Jaskier is fairly certain he isn't dead.
To be fair, he's never been dead before, so he doesn't have much to compare it to, but the tiny, intermittent sparks of pain that plague him don't seem like they belong in the afterlife. He can't see anything, and when he tries to move, it's disorienting, like he doesn't really have a body. There's no sense of up or down, and all he can hear is a slow, rhythmic thump that he eventually realizes is his own heartbeat.
Well then. He can't be dead if his heart is beating, so that settles it. Although, if he has a heartbeat, he should have a body, which doesn't appear to be the case.
Jaskier starts to drift. He's not sure exactly what's happening, but it feels a little like floating. Swimming, maybe. Carried along by something warm and gentle that pulls him in and out of his sense of self. Time isn't real. He's not sure if he's been here – wherever here is – for hours, or days, or perhaps years.
"…because you're an idiot…"
A familiar voice floats through the darkness around him. It's rough and low, and it makes Jaskier feel safe, but he has no idea who it belongs to.
"…told you not to follow me, but you never listen…"
The voice wavers and it's like Jaskier's listening through a door in a rainstorm, trying desperately to hear the words through the strange thickness surrounding him. He knows the voice – it's someone important, but Jaskier can't remember who. He's not sure who he is, never mind some disembodied voice, but there are tiny pieces that he's slowly starting to pull together.
White hair.
Gold eyes.
Rough, scarred hands.
"…scared the shit out of me. I yelled at you because I was scared, not because I was angry, but you make it hard to tell the difference."
Each memory that makes its way through Jaskier is interwoven with a sharp thread of pain. The sparks come faster, and the harder he concentrates on the voice, the worse it becomes.
"Jaskier."
He knows, the name is there, just out of reach, and Jaskier pushes harder, grabs at the pain and forces himself into it because he needs this.
"Jaskier, stop, you're hurting yourself."
Can't stop, he thinks, and if he wasn't convinced he was alive before he sure is now because there's no way being dead could possibly hurt this much.
"…fucking idiot, you're going to tear your stitches." The voice is sharp, and there's a pressure over the pain, something gentle but insistent. "You have to hold still, Jaskier. You're making it worse."
Making what worse?
"Shhh," the voice murmurs as something soft and warm floods through him and pushes the pain away. "You're safe."
Geralt, Jaskier thinks, before he slips beneath the surface and sleeps again.
Geralt sighs, setting the empty vial of valerian on the side table and shifting his hand from where he'd been holding Jaskier's uninjured shoulder. He runs his fingers through Jaskier's hair instead – damp and sweaty, and dirty after four days without a bath. Stubble is starting to darken the edges of Jaskier's jaw, and Geralt's first thought is how horrified Jaskier would be to see himself so disheveled.
How in the world am I supposed to maintain my reputation if I look like... well, you?
Jaskier's voice fills Geralt's head, and he supposes that it's a side effect of spending so much time together that he knows exactly how the conversation would go. He would roll his eyes, and Jaskier would smack his arm and then immediately dive into a rant about Geralt's hair, and how it would be lovely if he would just let Jaskier brush it and perhaps braid it, and if he would wear something other than black once in a while it would do wonders for his complexion...
Geralt's not sure what Jaskier would say after that, because by this point, he's usually stopped listening. Not that he's not paying attention to Jaskier, he just tunes out the words and hears nothing but the soft cadence of Jaskier's voice.
"You'd better wake up soon," Geralt grumbles. "Preferably lucid and not trying to hurt yourself."
He yawns, rubbing his face and tipping his head back to look out the window. It's early morning, and a soft, pink light spills across the fields around the farmhouse. Geralt rolls his shoulders, wincing at the ache that creeps up his neck from spending the last three nights sleeping in a chair.
There's a soft knock at the door and Sayla peeks her head in again. "Everything all right?"
"Mm." Geralt rubs his thumb across Jaskier's cheek. "Seemed to be waking, but he had a fit again. Don't think he tore anything."
Sayla moves into the room, carrying a bowl of warm water that she hands to Geralt. He takes it, nodding his thanks and then wetting the cloth and starting to dab at the sweat on Jaskier's forehead.
"That's the last of the valerian," Sayla says, picking up the empty vial and tucking it into her skirt pocket. "Next time he'll wake for good."
Geralt nods. Each dose of the drug has kept Jaskier under for about six hours, and every time he's started to come out of it, he's struggled and spasmed and nearly re-injured himself.
"Rohin and I are heading into town for the market," Sayla says. "We can call for Lily to come change the bandages and check the sutures."
"Thank you," Geralt says softly, and Sayla squeezes his shoulder gently before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.
This time when Jaskier wakes, he has a body to go along with his heartbeat. He opens his eyes to an unfamiliar room with dull ache in his shoulder, and a hand in his, fingers laced together. He blinks a few times, staring at the ceiling before attempting to look around. The small movement tugs at something in the side of his neck and he hisses in pain.
"Jaskier?"
The voice is low and filled with concern and is quickly followed by gentle fingertips on Jaskier's cheek. Geralt's face fills his field of vision, twisted into an expression that Jaskier's never seen before.
"Stay still," Geralt says, shifting until he's sitting on the bed next to Jaskier. "The healer said the sutures are holding and you're healing up, but you shouldn't move too quickly."
"W…" Jaskier makes a sound that's not quite a word, gaze moving slowly across Geralt's face. He looks dirty and exhausted – nothing out of the ordinary – but underneath all that he looks… afraid. Which is ridiculous, because Geralt is afraid of exactly nothing.
"I'm so sorry," Geralt says softly, and when he brings their joined hands up to his lips and presses a kiss to Jaskier's knuckles, Jaskier realizes he's not actually awake. Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher, does not kiss Jaskier's hands. He also has never apologized to Jaskier, so either Jaskier is still dreaming, or this is some sort of hallucination brought on by too little sleep or too much drink. Or both.
He tries to tell dream-Geralt this, but when he opens his mouth, nothing happens.
"Fuck," Geralt says, running a hand over his face. Jaskier frowns at him. "Fucking hell."
Oh, Jaskier thinks as his brain finally catches up to the pain in his shoulder and arm. This isn't real.
Disappointment claws at him, digging its fingers into the hope he'd been holding onto and tearing it away. This isn't Geralt – it's the monster, and Jaskier's lost in the mountains, bleeding to death while demon feeds off of his fear.
Jaskier exhales shakily, gritting his teeth and attempting to pull his wrist out of monster-Geralt's grip. The hand around his arm tightens and he whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to figure out how to make the illusion go away. It's only a matter of time before it'll start to shift – skin melting, eyes turning red, fingers digging into Jaskier's wounds until he tries to scream, but nothing will come out and instead he'll choke on blood and inch closer and closer to death.
Part of him hopes it's soon.
"Jaskier." It sounds so much like Geralt but Jaskier knows because it's been hours and every single time he starts to hope, he's ripped from the dream and back to the pain. "Jaskier, look at me. It's okay, you're safe now."
"Nnnn." Jaskier tries to shake his head but it hurts, and he can't help the tears that pool in the corners of his eyes and start to slip down his cheeks.
"This is real."
It's not. It can't be.
Then Geralt's hand is touching his face, thumb wiping the tears from his cheeks, fingers brushing gently through his hair. "Jaskier," Geralt says again – no, it's not Geralt, but Jaskier wants it to be so, so badly. "I'm trying not to hurt you, but if you keep moving, you're going to open the wound again."
Jaskier shudders, slowly opening his eyes as he realizes that there's a bandage across his neck and shoulder, and another around his wrist, and everything doesn't hurt quite as much as it should.
"There you are," Geralt says, continuing to run his thumb across Jaskier's temple. "I know you're confused but I promise you're safe."
Jaskier takes a shaky breath, and another, and Geralt's still Geralt.
"We met in Posada," Geralt says, shifting closer to Jaskier and slowly easing the tight grip on his wrist. "Remember? You followed me around, almost died, and then wrote that stupid godsdamned song that I can never get out of my head." He combs his fingers through Jaskier's hair again and it feels so good, so safe and comforting.
Jaskier stops struggling – half because it hurts like hell, and half because this Geralt feels very, very different than the others. His eyes are softer. There are lines on his face that weren't there before, and a crease in his forehead, and dark circles under his eyes, and his fingers never stop moving in Jaskier's hair.
Geralt shifts his grip from Jaskier's wrist to his hand and runs his thumb across Jaskier's palm as he starts to hum. It's horribly off-key – rough and unmelodic – but the tune is instantly familiar.
Toss a coin to your Witcher, oh valley of plenty…
There's no way the monster could possibly know where they'd met, or how they'd been captured, and it certainly wouldn't know the tune of the song that's been stuck in Jaskier's head since he wrote it.
"There you go," Geralt says, and to Jaskier's surprise, he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to Jaskier's forehead. The gentle, intimate gesture feels at once wildly unfamiliar, and like the only thing that's ever felt like home.
Jaskier closes his eyes and lets himself cry as he finally realizes that this is real, Geralt's here, and he's going to be okay.
