Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. Here is the last part :)

Jaskier had had many rough awakenings in his relatively short lifetime – from drunks' unwanted groping in a tavern to angry spouses all but unceremoniously kicking him out of chambers where he was unwanted, he would have said he was pretty well acquaintance with them.

This searing pain in his arm, though, was something else entirely, and he lurched into consciousness unable to move and choking on his own breath – fuck did it hurt. He couldn't escape, couldn't move, his arm a dead weight by his side, and for a lucid moment, fleeting but terrifying, Jaskier thought he might lose it. What life would he have then? What bard could he claim to be without the use of his arm? What use would he be to Geralt when he no longer would be able to spread word of his adventures and humanity? He'd be left behind for sure then, alone forever, crippled for the rest of his miserable human life.

Fuck, he'd only wished to be spared Geralt's anger. Was that too much to ask for?

Perhaps Jaskier should have learnt his lesson, wishing never ended well for him.

"Jaskier, you awake?"

Through his fevered haze, he could faintly hear the sound of someone calling his name, a hint of familiarity in a dark cloud of ache and agony, a lifeline of intimacy and comfort he desperately sought to latch on to before it too, left him adrift and he drowned here, in his own pain. The voice was deep, the gentle but strong hand on his good shoulder a touch he was certain he knew deep down in his bones, yet in his confusion, Jaskier could not for the life of him figure out who it was.

"Jaskier? Come on, wake up."

There was a smell, too, faint, but it was definitely leathery, earthy, and… was that a hint chamomile? Yes it was, smelt suspiciously like the lotion he tended to carry around in his pack, too. The one he'd share with nobody, so expensive had it been to acquire, yet had had no qualms rubbing it onto a certain lovely bottom – Geralt's lovely bottom.

He painfully cracked an eye open, and indeed, it was Geralt leaning over him, he hadn't left like Jaskier had feared he might. His voice was warm, his hands beheld a strong gentleness in their palm as they grasped his good shoulder, and upon his forehead seemed to be – permanently, now – etched lines of worry, no doubt over him. He clung to them like a lifeline, his friend a far more preferable alternative to the flames engulfing him when he closed his eyes.

"Jaskier," He said again, as their eyes finally met, blue on gold, relief evident in the Witcher's, "the healer has to clean out your wound."

Perhaps consciousness was not so preferable after all, Jaskier mused. He tried to shake his head, wheezed out what he hoped was a half-arsed attempt at a categorical "no", and Geralt – may Melitele bless him – gently shook his head, kindness still radiating off him in waves. At least Jaskier thought that was what it was, the image of his dear friend was, after all, a little wobbly, probably because he was crying, tear tracks running down his cheeks unchecked – and when did he start? How did he not notice until now? – but yes, it was the Witcher all right.

"It'll be all right, he'll be quick. And I'll stay here, I promise." Geralt was saying, no doubt trying to be reassuring, and raised his brow again in a delicate question of trust – and of course Jaskier trusted him wholeheartedly – but the bard could not find the words to answer him, could not talk, could not speak, afraid that, were he to even slightly open his mouth, that he'd do little else but scream. So instead, he selfishly sought out Geralt once again, his trembling limb grappling for Geralt's steady hand, squeezed it as tightly as he dared.

If the Witcher wished to be rid of him forever after this, Jaskier would not fight him on it.

"I… I can't. Fuck, Geralt, it hurts!" He choked, eyeing the healer feverishly, dreading his medical ministrations. The wound was not a pretty sight, he did not need to garner a look at his shoulder to know, but Jaskier did not think he was up for anyone else prodding at it, no matter how experienced they may claim to be. And he wasn't like Geralt – Geralt who endured, who did not complain, who did what needed to be done with no moaning or grand theatrics - Jaskier knew he would never come close to the great White Wolf, would never boast of his prowess or his tenacity, and this, he was at that moment doubting he'd even survive what the healer had planned for him.

"You lived through elves beating you black and blue, a cuckolded lord threatening to castrate you in front of an entire royal court and a vengeful djinn tearing at your throat, you lived through me. You'll walk away from this yet, Jaskier, you hear me? I'll not have you die on me until you at least bore me to tears with a song about it." Geralt said, voice stern, gaze open and honest, and through his fevered haze, Jaskier managed to grapple at what his friend was doing for him, sobbed, even, at such a touching gesture – Geralt wished for him to sing again- and thought the very least he could do was try and indulge him a little. It would beat focusing on the healer and his dreadful torture at any rate.

"What would you have me sing about then, oh great White Wolf?" He managed to choke out between two winces, hand once again clenching around Geralt's. If he had lesser knowledge of the Witcher's strength, he may even have feared harming his poor friend with how tightly he was hanging on.

"Maybe one about a feral White Wolf in need of saving by his little friend? Caught in the terrible grapples of a ghastly beast until a little songbird sung it to sleep. How do you think that would go down?"

Jaskier laughed – regretted it a moment later when it shook his shoulder – the bad one, of course. It was wet, it hurt, but he only had eyes for Geralt, Geralt who was soft, and honest, and gentle and smiling along with him in that discreet way he did, when he thought nobody would catch him, and maybe, if only for that smile, for that hint of humanity he so openly gifted him, Jaskier thought he might live to tell the tale.

"I think a thank you is in order, Jaskier." Geralt said then, voice serious once more, the previous levity to their conversation gone as quickly as it had come, and Jaskier merely swallowed, unsure he could even find the words he needed for this right now. Geralt's eyes bore into his, as he said the words, with such honesty, such humility, he could not for a second doubt his sincerity – and really, anyone who dared then say that Witchers didn't have emotions, Jaskier would personally make sure that they learnt the hard way to perhaps rethink their silly little misconceptions, he'd have no qualms beating his lute over their heads until they changed their minds. "Thank you, for taking care of that drowner." And, after a moment of pause, he continued, for this apology was long overdue, "And I'm sorry about what I said, back in Rinde, with the djinn by the lake. I was tired, but I never meant for it to do that to you."

He still had nightmares of it, they both had – Geralt's sleepless nights tending to their fire had often come to an abrupt end when Jaskier jolted awake with a terrified gasp, far too vivid memories of clawing for breath and choking on his own blood chasing away a good night's sleep. He'd known not what to say, in those moments, had hoped, perhaps, that they could move on, return to their previous companionship like nothing had happened without really having to talk about it – had foolishly believed it had occurred too when the bard never mentioned it, yet now that the words were out in the open, hanging between them, Geralt felt lighter for it, relieved Jaskier knew he'd never intended to kill him.

"I know," The bard said, quietly, "And I'm sorry too, for overstepping when I should not have, upsetting you when you so clearly needed your space. Perhaps, next time, tell me when you're troubled?"

An unspoken forgiveness past between them then, like a warm breeze on a lovely summer night, gentle upon their features, a balm for the soul, whisking away with it the last remnants of a turbulent day. It swept up misunderstanding and anger, carried on its wings pain and hurt, leaving behind little seeds of hope to be warmed when the sun shone tomorrow. Jaskier wiped away the last vestiges of his sins, his lute-callused fingers flicking them away in a delicate brush, touch turning a tad harsher when the healer set back to work and he grappled for him again. Geralt remained steadfast, however, let the bard cling to him for support as he was tended to, tried not to think about how his chest clenched painfully at the sight of him biting his lip bloody and how his eyes were heavy, purple circles bespeaking of days without rest trailing after him.

"I don't want to look, Geralt," He whimpered, voice small and fearful, a sheltered child of nobility with little experience of the world instead of a travel-hardened poet, who sang full of confidence and bravado. The Witcher understood, however: without his arm, Jaskier would no longer be able to play any music, his lute would accompany them perhaps, but never to be touched again. He'd have liked to tell him that it mattered not to him, that he was worth more than just his singing, but instead contended himself with tightening his hold around his hand.

"And that's fine. I'll do the looking out, you can just hold on to me."

Wordlessly, Jaskier heeded to his offer, grateful he could have faith in Geralt in regards to his well-being and passed out, one of the Witcher's hand still clasping his own, the other having, at some point, strayed to his hair, now carding through his sweaty bangs. It was a nice way to go out, it was comforting, intimate. He could trust Geralt to look out for him when he no longer could.

He was not sure when exactly consciousness fled him, only that it must have, for when he next awoke, the sun was setting outside.

The first thing Jaskier noticed was that he was far more comfortable now, the terrible burn and constant pain that had been weighing his arm down for too long now gone, disappeared into thin air. He shifted, slightly, trying to get more comfortable, eyes darting around, looking for –

Geralt.

Who was there, like he'd said he would be, sat on the wooden chair by the bed, seemingly absorbed in the herbs he was crushing together. His heart felt lighter at the sight of him.

"Please tell me you haven't stayed there since I blacked out?" He asked, voice still weak – Jaskier would unfortunately not be singing for the next week by the looks of things - but already feeling somewhat more like himself. Whatever the healer must have given him seemed to be working wonders.

"Jaskier." The Witcher greeted him, golden eyes alight once more and his entire posture slumping in relief, as he saw for himself that he'd pulled through. It was nice, this concern-ish thing of his. "You were out for a while."

"The drowner-" He asked, had to know Geralt had not given up his contract on his account. That had been precisely why he'd kept his mouth shut in the first place, let his sufferings at least show the fruit of his hard labours.

"Don't worry about it, Jaskier, its dead."

"Fuck, are you-?"

"No, I'm not hurt. I took care of my scrapes three days ago."

Fuck. He'd been out for three days?

Geralt frowned at his confusion, moved, restless, on his chair. "You don't remember?" He asked, a hint of that persistent worry in his question, and Jaskier cursed himself again for making him needlessly fret like that. What kind of friend was he supposed to be?

Truth be told, Jaskier did not remember much outside of the pain – hot, and searing and setting his insides on fire – and he was not eager to experience anything like it anytime soon. He'd have liked to say as such, reassure Geralt that he was still all there, his memories intact, but it felt like his mouth had been stuffed with cotton, painless, but impossible for him to speak much around, robbed of his precious voice yet again, despite no djinn having attacked him this time.

It was far more preferable to choking on his own blood, at least.

"Don't get your head in a twist, you've been through enough." Geralt encouraged him, his steady hand finding his uninjured shoulder once again, a small gesture that felt far more grounding than anything the bard could come up with. "But, Jaskier, I must know, why lie about it? Why not tell me you were hurt? I promise you I'd have stopped, we would have taken care of it, together."

And wasn't that just the question? Why had Jaskier not uttered a word of his predicament to him?

"I thought…" He started, paused a while to swallow the dryness away and hope to find the right words, not wanting Geralt to take this the wrong way, but supposed he owed him honesty, if nothing else. "I thought you wanted peace, that you would have been angry. I'm sorry." He said, despondently, realizing now the depth of his mistake.

And fuck, Geralt cursed, as he realized, now, why he'd kept quiet about it, the pieces falling together into a far bigger picture than he'd thought it to be. That this hadn't just been Jaskier trying to evade his anger, that it went back to Rinde, the lake, the shattered amphora and the djinn. That it went back to Geralt just wanting some damned peace!

Peace he'd never really apologized for demanding.

Peace that had nearly killed Jaskier that time, too.

That the bard had interpreted his anger like that was not so surprising, he thought, in light of what he'd said back then.

"Fuck, no. Jaskier, no, I did not mean it like that." He managed around the sudden lump in his throat, voice wavering with emotion, hoped the poet could decipher how apologetic he meant it to be. Instinctively almost, he reached out for him, his hand hovering over Jaskier's knee under the covers, far more at ease with a gentle touch to express his remorse yet not daring to do so out of fear of harming him further. If his words had caused him to land himself in such a state, then how much worse could his hand be?

Jaskier, for his part, was having none of it, made the decision for him as he brought his own hand over his, gently caressing it as he lay them both on the covers, and it was all that really needed to be said, acknowledgment and acceptance bled through the tender way his fingers curled around the Witcher's hand, a gentle squeeze conveying a thousand words neither of them could speak.

Acknowledgment, acceptance, absolution, Geralt vowed to be worthy of them, as he felt Jaskier's forgiveness course throughout his body. "I was tired, frustrated, and I know I should not have taken it out on you, it was wrong of me, but please, please don't believe I'd ever wish you dead. I'd never want that." He looked at him then, open and honest, "I missed your singing."

"Really?" Jaskier asked, in a breath.

"You can be an annoying arse, sometimes, but I truly do not think I could ever wish for a better travel companion." He squeezed his hand, gently, as he said so, and Jaskier's throat felt heavy, clogged with overwhelming emotion this time, instead of blood. Geralt hadn't meant it, not truly, not with his heart, Geralt wanted his singing, wanted him. A thousand genies could have been granted to him then, and Jaskier did not think he could have asked for anything more of them, so content was he with Geralt's sparse words.

Being Geralt's travel companion was all he'd ever wanted since they'd left that inn together in Posada however long ago it was, and now here the Witcher was, offering him just that, telling him – in words – that that was enough.

"You're not angry, then? You know, about the whole not telling you business?"

"I'm… Still upset." Geralt said, voice raw and careful, as he chose his words. With what Jaskier had just admitted to him, he did not wish for him to interpret what he chose to say the wrong way lest they soon have another tragedy on their hands, "That you did not feel like you could tell me you were hurt and in pain. But, Jaskier, if you are to continue traveling with me, I'd rather you tell me, in the future, if you are injured." Gesturing to the bed, the cream-coloured bandage around his shoulder, and probably the past few days of worry and anxiety, were Jaskier to read a little more into his tone of voice, his friend continued, "Finding it out like this… I'd rather it not happen again, don't you think?"

A truce, a new basis for their relationship, built on mutual trust, exchange and actual communication, seemed little to sacrifice for him, Jaskier already talked enough for the both of them as things were, but the rest of Geralt's offer – the everything else he was willing to give with his question that went unsaid, he could feel his eyes water again and all he could do was smile back at him, a little wobbly at the edges perhaps, for this was all he'd ever truly wanted from Geralt. "I think I could settle for that." He agreed quietly, voice raw and wavering.

Geralt just smiled – actually smiled, genuine and so bright his golden eyes almost looked dull. Almost, for Jaskier doubted anything could ever truly rival their mesmerizing shine. "Now scoot over."

"What?" He spluttered, rather inelegantly. Did he mishear or did - ?

"You heard me. I paid the healer with the last of my coin from the drowner contract, and I unfortunately don't have enough to spare for another room. I have not slept in three days and there is no way I am sleeping on the floor."

Jaskier did not have to be asked twice, and so, heart beating wildly in his chest – for a much different, and far more pleasant, reason than last time – let Geralt settle against him. The bed was not small by any means, but the Witcher cut quite the figure, as he closed his eyes and fell asleep, chest far lighter now that his guilt and worry were no longer weighing him down. It was nice, and if Geralt's arm somehow found its way around his shoulders that night – touch light and gentle-, his nose nuzzling his hair and his soft breath upon his cheek, well Jaskier was certainly not about to complain.

After an interminable two days of bed-rest during which he was certain he would lose his mind to sheer boredom, the wound was deemed healed enough for them to be on their way again. The air seemed lighter, when Jaskier stepped outside, stopping for a greedy intake of it now that he'd had a very unpleasant first-hand acquaintance with what it felt like to cruelly be deprived of it.

The sun was shining, life buzzed aplenty around him, he had a belly full of warm soup – courtesy of the nice innkeeper and his exceptional culinary skills – his trusted lute safely in his hands once more, and Geralt who wished for him to still travel with him. All in all, Jaskier was pretty content with the way things had turned out, it would have been nice were this mess with his injury avoided, but he supposed he could not complain too much, given where it had taken both him and the Witcher.

"You sure you're ready to head out?" Geralt asked again, as he rode up to meet him from where he'd left Roach last night, the mare seeming to be more than eager to stretch her long legs once again. Jaskier did not think he could blame her, and with such a beautiful day, it would have been a shame to put off their departure on his account.

"More than sure. I'll tell you, if I need a break Geralt, I promise."

"Good." He said, lips upturned again, and Jaskier was positive he looked even more beautiful under the morning sunlight, and his heart may have skipped a beat.

Then Geralt promptly extended his hand, and this time, his heart definitely stopped for a moment.

"Are you serious?" He had to ask, incredulous, for through all of their time together, Geralt had never let him ride Roach – the djinn did not count, in Jaskier's books, he'd been far too out of it what with nearly dying and all to appreciate the horse at the time.

"We'll stop at the next town, try and find a horse for you. I can't have my barker fall behind in the meantime, how is he supposed to witness my exploits otherwise? Come on, get on." There was a hint of fondness laced in his voice and a softness curbing the edges of his lovely features, like things were slowly about to go back to the way they were, and Jaskier needn't be asked twice to seize the olive branch, did not hesitate even a second before, heart pounding, he took Geralt's hand and heaved himself up onto Roach's back. The mare jerked, slightly, at the extra weight, but otherwise did not seem to mind much.

Geralt was warm beneath him, strong and steady like he knew him to be, and if Jaskier clung to him with a little more insistence than necessary, as his arms weaved around his shoulders, clutched his armour so as to not fall off, neither one of them said anything about it.

"If I'd known this was all it would take to ride Roach, I think I would have faked fainting ages ago. Really, Geralt, you should have told me about your soft heart," He mused aloud, a couple of hours later, breath soft on Geralt's neck. "I think I could get used to this, though, Roach really is a lovely lady", he said, one hand lazily resting on the silky fur of her flank, patting muscles born of long travel with gratitude. After a couple of hours on her back – and being conscious enough to appreciate it this time around – Jaskier was forced to admit that the mare was not nearly as intimidating as he'd initially thought her to be, she was actually quite gentle when one pealed back her many layers, not unlike her master in that regard.

"We'd be much faster, like this, don't you think? And the view! Oh, Geralt, I understand now, why you like it so much up here, everything is just so very clear from Roach's back, I cannot believe you've kept this a secret from me all this time! But another horse would be nice too, like you suggested. I mean, Roach is nice and all, but I'm sure she could do with a little horse-company, don't you? What do you think, a white one? To go with her lovely list? Or maybe dapple, add a little mystery to it. Pegasus, I think I'll call them, what do you think, Geralt?"

Geralt did not know much in the art of naming horses, was far from an expert in the field, given that he merely called all of his Roach. He was almost tempted to withdraw his offer, because, truth be told, he did not really mind the sound of Jaskier's voice – not after having gone days without it, the silence giving him too much time to think, reflect and regret – did not mind the weight behind him, it felt good. He did not mind, either, when a few hours later and several towns behind them, Jaskier's left hand left his shoulders to instead rest lightly upon his waist, his fingers warm and soft through his leathers, and alive.

It felt normal, right.

"Jaskier?" He said, halting Roach with a gentle tug on her reigns, before turning around, effectively stopping him in whatever song he was trying to craft out of thin air.

"Yes?"

Geralt would readily admit to not being one to usually let impulse override him, but here, now, looking at Jaskier like that, and after the past few days overwhelmed with fear and worry, he supposed he could not really be blamed for what little restraint he may have had being shot down. So that was probably why he did not think twice about pulling Jaskier to him by the waist, answering his confusion with a gentle kiss, effectively stopping his sputtering. It was chaste, quick, but said everything his words lacked, everything Geralt did not think himself ever capable of saying aloud.

"Geralt, what-?" Jaskier sputtered, confused, but smiling appreciatively, looking at him with stars in his eyes and something else Geralt was not sure he could quite grasp. He counted it as a victory, rendering the bard speechless was no easy feat.

"Please don't do something like that again." He asked him, voice low, a murmired promise between them. "Just, please tell me when you're hurt." It perhaps did not do justice to what Geralt meant to say - Please don't scare me like that again, I care about you – love you – and I don't think I'd be able to lose you – but Jaskier, lettered man that he was, seemed to understand without prying a full-blown admisison out of him, his features more reserved, his touch more gentle, as he rested his forehead on his in a silent pledge.

"I'll try." He whispered, words few perhaps but his good faith no less sincere.

And, really, Geralt could not ask for much more than that. He was not one for drawn out confessions, full of saccharine-sweet nonsense and overly-emotional declarations, Jaskier's pointed promise was enough for him – for both of them – and so instead of lingering on trying to fill the blank between them that needed not be filled, he turned away, both of them looking ahead, to whatever contract awaited them next. Jaskier's hands had not strayed from his waist, and beneath him, Roach whinnied, seemingly approving.

Geralt thought he'd have to have a word with her about that, sometime.