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For Geralt, blood has never been a cause for fear.
If anything, it was occasionally a relief to see the slow pulse that signals his heart is still beating. It means he’ll survive so long as he applies pressure and waits for his enhancements to do their work. In a hunt, blood could mean a new clue to follow in a hunt or signal the end of a long battle against a creature.
Not this. Not creating a spreading stain across Jaskier’s precious blue silk. Not dripping freely down shaking hands that are clinging to the front of Geralt’s armor like a drowning man to rope.
“S--sorry. Sorry,” Jaskier babbles and Geralt’s heart breaks a little more.
“Shh, shh. No, it’s not your fault.”
Geralt looks desperately around the trampled clearing and the still twitching body of the Arachas. It takes him two tries to wet his lips enough to whistle for Roach.
Jaskier is still talking, frantic like he knows his time is running out. “Never...listen,” he swallows, “Couldn’t let it...get you.”
“Damnit Jaskier--I would have been fine!”
“Poison kills Witchers too.”
It’s almost word for word what Geralt had explained that morning before beginning his hunt. He’d been worried about the number of Golden Oriole potions in his pack and eager to restock at the next town they reached. Unfortunately, the farm that hired him wasn’t large enough to have more than the most basic ingredients and they’d needed the money too much to pass up the job.
_______________________
Venomous Arachas were quick and vicious enough to mean more than the few missing cattle that had been reported. They hunted in packs, clever and vicious. It was why Geralt had taken the time to tell Jaskier to stay behind.
“They cover themselves in a layer of poison that they can spray at a target even yards away. Even a knick could kill a human,” he’d told him. “Only a few live long enough to reach a mage good enough to save them.”
He doesn’t tell him about how long it takes for the poison to kill the victims. Or about the hallucinations that meant their last hours would be spent in physical and mental agony. The bard didn’t need to know about how many villagers had been buried already.
He doesn’t tell him that only the lucky ones die within hours--or that the extremely lucky might have someone willing to put them out of their misery before their organs dissolved within them.
Jaskier looked intrigued. “Are you immune?”
“No, but I can handle more of it than you. Which is why you’re staying here.”
“Sure--as long as you swear to let me pick your brains for details afterward.”
He should have known then not to trust the bard’s easy promise not to move from their camp. Jaskier was loyal to a fault and painfully, terrifyingly courageous when someone he cared about was threatened. He must have followed Geralt through the woods after the sound of the fight began.
But it wasn’t until the Arachas had thrown Geralt across the clearing that the bard had made his move.
It was like Geralt was there just to watch.
To watch Jaskier rush into the fray like a hero from one of his stories--only instead of a sword all he had was that stupid fucking lute. A lute and a feral scream that was echoed by the Arachas when it turned to the new threat and, and--
Jaskier’s hands tighten around Geralt before slowly losing their grip, spasming where they fall limp. “Ger--geralt--”
“ Don’t you dare ,” he snarls back, “Don’t you dare try to give me your fucking goodbyes. You are not dying .”
“S--silly man.” Jaskier’s smile is full of painful fondness. “Would you fight death for me?”
Geralt swings him up into his arms and nearly weeps at the sound of familiar hooves running in his direction. “Every. Fucking. Time.”
Roach’s feet pound a frantic rhythm that’s matched by the stumbling pace of Jaskier’s heart.
Geralt keeps his fingers pressed against the pulse at the hinge of his jaw and his arm clamped down against the makeshift pressure bandage he’d wrapped around the sluggishly bleeding wound across his stomach. He’s grateful for the thousandth time that Roach has been with him long enough to know how important speed is just by the tension in her rider. She doesn’t flinch from the blood that’s dripping from the saddle to muddy her brown coat, always braver than he could ask for. The wound itself isn’t deep or ragged enough to need more than a few stitches. If it weren’t for the sickly black veins spreading away from the edges of it, he could pretend that it was just another scrape that Jaskier would recover from in a few days.
Jaskier mumbles into his chest, bits and pieces of thoughts and lyrics. Talkative even now. Even with death chasing at their heels like a hound to prey.
“S’not fair…”
“Keep talking, Jask,” Geralt murmurs to him, shaking him a little to keep his eyes open, “What’s not fair?”
Jaskier doesn’t answer, just blinks up at the evening sky like it confuses him.
He shakes him again, more urgently than before. “Don’t go to sleep. Stay awake.”
“H--hurts,” the bard whispers jaggedly.
“I know, baby, I know.”
It’s a marker for how far gone Jaskier is that he doesn’t comment on the endearment that fell so easily from his lips. He only shivers in Geralt’s arms like he’s in the center of a blizzard. “Do you hear them?” he asks abruptly.
The smell of woodsmoke up ahead nearly makes him collapse with relief. If there’s a village big enough to smell this way, perhaps they’ll have a mage or a healer in residence. He tightens his hands around Jaskier and urges Roach to greater speeds.
“Hear what?”
“The dogs,” Jaskier says distantly, “Father must have gone hunting again...maybe he’ll be in a better mood at supper tonight.”
The words are clearer but there is no understanding in his eyes. Desperation claws at Geralt until his fingers dig in tightly enough that he has to force himself to let go to prevent bruising. He scans the narrow road ahead for any signs of habitation, clinging to the scent of woodsmoke and the detritus of humanity like a lifeline.
“I’m telling him tonight.”
“Tell him what?” Geralt asks, desperate to clutch each moment of consciousness to him for as long as he can manage.
“I’m leaving--for Oxenfurt,” Jaskier’s voice trembles with fatigue and an emotion that Geralt can’t identify, “I hate it here.”
He decides to play along with the hallucinations--desperately grateful that they aren’t as horrific as he imagined. “You’ll do well there.”
“It won’t matter--they’ll still hate me.” Geralt presses a kiss to Jaskier’s sweaty forehead at the somber acceptance in his voice. “Never gonna be good enough for him. Who could ever love someone like me?”
“Jaskier--”
Jaskier’s voice rises as he tenses in Geralt’s arms. “Please, please don’t lock me away again! Don’t--I’ll be better! I promise!”
Geralt promises himself that he will be making a trip to Lettenhove very soon.
“Shh,” Geralt’s heart seems to shatter like glass on the path behind them, “shh, you’re safe here. I won’t let them hurt you again.”
The sight of the stone archway ahead of them is so painfully beautiful that Geralt nearly sobs. Roach gallops through it, eager now that the end of her mad dash is in sight. Her hooves strike a loud beat on the cobblestones and it takes only a few minutes before curious villagers appear in the doorways of their homes and businesses.
“I need a healer!” he calls to the group and is rewarded by one of the women scurrying away to carry his message while several men step forward to help lower Jaskier.
Normally he would never allow anyone to touch Roach, but he can’t seem to focus on anything but how limply Jaskier hangs in his arms or how dark the blood stained bandages had become. He barely lets two of the men pull Jaskier from the saddle before he’s sliding off and reaching for him again.
“What happened?” one of the older men asks.
“He was attacked. An Arachas,” Geralt answers quickly. “He needs a healer.”
A woman with silvered hair despite her youthful features rushes through the parting crowd carrying a bag that clinks and shifts. She takes in the sight of Jaskier’s pale features with a critical expression, already reaching into the bag for supplies. “We don’t have much time,” she says and clicks her tongue when she lifts the bandage and finds the black veins are spreading, “The venom will be reaching his central nervous system soon.”
“Save him, please ,” Geralt says, unable to mask the pleading in his voice, “I’ll pay whatever you ask.”
“Let’s get him back to my shop. I can do better triage there--”
“Wait.”
Both of them look up in surprise when the first man speaks again. Geralt barely restrains a snarl at his stubborn expression. “He needs a healer!”
“You’re a Witcher,” the man states with a familiar disgust in his expression, “We don’t allow your kind here.”
He’d heard of villages like this, of course. Humans who blamed Witchers for the monsters that hunted them and the victims they weren’t able to save. As fewer monsters lingered in the colonized sections of the world, they were able to fully turn away from monster hunters and rely on their own methods of keeping themselves safe. They preached that Witchers were mutants, a disease that spread through the territories and cities that gave them shelters and work.
Geralt had never cared much about these villages or their bigoted views of his family. So long as they never harmed any of his brothers, he had no interest in trying to find work in a region that would bar him from supplies and shelter.
None of that mattered now.
“He’s human,” Geralt growls desperately, “He was injured by a beast--you have no quarrel with him.”
“If he travels with a Witcher, he’s as much of a monster as you are,” the man spits. A few of the villagers around him rumble their agreement.
“I--’m scared, Geralt,” Jaskier mumbles in his arms, eyes flickering around the space to focus on things no one else can see.
“He’s human . Just a human. He’s just a bard.” There was nothing ‘just’ about Jaskier. He can taste the lie like bitter ash in his mouth. “Please,” he turns his eyes to the healer still crouched over Jaskier, “please, help him.”
Geralt feels like Orpheus. Damned to drag himself through the bowels of hell for the chance to save his beloved.
And doomed to fail.
The woman falters, flicking her eyes back and forth between the villager’s leader and the man bleeding out in her arms. She meets the leader’s stony gaze for a long moment before he scowls and gestures to Jaskier.
“Take the bard inside.” Geralt makes a raw noise of gratitude and stands to help carry Jaskier inside, but is stopped by a palm on his chest. When he looks up, the men of the village have surrounded him. “You stay, Witcher.”
“What?” The word is barely more than a horrified gasp and he can feel his fingers tightening in Jaskier’s ruined doublet even as the bard’s heartbeat thumps a painful rhythm.
“Ger..alt…” Jaskier breathes, unconscious to the argument above him.
“We won’t allow your kind into our town,” the leader says gruffly, “We’ll take the bard, but only if you leave and swear not to step foot into our town.”
Geralt looks down in time to see fever-bright blue eyes staring up at him with panic. “ Don’t leave me ,” Jaskier begs, pride broken by the poison flooding his veins. “D-don’t. I’ll be good! I promise!”
He’s running out of time. The clock that’s been counting down in Geralt’s mind is nearly at its zenith. Only a few minutes separate Jaskier from the brink.
It leaves him little choice--leave Jaskier among these strangers or damn him to meet an agonizing end.
In the end, it isn’t really a choice at all.
The Witcher is helpless to resist the urge to press their foreheads together and breathe in a lungful of air filled with the scent of sunshine and wood oil and home beneath the sharp iron of blood. “I’ll come back for you. I swear--I’ll come back.”
The healer moves forward at the whispered promise, eager to try to save Jaskier now that she’s been allowed. It is an act of vicious will and torment to release each of his fingers from their grip on Jaskier. These humans are strangers that seek to rip away Geralt’s heart at the cost of his soul. He would allow it only to save the man dying in his arms.
Jaskier flounders at the shift away from Geralt’s warm chest and reaches out with shaking fingers to cling weakly to him. “No, no ! I don’t want to go!” he pleads, hazy eyes fixing to the Witcher’s face. “Don’t let them take me!”
Geralt’s mouth is full of ash and regrets, his stomach roiling at the panic. He is Hercules, staring out at his next impossible task. Only there is no Nemean Lion or hydra staring back at him. Just the reality of how much his inhuman nature has cost those foolish enough to care for him.
“Please, Geralt! Don’t go !”
He takes a step back.
“Don’t leave me.”
Roach’s reins are dropped into his hands by one of the villagers and she falls into step beside him.
Jaskier’s next words are muffled by distance and the press of bodies around him as the villagers shuffle him toward the healer’s home, but Geralt can still make out the last thing he says before the door shuts him away out of reach.
“ Please .”
Somehow he finds his way back through the stone arches, their promises of safety tarnished by a colder reality.
Roach’s breath is a warm anchor, stirring his hair. He raises a hand to absently brush it away from his eyes but goes still at the sight of the brown stains that mark his skin with familiar lines. Blood. Jaskier’s blood.
All at once, his stomach roils and he heaves, again and again until all that’s left is bile and a rotten taste in his mouth. He spits and wipes his mouth against his bloodied sleeve. His hands shake until he forces them to open and close to the pattern of his unnaturally slow heartbeat.
If he strains his ears, he can hear the sounds of the healer fussing over Jaskier and the murmurs of the other villagers around her. He clings to her calm voice and the easy way she orders around the few that linger in the building. None of the prejudice the others showed is present in her efficiency and it’s enough to drag some of the panic back beneath his skin.
The sweat and blood from Jaskier has blended in with the gore from the Arachas until every inch of him is a stinking, itching mess. He wants to find a stream or pond nearby to wash the worst of it away, but the thought of losing the sound of Jaskier’s heartbeat for even a moment makes him want to howl. Even this is enough to make his training at Kaer Morhen seem like a pleasantry.
Roach huffs at him, stamping her foot impatiently. He walks over to her in a daze and quickly strips her tack and sets it aside to dry. The task of cleaning away the dried sweat and flecks of blood is familiar enough that he is able to lose himself in it. When she’s clean and dried, he lets her lip at the bits of grass that are stubbornly attempting to grow through the layer of leaves left by the broad oak trees above them. He keeps her on a long line, not willing to risk her wandering into the village and giving them another reason to hurt Jaskier for his sake.
Then there’s nothing to do but wait.
He tries to meditate, but he can’t relax without the familiar sound of Jaskier’s chatter or soft breathing when he curls under his bedroll at night. Finding Jaskier’s heartbeat from this distance is impossible, so he just listens to the healer as she sends one of the village boys down to the well to get some water so she can clean off the worst of the blood.
“If he can make it through the night, he might survive this,” she tells someone and Geralt feels his heart.
The ‘if’ sinks like its own poison in his bloodstream.
A scream jarrs Geralt from his dozing trance and has him on his feet reaching for a weapon before his mind interprets it.
Jaskier .
He starts for the entrance of the town--ready to fight them all if need be. Geralt could be a butcher again if it meant keeping his bard safe.
The sound of the healer’s voice rising above the cries of agony makes him stop at the edge of the stones signalling the beginning of the town’s lands. “Easy, easy , little one. You’re safe here.”
“Geralt?” His name is breathed out like a prayer. The Witcher feels his heart ache in his chest at the raw hope in it.
“Is that the Witcher’s name?” she asks, “He’s gone.”
“Geralt?! Geralt, where are you?” Jaskier’s voice rises with every word until he’s practically screaming. It’s obvious that the healer’s words didn’t seem to register with him.
“Settle down. You’re going to hurt yourself--” The next words are shouted out the door and Geralt hears running footsteps head in her direction, “--Will! I need some help!”
One of the men, Will, rushes into the space and, from the sounds of struggle, helps keep Jaskier in the bed. “His hallucinations are getting worse.”
“I need to check the wound,” she says and then curses, “The poison is spreading.”
“I thought you said that it would be better by morning?”
“It must have been worse than I thought--the poultrice I used wasn’t enough.”
There’s a rushing sound and Geralt realizes his breath is rippling free from his chest in heaving gulps. It feels like his lungs can’t fill with enough oxygen. Like his heart is fighting to free itself from his ribcage.
Even throughout his headlong dash for help, he’d never considered the possibility that Jaskier might not survive this. His mind couldn’t seem to fathom it. It was as though the world would stop without Jaskier there to make it turn.
Oblivious to his panic, the healer continues to speak to her assistants. “We’re going to need to lance it.”
“H-he left me...he wouldn’t do that,” Jaskier pleads, words slurring, “He promised .”
“Hold him down.”
Jaskier’s next scream was a wretched sound, rising above the noises of the other people. It broke on a painful crest that made Geralt want to scream with him. Years of training at Oxenfurt and traveling abroad ensure the scream continues for hours. Days. Decades. Each sound brings Geralt to the brink of his control until he is clinging to the stone archway like it could hold him in place.
And somehow it’s even worse when it stops.
For the first time since he became a Witcher, he wants to be the monster they believe he is. He wants to walk through the stone entrance with his sword out and cut down anyone who stands between him and Jaskier. He wants to give these prejudiced bigots a reason to truly hate Witchers for their abilities.
Then he thinks of how long it had taken Jaskier to make people stop avoiding him in other taverns and villages. Of how proud Jaskier had been when he’d watched a little girl no older than six hand Geralt a flower with an open expression.
For Jaskier, he could be more than a monster.
“He’s sleeping.”
Geralt barely looks up at the sound of the healer’s voice. He’d heard her coming down the road, but somehow it’s too difficult to manage to find the strength to look at her.
He feels numb--worn out in a way he hasn’t been since the Trials. Each breath feels like a battle. Each beat of his heart a cry for help that no one will ever hear.
“Will…” He has to clear his throat twice before he can force the words out, “Will he survive?”
The healer hums and settles onto the rock beside him. “I can’t be certain of anything with something like this, but he’s strong. You can tell that just by looking at him.”
Something feels like it’s breaking in his chest, but he nods slowly. “In all my years on the Path, Jaskier is the most incredible thing I’ve ever found.”
“You love him.” He looks up when she speaks but there’s no judgement in her expression. Still, he won’t risk hurting Jaskier again for his association with a Witcher when he’s still trapped in this village. “It’s okay,” she continues, “I won’t say anything. Not all of us believe in Garrett’s beliefs.”
“It doesn’t matter.” His voice is dull as a body dragging over cut glass. “All that matters is saving him.”
She looks back at the village like she can see where Jaskier is laying under the careful gaze of Will. Then she stands and brushes off her stained skirt. “I’ll watch over him until you can, Witcher.”
When she goes to walk away, Geralt stands in an abrupt movement that has her turning back towards him. “Healer--”
“Tess.”
“Tess,” he corrects, “Will you...will you tell him where I am?”
That I didn't leave goes unsaid.
She looks at him for another moment before she tilts her head in gentle acknowledgement and makes her way into the town.
And he’s alone once again.
The next time Jaskier wakes, his voice was as wretched as it had been after he’d spent a week playing at the spring festivals. He’d been painfully grumpy and hungover from too many drinks for hours, growling fiercely enough to do any Witcher proud. It was only a basket full of the sweet buns and a warm bath charmed out of the innkeeper that brought a smile back to his face.
In the woods, Geralt sits bolt upright when he hears Jaskier cough roughly and rasp, “Water…”
There’s a shuffling sound and familiar sloshing of water being poured into a glass. Tess makes a satisfied sound that has Geralt imagining her smiling at how much Jaskier is able to get down. “There you are,” she says after a beat, “How are you feeling?”
“Where am I?” The words are little more than a soft groan, but Geralt feels them resonate like a tuning fork.
The door to the healer’s home opens and Geralt catches sight of Garrett, the village’s leader, stepping inside. “He’s awake?” he asks Tess.
“He’s much better now, but only time will tell.”
“We need to get him out of the village as quickly as possible.”
“It really isn’t safe--”
Garrett’s voice interrupts her with a growl, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that the Witcher is still hanging around the village entrance. We need to get rid of the bard.”
Both of them pause mid-argument when Jaskier makes a soft sound of pain and shifts restlessly on the bed. “Ger...alt…”
“He’s still weak,” Tess says urgently. “I can’t be certain he can survive without our help.”
“That’s not our problem,” Garrrett replies.
Geralt is pacing in his makeshift camp the next time Tess arrives.
He hasn’t done more than strip down to his sweat covered undershirt and pants to avoid his newly cleaned armor drying on a log nearby. He’s running low on the rations they packed before everything went wrong and is too afraid of something happening with Jaskier if he went outside the range of his hearing. He’s taken to eating the bare minimum that he needs to keep himself alive and meditating when his stomach protests too much.
Most of the day is spent sitting as close to the healer’s house as he can be without risking the villagers’ anger. Roach has never looked better and he is sure she’s managed to gain weight even with the meager grazing available. His gear has been meticulously cleaned and repaired by hands that feel empty without the ability to reach out and touch Jaskier.
“Witcher,” Tess greets.
He forces himself to remain sitting to avoid making her feel threatened. “How is he?”
“He’s sleeping which is probably best,” she says, “The poison may have caused more internal damage than I expected. His fever is still high.”
The thought of Jaskier tossing and turning alone, surrounded by people who didn’t care if he lived or died made Geralt sick. He wants to break down the door. To curl around Jaskier until he can pretend he’s safe from everything evil in the world.
“Do you need anything? I, I can find any herbs that you might need.” It’s a sad statement that this is the best he can do. This is all he has to offer in thanks for saving the most important part of his world.
“Some feverfew would be nice.”
Geralt stands, already thinking of where he can find the plants. Before he can walk away Tess reaches out to stop him. “You should know that it’s possible even with all of this, he--he might still--”
“No,” he cuts in, “No, I won’t.”
“Geralt, you can’t keep pretending that he’ll be perfectly healed. Even if he wakes up, he may not be the same.”
“ No .” Tess flinches at the vehemence in his voice, but he feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin. “No, you have to fix him. He has to survive this.”
She stares at him for a long moment before nodding. “Then get me that feverfew.”
It takes two days before Jaskier wakes up again.
Two days of pacing through the woods for every plant and herb that he can think of that might help Tess bring Jaskier back to life. He leaves little bundles at the center of the road leading to town, carefully clipped to ensure they’re fresh for whatever potions she needs. Each morning one of the village teenagers rushes out to snatch it away before risking attracting Geralt’s attention. He can hear their whispers and giggles as the dart back into the safety of their homes.
Geralt forces himself to change out of his disgusting clothes and to wash away the grime still coating his skin. He pretends that the choice has nothing to do with the face he knows Jaskier would make if he was around him right now. Still, he’s never far from Tess’ home on the off chance that Jaskier might need him, might wake up.
And then, one day, he does.
“Mmm, I feel awful.”
Geralt’s head jerks up like a bloodhound on the scent. His eyes find the stone building where Jaskier is hidden unerringly.
“Easy there,” Tess’ voice is painfully familiar now, “You’ve been unconscious for days.”
“Who are you?” Jaskier sounds startled and Geralt can picture the way he must be looking around the room as his tone hardens into something fierce despite the fatigue that lingers, “Where is Geralt?”
“He’s gone.” Geralt flinches when Garrett speaks up--he’d nearly forgotten the man was still there. “He left you here when we didn’t allow him into the village.”
“What? Why, why would you--?”
“Witchers are a blight to humanity. They are killers. Monsters ,” Garrett growls, “We would never allow it close to our homes, our children .”
Jaskier’s reply is lost to the sound of Geralt’s heavy breathing. All he can focus on is that Jaskier is awake--even better, he’s lucid . It’s the only hint of light in him at the moment.
The rest of him is sinking into the familiar darkness of knowing exactly what kind of monster he truly is. Witchers weren’t meant to live with the humans they protected. They belonged to the beasts and creatures that hunted at the edges of their tiny towns and false safeties. As much as he hated Garrett and his like for the words they spat and hissed at Geralt and his brethren, he couldn’t argue with their venom.
If Jaskier hadn’t been with Geralt, he would never have been harmed. The Arachas would never have come close to him because Jaskier would never have ventured away from the main roads and taverns he preferred. He could have spent his life safely among the nobility that loved him. He could be with the Countess de Stael eating expensive fruits instead of gaining another scar and another brush with death. Even if Geralt remained by his side at all times, his mortality would always drag him closer to death.
The only way to truly keep him safe would be to let him stay with his own kind.
With those thoughts buzzing in his mind, Geralt forces himself to stand. To walk over to his armor and tack and begin the process of breaking down his camp.
Jaskier was safe now.
The bard would be mad, of course, but he would move on quickly enough. He would be back in Oxenfurt within a few weeks with enough stories to ensure the creation of countless new songs. Songs Geralt might be lucky to overhear on his own path.
He’s dressed within a few minutes. Roach looks eagerly around when he begins to saddle her, like she’s wondering where the missing member of their pack is. He pats her dark shoulder as he always does and digs through the saddlebags until he finds his coin purse. It’s still heavy with the deposit for the Arachas and he carefully puts aside a few of the larger coins before setting the purse in the same place he’d put the herbs.
The second collection of coins are wrapped in the bloodied remains of his shirt and buried beneath a crossed trio of sticks and a single rowan branch. It was their way of leaving a message for the other when they were separated. Jaskier will know what it means and the coins would give him what he needed to start over somewhere safe. Somewhere better than the hellscape Geralt always dragged him through.
He stares at the tiny bundle and tries not to grieve at the realization that this is all he can offer for a man who has spent the best years of his life following him.
Jaskier deserves better than him.
Jaskier deserves safety and that is something a Witcher can never provide.
Silently, Geralt grabs Roach’s reins and pulls her along behind him. He stops only once to look back at Tess’ house. If he strains his ears, he can hear the familiar tenor of Jaskier’s voice as he speaks with the other humans. He’s too far away to make out the words, but Geralt’s eyes burn at the realization that this might be the last time he hears the cadence and rhythm of Jaskier’s complaints firsthand.
“Be safe,” he murmurs, “Don’t look back.”
Don’t look for me, Jaskier.
Using every bit of the control he’s learned from years on the Path, Geralt turns and begins to walk back to the road he’d come in on.
He’s nearly two miles away from the village when he hears footsteps limping after him.
If he’s being honest, Geralt knows he isn’t moving with his usual speed. After all the days of rest waiting for Jaskier to wake up, Roach is more than capable of carrying him, but he doesn’t feel like riding just yet. It feels too much like fleeing from the pain that’s growing with every step.
At first, he thinks it’s one of the villagers coming after him. Maybe they like so many before them believe they will be able to kill the creature of their nightmares, starting with a Witcher. Make a name for themselves by bloodying their blades with that of a mutant. Maybe he should let them.
The footsteps get closer and he sighs, the beginnings of a headache beginning to form. He can’t trust himself not to slaughter any human he comes across right now. He’s too raw, too jagged inside to manage to be the man Jaskier believes him to be.
Then something slaps against the back of his head and he whirls around with his teeth bared and a growl ripping free from his broken chest only to freeze.
A few yards away Jaskier stands with his hand still outstretched like he’s preparing to throw something else at Geralt.
Geralt glances down at the bloodied cloth and coins spilling over the ground before Jaskier takes a limping step forward.
“You fucker ,” he hisses. There are lines of pain bracketing his eyes and he’s pale and sweaty from the effort of walking so far.
He’s beautiful .
Oblivious to Geralt’s internal monologue, Jaskier shakes his fist at the Witcher with little interest in the danger that drives so many other humans away.
“You left me with those specist bigots and thought--what? That I would be happy to take your little gift and just go on my merry way?” Jaskier shouts. The effort makes him sway dangerously but there is a violent promise in his eyes that warns Geralt away from offering to help him. “After all this time, Geralt, all this time , you still think I would leave you like that?”
“You’re not safe with me,” Geralt says when Jaskier pauses to take a breath.
“The fuck you say, Geralt. Really ?” Sarcasm and venom drip from every word. “You don’t think I don’t know the risks I take by traveling with you? Melitele’s firm tits, I’ve seen you poke your intestines back into your body! I know the risks.”
“So you should know that it’s better for you to stay away!”
Some of Jaskier’s fury falters in the face of Geralt’s own unexpected anger. The Witcher rakes his fingers through his tangled hair and glares down at the ground.
“You...you don’t want me to come with you?” There’s a world of agony in each soft word.
Geralt wishes this were a battle he could win with sword and strength, not words. But Jaskier deserves these words, even if they are too weak compared to the emotions that resonate in his very soul.
“I want you to live, Jaskier,” he whispers, feeling himself wilt like a flower without sun. “I want you to grow old and fat because you’re safe enough to do so. I want you to die surrounded by your family and whoever you loved enough to spend your life with. Live and be happy.”
You can’t do that with me.
Jaskier stares at him, his mouth opening and closing around words he can’t seem to find. They stare at one another for moments that seem to last as long as the years they’ve spent together, dancing around the emotion that seems so obvious now.
Geralt licks his dry lips and nods, stiff and awkward. He nods again and forces himself to reach for Roach’s reins and turn his back on the best thing in his long life. His fingers clench around the familiar leather until they ache. He sucks in a breath of air that tastes lifeless and dull and starts forward again.
Only to be stopped short by the arms wrapped tight around his waist.
He shudders, helpless as Jaskier presses his forehead against his spine through his armor. “I don’t want it.”
Geralt’s hands, always so sure in battle, hover weakly above Jaskier’s arms.
“I don’t want to spend my life wishing for a life I gave up because I thought it was too dangerous,” Jaskier sucks in a deep breath that shivers wetly. “Because I could never be happy if it meant leaving you behind.”
He reaches for the self control that had gotten him this far and finds it evaporating like mist in his hands. “They’ll always hate you for staying with me.”
“Fuck them.” Jaskier’s words are fierce enough to make any Witcher proud and Geralt crumbles before it, turning to meet fierce blue eyes and the beginnings of a smile that leaves him breathless. “I’ll love you enough to make up for all of them.”
He isn’t sure which of them moves first, only that Jaskier tastes like feverfew and desperation. It floods his senses like a drug and he doesn’t resist the urge to bury his hands into thick dark hair and swallow the broken sound Jaskier makes. His thumbs brush away the tears dripping down familiar cheeks as Jaskier’s hands clutch at his wrists like he’s afraid Geralt might still disappear.
“Don’t,” Jaskier pleads softly as he clings, “Don’t leave me.”
“Never,” Geralt swears and leans forward to find out what Jaskier smiles tastes like.