slippery Drowner slime. Wrenching up, suddenly they were free from the wood (oh, fuck, would there be splinters?!) and his arms were full of Geralt, finally crying out in pain as blood began to seep out of the wound.
He navigated them to the ground, laying Geralt down gently before rifling through the potions bag.
“Fuck. Sorry. Agh!” Geralt was crying out, putting a hand to his stomach to stop the bleeding. He writhed against what must have been shooting pain, and when Jaskier glanced back he saw his friend’s mouth full of blood, surely from biting his tongue.
Jaskier turned away. It was hard to watch anyone in pain, much less Geralt. Slowly he felt the blood that had gotten on his doublet from Geralt’s wound seep through the layers of fabric, the Drowner slime that left a visible trail of where he and Geralt had grabbed at each other soaking through as well. He swallowed against the fear and bile that threatened to bubble up through him. He concentrated on searching through the potions.
There was no bottle named Swallow.
He emptied the bag onto the ground, panic rising as he searched through the small vials. His mind turned to the two small bottles he’d broken earlier, and his stomach felt like lead.
“Geralt. There’s no—Geralt I don’t see a Swallow here, what else can I use? Give me something else to give you.”
“Fuck,” Geralt hissed. “There’s nothing. Just have to wait it out.”
Jaskier shuffled to hover over Geralt. “Can you even survive that?! Geralt!” The witcher’s eyes were slipping closed. Jaskier slapped his cheek lightly. “Wake up!”
“Mm. Sorry. You’re… deserve better than this.”
“Than—Geralt, you’re not making sense.” The Witcher winced again. Fuck it, Jaskier thought, and went through the bag for bandages instead. He found a small roll, just enough to stop up both sides of the wounds, and change them maybe once. He started tearing them with his teeth.
“I might… go. Sorry about that.”
“Withther,” Jaskier said, speech muffled by the gauze. He finished tearing it and then, “it is extremely poor manners to bring your young, impressionable friend to the forest to witness heroic activities and then die on him, so watch yourself.”
Geralt said nothing, eyes still screwed up against the pain, trying to breathe deeply.
In a few moments of silence and some delicate maneuvering, Jaskier managed to put some rudimentary bandages on both sides of the wound. “Careful, careful,” he said softly and he brought Geralt back to laying down, and came to straddle him, where it was easier to apply some even pressure to the wound. “No dying, right?”
Geralt opened his eyes and looked up blearily at the bard. He reached a hand out for Jaskier’s face, a grimy thumb rubbing against his cheek. “Darling,” Jaskier choked out, “Words, please? This isn’t goodbye, alright? Stay with me.” He took Geralt’s hand. “Stay, alright?”
Geralt looked up at him, still clearly battling pain and a clouded mind. Jaskier couldn’t put a word to his expression, years of studying failing him. It was… soft. Fond. Shouldn’t he be furious with Jaskier? But after a moment he nodded, gave a squeeze of the bard’s hand.
“Okay. I know you… meditate, I know that’s good for you, but when I squeeze your hand, you squeeze back, alright?” Geralt squeezed gently. “Clever witcher, very good, thank you. I’ll… I’ll be right here, don’t go anywhere.”
Geralt squeezed their joined hands once more, and then seemed to drift into meditation. Jaskier looked up to see the forest brightening as the sun rose further in the sky, listened to the most hateful river he’d ever come across babble away, tried to follow the tunes of some distant bird songs. He took stock. A bleeding, hopefully not dying witcher, an absolutely demolished outfit, a piercing headache, and now, a sudden exhaustion that threatened to knock him out cold. Couldn’t have been worse, really.
Well, he was straddling Geralt of Rivia, so that was something. He looked down. Geralt’s eyes were still screwed up in pain, his breathing was a bit labored, but it was steady and deep. He felt a squeeze to his hand, like Geralt had known Jaskier was looking at him, and the bard smiled, giving a small squeeze back. “Got you,” he whispered.
In another world, this would be a dream. Geralt of Rivia laid out before him, white hair a halo around his head, Jaskier’s legs holding him firm in the straddle. But the ground was still covered in blood, and Geralt still looked pained, sometimes letting out a whimper. He smoothed his hair in even strokes with his one free hand, trying to give some comfort, singing nonsense under his breath.
Geralt was still beautiful, even like this, but he hurt to look at. Jaskier just wished he could soothe the pain somehow.
It was some time before Geralt opened his eyes again, though his hand squeezes had become increasingly firm over time, which had been a relief.
“Welcome back,” Jaskier sang softly. “Feeling a little steadier, I hope?”
Geralt grunted and shifted under Jaskier’s weight. He peered down to see the wound again, were the blood had mostly soaked through the bandages.
“Alright, I’ll change these, hold on,” he said, going for the bandages again. He had to untangle their hands, and it sent a pang through him, to lose that closeness. He shifted himself off to sit beside his friend instead, and now they were separated entirely. But it was his hand that itched without the contact.
(Maybe it was a bit more than a crush. A bit.)
He set to ripping the pieces off once more, and the two were otherwise quiet.
“You’re… distracting,” Geralt finally said, tinged with a mangled emotion he didn’t want to think about.
“Sorry,” Jaskier said quietly. He’d ruined everything, he’d gotten his friend hurt, of course this was how Geralt would tell him to fuck off. He was a twenty-year old boy following a grown Witcher around, of course he got in the way. Stupid, stupid.
“No. Not—” another hiss against the pain, “Not a bad thing. Didn’t do anything wrong. I shouldn’t have brought you out.”
“How is being a distraction not a bad thing? You’re… I get it, I know what I’m like. Just… let me take care of this, at least? Make it up to you. I’m the sorry one, here. I understand, it’s not fair to trail you around and get you into more trouble than I’m worth.”
“You’re… not bad. Not angry. You just… don’t have to help. Shouldn’t need it.”
“Geralt, please. Please. Don’t—you deserve help, Geralt. Listen. The inns on me. We can rest a few days. You deserve it, alright?” Geralt shook his head. “Yes you—oh my gods Geralt, yes, you do deserve rest! And… and sleep! And joy, and peace, and fine things, and good meals, and fair treatment, and love, and decency, and all the rest of it!” Jaskier tore off another piece of bandaging to replace a soaked through one, felt a flush rising to his cheeks. The blood was no longer flowing out of Geralt’s wound, and knowing the speed of Witcher healing it would likely be safe for Geralt to walk soon, at least back to Roach.
“Let me give you what I can. You don’t have to… earn these things, Geralt. You’re owed them because you’re alive, because you’re my friend, because you’re a good man. You’re a good man, Geralt, fuck ‘human’ or ‘witcher’, you’re a good man. Best I know, really,” He finally looked back at Geralt, who wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“I mean all that, you know.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“But I do!” he laughed. “So now what! Can’t do much about it Geralt. You’re stuck with me, here to tell you that you deserve kindness until the end of your ruddy days. Or mine. Actually, I’ll probably haunt you, so I take that back. If you’ll have me. If not, I’ll go. But not if it’s just about… not deserving help. Let someone take care of you, for once. You do it for the rest of us.”
Geralt didn’t respond, so Jaskier worked in silence, finding a rhythm to working with the bandages. He truly never wanted to do this again, but feeling useful to Geralt was… nice. He wasn’t just some ornament. He had function. He just wanted Geralt to accept his words, and believe them. They were true, every word. He wanted Geralt to feel it in his bones.
He set Geralt back down again carefully, returning to straddle him, and found that the witcher was gazing at him. Their eyes locked a moment in stalemate before they both looked away.
“We can move, soon,” Geralt said, and looked toward the river.
“Oh no, I know what you’re thinking. Neither of us is going down there. I will personally give the alderman hell, he’ll pay you fairly, don’t even dream of going down there.” Geralt finally looked back at Jaskier after a moment.
“It would be funny, though.”
Jaskier groaned and began putting the remaining supplies back in the satchel still slung on his shoulder. “You’re awful. Are you ready to go yet? I’m getting awfully tired of kneeling on twigs and such. I need a bath. You need a bath. A deep soaking, honestly. I got some lovely new oil I’ll treat you to.”
He stumbled to his feet, feeling like a newborn foal. “Oh, lovely, I’m like a noodle. If I hold you up, you think you can make it back to Roach?”
“Mm,” he said, sitting up a bit. “Oh! hold on there,” Jaskier said, and then he was kneeling beside Geralt, shifting an arm and shoulder under Geralt’s own, and together they clambered back up, leaning on one another and holding tight.
Slowly, they took a step, and then another, arms and hands clutching at each other as they found a method, and each movement became easier. He’d need a healer, and this was probably setting his healing back, and Jaskier frankly couldn’t imagine the pain he was in at the moment, but it was better than lying on a muddy forest ground. He deserved some warmth, some shelter.
“Thank you,” Geralt finally said, as Roach came into view.
“I nearly got you killed, Geralt, the least I could do was ensure you didn’t die.”
“Not what I meant.”
“What then?"
“Didn’t have to be… nice, about everything.”
They finally reached Roach, who nuzzled Geralt affectionately. “Still here, girl,” he muttered.
Exhaustion threatened to overtake Jaskier, but he shook it off again. He could sleep at the inn, after chewing out the alderman for underrepresenting the danger. His gaze fell on Geralt, stroking Roach’s mane, soft and kind and hurting. “You deserve it though. You always do, always. I mean this, Geralt, I’m not just saying shit to say it.”
When Geralt turned back, about to clamber aboard Roach, his eyes were soft and Jaskier wanted to fall into them, wanted to see them full of painless joy.
“I know,” he said. “You’re… I know you mean it. Thank you.” They just looked at each other, and then Geralt was offering his hand.
Something in his chest broke and healed all at once, and he just shrugged and took his hand to shake. “Of course.” They shook.
Looking back, neither would be able to tell you who pulled the other into the hug first. It may have been all at once, the weight of the morning weighing so heavily they had no choice but to embrace. Jaskier, however, would tell you it was warm, and fierce, and somehow never tight enough. That he couldn’t have held back the tears if he’d tried, and that he couldn’t tell how long it lasted, only that Roach ended it by trying to sneak her muzzle in between the two, wanting some affection as well.
(Geralt would tell you he did not remember the last time he had been held by a kind hand, that the pain in his gut was radiating, and that Jaskier had looked so frightened that morning it had nearly shattered him to see, just as bad as any wound. That Jaskier’s words had done more for him than gauze would, that he wanted the young bard to feel that. He’d tell you what he remembered most was Jaskier whispering, “I really could hug you forever, I think.”)