Work Text:
Fresh blood is hot.
That’s the thought that sticks with Jaskier as the clearing falls quiet in the wake of the short but brutal scuffle. He’s panting, heart pounding still, and covered in another man’s blood. Frankly, the other man deserved it. Jaskier is no stranger to the dark places some men’s minds go when presented with a vulnerable target and an opportunity, but some of the things this man had growled about what he would do to Jaskier once he got his hands on him were downright chilling.
With threats like that, the bastard was likely a seasoned predator. Not seasoned enough to spot Jaskier’s silver boot knife, though, so there he lies, body quickly cooling in the middle of the ruined camp.
Still breathing hard, Jaskier does the most logical thing he can think of. “Ger-ALT!”
He only shouts once, knowing and trusting that his Witcher wouldn’t stray out of earshot of a true shout for help. He’ll probably be miffed Jaskier didn’t call for help before starting a knife fight, but honestly there wasn’t time. The asshole came out of nowhere, melted right out of the falling dusk and started hissing filth. Things escalated rather quickly from there.
“Jask!” Something about Jaskier’s shout must have spooked Geralt, or maybe it’s the smell of blood that hangs in the air, overwhelming even to Jaskier’s human nose. He comes barreling out of the trees at a run, sword in hand. Silver, Jaskier notes, bless him. There’s no monster here. At least, not anymore.
“Jask, are you hurt? Show me.” Geralt clocks the dead man instantly and he must be able to sense that there’s no one else about, because he all but flings his sword down and skids on his knees right up to Jaskier. He’s patting the bard all over, trying to find the source of the blood. “Are you cut? Is this your blood? Jask!”
Jaskier squirms under the persistent but gentle patting. “I’m all right,” he pants. Geralt begins pushing his coat off his shoulders, heedless of the blood smearing on his gloves. Jaskier points at the corpse. “It’s his.” He follows his eyeline from the body back to his own stained hand…it’s shaking. How odd. Didn’t he have a knife a moment ago? Surely it wasn’t shaking then.
“Let me check,” Geralt tosses the coat aside, patting down Jaskier’s sides and feeling his arms each in turn. “I can hear your heart racing; you might not be able to tell.”
“No, I–I’m pretty sure,” Jaskier clenches his fists when Geralt releases him. Stop shaking, you’re fine. “He didn’t know I had a knife. It was quick.” He unclenches his hands and they’re…sticky. “Oh. Oh, ew!” Oh gods, there’s blood on everything. “Geralt, my shirt!” he screeches, bolting to his feet. “Ahhhh, no, I liked this shirt!” He plucks at the material, which is already getting stiff as the blood dries. “Oh this is so much more disgusting than I ever imagined. Not that I’ve imagined k–stabbing someone. I mean I have, but not. Permanently.”
Geralt straightens from his crouch and takes Jaskier’s hands, turning the palms up in the dying light and swiping his thumbs over the palms and fingers. He finds no injuries, thank the spheres, and uses his gentle hold to lead Jaskier over to where Roach is picketed, walking backwards to hold Jaskier’s gaze. “Let’s get you changed. I’ll deal with cleanup,” he sets Jaskier next to Roach as if he’s giving her temporary custody. “Here, take off your shirt; I’ll find you something." He starts peeling off his gloves as he steps away toward their bags.
Jaskier spends a few moments flexing his fingers in slow motion. The blood is tacky now where it was thickest, with a thin layer dry and flaking on his fingertips. “Ew, ew ew ew horrid, disgusting, revolting, foul, vile, hideous…” he reels off as many repulsed adjectives as he can think of, which is quite a few because he is an excellent writer and poet, thanks ever so. The ruined shirt, for surely there’s no saving it as it’s absolutely saturated in some pervert’s blood, sticks to his chest hair and pulls weirdly when he peels it off. Shudder. “Why is the human body so wet inside?” he grouses, flinging the sullied garment away and shaking out his hands like that will get rid of the crawling, prickling feeling all over his skin. “Honestly, so rude. I really did like that shirt. The Touissanti lace, Geralt. Lace! Ruined!”
“A tragedy,” Geralt grunts from behind him. It’s a grunt of effort, not a boorish grunt, so he doesn’t draw Jaskier’s ire (this time.) “And everything is wet on the inside. Men, monsters, witchers…” He’s shuffling and thumping around back there and Jaskier refuses to look.
“Do NOT tell me that,” Jaskier snaps. “Your wet stays on the inside.” He can’t deal with this. There’s blood on everything; it’s on his face, he can taste it, the whole world is made of blood. “Fuck, it won’t come off.” He scrubs manically at his hands with an unstained bit of shirt, gooseflesh racing down his back and arms. “How do you even manage, Geralt, this is rank.”
“Easy,” Geralt’s voice comes from much closer than Jaskier expects and he nearly leaps out of his skin, spluttering and flailing. “Easy, here. Water.” Geralt takes the shirt carefully and wets a clean patch with the waterskin that has magically materialized in his other hand. “C’mere.” He swipes at Jaskier’s face, touch firm but not rough.
Jaskier yelps, “That’s COLD!” but he lets Geralt scrub and dab at a few spots. “Let me have that.” He grabs the shirt when Geralt pauses and begins to scrub his hands with extreme prejudice. “This was a nice shirt,” he bitches, scrunching his face in revulsion. Drying blood flakes into his eyes and he is so done. “Imported linen, cambric ruffles, and the gods-bedamned lace, just destroyed by one horny jackass with no self-preservation skills, I swear to fuck…” He hears Geralt snort self preservation and pins him with a glare. “What. What are you doing?”
“Put this on.” Geralt takes the lamented bloody shirt from Jaskier with one hand and hands him a clean shirt, black linen, with the other.
“This is yours,” Jaskier blurts inanely, complying. The weave is coarser than his own dearly departed shirt, but soft with age and use. “You’re sure I’m not just swapping villain blood for monster ichor?”
“It’s clean.” Geralt rolls his eyes. “Come here; up.” He’s standing next to Roach expectantly, hand on her withers. She’s saddled, when did that happen?
“What.” Jaskier’s voice is flat, eyebrows furrowed. “Why?”
“We can’t camp here.” Geralt jerks his head at the corpse, which somehow Jaskier had managed to blank out of his mind. Now that Geralt has re-introduced him, he finds himself frozen and staring. “You ride ahead with Roach; I’ll deal with that and catch you up. Hey” — he reaches out to jostle Jaskier out of his haze— “you don’t have to go far, just let her have her head and walk a ways down the road.” He clasps his hands to make a step up. “Come on, light’s fading.”
Jaskier stares at him for a moment, blinking. “...No, of course, can’t stay here,” he echoes. The dusk is indeed gathering and it gives the whole scene a surreal feeling. “I’ll just. Right.” He shakes himself and slots his foot into Geralt’s hands, where Geralt vaults him into the saddle without so much as a grunt. He takes the reins loosely, staring at his hands. There’s blood under his nails. Suddenly, that’s all he can see. His fingers are chilled but his mind supplies the memory of a fresh crimson torrent painting his hands, sticky-hot and gushing. His stomach lurches and his eyes burn, but it’s happening far away.
“Jask.” Geralt lays his hand on Jaskier’s wrist, jolting him back to the present. “Can you ride?”
“Of course I can ride!” Jaskier crabs at him. “I grew up riding, you know–”
“I mean” — Geralt pats his hand — “right now, are you all right to take Roach? I know you know how.”
“What? Oh, yes.” Jaskier gathers the reins. “I’m fine, Geralt. Come on, girl.” He clicks his tongue to Roach and taps his heels lightly on her sides.
*****
It’s almost full dark by the time he makes it back to the road, but there’s sufficient moonlight that it’s safe enough for Roach to amble along once Jaskier prompts her in the right direction. No daylight means it’s cold and getting colder, though, and Jaskier finds himself shivering, which is strange because he’s also sweating. Thankfully Roach is a good girl and knows she has to babysit Jaskier, so when he starts feeling nauseated and drops the reins to brace his hands on his thighs, she just meanders to the verge and stops to crop grass.
That’s where Geralt finds them, halted with Roach knee-deep in a bedtime snack and Jaskier all but doubled over in the saddle and panting. He doesn’t know how long it’s been but he’s been feeling worse by the minute and doesn’t trust himself to stay upright if he gets out of the saddle. Geralt appearing out of thin air beside him nearly startles him out of it anyway and he shrieks, instantly regrets it, and starts gagging.
“Whoa.” Geralt reaches out to steady him. “Jask, you’re cold as ice. C’mere.” He manhandles Jaskier out of the saddle and goes to rifle through a saddle bag.
“No, I–” Jaskier has time to wrench away from Geralt halfway and then he’s vomiting. His insides twist and twist, wringing him out even when there’s nothing left to give. He groans through it, heaving and aching, also still shaking and sweating for added delight.
Geralt “hmmm”s grimly and flops his own cloak over Jaskier’s shoulders. It smells like smoke and horse, but it’s warm and Geralt helps it along by frisking his hands up and down Jaskier’s arms from behind. “Water,” he murmurs as a skin materializes beside Jaskier’s face. “Just sip, nice and slow.”
“Guh.” Jaskier braces one hand on his knee and takes the skin, grateful for the hand still on his back. He leans into the warmth as he takes a sip, then another, breathing hard through his nose and hoping the agony in his gut won’t reappear. After another few moments, he is able to stand straight, gripping the edge of Geralt’s cloak and shivering slightly less. “What in all the hells? Geralt, am I cursed?”
A gusty sigh ruffles his hair. “Hold onto Roach and let’s get off the road,” Geralt tells him. “Not a curse, probably just shock.”
Jaskier grips Roach’s stirrup leather like his life depends on it and trusts Geralt’s eyesight to guide them all through the brush alongside the road. The watery light and shadows dancing give him the distinct feeling that none of this is real, that his disconnected mind has just dreamed up the phantom of Geralt’s broad shoulders leading him into the trees. Actually if it really is a phantom and he’s wandering off after a spectre, Geralt’s going to kill him, so he reaches out and presses a hand between those shoulder blades and finds comfort in the solidity and warmth under his palm.
That warmth is the last thing he remembers for a good while. It’s as if now that his brain knows Geralt is there, it just…cuts his tether to the world and free-floats. The night flows over him like water, too quick to hang onto. Moonlight and shadow slip through his fingers. It’s cold. He’s so, so cold.
Next thing he knows, Roach is picketed and Geralt is pushing him down onto his bedroll, holding a small igni in his palm to light the way. “Easy,” he soothes in an undertone, just like he speaks to Roach. “Can you take your boots off?”
The fire flickers and Jaskier is on his back, no boots, feet elevated on a pack, and covered with both Geralt’s cloak and his own. There’s still a fine tremor running through him but his fingers aren’t freezing anymore. Geralt is rustling around beside him, kicking out his own bedroll and toeing off his boots more gracefully than a man ought to be capable of. There’s a small fire a little way off on Jaskier’s other side, banked with a couple of logs so it will survive the night. “Geralt?” he slurs.
“You’re all right,” Geralt grumbles in his ear, slinging an arm across his chest. It’s warm even through the cloaks and the weight feels like it’s pressing his soul back into his body. The tremor finally lets him go and he flops loose like a dropped ragdoll with a shuddering breath. “You warm? Your heart has slowed down finally.”
“My what?” Jaskier croaks, turning his head so he’s face to face with his Witcher. Geralt’s face is in shadow this way, but he’s got a slight eye shine so Jaskier knows he’s looking. “How did we get here?”
“Ah,” Geralt sighs. “Definitely shock, then. Just sleep, Jask. I’ll keep an eye on you.”
Jaskier closes his eyes, and everything goes dark.
*****
Jaskier groans himself awake, sheened in sweat and mouth tasting of bile. “What the fuck?” he garbles. “Geralt?”
“Here,” the Witcher’s voice pulls his attention to the fire, which is licking merrily at their battered soup pot. Steam curls into the chilly air, catching pink and gold rays from the early sunlight. He’s squatting beside it, peering into the pot. “Morning.”
“Why does it taste like a drowner shat in my mouth?” Jaskier laments, hauling himself up just to plop down next to Geralt by the fire.
“You know what that tastes like now?” Geralt quirks him a wry twist of his mouth. “Gotten adventurous behind my back?” He dips some hot water from the pot into a cup and blows on it.
“Shut up,” Jaskier grouses. “Oh, I feel like I got trampled. By Roach. And then she backed up and did it again for good measure. Ugh, this is vile.”
“Mint.” Geralt hands him the cup. “Don’t burn yourself.”
That’s exactly what Jaskier does, of course, but the scalding and the mint do distract him from the disgusting mire of his own mouth. “So do you know what the fuck happened to me?” He blows across the cup and inhales the fragrant steam by turns. “One minute I’m winning a knife fight and now I’m waking up like I had a very undignified night in my cups. Do NOT tell me that’s how I usually am, you know what I mean.” He’s still quite grumpy and knows he won’t deal with Geralt taking the piss with his usual good humour.
“I do,” Geralt assures him, stirring the pot, which he has now added oats to along with a precious dash of salt. “It’s not uncommon. Your body was ready to keep fighting but no need, so you dropped. Nowhere for the fight or flight to go.”
“Hm, unpleasant,” Jaskier judges, sipping his tissane. “Do you get that?”
Geralt shakes his head. “Not unless I’ve gotten very injured. It can be fatal then, but fortunately the mutations and potions take care of it.”
“How did you know what to do, then?” Jaskier frowns, glancing at him sidelong. “Been studying the care and keeping of your human pet?”
“Jask,” Geralt scolds quietly. “It’s normal. Can’t save someone from a monster and then have them drop dead of fright. Bad for business.”
“I suppose it would be,” Jaskier chuckles. “All right, then, Witcher, what should I be doing now?”
Geralt hands him the spoon. “Keep stirring so it doesn’t burn. I’ll be back.” He rises from the fire and goes to dig in his pack.
“Oh, Jaskier, I’m so glad you’re all right,” Jaskier mimics in a deep voice. “Now get to work, chop chop, bard.”
Geralt snorts. “I don’t sound like that,” he calls back as he strides into the trees.
“You do!” Jaskier hollers back, geniality largely restored. The mint has purged the rotten taste he woke up with and the porridge is thickening slowly. He’s still clutching Geralt’s cloak in his lap. It’s a nice morning.
The porridge is ready by the time Geralt returns, carrying a sodden lump in one hand and a handkerchief full of berries in the other. “That’s my handkerchief, you fiend!” Jaskier yelps in faux indignation, but accepts the berries happily. “In the porridge or on the side?”
“In is fine,” Geralt tells him and unfurls…Jaskier’s shirt. The one he was sure was a complete write-off, but it’s clean as can be and smells only of river water.
“Geralt.” The bottom drops out of Jaskier’s stomach and he stares with his mouth open. “Geralt, what?”
The Witcher shrugs with one shoulder, arranging the shirt over a bush. All spread out, Jaskier can see it’s fully intact, not a spot on it and nary a frill out of place. “Seemed like a waste. And you like this shirt.”
“Oh,” is the only noise Jaskier can make, and then he’s crying. Not a little sniffle, either, just full on bawling in floods of tears. Next to him, Geralt moves the pot carefully off the fire and then sits down, pressing his shoulder against Jaskier’s. The poet sags into him, face in his hands. This is so stupid; it’s not like he feels bad about killing someone who meant him harm, but something about the last traces of blood washed away seems like too much to bear. There had been a person there, or at least what was left of one. It just seems so easy and fleeting to scrub away the last of a person like that.
“Not all that easy,” Geralt murmurs against the top of his head, and Jaskier realizes he’d been speaking out loud between hiccups and sniffs. “Took near an hour to get it all clean.”
“You lout, that’s not what I meant.” Jaskier chuckles in a watery, disjointed sort of way and wipes his face on his sleeves, only belatedly realizing he’s still wearing Geralt’s shirt and just got snot all over the cuffs. “Ah, balls.”
Geralt actually laughs quietly at that and claps him on the shoulder. “S’fine, we’ll do more wash today and move on tomorrow.”
“You’re a good friend, Witcher.” Jasker dabs his blotchy face one more time.
“Damn right I am,” Geralt agrees, rifling through their food pack for a pair of wooden bowls. “Here, eat.”
The porridge is hot and sweet-tart with the berries, and something in Jaskier feels cleansed and settled. He’s grateful for a day of rest and he’s pretty sure Geralt knows it, but it’s worth it to say so. “Thank you,” he blurts, staring at his bowl. “For. Well, the. Everything.” He stirs the porridge and wonders how he can be a continent-renowned artist and still not be able to express the depth of his gratitude to his dearest friend. “It can’t be, you know, easy to slow yourself down for a measly human with silly problems.”
“Stop that.” Geralt donks him on the head with his spoon, very lightly. “You’re welcome. But it’s not silly. Silly would be dying of something stupid, like a single criminal in the woods. You fought, you won. That has a price.”
Jaskier huffs out through his nose. “Thanks, Witcher.” Like this, it’s a term of endearment.
“Oh, here.” Geralt rocks to the side and produces Jaskier’s knife out of his belt somewhere. “You did well. It was a one-strike kill.”
Jaskier hums and accepts it. It’s clean, of course, and it smells like Geralt even took time to oil it at some point. The cool hilt contrasts sharply with the blood he can still feel on his palms, but here in the dappled sunlight next to a cheerful fire that memory holds no power over him. In fact, all he feels is warm. His belly is full of very decent porridge, and his heart is full with Geralt’s quiet kindness.
“If it’s all the same to you,” he says, tossing the knife toward his boots at the foot of his bedroll. “I’d prefer not to have another any-strike kill for a long while.”
“Hm,” Geralt agrees. “Finish up. I’ll do the washing and you can give Roach a rubdown. You threw up on her last night; it’ll be her turn for a one-strike kill if you don’t apologize.”
Jaskier laughs, clear and joyful. “Anything for our best girl,” he assents, and rises to start a new day.