When Geralt curls his fingers into the sign of Axii, Jaskier welcomes it. He is desperate for relief.
Shivers run through him as he feels the magic seep into his mind, slowing his thoughts and drowning all purpose. It feels foreign, intrusive, and it occurs to him how terrifying it must be for someone who hasn't asked for it. But pondering the realization is exhausting, and Jaskier is too exhausted already. He has barely eaten in the past days, and he has thrown up what little he had for dinner. His body is wracked with cramps. He is spent.
Geralt tells him to relax, and Jaskier's pliant mind follows the order. Sleep follows soon. However, it is a sleep that is alive with dreams.
He dreams of flames licking up his arms. Of blistering skin and charring flesh. Of pain so bright red that no scream in the world could express the intensity of it.
He dreams of rope cutting into his flesh. Of being cold, broken, and alone.
He dreams of his lute crumbling under his fingers.
He dreams of Rience's laughter. Of Valdo sneering. Of Priscilla looking down on him in contempt.
One time, he dreams of Geralt refusing to stand watch, and the captain threatening to toss them overboard. He almost thinks it might be real, but it can't be because Geralt would never neglect his duty. Then darkness rises again, and Jaskier loses track of the thought.
Demons come at him from the shadows, hunting him while his legs are too weak to carry him one more step. Then they are upon him and he is wrestled down, ripped apart as pain blooms in his ribs, his guts, his hand.
Sleep. The command is welcome, even if the respite is short. Because sleep means dreams, and dreams mean hell.
He doesn't know how often he wakes gasping from a nightmare, disoriented and hurting so much he wants to cry. How often his stomach flips and he throws up the little water that has been patiently coaxed down his throat mere minutes ago. He doesn't want to know either. He just wants it to end.
The only thing that keeps him sane is the knowledge that he is not alone. That Geralt is with him. Jaskier has told him to get lost, to just leave him to his misery, but he is still here. He didn't abandon him like he did on the mountain, like Jaskier thought he would. He stayed. Jaskier cannot wrap his head around it, and every time he opens his eyes, he feels the relief anew.
He stayed.
He holds onto the realization like one does to a lifeline, and as time passes, his sleep becomes easier. The stretches of oblivion between fever dreams become longer, and he is finally able to get some rest.
Jaskier wakes to the jarring impression that the room has gotten bigger. The ceiling is further up, and his bed feels harder. It takes some time for him to realize that he's not lying in his hammock anymore but in a nest of blankets on the floor. There is an arm draped around his midsection and a warm body plastered against his back.
Geralt.
Jaskier smiles. It's not what he expected, but it's not unwelcome either. The way they are lying, he can feel the rise and fall of Geralt's chest and the soft puffs of warm air against the nape of his neck. He is clearly sleeping, and Jaskier feels a sting of remorse at having to wake him. He distinctly remembers Geralt taking care of him, and it must have been exhausting. He deserves some rest as well.
But it can't be helped. Jaskier is thirsty, and his shoulder is aching from lying in the same position for too long. Tentatively, he tries to slip from the embrace, only to feel Geralt stir behind him.
"Hey," a low voice rumbles from behind him, and he can feel the vibrations through his back. "Are you awake?"
The warmth behind him disappears, and Jaskier feels himself being gently rolled onto his back. He turns his head to blink into a familiar pair of yellow eyes. Geralt furrows his brows.
"How're you doing?"
Jaskier licks his lips, trying to get his tongue to work. His throat is parched, and he feels weak. But he is better. The sickness that has plagued him has abated, and the ache in his joints has considerably died down. Even the pinpricks are gone. The only thing that's bothering him is the ache of his healing injuries, and he can put up with that.
"Better," he answers honestly. "Why are we on the floor?"
Geralt hums, placing a hand alongside his neck. Probably to gauge the fever, but to Jaskier, the gesture appears strangely intimate. Again, it's not unwelcome, and it does funny things to his insides. He hasn't even noticed how jaded he has become under the haze of the poppy, how dulled, but now that the effects have worn off, it's like everything is vibrant again.
Geralt's touch is almost overwhelming, and Jaskier can feel his heart rate pick up. They are sharing a bedroll and they are huddled under the same blanket. Now that he thinks about it, he isn't even wearing his shirt.
"Geralt?" Jaskier tries not to fidget under Geralt's scrutinizing gaze as he gently pushes the hair from his forehead, feeling his brow. "Why are we on the floor?"
Geralt seems to be satisfied with his findings as he withdraws his hand and the frown eases from his face.
"You were delirious and thrashed around. I was worried you'd hurt yourself. Physical contact seemed to help." Geralt pauses, considering him. "I'm sorry, this is probably hard on your ribs. I'll help you back into your hammock."
"No." The word is out before Jaskier even notices, and he feels himself blush. "I mean, it's okay. I'm good."
"You sure?"
Jaskier lets out a long breath. "Yeah. It was a good idea. Thank you."
"Okay." Geralt falls silent for a bit. "Are you thirsty?"
Jaskier nods, relieved at the suggestion. Now that Geralt brings it up, he feels his desperate need for water again. He props himself up against the wall, wincing against the stiffness in his back – and, oh, wasn't Geralt right about this being hard on his ribs. He mumbles his thanks as a cup is pressed into his hands. He drinks in small sips, halting until he is sure that it will stay down, and finishes it all under Geralt's watchful eyes.
"More?"
Jaskier shakes his head, shifting to lie down again. "Maybe later."
Geralt considers him carefully. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
The offer is so honest that Jaskier feels himself hesitating. He can't ask for what he really wants. What he really needs. But Geralt seems so sincere, so strangely soft, that Jaskier thinks that maybe he should take a risk.
"Would you stay with me for a while longer?" He asks tentatively, and when Geralt doesn't move, he pats the empty spot beside him. "I mean, lie next to me. When I woke, it was… it felt… " He falters, unable to find the right words.
"Safe?" Geralt completes the sentence for him, and Jaskier nods mutely. It's close enough, and it's true for the most part.
To Jaskier's surprise, Geralt slips back into their makeshift bed.
"Would you like to lie on the other side?" He asks, and Jaskier finds that he likes the suggestion.
He feels Geralt move closer, draping the blanket over them both and pulling him against his chest. It needs some shifting on Jaskier's part until he is comfortable, and when he is, he closes his eyes with a sigh.
"Thank you."
There are no words for how he is feeling right now. The warmth that envelopes him, the scent that wafts around him. Geralt's scent. It makes him relax in a way he hadn't thought possible.
"Thank you for taking care of me. For staying with me. I – I really can't say how much that means to me."
Geralt remains quiet, but the arm around him tightens almost imperceptibly. It's reassuring, and he knows that he needn't say no more. Geralt wants to do this for him, and it makes Jaskier's heart ache in the most curious way.
"Everybody else would have given up on me," Jaskier says softly. "Everyone but you."
"It's okay," Geralt mumbles from behind him. "There's no need to -"
"But I want to." Jaskier resists the attempt of turning around and looking him in the eyes, knowing that movement will hurt. "I need you to understand how grateful I am."
This time, there's the gentle brush of a thumb over Jaskier's wrist, and Jaskier swallows against the lump forming in his throat. He remembers this. The sensation of a calloused thumb scraping over his wrist in soothing circles. It has registered in his fever dreams, and he had known that he wasn't alone.
He cannot suppress a shiver as the memory of the chair comes back to him, the ropes around his wrists, the scarred face of his tormentor just inches away from his. So close he could feel his breath against his face.
Geralt must have picked up on the spike in his heart rate because Jaskier feels himself being pulled a bit closer.
"Are you alright?"
Tears sting in his eyes, and Jaskier shakes his head.
"What's wrong?"
"Every time I think of what happened to me... what he did..." He draws a shuddering breath, clenching his jaw. This has to stop. This has to stop now.
"I think I should tell you." He almost chokes on the words. "I need to tell you what happened that night. What he did to me."
"Jaskier..."
"Please. If I don't say it out loud, I'll never come to terms with it. I'll always try to just push it away, pretend it didn't happen, and it'll just get worse. I need to face this." He swallows. "Will you listen? You don't need to say anything. Just - " he lets go of a long breath, closing his eyes in resolve, "just listen. Would you do that for me?"
He hears Geralt take in a sharp breath and mentally prepares himself for a rebuttal, but it never comes.
"Of course."
It's only two words, and with everybody else, Jaskier would have felt discouraged. But coming from Geralt, Jaskier knows he means it, and he knows that his words are safe with him. It's that realization, ultimately, that allows him to overcome his resistance and finally let go.
He tells him everything.
He tells him about the last glimpses he caught of the harbor before everything went black. How he woke in the deserted taproom, bound in darkness. The utter helplessness he felt. The fear.
He tells him about the threats, the sadistic smile on his captor's lips. His questions. How Jaskier hadn't been able to answer. How he had pleaded with him.
It's good not having to look at Geralt as he tells him about what happened next, and Jaskier doesn't know how he finds the strength to say it. But he relays every excruciating detail, and Geralt doesn't push, doesn't interrupt. When it becomes too much and Jaskier's throat closes up, there is the gentle squeeze of arms, the tender rub of a thumb on the back of his hand. There is no judgment.
Jaskier hasn't anticipated how important that latter part would be for him, but as he continues to talk, he realizes that it hasn't been just fear and despair eating at him. There has been shame as well. Shame at someone getting the better of him like that, of being reduced to a sobbing, begging, whimpering mess. Shame at having told the man everything he knew. Fucking everything.
When he finally runs out of words, his cheeks are wet with tears, and he feels hollow. Burnt out.
Behind him, Geralt remains quiet and Jaskier fears that he might have said too much. That Geralt might be disgusted by his weakness, that he might despise him. But then he feels Geralt press a kiss into his hair, and he closes his eyes with a shuddering breath.
"It's okay," Geralt murmurs behind him. "It's over. You did well. You have nothing to blame yourself for."
"I told him everything, Geralt." Jaskier's voice is trembling but he can't help it. "I failed you."
"No. Even the strongest men break under torture. You did nothing wrong. Don't even think for a second that this was your fault."
The arms around him tighten once more, and the weight from his chest starts to lift. Breathing becomes easier.
"Thank you, Geralt," he whispers.
For some time, neither of them says anything.
It's then that Jaskier realizes that Geralt has just kissed him. Just the back of his head, sure, but it has been a kiss nonetheless, and he is sure he didn't imagine it.
Maybe it's not what he thinks it is. It can't be. Geralt barely thinks of him as a friend. Well, at least until recently. But Geralt has been different since their reunion in Oxenfurt. He is attentive, he listens, and now Jaskier is sharing a bed with him, finding himself wrapped in his arms. And Jaskier feels heat prickling his skin at how intimate it feels to be held like this.
"Geralt?" He asks softly, feeling his heart flutter at what he is about to ask. Because he needs to know. He is vulnerable right now, his heart lying raw and open, and a rejection will be the death of him. But he needs to know, he fucking needs to know. "Did you just kiss me?"
Geralt doesn't answer straight away.
"Do you mind?"
"No. Not at all." And because he feels courageous, he adds, "You can do that again if you want to."
The lips that are pressed against his hair are all the response he needs. Warmth spreads in his chest and he lets out a sigh, pressing back against the warm body that holds him. Geralt's arms tighten ever so slightly.
"Oh gods, I needed this so badly." It's just a whisper, but he knows Geralt will hear. "Please tell me you mean it. If I wake the next morning and you changed your mind - "
"I won't. Be still now. You're tired."
He is. Jaskier doesn't question how Geralt can tell. It's probably just common sense. Already, he can feel sleep pulling at him, and he doesn't think he needs Geralt's help this time to drift off.
"You know that I love you, right?" Jaskier mumbles. It's his sleep-befuddled mind that is talking, and he doesn't even realize what he has said until it's out.
Geralt tenses against him.
"Fuck."
For a moment, Jaskier mistakes it as a reaction to his confession, but then he hears it as well. The clatter of footfalls on deck and the clamor of voices. The clang of steel against steel. An ambush. It's gotta be. The reason why Geralt was welcome on the ship in the first place.
Only now does it occur to him that it's night and that Geralt is not on watch. He remembers a fragment of a dream and frowns. Maybe it hasn't been a dream at all?
"Geralt, is that - ?"
"Sounds like it."
Geralt rolls to his feet and reaches for his boots, hastily pulling them on. Jaskier blinks tiredly as he watched him ransack his bag for a potion, then down it in one go. When Geralt turns to him again, sword in hand, his eyes are black and his skin is streaked with dark veins. He passes him a dagger, hilt first.
"Stay here."
The moment Geralt steps on deck, chaos engulfs him. The fight is everywhere, shouts and screams mingling with the sounds of battle, and the few lanterns are barely enough to distinguish pirates from crew members. The air smells of blood.
Geralt instinctively deflects an arrow as he takes position near the stairs, trying to get an overview. Next to him, a deckhand struggles to fend off an attacker, and Geralt casts Aard to knock him off balance, then ends him with a thrust of his sword. The deckhand – Mike, Geralt realizes – scarcely has time to nod his thanks before two more men come at them.
"Glad you could join us, Witcher."
"My pleasure."
Geralt makes short work of them, their rudimentary training posing not much of a challenge. The lack of light works in his favor, too. Witcher senses and everything.
Still, the situation worries him. It is clear that the crew is largely outnumbered, and he can't help but think of Jaskier who is still too weak to fight. He hopes the pirates won't make it below deck, and that Jaskier will be smart enough to stay out of sight if they do. Dagger or no, he is an easy target.
Geralt fends off another robber who comes at him with a feral scream as if noise would make a difference. His attack is all force and no precision, and Geralt sends his ax flying before severing his head. Blood spurts in a wide arc, painting the floor red. Not that anyone would see. The thud of the skull hitting the floor is drowned out by the general noise.
"There he is!"
The shout catches Geralt's attention, and he first mistakes it for one of the crew's. However, it is followed by several arrows flying his way, and he casts Quen in an instinctive attempt to protect himself. These are pirates. Why the hell would they be interested in him?
He understands the moment the mast behind him bursts into flames, making his medallion jump on his chest. Magic. A spell of fire. Rience.
There aren't many mages who tamper with fire magic, and Geralt doesn't believe in coincidence. He doesn't doubt for a moment that this is the same mage who abducted Jaskier. He has no idea how the bastard has located him and how he has convinced a bunch of lowlifes to help him out, but this is not the moment to ponder upon it. If Geralt gets a chance to end this now, he will.
"Rience!" He yells, trying to locate the man among the fighters and flickering shadows on deck. "Show yourself!"
He isn't surprised when more arrows fly his way, this time with better aim. He is uncomfortably aware that he makes a great target against the blazing fire behind him. However, Quen is doing its job.
"You know who's behind this?" Mike's voice sounds next to him.
Geralt doesn't turn, eyes still searching the crowd.
"Unfortunately," he growls. Then his gaze zeroes in on a cloaked figure that stays in the background, standing on the platform at the stern of the ship. Got you. "I'll take care of him. Can I trust you to guard the stairs?"
"I'll do my best."
Geralt nods at him and renews his protection spell before he sets out across deck with grim determination. He is angry. Ever since he found Jaskier in Oxenfurt, there has been an unquenchable rage inside of him, a painful need to make this right. To hunt down the man responsible for Jaskier's misery and make him pay. Now that he has Rience within his grasp, he feels his wrath flare anew.
He cuts down several pirates with brutal precision, eyes latched onto the hooded figure in the near distance. They make eye contact and Geralt bares his teeth, sensing the nervousness of his opponent. Things aren't exactly going according to plan. It's obvious that the mage was hoping for the pirates to wear him out, maybe get a blow in, so he could finish him off afterward. He wants him alive, that much is clear. He is looking for Ciri's whereabouts, and Geralt isn't much good to him dead. But overpowering a witcher is not easy, even for a mage.
Geralt halts as another burst of fire is sent his way and flames surround him anew. He feels the blistering heat on his skin as Quen absorbs the worst of it. For a moment, he can't see as his vision is filled with bright light, and he lifts his hand to shield his eyes.
When he lowers it again, Rience has disappeared.
He veers around, trying to find out where he has gone and is dismayed at how fast the fire has progressed. He is not surprised. The waxed sails, the hemp ropes, the wood. Ships burn easily, especially after a stretch of sunny weather, and once they have caught fire, it's a race against time. Usually, the smartest thing one can do is flee. Already, he can hear the splashes of the first men jumping ship, trying to get themselves to safety. He should probably do the same. Except Jaskier is still under deck.
Cursing, Geralt sprints back to the stairs, barely avoiding a falling piece of rigging. The fire is spreading fast.
Smoke burns in his lungs as he climbs through the hatch, hurrying down the stairs. Soon, his way will be cut off. He has to be quick about this.
"Jaskier?"
He crosses the common area in quick strides, eyes searching out the bedrolls in the back part of the room. They are empty. He's not sure if that's a good sign. Hastily picking up his bag, he heads for the cargo area. He coughs at the clouds of smoke, kicking the door open. There's nobody there.
He must have escaped. His eyes wander over the countless crates and barrels, the wares he has been hired to protect and that will now sink to the bottom of the river. He doesn't think about them for long, turning his back as soon as he is sure that Jaskier isn't here. The bard isn't stupid. He must have smelled the fire and fled. Hopefully, he has made it to shore unharmed. Hopefully, he was strong enough to swim.
Mike will have seen him, he thinks as he heads back up. There are only two hatches leading below deck, and Mike's was the closest. Jaskier will have taken that one out. Maybe one of the crewmen helped him.
He clings to that thought as he stalks up the stairs, eyes watering from the soot and smoke. He doesn't dare think about the other possibilities. That he might have drowned. That he might be among the corpses on deck.
Because if something has happened to him, Geralt will never forgive himself.
