Consciousness came slowly, like a sunbeam creeping across the ground, warming where it touched. Geralt was content to lay still for a time, breathing in the numb comfort of his half-doze. Someone's sleep-deepened breaths rose and fell at his back, a pulse under his ear, and Geralt realized he was held loosely against someone's chest, their hand limp at his waist. Awareness seeped past the haze, and confusion wandered in its wake. Geralt had expected to fall asleep to the gentle beat of a caring heart and arms around him that were the best sort of warmth and safety, and he'd expected to wake to whatever afterlife the gods had set aside for him.
He had not expected that afterlife to smell of old straw and the crisp air that marked the early hours of dawn. Nor had he expected it to contain someone else. He'd never really given much thought to what lay beyond the veil of death, figuring whatever fate awaited humans would be inevitably different for a witcher, and without any writings at Kaer Morhen on the afterlife beliefs of witchers themselves, he'd assumed he would never know until he experienced it himself.
But then pain rose in his awareness, throbbing across his leg, biting through his chest, buzzing in his head. If this was death, it was crueler than life, taking him and preserving him in a singular instant of pain and discomfort that would never end, poised like a drop of blood at the tip of a blade, right on the edge of peaceful darkness, but frozen as in ice, trapped in the last sensations his body had endured. But it hadn't been this bad before. It hadn't hurt quite as much, he thought, when the world had been dark and his mind and body had slipped into a drowsy calm. Now that he was more aware, the pain seemed all that much worse.
He couldn't remember much of the previous night after Tomas had arrived, except that Jaskier had come, had assured him all was well before he'd fallen asleep. There was a hazy memory of tears in the dark, almost brushing his nose as they fell from a chin ducked to his dirty hair. There were words as well, tender and full of a sorrow that was too deep to fathom. He pulled back from the memory before the vise around his heart squeezed too hard, and took a slow, deep breath to relieve that pressure.
The hand at his waist stirred, and the head resting on his shifted groggily, before jerking away an instant later with a hoarse curse mumbled overhead.
"Oh, Jaskier, you idiot…." the voice groaned, the tone weighted with wretched misery as an arm came up across his chest, holding him close. "I'm sorry, Geralt... gods, I'm so sorry…" Trembling fingers pressed at his neck, seeking his pulse, and Geralt waited. If this was life, Jaskier would find his heart beating. If it was death, he wouldn't. But the torturous hammer beating the anvil of his leg just above his knee was keeping time with the one striking like a gong behind his ribs, and that was a pulse, wasn't it? But the fingers at his throat shook and fell away too soon to catch the slowed tempo. A hand came up to his head, soothing over the tender ache across his temple as the body behind him let out a thready whimper, a sound that quickly broke apart into sobs that shuddered through them both.
Suddenly desperate to relieve those awful sounds of grief, Geralt tried to reach a hand up to his bard, but found he couldn't do more than twitch his fingers. Instead, he took in a deliberate breath and whispered his name, like sunshine and selflessness on his lips. The sobs faltered, and the breaths froze entirely, while the hand on his head dropped to hover at Geralt's chin to catch his next exhalation, and the next.
"Geralt?" came the tremulous question. Then, as a third breath against his palm apparently answered, Jaskier softly gusted, "You're alive…" sounding as disbelieving as the witcher himself felt. The arm across his chest tightened, wrapping him close as if he were something precious and fragile, something likely to be caught up and carried away with the slightest breath of wind. And maybe he was. Geralt couldn't think clearly past the haze of pain and the dizzy dip and sway of sleep trying to pull him down again. There was a hand in his hair, and Jaskier whispering, "It's okay. You're okay… I've got you. W-what do you- Here, let me…."
Jaskier shifted behind him, pulling him up to rest more comfortably against the bard's shoulder but the movement roused the slumbering pain to new heights, striking like basilisk's fangs against his ribs and pulling a short groan from his throat.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry… There you go, I've got you." Words rained down over his head but Geralt couldn't grasp the meaning of them, though he thought they sounded kind, despite a trembling of tears in the voice. He tried to focus, to make sense of them, while the arm across his chest held him up and a hand moved the tickling strands of hair from his face before settling on his head, a comforting weight. "Geralt?"
He knew that one, tried to answer, but all he could get out was a weak hum in the back of his throat, little more than a raspy breath. The sound seemed to be what Jaskier needed, though, prompting him to reach for something at his side. Very gently, the top of a flask touched his lips, waiting until he was ready before allowing him a small swallow of cool water, and then the straw rustled as Jaskier set the flask down. The chest behind his rose and fell in a deep, stuttered breath before the bard spoke again, quiet and close to his ear.
"You made it, Geralt." Jaskier's voice sent minute vibrations through the witcher's back even though the words were spoken with reverent softness, the meaning slow to follow in Geralt's weary mind. "The sun's rising and you're still here to see it. You made it, and I just need you to stay with me now, all right?"
Jaskier moved, reaching for something, and Geralt realized that the hand on his head had pressed his hair down, dampened with the sweat across his brow. Geralt frowned, the sensation prickling at his skin, but it was better than the chill that he'd thought would never leave him, as deep as the marrow in his bones, but now blessedly gone.
"I've got you, I'm staying with you. All you have to do is rest right here."
A cloth, cool and soft, wiped the sticky sweat away and Geralt felt himself slipping. Sleep was dragging at his thoughts like a lazy undertow, sliding him further from shore with every labored breath across the sand.
"Just stay with me, Geralt…. Keep fighting, please..."
If fighting had meant anything more than relaxing his aching body into the bard's hold, Geralt might have protested. As it was, sleep was dragging him down like a stone through water, and that cool cloth felt so good against his fever-warmed skin that Geralt drifted back into an exhausted slumber within minutes.
The gifts Jaskier had just received had been the slightest, tiniest things - his name whispered, a breath of reply - but his heart was so full from them he could barely breathe, head tilted back against the straw bales behind him as he whispered, "Thank you… thank you..." to the sky. The sun had risen while they'd both slept, and the gaps in the roof were like chunks of sapphire, wisps of cloud crawling by lazily.
The witcher sagged heavily against him, unaware and motionless once again, his and Jaskier's shirts both soaked with sweat from the fever that had given up its hold in the night. They both smelled, Jaskier's back was stiff, and he'd never felt so exhausted, but he'd also never been so utterly, purely grateful, like the sun would beam straight through him like crystal if he stood in its light.
Some blessed combination of sheer tenacity and mysterious witcher mutation had brought Geralt through that dark night alive. The potions must have had some efficacy to them after all, maybe just enough to turn the tide. Jaskier felt tears running ticklish down his face yet again, but he didn't care in the slightest. Geralt was alive - Jaskier could feel the witcher's breath warm against his neck, the astoundingly slow pulse against the bard's fingers now that he could focus, could wait the extra seconds between.
As his giddy joy slowly ebbed into a low, pounding gladness, a little of last night's fear shouldered into his heart beside it. True, Geralt was alive... but he was far from well. He'd managed one word, the whole of his strength going into saying Jaskier's name, and then had fallen back under again. He was breathing, but with audible effort, hardly any better than the begging breaths of last night. And the groan when Jaskier had shifted them had been undisguised agony, proving that the damage wreaked by the villagers remained unhealed.
Geralt was alive, but Jaskier had no way of knowing how fragile a foothold he now clung to. He drew a deep breath and rubbed his face a little drier against his free shoulder, exhaling slowly to calm the rapid beat of his heart, and tried to think. What Geralt needed now was water, as much as Jaskier could coax into him. That wretched fever was finally gone, and would have left him dry as a desert. Then there was that terrible wound to his leg and his broken hands… After a few moments of listening to the other man's dogged breaths, however, Jaskier dismissed the thought of trying to tackle those yet. He'd make sure Geralt kept breathing first, watch and listen until he was certain they'd made it a good few steps away from the threshold of death's door.
"You're going to make it," Jaskier murmured to the man he held against him, fiercely proud of his friend's stubborn spirit, fiercely glad for every rough breath.
The sun rose little by little, eventually high enough to peer down at them through the old roof. And Jaskier stayed put, his whole world centered on the rise and fall of the witcher's chest, the gentle pace of sunshine across the dirt floor to mark the hours, the little frisson of victory in his heart every time another swallow of water made it down Geralt's throat.
By late morning, Roach had gotten curious about the lack of activity and come to look them over. She ran her velvety muzzle across her master's chest and head, then snorted once into Jaskier's hair, which he chose to take as approval.
"Thanks, Roach," he said, pushing her nose a safe distance away before giving her a pat. "I'm doing my best. Might be on your own for a few meals yet, though." The mare was free to roam, and would be wise enough to go where she needed for food and water, Jaskier hoped. Whatever combination of rest, care, and the witcher's own abilities had gotten Geralt this far seemed to be working, although he remained steadfastly unconscious, rousing only when Jaskier prompted him to drink, or accidentally shifted too much in an attempt to recover feeling in his numb legs.
Geralt didn't speak again, but also showed no signs of declining, so by midafternoon, the bard tentatively decided it was safe enough to try lying Geralt down again for a bit. He'd saved most of the water in the flasks for the ill witcher, but Jaskier wasn't nearly as dehydrated as the other man, and certain needs were becoming increasingly urgent. Over the span of a minute or two, like a nervous mother laying her fretful child in its cradle, Jaskier gradually worked them both close enough to the bedroll to ease Geralt down. As soon as he tried to stand, a ragged chorus of aches and strained muscles staggered him, harmonizing with the unnerving crackles from his spine. Gods, he felt old, at least twice the age he'd been when he first set foot in this barn.
Luckily for his pride, Roach was the only one to witness his clumsy, numb-legged stumbling out to the trees and back. A quick peek in on Geralt showed him still resting, not looking exactly comfortable, but not looking any worse either, so Jaskier decided to take advantage of the remaining daylight to try setting up one of the simple snares from the saddlebags. He'd finished the last crust of bread from his own bags earlier in the day, and this would be a serious problem soon. If he caught something, and was able to cook it down to a broth, maybe Geralt would even take a little. The thought cheered him, speeding his steps to their bundled belongings.
Thankfully, the villagers hadn't stolen the little bundles of twine and notched sticks, and Jaskier took all three of them. To set these properly, like Geralt always did, he really ought to spend an hour or so identifying the little game trails or burrows, placing the traps strategically nearby, but he didn't dare leave Geralt for so long. Instead, he poked about the treeline and chose three spots that looked vaguely right, dropping a handful of clover near each for good measure. The activity felt good, despite his stiffened muscles, and he trudged back to the barn with a sense of satisfaction; even if he didn't catch anything before dark, he'd just check in the morning, and odds were he'd catch something sooner or later.
A few steps from the barn, he looked up from his tingling feet to see Roach staring out at him, ears swiveling nervously. The next moment, the sound of breathless coughing set the bard running, pins-and-needles forgotten.
He caught a brief glimpse of Geralt's eyes half-open, one hand tugging weakly at his shirt as if the dark fabric were constricting his breathing, causing the short, dry coughs wracking his body. Then Jaskier had shoved his arm underneath the broad shoulders and levered the witcher to sit up against him sideways, bracing him against the staccato coughing as he babbled, "Geralt? I'm back, I'm here, I shouldn't have left, I'm sorry…" The other man could hardly draw breath before another spasm seized him. "Geralt? Geralt, just breathe. Come on… Come on, please…."
Gradually, the vise-tight coughing began to ease, Geralt's head dropping hard against Jaskier's shoulder with a thin groan the bard refused to classify as a whimper. His own heart was still going at a gallop, hand shaking where he lightly laid it against the sharp rise-and-fall of the witcher's chest, reminding the both of them, "Just breathe… Slow and easy…" Not so easy, actually, when his whole body was buzzing with adrenaline again, neither of the two men able to follow the bard's instructions just yet.
So whatever was wrong in Geralt's chest meant he couldn't yet breathe laid out on his back, not enough, not for long. Duly noted. Jaskier waited until they'd both calmed a little before beginning the slow, awkward shuffle back to their trusty wall of straw. Somehow, all his aches seemed to both flare up and ease as he settled back into the same familiar position once again.
All of Geralt's meager energy appeared to be channeled into catching his breath, his head tipped back on Jaskier's shoulder. He couldn't tell if the witcher was still conscious, and certainly wouldn't blame him for embracing oblivion again after weathering that assault on his battered ribs. Geralt's eyes had been open for a brief while, though, the first time Jaskier had seen that remarkable gold in a full day. That had to be a good sign, even if his chest was still giving him grief, the bard mused.
"Jas…?"
The hoarse, confused voice only managed the first syllable, but that was more than enough to draw a smile across Jaskier's face as he replied, "I'm here. You're okay. Just gonna keep you sitting up for a while to spare your ribs, all right?"
Geralt hummed low in his throat, apparently in agreement, and seemed to drift off again, but the smile lingered on Jaskier's face for a long while after. The other man's breathing remained even and calm, just shallow, and while Jaskier couldn't properly call their exchange a conversation, it wasn't terribly far off from their usual interactions either.
As the sun set, Jaskier's eyelids had begun to sink with it, his eyes hot and gritty with weariness. When the first little movement nudged him awake, he wrote the sensation off as part of the disorienting swing back to full consciousness. But then Geralt trembled again, a small frown creasing his brow, and Jaskier felt his heart turn icy. The air was cool, but not cold, and now that he was paying attention, he could suddenly tell how much warmer Geralt felt against his shoulder.
"No. No, Geralt, please…." he whispered, trying to tamp down the panic, trying to think. The fever had been kept at bay all day, even without Jaskier doing anything… and that had been thanks to the little dark potions. So maybe Geralt just needed another. Jaskier refused to consider any other options, and immediately leaned over to extract one of the remaining three vials from the bags.
"All right, Geralt. Got another one of your potions here. This'll help with the fever." But Geralt only seemed to register the foul taste that touched his lips, not Jaskier's words, and turned his head away with a queasy groan. "Geralt, please," the bard said, sighing as he tried to follow the witcher's movement without spilling the dark liquid. "You need this. Your fever's back. And you're not about to get up and walk off, so I can keep this up all night, you stubborn…."
Finally, either Jaskier's words began to sink in or his persistence outlasted Geralt's energy, and Jaskier held the flask for the witcher to wash down the taste.
"There we are… Better soon, Geralt. Just try and rest." The ill man only shivered, and Jaskier hooked one of their cloaks with the toe of his boot, dragging it closer until he could reach it and spread it over both of them. "There you go. You'll feel better when you wake up."
Something else had occurred to Jaskier earlier that day, as the world quietly revolved around their little shelter here. If Geralt was fighting back from his horrendous injuries, slowly improving, it was possible the same could be said for Tomas, and they would have no way to know until the man himself walked into sight. And if he came back, he would doubtless have as many able-bodied men from that village at his back as he could muster, a thought that now made Jaskier slip his dagger free of its sheath and set it close at hand.
Staying here, exactly where Tomas had seen them last, was the worst possible strategic choice. Even moving a mile down the road would be better than this; at least that way, he'd hear them tramping through the woods and have more than two seconds' warning. But Jaskier couldn't hold Geralt in the saddle unconscious, and until Geralt could breathe well enough to lie down, even cobbling together some sort of sled or litter to drag him on was out of the question. Which left them just as they were: vulnerable in the dark, their only protection the dagger a moment's reach away and Jaskier's prayer that he'd struck the blacksmith hard enough to either delay his return or prevent it entirely.
Sleep came in a long chain of catnaps caught between night sounds from the woods around them and Geralt's restless movements, both of which tugged the bard out of his doze into alertness. But by the time dawn finally breathed warm light past the treetops, only moths and birds had invaded their shelter, and Geralt's face and neck were comfortably cool under Jaskier's touch once more.
This time, before the bard left the barn to see if his haphazardly-placed snares had done their job, he rearranged their odd little nest to ensure Geralt would be able to rest comfortably while he was away. Roach's saddle made for a lumpy pillow, even padded with her blanket and Jaskier's cloak, but it kept Geralt's upper body raised enough that even after an hour of Jaskier sitting nearby, braiding bits of straw and watching, the witcher was still resting well. Pleased with his innovation, Jaskier set the flask against the other man's hand, patted his shoulder, and said, "Be back in a few minutes," before standing to stretch the kinks out of his spine and stumble out into the sunshine.
Whether by luck or by some innate skill of Jaskier's in snare-setting, one of the traps had caught a rabbit in the night. One of the perks of traveling with an experienced hunter like Geralt was that the task of turning game into edible food rarely, if ever, fell to the bard, and while he was fairly confident he was equal to the task, he wasn't looking forward to any portion of it. But neither of them could live on water alone, and the only other source of food available to them would be any berries Jaskier happened to come across that also happened to not be poisonous. Faced with that unappealing alternative, Jaskier rolled up his sleeves and set grimly to work.
By the time he was sitting in front of a crackling fire, stirring the cookpot, he had traveled the road from never wanting to eat rabbit again to being determined to eat this particular one as revenge. Blessedly, the stream wasn't far, and he was able to scrub his hands and arms clean, as well as refill their flasks. As he stirred the simple stew, waiting for the meat to cook down just a little more into something Geralt could easily drink, he marshalled his sleep-deprived mind to plan ahead for the night.
They only had two more potions, and Geralt's fever could only be due to the festering wound in his leg that Jaskier hadn't been able to clean sufficiently. An idea had grown in the back of his mind through the morning, and the longer he stirred the stew and his thoughts, the more certain he felt that this was the right choice.
But first, he set aside the finished stew and boiled water for tea. Both he and Geralt could use a dose of something warm and soothing, and Geralt especially would appreciate the pain relief from the willow bark. The resulting tea held a strong earthy flavor with a bitter nip to it that honey would have smoothed over nicely, but even so, it wasn't unpleasant. Certainly better than the other concoction he'd had to bully the other man into drinking of late, Jaskier reasoned, as he carried the pair of wooden cups over to where the witcher lay dozing.
"Look at this, Geralt: I am actually bringing you tea in bed. You wouldn't get service like this out at some run-of-the-mill inn out in town, now, would you?" Setting his own cup aside, he tapped Geralt's shoulder softly. It was hard to tell, but he thought Geralt had been awake more often today, another good sign. Geralt awake-but-resting looked very much like Geralt sleeping, but he'd been shifting about a little and Jaskier had heard a quiet sigh once or twice. "Come on, sleepy," he said encouragingly, as Geralt frowned. "This will make you more comfortable, and I've got to ask you something." The witcher's eyelids opened to half-mast, blinking blearily and slowly focusing on Jaskier. The dark smudges under his eyes were a few shades lighter now, and the raw lines on his neck had all but vanished - small but heartening signs.
"There you are - welcome back," he said lightly, guilt weighing a little at his heart for what he had to ask of his friend. "Here. This is tea with willow bark, expertly made by yours truly. As long as you don't think too hard about the flavor, it's not all that bad." He helped Geralt take a swallow or two, the witcher's hand lifting briefly as if to take the cup himself before his energy flagged and pulled his arm back down again. "Geralt... I'm really sorry, and you're not gonna like it, but… I'm going to have to try one of these on your leg." He held up one of the little inky vials where Geralt could see, and waited as his words sank in.
He knew this was a witcher-approved use of the potions, and had seen Geralt do this himself before. However, that had only ever been with the worst sort of wounds, probably because not only did it use up a whole vial, but it also looked spectacularly painful. The tired golden eyes drifted from the potion to his leg, and Geralt sighed before nodding.
"Yeah," Jaskier said, sympathetic and not looking forward to this himself either. "I thought you'd appreciate a little forewarning, given how it, ah, sizzles. But tea first. That'll help a little, at least."
Finally, after he'd helped Geralt finish his cup, and the dregs in his own cup had gone cold, the bard decided he'd put it off long enough. His own aches had faded a little, making him realize just how sore he still was from that brawl and everything since. Hopefully, Geralt had found similar relief, some paltry compensation for what Jaskier was about to do to him.
"This will help," he promised the both of them under his breath as he knelt by Geralt's wounded side and undid the bandages. The sight of the angry, weeping gash made him wince, but he simply said, "All right?" and waited for Geralt to settle against the bundled cloth before tipping the dark liquid over the wound.
The reaction was immediate, the potion bubbling up viciously as Geralt stiffened with a strangled sound, broken hands clenched in the straw. Jaskier dropped the empty vial to pin the witcher's lower leg against the involuntary jolts Geralt couldn't seem to help, because he knew he wouldn't have the willpower to do this to Geralt again, and if the potion didn't get down into the deepest part of the wound, this misery would be for nothing.
"I'm sorry, Geralt. I'm sorry," he repeated, free hand wrapped around the other man's shaking wrist to try and provide some kind of reassurance. "I know it hurts…but this will help, I promise." Far too slowly, the witcher's tight breaths began to loosen, and Jaskier's heart hurt at the miserable hint of a groan that lingered at the end of each. When Geralt's bruised fists opened by degrees, the bard sat back, keeping his hand on the other's bandaged wrist for a long while afterwards, fighting down the trembling threat of tears he simply didn't have the energy for. Everything was all right. Geralt was healing, and would heal even quicker now. Soon they'd be able to leave this place, with Geralt in the saddle and Jaskier rambling along behind like always.
Already the potions and the days of rest had begun to work a visible change on the witcher. Along with the hint of color back in his face had come a lightening of the cruel bruises on his hands, the plum-dark swelling reduced to reveal fingers less destroyed than Jaskier had feared. The hand currently under Jaskier's was battered, but whole; though at least two had certainly been broken, the fingers were blessedly straight. The other hand was worse, but only by virtue of the index finger, bent unnaturally to the side. Gods willing, it wouldn't be too late to set it right once Geralt was fit to do so, or fit to tell Jaskier how. The thought of Geralt unable to wield a sword with his characteristic grace and skill made his eyes prickle painfully.
He was just tired, was all, and he pushed himself to his feet when the light began to change to get their forgotten meal. Geralt hadn't said another word, clearly drained from the ordeal, and only kept his eyes open long enough to drink the cup of broth Jaskier held for him. After downing a cup of the stew himself, Jaskier trudged to the stream to refill their flasks, and stopped outside the barn as he returned to look at the rosy sunset for a few bleary seconds. Deciding to take advantage of the fact that nobody could laugh at him for going to bed at sundown like a child, the bard shook out his own bedroll, thus far untouched among their supplies, and stretched out close beside Geralt with a long groan that evolved into a yawn somewhere along the way.
Even if he somehow didn't hear Geralt in the night, the first movement from the witcher's arm would knock against his back, and Jaskier's dagger lay on the ground under his hand. He was as prepared as he could be for whatever the night brought, and he simply mumbled, "G'night, Geralt," before giving in to the exhaustion dragging him down.
He'd simply blinked, and the world was immediately dark all around him. After a few long, baffled seconds, Jaskier heard crickets trilling calmly nearby and realized he must've already been asleep for hours, and the night was well along. He'd woken with his ears pricked, though, heart already thudding and dagger clutched in his hand, and he pushed up on an elbow, listening hard. But Roach's dark shape was still and calm, and nothing disturbed the peace except for the unsteady exhalation behind Jaskier.
When he turned over, Geralt mumbled something that fell jumbled into the shadows, restless against the bundled cloaks. His breathing was a little faster, but not strained, and Jaskier wasn't sure what to do exactly, if he ought to leave the witcher to his sleep, or interrupt what looked like an uncomfortable dream.
The other man resolved the question for him an instant later, his head rolling to face away with a groan full of pain, a sound Jaskier had become intimately familiar with over the past few days. He sat up hastily, a dozen alarming reasons why Geralt might be in pain flashing into his mind, from his leg aching to whatever was broken in his chest getting worse, and dropped the dagger to lay a hand on Geralt's shoulder.
"Geralt, what's wrong? Geralt?" No response, just sharp breaths under his hand. "Talk to me, what's-" Geralt slurred his name into the dark then, low and urgent, and a sliver of fear lodged in the bard's heart. He shook the other man's shoulder, just a little, to try and pull Geralt out of the haze of pain he seemed trapped in, and the witcher jolted forward with a gasp. Jaskier pulled his hand back, realizing as Geralt's uncanny eyes snapped to him, to the walls, the patchy roof, then back, always back to Jaskier, that he had been asleep after all.
Before Jaskier could stop him, or say more than, "What's-" the other man tried to lunge upright, but didn't get more than halfway to sitting before crumpling back with a grunt and one arm wrapped hard around his stomach. Jaskier darted close, hands flat and firm on each of the other man's shoulders to keep him still, a move that would have earned him a bloodied nose at the very least, had he dared it when the witcher was anywhere close to his usual strength.
"Geralt, it's only me - calm down!" he said, insisting and entreating at the same time. "It's all right - I didn't mean to- to startle you, or…" But Geralt seemed to suddenly see him now, eyes wide in the dark as he panted, and Jaskier changed tack mid-sentence. "Are… are you actually awake now? Can you hear me?"
At first, Geralt just stared back, face a mask of confusion. Then his chest lifted once, held steady, and fell again, a deliberate calming of his rapid breathing; he blinked, looked back at Jaskier and said roughly, "You're not hurt?" Conditioned to answer that peremptory tone at once after numerous near-death experiences on hunts, Jaskier immediately replied, "Of course not," adding, "It's just us and Roach here." He sat back a little to give the other man some space, but Geralt tried to sit up again, gaze intent on Jaskier as if he didn't believe him and needed to see for himself that Jaskier was in one piece. "For pity's sake, Geralt, lie down!"
This time Geralt listened, too busy breathing through the renewed pain to move again just yet, and Jaskier slowly removed his hands, still watching the witcher through the dark. Geralt was more alert than he'd been in days, but seemed to be fighting against already-encroaching sleep to pry his eyes open every few seconds, apparently just to look at Jaskier and verify whatever he'd seen in his dreams had been only that. And all Jaskier could do was look back, exasperated, bone-weary, and fond to the point of helplessness of this man who would so readily ignore his own injuries just to make certain Jaskier was all right.
He shook his head with a small smile and reached for Geralt's discarded cloak, brushing the straw from one side as he said, "I'm fine. I'm not hurt, or in danger, or…." With a last shake, the cloth was clean enough, and he draped it over the witcher, chuckling under his breath. "Just very, very tired. And maybe ever-so-slightly traumatized," he added wryly, sitting back on his heels as each of Geralt's blinks grew longer and longer. Gods, it was good to see his eyes clear again. "Honestly… Why on earth would you ask me if I'm all right when you're the one lying there with…" He trailed off, shaking his head again, and turned back to his own bedroll.
He'd thought the other man had nodded off again - to more pleasant dreams, Jaskier hoped. He was not expecting the quiet rumble of, "It was Tomas… I thought…." Geralt's voice faltered, but when Jaskier turned back around, the drowsy gaze that rested on him was sincerely relieved.
Impossible, Jaskier thought to himself. How utterly impossible that people believed there was no heart in this man, that he was simply a soulless beast who killed other beasts. After a week of horrific torture that would have destroyed any man, followed by arduous days of balancing on the dagger's edge of life and death, nightmares were inescapable, yet Geralt woke in a panic not over his own safety, but Jaskier's. The honor of holding this place in the witcher's tremendous heart was so staggering it was almost painful, but Jaskier wouldn't have traded it for all the noble titles or thrones on the Continent.
Sleep seemed to have taken the witcher under once again, his breathing smooth and even, his expression relaxed, and Jaskier simply murmured, "Sleep well," absently smoothing the fabric over Geralt's shoulder before stretching out on his back with a long sigh. He set his dagger close by and shut his eyes, trying not to think of menacing footsteps in the dark.
Just as he'd begun to drift a little, though, he heard that familiar low voice again, slow with sleep, say, "Thank you…" and the bard thought his heart might just overflow. Instead of breaking the silence and keeping Geralt from much-needed rest, Jaskier just moved his hand a few inches, letting his knuckles rest against the witcher's in wordless acknowledgment, and let the crickets sing them both to sleep.
Author's Note
Your tears were potent fuel and were swiftly converted into as many "recovery comfort" details as we could manage! We thank you all for putting up with our nonsense and hope the new and improved (and expanded) sofd moments are to your liking! We updated so much that we had to split this chapter in two. The next WILL be up on this coming Monday!