Jaskier cries for a long time, face pressed against Geralt's shoulder, uninjured hand gripping the front of his shirt. Geralt tries his best to be comforting, continuing to hum and run his fingers through Jaskier's hair. Relief floods through him like an exhale after a deep breath, and he holds Jaskier as close as he possibly can without hurting him.
Eventually Jaskier lets out a shaky sigh and pulls away, wincing as Geralt helps him lie back down again. His eyes are clear now, and a bit of color is coming back to his cheeks.
"You've been asleep for a few days," Geralt says gently. He slips his hand back into Jaskier's without thinking. "Are you hungry?"
Jaskier doesn't respond right away. His fingers curl weakly around Geralt's and he searches Geralt's face, staring at him like he's going to disappear.
"I'm real," Geralt reassures him again. The guilt that's been sitting in his chest since he shouted at Jaskier resurfaces full force, and he squeezes Jaskier's hand.
Jaskier frowns. He opens his mouth to say something, but only a quiet wheeze comes out.
"Don't try to talk," Geralt says. Panic is starting to weave itself alongside the guilt, and he grinds his teeth in frustration. It's okay, he thinks. It's temporary, once the wound heals, he'll be all right.
Jaskier lets go of Geralt's hand and slowly brings his fingers up to the bandage on his neck.
"Something bit you," Geralt says, pulling Jaskier's hand gently away from the bandage. "I killed it."
The confusion on Jaskier's face turns to relief, but there's still a wariness behind his normally bright eyes. Geralt isn't sure if it's directed at him or the situation in general, but if it's him, he deserves it.
"I'm sorry," he says before he can change his mind and fuck things up again. "What I said was cruel, and I hurt you." Jaskier stares at him. "I was angry," Geralt continues, and he feels a hot flush of shame creeping up the back of his neck that he hasn't felt in a long, long time. "I was angry, and you were there, and I didn't mean any of it, and this is my fault."
The words hang in the air between them and Geralt looks away, staring down at his hand on Jaskier's wrist. Jaskier's pulse thrums under Geralt's fingertips, like a hummingbird, beautiful and bright and easily broken.
"I'm sorry," he says again.
Jaskier turns his hand, pressing their palms together, and nudges Geralt until he looks up. There are fresh tears on Jaskier's cheeks and Geralt makes a frustrated sound, heart aching as he reaches out to brush them away with his thumb.
Jaskier tips his head the tiniest bit, pressing his face into Geralt's palm. Then he tugs on Geralt's other hand and it takes a second for Geralt to realize that Jaskier tracing letters on the palm of his hand.
F… o… r….
Forgive. Jaskier spells the word with shaky fingers, then squeezes Geralt's hand as if to emphasize his point.
Geralt swallows around the lump that's quickly growing in his throat and shakes his head. "You shouldn't," he insists. "I don't deserve it."
For that, he receives a gentle slap on the back of his hand – a tiny admonishment that's reflected in the mildly irritated expression on Jaskier's face. He starts to write more letters on Geralt's palm – saved me.
"I put you in danger in the first place," Geralt says. Jaskier huffs, tapping his fingers against Geralt's palm impatiently.
No, he spells, slowly and carefully. Not fault.
Geralt doesn't agree, but he also doesn't want to argue with Jaskier, who already looks exhausted again. Instead he squeezes Jaskier's hand and murmurs a quiet, "I'm not letting you out of my sight again."
Jaskier sighs, then frowns, letting go of Geralt's hand and touching his chin. His fingers brush over stubble and he makes a horrified face. Geralt laughs.
"I told you, you've been asleep for a while."
Jaskier quickly returns his fingertips to Geralt's palm and spells the word bath.
When Geralt leaves to bring the wooden tub into the bedroom, Jaskier feels a brief flash of panic. But Geralt returns quickly, and then starts to bring in water by the bucketful. Every time he leaves the room, he gives Jaskier a reassuring look, but Jaskier can see something else etched into the lines of his face.
Guilt.
An angry part of Jaskier thinks, Good. He should feel guilty. There's hurt and fear behind those thoughts, combined with the ache in his neck and his wrist. Not being able to talk is… well, Jaskier would like to say disconcerting, but terrifying is probably a better description. If he can't talk, he can't sing, can't make music anymore, can't—
"Bath is ready." Geralt appears, interrupting Jaskier's frantic train of thought. His contrite expression melts the anger, and all Jaskier can feel is relief. "Can you stand?"
Geralt holds Jaskier's elbow, helping him slowly to sit up on the edge of the bed. A wave of dizziness washes over Jaskier and he groans, bringing his good hand to his forehead. He feels too light – empty, not quite real.
"Can I lift you?" Geralt asks. "I don't want you to hurt yourself." Jaskier nods miserably, squeezing his eyes shut and bracing himself for the inevitable pain. It never comes, though – Geralt's movements are slow and deliberate, and he gently shifts Jaskier until he's leaning against Geralt's broad chest with his injured hand tucked over his stomach.
When Geralt lowers him into the water, Jaskier lets out a soft, contented sigh. "Careful," Geralt says, keeping one hand on Jaskier's back as he slides down into the water. "You have to sit up. Can't get the bandages wet."
Jaskier tries, but the pull of the heat mixed with the woozy feeling from earlier drags him down as if it's calling him to sleep. "Damnit, Jaskier," Geralt grumbles. He sighs, keeping one hand under Jaskier's arm to support him and using the other to unbutton his shirt. "I'm coming in with you, so you don't drown."
Jaskier's not sure if he wants to protest or not, but he doesn't end up getting much of a say in the matter. Geralt manages to get down to his smalls without letting Jaskier slip into the water, and then he's stepping in behind Jaskier, slowly sinking down until Jaskier is settled between his legs and leaning back against his chest.
"Better?" The words rumble through Geralt as he wraps a careful arm around Jaskier's chest. Jaskier manages a tiny nod as he relaxes against Geralt, already exhausted despite having done exactly nothing since waking up. "Good. Try to stay awake if you can."
Jaskier's not sure he can promise that. He focuses on the way the tension bleeds out of his legs and back; the slow, steady thump of Geralt's heartbeat; the lavender scent of the soap sitting next to the tub.
When Geralt's fingers brush against Jaskier's temple, he tenses for a second, then sighs and relaxes into the touch. Geralt doesn't say anything, just grabs a small cup from the side of the tub, filling it with water and using it to wet Jaskier's hair.
Geralt works in silence – washing and rinsing Jaskier's hair, then gently combing out the tangles with deft fingers. If Jaskier wasn't so exhausted, he might have found it sensual, but instead it just feels comforting. Safe.
Jaskier must have fallen asleep at some point, because when he opens his eyes next, he's back in the bed. The linens smell fresh, and he's dressed in nothing but his smallclothes and a clean, too-large shirt that obviously belongs to Geralt.
"Here." Geralt crouches down next to the bed and holds out a cup of something murky and foul-smelling. Jaskier makes a face and Geralt grunts in amusement. "It's for the pain," he says. He holds it up to Jaskier's lips and keeps it steady while Jaskier reluctantly drinks it all down. Whatever is in it floods through his body immediately, leaving everything pleasantly numb.
"Better?"
Jaskier nods, slumping back against the pillows. He reaches out for Geralt's hand and writes a shaky thank you into his palm. Geralt's face twists with guilt again and Jaskier flicks his thumb. Stop it.
"You should go back to sleep," Geralt says gently, moving to stand. "I need to go take care of some things."
The flood of panic from before resurfaces, even through the sedating effects of the herbs, and Jaskier shakes his head, refusing to let go of Geralt's fingers.
"What's wrong?" Geralt moves from his crouch to sit on the edge of the bed, and Jaskier writes one more word on the palm of his hand.
Stay.
