A Witcher and His Poet

"I'm going with you."

Geralt sighs, leaning over and resting his elbows on blood-stained pants. Bringing his fighting-challenged friend along with him is a bad idea, he knows that. He blinks hard when dripping sweat stings his eyes, and he doesn't look up as Dandelion begins to unpack his satchel instead of leaving like he's just been told. He stares at the open fire, and he says quietly, "It's a suicide mission."

"I know, that's why I'm coming," is said back immediately. "You think I'm going to let you die alone?"

Geralt laughs at that, and he rubs at his face roughly. The cuts in his legs that had been bone deep, where razor-like tentacles had wrapped around, were still aching as they healed from the elixirs he'd downed just minutes before. The unknown monster, that had reminded him most of a zuegl and that he'd been paid almost nothing to kill, had caught him distracted, trying to save his friend from another one of the abominable creatures. It had been a lair.

The Witcher slowly lowers from the rock he's been sitting on and onto the cold ground, resting his back against the boulder's sloping side. He meets worried blue eyes, and he smiles, tiredly. "You shouldn't talk like that. The world would be a better place without me, not you."

The bard waves a dismissive hand at that, and he leans down, stirring a wooden spoon in a bubbling pot atop their fire. "Have you heard from Yennefer?" he asks, his tone conversational.

Geralt stares intently at the fire, and he lets out a silent breath, not responding.

"Sorry," his friend says quietly, and he scoops a bowl of whatever he's been cooking. Geralt didn't take notice in his rush to heal his wounds. "Here. Eat, you'll feel better."

Geralt looks down, loose silver locks falling into his face as he eyes the offered food shrewdly that smells only kind of like food.

"It's rabbit," is said insistently.

Cat-like eyes narrow. "What herbs did you use?" he asks, unconvinced.

The bowl is pushed into his hands. "You're ungrateful, I don't know how you keep me as a friend."

Geralt laughs again at that, and he picks up his spoon as he looks to his upset friend, who has settled on the other side of the fire, with crossed arms and a scowl. "I'm sorry, Dandelion. Look," he says, taking a bite and forcing it down when it tastes like it smells, "it's really good."

"You're lying." Dandelion dead pans.

Geralt laughs some more, almost spilling his soup, and forgetting about his shitty week. He takes another few more bites, forcing them down his throat when his stomach tries to out his lies, and he hums his content. "No, it's really good. Thanks for making it."

The blond slumps at that, his shoulders seeming to deflate, and a smile crosses his features. "Really? Because I wasn't sure, I found this plant down by the river, and it smelled really nice fresh, but once I cut into it, well not so much... but it's good?" He looks hopeful.

The Witcher holds back a curse, his stomach roiling. "Yeah, have some," he says, silver brows lowering the slightest bit.

He watches his friend eagerly scoop out some of the soup he'd tried out on him, and looks down, pushing around his spoon as he waits.

"Ugh"—Geralt smiles down at his soup as his friend coughs and chokes—"it's terrible, it's the most vile thing I've ever tasted. It's like a witch's rotten milk that's been sitting in the sun—"

"No more," the Witcher warns, setting his bowl on the ground beside him, his stomach churning more. He checks his legs to see that they're mostly healed, but his pants unfortunately are not. "We need to stop by the next town we pass, I need to see a tailor," he says, moving over a few feet to rest his head on a rolled up blanket that he'd been given for partial pay for his last job. He sighs, the cheap material itchy on his face.

"Sure, and I need a new hat," Dandelion says as he dumps the pot of unsavory soup off by some trees. He walks back, tossing on a few more twigs and some dry leaves into their dwindling fire, scowling at a laughing Geralt as he crouches down and rubs his hands together vigorously over the dimming fire. "What?"

"Nothing"—Geralt sniffs, and shifts his shoulder some to get more comfortable, not feeling the bite of the coming winter air as he watches Dandelion shiver. "You cold?"

"Yeah," the bard says and shrugs, "I'm fine, don't worry about it."

"Okay." Geralt closes his eyes, but then a second later he sighs; he feels like he does that a lot around his friend anymore. "Come here." His keen hearing picks up no movement. "Come on, I don't mind," he says more convincingly.

Then he feels a body lower down next to his, a shoulder brushing his chest, but instead of moving onto his back he shifts closer and wraps an arm tiredly around his friend. "So difficult," he says.

"I don't have any pillow."

Geralt smiles, and he lifts his head and pushes the rolled up blanket forward some. "Better?"

"Some."

He feels Dandelion roll onto his side too, so that his back is resting awkwardly against his front, and the Witcher curls his considerably larger body around his friend's cold one, until they're like jigsaw pieces, perfectly conformed to the other.

"Is this good now?" he murmurs, his low voice rumbling in his chest, the soft crackle of the fire like a lullaby to his exhausted mind and body.

"Yeah... thanks, Geralt."

The Witcher hums his tired response, and the sound of a distant howl pierces the night air. He wraps his arm more snugly around his best friend's chest when he shivers at the sound. "Don't worry, sleep," he says, quietly.