Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Frankly, watching Geralt stumble out of the woods covered in blood never got less alarming. One would think that Jaskier might have adjusted to it after the first several times, but something about seeing him soaked in blood and other questionable substances never failed to send Jaskier to his feet, rushing over to Geralt and nearly tripping over his feet and his questions.

“Good gods, Geralt, is that blood yours ?” 

His witcher raised an eyebrow at him. Jaskier noticed that some of the black veins around his eyes still lingered; the potions had not worn off yet. “Some,” he said. “Bruxas have nasty claws. Caught the side of my face at the end.”

“Are you alright? You look awful!” Jaskier exclaimed, hovering by his side as Geralt walked over to Roach and opened one of his bags. “Sit down, let me have a look. Did she get you anywhere else?”

“Stop fussing,” Geralt said gruffly, “M’fine.” There was no heat in his voice; this was just one of the steps in their dance that Jaskier was coming to know so well. Geralt would protest and growl at him, but Jaskier would put his hands on his hips and talk at him until Geralt finally realized the fastest way to get some peace and quiet was to just let Jaskier have his way. 

All in all, it was a remarkably efficient way of dealing with a grumpy, bloodied witcher. 

When Geralt finally sat down with a groan, Jaskier was beside him in an instant. This close, he could see that most of the blood on his armor didn’t seem to be his. A nasty cut from his hairline down to his ear bled sluggishly, turning his white hair red where he must have wiped it out of his eye and off his face with a careless hand. 

Geralt, who was currently trying to get out of his armor, made a soft noise under his breath. “Fuck,” he muttered, fumbling with the clasp at his side.

“Let me,” Jaskier said, swatting Geralt’s hands away and undoing the clasps, easing off the pauldron and bracer. There were angry red welts curving over his shoulder, but he wasn’t bleeding. Jaskier exhaled, the worried tension finally easing out of his body. Geralt was fine. A little battered and bruised, perhaps, but relatively unscathed except for the gash on his head. 

“Good thing you had this on, huh?” Jaskier said, helping Geralt remove the rest of his armor until the witcher was left only in the loose shirt beneath it and his trousers. “I don’t fancy seeing what those claw marks would’ve looked like without your armor in the way.”

Geralt snorted. “You wouldn’t see anything. She would have taken my arm off.”

“Even worse!” Jaskier said cheerfully, turning his attention back to Geralt’s head. “Though it would make for an interesting ballad, you must admit. The One-Armed Witcher. It’s got a ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Hmm,” replied Geralt, closing his eyes.

“Yes, my thoughts exactly. Now, let’s see if we can’t do something about that nasty scratch on your head before we head back into town and get paid.”

“Leave me be, bard,” Geralt said, leaning away from Jaskier’s hands. “M’fine. Just waiting for my eyes to go back to normal.”

Jaskier looked down at Geralt, hands on his hips. “Precisely,” he said. “If you’re just going to sit there anyway, I can at least wipe the blood off your face and see if it needs stitching. Honestly, Geralt, you make things so much more complicated than they need to be.”

Geralt rolled his eyes but offered no further protest, which was the closest to a go ahead, Jaskier as he was likely to receive. Taking it for the implicit permission it was, Jaskier rummaged around in Roach’s saddlebags until he found the small kit of medical supplies. He opened it and gasped. 

“Geralt! This is nearly empty, you’re out of… well, pretty much everything!”

Geralt did not deign to respond. Jaskier dug around until he found a waterskin and one of Geralt’s spare shirts to use as a cloth. Crossing back to Geralt, he sat beside him. 

“Why are you taking jobs if you can’t even put yourself back together after them?”

“And how am I supposed to replace my supplies without taking a job?” Geralt asked, closing his eyes. Jaskier gently brushed the hair back from his face, wincing in sympathy when it pulled free of the blood that was going tacky. 

“You could have asked,” Jaskier muttered to himself. He poured a little water onto the shirt, gently wiping away the worst of the blood from around the gash. It was still bleeding, but much slower than it would have on a normal man. Jaskier couldn’t tell if it was because of how slowly Geralt’s heart beat or because of his accelerated healing. Either way, he was grateful. “I might’ve been able to replace some of your things. At least bandages or something.”

“I am fine ,” Geralt replied. “Quit your fussing.”

“I shan’t and you know it.”

Geralt rolled his eyes again. Jaskier ignored him and continued gently cleaning the area around the gash. He held the cloth against it, pressing down and attempting to staunch the bleeding. 

There were several long moments of quiet, broken only by Jaskier humming under his breath. Geralt had closed his eyes. Jaskier couldn’t tell if he was dozing or meditating, but the black around his eyes had all but receded. By the time they arrived back in town, his eyes would be back to normal. Geralt always refused to go back while the potions were still active. He claimed it was because too many people would grate on his heightened senses, but Jaskier knew that, at least in part, he didn’t want to frighten them.

Not that the black eyes were necessarily frightening. Jaskier was actually quite partial to them. And if it added to the rugged attractiveness that Geralt naturally seemed to exude to see him with eyes blown wide and brow glistening with sweat, well, that was Jaskier’s business.

He cautiously lifted the cloth. The gash was red and looked painful, but the bleeding had stopped.  “I can’t do much else for that,” he said softly.

Geralt hummed low in his chest. If he was feeling optimistic, Jaskier might even qualify that as a content version of Geralt’s usual “hmm”. The peace of their quiet moment swelled in Jaskier’s chest. He was suddenly and unbearably fond of this very stubborn witcher sitting beside him. 

Before he could examine the urge too closely, Jaskier leaned over and pressed his lips to Geralt’s forehead. “There!” he said.

Geralt opened his eyes, a clear “ What the fuck, Jaskier” on his face.

Jaskier cut him off before he could speak, springing to his feet. “You’re out of everything, my dear witcher. All I can do is kiss it better. Come on, let’s go get your coin and some dinner.”

Geralt stared at him for a long moment before rising to his feet and following. He looked utterly bewildered. They made their way back to town, Jaskier strumming chords and trying desperately to come up with a decent rhyme for bruxa. (“ Honestly , Geralt, would you mind fighting something that’s a little easier to write a song about?”) With their coin purse heavy and their stomachs empty, they found a room in the town’s inn for the night.

All in all, it was as nice a day as they ever had on the road.

When they were finally in their room for the night, Jaskier collapsed on the bed with a loud sigh. 

“I am exhausted ,” he declared, staring at the ceiling. 

Geralt snorted. “Worn out from a long day of doing fuck-all?”

“I will have you know that some of us had to walk to and from that gods-awful bruxa lair today since somebody doesn’t let me ride Roach!”

“And some of us had to fight the bruxa while a certain bard sat on his ass and bothered the birds with his singing,” Geralt said, sitting down on the edge of the bed to take off his boots. His voice was fond. 

“You truly are a terrible friend,” Jaskier said, nudging Geralt with his leg. “I tag along and patch you up and make nice with the townsfolk for you and all I get in return is insults!”

“And protection and food and a roof over your head,” Geralt muttered. Jaskier kicked him again, slightly harder this time. Geralt swatted at his ankle, standing to put his boots away.

“Let me look at that gash on your head before you clean your armor or meditate or do whatever witcher-y thing you’re going to do while I’m asleep,” Jaskier said through a yawn.

Geralt muttered something under his breath but obligingly sat back down on the edge of the bed, letting Jaskier sit up and peer at his face. 

The gash was almost completely healed. It was a raised line curving from his forehead down to his ear, a healthy pink color replacing the bloody mess it had been earlier. 

“See?” Jaskier teased, “I told you I would kiss it better.” He leaned upwards, pressing another chaste kiss to Geralt’s temple. “One more for good luck.” 

Geralt gave him a look that said he found Jaskier unspeakably odd but was too tired to say so. Jaskier (who was used to this look) simply patted his knee, rolled over, and promptly fell asleep.

As he fell asleep, Jaskier failed to notice that the wound seemed to shrink further, quickly reduced to nothing more than a thin white scar. He also failed to see Geralt raise a hand to his head, slowly tracing the scar and staring, dumbfounded, at Jaskier. 

The room was quiet for the night, save for a single, soft “ Fuck.”

Chapter Text

It became something of a habit after the fight with the bruxa. Geralt would go out, kill a monster, and come back where he would tolerate Jaskier’s attention with minimal grumbling. Jaskier would strip him out of his armor, trying very hard to keep his mind on this entirely innocent activity, and examine him for anything that needed cleaning or stitching or bandaging.

Every time, Jaskier pressed a kiss to the injury. Every time, Geralt looked at him like Jaskier had lost his marbles. 

It wasn’t until several months later that Geralt brought it up.

They were sitting in the woods, Geralt coaxing a fire to life as Jaskier unrolled their bedrolls on an acceptably flat patch of ground. They had finished a job in the closest town the night before and had taken to the road that morning, not wanting to push their luck. The town had not been outright hostile, but they were definitely not the sort to enthusiastically sing along to Toss a Coin. 

Ah, well. Their loss. 

The evening air was warm and pleasant, a comfortable quiet settling over their camp. Jaskier was slowly getting used to Geralt’s long silences, the urge to fill them with chatter or singing fading away. He was still not a quiet person to be around; he was often humming under his breath, tapping a rhythm with his fingers on the nearest surface, or gently ghosting his hands along his lute, producing the faintest of chords. But now, here, as the night began to fall, he could see the appeal of companionable silence. It gave him a rare moment to appreciate his witcher; without his armor or his swords, crouched on the ground beside the fire, the lines of his face seemed to soften and his eyes reflected the last of the light of the sunset. Gods above, he was beautiful. It made Jaskier’s fingers itch for his lute, but he was afraid to even breathe too deeply and disturb the tableau in front of him.

All things considered, he was shocked when it was Geralt who spoke first, his voice a low rumble from across the fire.

“How long have you been able to do that?”

“Beg your pardon?” Jaskier said, caught slightly off-guard. He shook his head slightly and forced his thoughts back to the present. “Do what? For once, Geralt, I’m quite certain I’m not doing anything .”

Geralt gave a quiet huff that, from anyone else, might have been a laugh. “Your healing. How long?”

Jaskier looked at him, wondering if Geralt had perhaps received a blow to the head. He was being very odd. “Patching you up, you mean?” he asked. “I’ve been doing it since practically the day we met, my very accident-prone witcher.” 

“That’s not… what I mean,” Geralt said. He looked away from Jaskier, sighing. There was a crease between his brows. Jaskier had to squeeze his hands together in his lap to resist the urge to smooth it with his thumb or press a kiss to it. 

“What do you mean, then? I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

Geralt looked back at Jaskier, his brow creasing further. He was quiet for a long moment, staring. Jaskier tried not to fidget under his gaze. 

Finally, Geralt sighed and shook his head. “You don’t know, do you?” he asked, incredulous. Something in Jaskier bristled at the tone.

“Geralt, what the fuck are you talking about?”

Geralt rolled up his left sleeve in lieu of a reply, moving closer and extending his forearm to Jaskier. 

“Remember when I got this?”

Jaskier lightly traced a thin scar on his arm. It hadn’t been dangerous, but it had been messy; they’d been surrounded by bandits in the woods and one of them had managed to land a hit on Geralt before his head had rather unceremoniously fallen to the ground. Of course he remembered! He remembered all the scars Geralt had gotten while traveling with him. Besides, he had gotten this one just recently. Frankly, it was strange Geralt even bothered to ask. Perhaps he really had taken a blow to the head.

Carefully, Jaskier wrapped a hand around Geralt’s wrist, feeling the slow pulse of his heart beneath his fingers. “I remember,” he said softly, looking up at Geralt’s face. “Bandits. It was deep and bloody but didn’t hit anything important. Just a few days ago.”

Geralt’s other hand came to lay on top of Jaskier’s. “ Exactly,” he said, “That’s exactly my point. It was just a few days ago, and it’s completely scarred over. Like I scratched myself on a bush instead of got slashed by a dagger.”

The warmth of Geralt’s hand was making it very difficult to form a coherent response. When Jaskier said nothing, Geralt pulled away. It took a great deal of willpower not to reach after him, already mourning the loss of contact. Jaskier was rather proud of his restraint.

“That wound should not be healed to a scar yet,” Geralt said.

Jaskier blinked. “Don’t witchers heal quickly? Maybe it wasn’t as deep as it looked.”

“I know the limits of witcher healing,” Geralt said, a wry twist to his mouth. “All witchers do. You have to know exactly where the limit is if you’re going to make your living pushing it. And every single time you kiss me, suddenly a wound that should pain me for days heals overnight.”

The implication of Geralt’s words struck Jaskier like a punch to the stomach. His heart was suddenly heavy and he looked away, needing a moment away from the intensity of Geralt’s gaze to compose himself.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said softly, “Do you see what I’m saying?”

“I see,” Jaskier said. 

“So we’re on the same page?”

“Yes.” A rather upsetting page, truth be told. “I just…”

“Take a deep breath, bard.” Geralt’s voice was fond as he turned his attention away, settling down on the ground and reaching for one of his swords. “It’ll be alright.”

“I just can’t believe it,” Jaskier said, standing. He began to pace back and forth. “I mean, alright, maybe I can, but it’s just…”

Geralt snorted a laugh. “I’m as surprised as you. You wouldn’t think you had any magic by looking at you.”

Jaskier stopped in his tracks. “Wait, what? Magic? What in the fuck are you talking about Geralt? I really am starting to think you’ve taken one too many blows to the head recently.”

Geralt looked at him as if Jaskier had finally gone mad.  “Hmm,” he sighed. “I’m starting to think we were not on the same page after all.”

“Clearly not if you’re sitting there talking about magic !” Jaskier said, hands on his hips. “ Honestly, Geralt.” 

“The fuck did you think we were talking about, Jaskier?”

“The frankly tragic fact that no one in your long life has ever tried to kiss you when you were hurt!” Jaskier exclaimed, raking a hand through his hair. “What were you talking about?” 

“Don't be an idiot. Kisses don’t heal dagger wounds. You have magic .”

“No, I don’t!” Jaskier sat down beside Geralt, laying a hand on his arm. Geralt shifted but did not pull away. “Geralt… this isn’t magic, it’s just how kissing works.”

Geralt just stared at him. “Explain,” he said shortly.

For once, Jaskier’s words ran short. How was he to explain something as simple, as natural as a kiss? It was what mothers or older siblings did for children who got hurt, a simple comfort exchanged between friends or lovers. A bruise faded to a dull ache, a bleeding cut seemed less dramatic, a pounding headache ebbed away when you knew you were cared for. A kiss was a gentle reminder, an easy way to say “ Hey, I’m here. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.” 

How the hell was Jaskier supposed to explain that to Geralt, who hadn’t known a kind touch since he was a child? Such simple comforts surely seemed out of place amidst the harshness of a witcher’s life, and Jaskier’s heart ached to think that Geralt assumed it was magic before he thought about love.

“It’s just… a thing people do,” he managed. “It helps. Makes things hurt a little less. It’s just… it’s a little kindness, Geralt, surely someone has tried to kiss you before?”

Geralt was still looking at Jaskier with an unreadable expression. “Not because I was hurt,” he said slowly. “Not… the way you do.”

Jaskier’s heart fluttered in his chest, trying desperately to memorize how soft Geralt’s voice was, the slight tilt of his head, the quiet honesty he was affording Jaskier right now. Something jealous and possessive in Jaskier’s chest preened, satisfied at being the first to do anything in his witcher’s long life. He ruthlessly squashed that feeling, ignoring it. Now was not the time.

“Well,” Jaskier said with false brightness, patting Geralt’s arm, “Good thing you have me, eh? I will definitely be changing that because that is a tragedy that cannot be allowed to stand.”

Geralt still looked confused. “This… cannot be true. Humans can’t just… accelerate healing like that. It’s… you. It’s something about you. It has to be.”

Jaskier shrugged. “Love is powerful,” he said. “And if there’s one thing we squishy humans are good at, it’s love.”

“Even if that were true—”

“It is.”

“It is not. But even if it were,” Geralt said, ignoring Jaskier rolling his eyes, “It wouldn’t work for me.”

Jaskier took Geralt’s face in his hands, smoothing his thumb absentmindedly over a tiny scar on his cheek. “You, my darling witcher,” he said quietly, “are just as deserving of love and affection as any other man. Moreso, I dare say. And I know you don’t need my help patching you up, I know you’ve been doing this alone for so long, and I know you know what it’s like to be in pain, but you don’t have to need my love to deserve it. You can just… want things, or enjoy a little comfort now and then. Maybe it feels like you’re healing faster because there’s someone else to stitch you up and bandage the wound and make sure you can rest your weary head in an actual bed instead of fending for yourself in the fucking woods.”

Jaskier gently pressed his lips to Geralt’s forehead, keeping his touch gentle. 

“No magic,” whispered Jaskier. “Just me.”

Geralt did not move for a long moment. Jaskier could feel the warmth of his skin on his fingertips, on his leg where it brushed against him. It took all the self-restraint Jaskier possessed not to lean down and press a kiss to his mouth, to kiss all the doubt and confusion out of his expression. 

Geralt pulled away suddenly, breaking free of Jaskier’s hold. He stood up, looking anywhere but Jaskier’s face.

“Right,” he said, voice gruff. “No magic. I’ll, um. I’ll go see about catching dinner.”

Jaskier smiled. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll be here.”

Geralt nodded and walked into the woods without another word. Jaskier sighed. There was only so much affection Geralt could tolerate in one day before he started pulling away, but today had been good progress. Jaskier had meant what he said; he fully intended to make sure someone was kissing the White Wolf or hugging him or even washing his hair. And if everyone else was too frightened of him to do it, well. It was a task Jaskier would gladly take on and be all the happier for it. 

Idly, he wondered if he could make a song out of this. 

“What do you think, Roach?” he called to where Roach was lying in a soft patch of grass. “Shall I write another one? Toss a Kiss to Your Witcher is a bit catchy, isn’t it?”

Roach snorted. Jaskier decided to see it as a snort of agreement and reached for his lute, already beginning to work on a chorus.

Chapter Text

Contrary to popular belief, Witchers did have feelings. And contrary to whatever a certain bard may believe, Geralt’s life was not completely devoid of all happiness, nor was he a walking heap of heroics and heartbreak. Life was not a ballad, and Geralt was no tragic hero. Things were not that simple. 

The truth of the matter was that no matter how much he might feel, a witcher rarely had time for something so fleeting and trivial as his emotions. It wouldn’t kill a monster, feed his horse, or put a roof over his head, so Geralt didn’t bother with it. One would arise and he would simply recognize it and either act on it if he needed to or let it go. It was how he had been trained and it had served him well for years.

Until he met Jaskier. 

The bard seemed to be the only person Geralt had ever met that could so easily get under his skin and send his control running for the hills. At first, it had been the incessant noise that had driven him half-mad, seeming almost deafeningly loud after spending several lifetimes traveling in silence. Then, when Geralt was a little softer and the bard a little bolder, it was the touching. A hand on his shoulder in passing, a knee brushing against his while they sat, a warm body curling against him at night. Geralt had nearly jumped out of his skin every time. 

People didn’t touch him, not without reeking of anger or fear or both. No one except this flamboyant, loud-mouthed bard who had already hopelessly endeared himself to Geralt and touched him freely and without a hint of hesitation. It was ridiculous. Jaskier had all the self-preservation instincts of a loaf of bread. 

Geralt had known for a while that Jaskier, for whatever reason, could drag his emotions to light in a way that no one else could. The bard routinely frustrated, confused, and vexed him, yes, but he also made Geralt laugh and coaxed him into a comfortable sort of happiness. Geralt had grown used to having him along on the path; when they parted ways, he noticed the silence in a way he never had before. It was strange, certainly, to have his traitorously human heart suddenly waking up in his chest, but it wasn’t a bad  thing. It was just… odd. 

And then the gods-damned kisses had started, and now Geralt was fairly certain he’d lost his mind. 

His bard had magic. There was no way around that fact; Geralt had bruises where he should’ve had scars. Every time Jaskier tried to “kiss it better”, Geralt could feel the faint tingling of magic running down his skin like he had just cast a sign. His wounds healed faster and scarred less frequently. Cuts that should’ve been bandaged for four days were suddenly healed in two. A sprained wrist was completely painless by the next morning. Geralt had been concussed, for fuck’s sake, and Jaskier had banished the headache with a flourish and a kiss to his forehead. 

Jaskier was also entirely convinced that this was just how kissing worked. When Geralt had brought it up, Jaskier had looked horrified that no one had ever kissed him before, completely ignoring Geralt’s protests and promising to right such a grievous wrong. Any further attempts at conversation had somehow turned into Jaskier trying to coddle him or ask him deeply personal questions, so Geralt had quickly learned that there was no point in trying to convince him of the obvious. They had fallen into an odd sort of routine, just like they always did, and Geralt did not bring it up again. 

Still, every time he did it, Geralt had to fight the urge to walk into the nearest lake and never come out. Jaskier touched him with such gentleness, with such care, that Geralt couldn’t tell if the strange feeling running down his spine was from the magic or something else, something uniquely Jaskier. No one else had ever been so free with their affection, so utterly unafraid of Geralt that they would touch him without hesitation, sit beside him just for the pleasure of his company, help him stitch his wounds and wash his fucking hair. Other witchers were not tactile people, not after the Trials. He had vague memories of sleeping close to the other boys at first, heaped together like pups without much worry about stray limbs or cuddling close to ward off the chill of the stone walls of Kaer Morhen. One by one, those boys had died during their Trials. 

Geralt did not remember their names, only the sounds of their breath. When the Trials were over, there were only three of them left. They started sleeping alone after that, no longer needing to all pile together. After he had left Kaer Morhen, there was a clear distance between him and the rest of humanity. Most humans that touched him usually meant him harm; the rest had demanded their pay for the night upfront. 

And then Jaskier, with his penchant for trouble and his ridiculous doublets and his incessant singing, had waltzed across Geralt’s path and refused to leave. 

Jaskier, who kissed him to try and make him feel better. 

Jaskier, who had magic. 

Geralt sighed, shifting onto his side on the lumpy mattress. Jaskier was right beside him, as always, limbs stretched out in sleep and taking up far more of the bed than one skinny bard had a right to. It was another unremarkable night in another unremarkable inn. Tomorrow, Geralt would set out to the neighboring forest to find and kill the monster that had been terrorizing the village for weeks. Tonight, however, they had arrived in town too late to bother, going straight to the inn and paying for a room. 

He wasn’t sure when they had stopped bothering to request a second bed, come to think of it. They so often slept pressed up next to each other on the road, Jaskier’s human body needing the extra protection from the cold, that it had become second nature. 

He should be sleeping. There was a hunt tomorrow for this mysterious monster, but he couldn’t sleep. His thoughts kept drifting back to Jaskier. 

As though reading his mind, Jaskier stirred slightly, turning onto his side and burying his face in Geralt’s neck, wrapping his arms around his waist. 

“Can hear you thinking,” he mumbled, voice thick. “Sleep.”

Geralt draped an arm over him, gently running a hand up and down his spine. He didn’t reply, simply holding him close.  

Jaskier pressed a kiss to his shoulder and snuggled in closer with a contented sigh. A breath later, he was asleep again. 

Oh, fuck, thought Geralt, the realization hitting him all at once. I love him.

Chapter Text

Geralt had been gone before Jaskier awoke. This was not unusual, especially on a hunt like this. If he was going to get rid of a pack of drowners, perhaps, or a ghoul, he would begrudgingly allow Jaskier to tag along. Maybe even a kikimore or a harpy if Jaskier promised to be very, very quiet and stay with Roach. 

This time, however, Geralt had no idea what he was after, which meant Jaskier was to stay in town or deal with a very cranky witcher. He would likely be gone most of the day, skulking around the forest and tracking the beast or prying more information out of the terrified alderman or whatever it was Geralt did when he wasn’t actively swinging a sword at his problems. 

Jaskier, on the other hand, was going to have a proper breakfast and maybe a bath before heading down to the market. It had been a while since they’d been in a proper town and he intended to make good use of the time. The oil he used for his lute was nearly gone, his songwriting notebook full to bursting, and he knew that Geralt’s supplies were running low again. He’d need bandages and thread, at the very least, and maybe a new saddle blanket for Roach now that it was getting cold again. Little comforts that he knew Geralt appreciated but would never think to buy for himself. Jaskier had seen him buy new reins for Roach with a hole in the sleeve of his shirt and no food in his pack. Honestly . The man had all the self-preservation instincts of a particularly handsome stump.

Luckily, he had Jaskier to make sure his supplies were well-stocked and his bedroll was replaced more than once a century. He would grouch at him for going to the expense, inevitably, but Jaskier knew his witcher well enough by now to recognize that a tiny smile and a rough hand on his shoulder meant thank you . 

Jaskier’s time passed pleasantly enough. The inn’s food was a welcome change from the salted pork and stale bread in the bottom of his pack and the hot water of the bath was enough to ease the soreness of the road from his muscles. Sinking further into the water, Jaskier wondered if he’d be able to convince Geralt to take a little vacation after this. Perhaps they’d go to the coast or even to Oxenfurt. Somewhere they could just relax. 

Jaskier rolled his eyes, rinsing the soap from his hair. As pleasant as it sounded, it was likely just a dream. Geralt was stubborn; convincing him to be anything other than a Witcher for more than twenty seconds at a time was a miracle. 

Then again, miracles had been known to happen. Maybe he’d get lucky and this monster would be just gross enough to make even his witcher want a day off. He could get some real composing done and Geralt could just… be. Frankly, the man took terrible care of himself. Jaskier wasn’t sure how Geralt had managed on the Path before he had a companion to remind him that he needed things like food and water and sleep.

Speaking of which, their rations were low again. It was time to head to the market. 

The town’s market was lively and bustling, the sounds of shoppers haggling and chickens clucking mixing with the sound of children laughing and playing. Jaskier felt himself release tension he had not known he was holding; this was what he missed when they were on the road. The sights and sounds of these people and their cheerful, simple lives. He was road-weary after long weeks of traveling and despite his famous wanderlust, for a moment he could picture himself settled somewhere, playing his music to a familiar crowd every night and never having to wonder where he was going to sleep that night, going home to… 

Ah. That was the problem with that particular fantasy, wasn’t it? He was always going home to Geralt. Frankly, at this point, there was no one else it could be. He could never have this easy affection or unspoken understanding with anyone else. It would always be Geralt, and even in his private fantasies, Jaskier knew Geralt would not be happy there. His life was on the road, so Jaskier’s was, too. It was as simple as that. 

A child darting in front of him, nearly bowling him over, broke Jaskier from his reverie. 

“Sorry, mister!” the child called back over her shoulder, tearing off around the corner. Two other giggling girls were quick on her heels, bringing a smile to Jaskier’s face. 

“Quick little things, aren’t they?” came a voice to his right. He turned to see an old woman with a long white braid over her shoulder sitting on the porch of a small cottage, not meeting his eyes. Her hands were folded in her lap as she rocked back and forth gently in a creaky rocking chair. “Always tripping half the village, those three. Little menaces.”

“They meant no harm,” Jaskier said lightly. “And it was my fault anyway, I was lost in thought.”

The woman hummed thoughtfully, staring at a point somewhere over his shoulder. “You’re the one, aren’t you,” she said. “The White Wolf’s bard.”

Jaskier bowed. “Jaskier, at your service, my good lady. Might I have the pleasure of your name?”

“Deianeira,” she said. “Call me Dee. Come in, little bard, come in! We have much to talk about.”

Jaskier made to follow before a voice in the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like Geralt gave him pause. 

Be careful. You trust too easily. 

“Pardon the inquiry, dear Deianeira, but what do we have to discuss? If we had business of any sort at one time, I’m afraid it slipped my memory.” 

Dee laughed, shaking her head at him. “You’re as full of pretty words as I thought, bardling, but you’ve got sense, too. You and I have had no business, but your witcher and I have, long before you were born.”

“Well, I’m always looking for stories about Geralt,” Jaskier said brightly, walking up the step to stand before her on the porch. “If you’ve met him, you know he’s not exactly the chatty type.”

She laughed again. Up close, Jaskier could see that her eyes were clouded and milky. Sightless, yet somehow following his every movement with unnerving accuracy. He somehow felt as though she could see right through him. 

“I like you,” she said, “And I wish I had a happy tale for you, boy, but I do not. I have a warning for you. Come in. We haven’t much time.”

Jaskier felt a shiver run down his spine. “Of course,” he said, inclining his head politely. “After you, my lady.”

“Help me up, would you?” she said. “One of these boards fell through on the porch and I haven’t been able to get it fixed yet. Take a blind old woman into her house, hmm?”

“Certainly,” Jaskier said, “If you’d just take my arm here?”

He guided her hand to the crook of his arm, carefully walking her from her chair to her doorway. Once inside, she no longer seemed to need his help, walking to a chair by the fireplace and sinking down. Jaskier sat across from her and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. He waited. 

“My mother knew I had the gift when I was a young girl, you see,” she began. “Someone asked me if I thought the harvest would be strong that year and I collapsed on the spot. My eyes went white. I had my first vision. It took my sight in the way you understand it but granted me something… more.”

“You’re a seer,” he whispered excitedly, fingers itching for his songbook. “A soothsayer. A real one, like the stories say.”

“Aye,” she said. “I am. When I was newly married, my John, Melitele rest his soul, called for a Witcher to get rid of a beast that was stealing our livestock and scaring our town half to death. Bad harvest after bad harvest meant that we had no coin to pay with and barely enough food to fill our own bellies, but still he put out the notice. I thought no one would come since John had said we couldn’t pay.”

“But Geralt came,” said Jaskier, certain of his answer. He had seen Geralt take jobs for nothing before if the people were poor enough or scared enough. The White Wolf was a huge sucker for a sob story, not that Jaskier would tell that to this old woman. He much preferred not being thrown into a freezing stream by a grumpy Geralt, thanks very much. 

She nodded. “Your wolf came and rid us of our beast. He asked for no payment, but I could not let him leave without anything at all. I offered him a reading.”

Jaskier, who knew exactly how Geralt felt about Fate and fortune-tellers, could not imagine that the offer had gone over well. “And?”

“He accepted.”

“Huh,” Jaskier said. “First time for everything, I suppose.”

“I asked him if there was anything he wanted to know, but he did not reply. I read his palm and did a bone casting and the signs, the visions, were all very clear. I could see his fate. His lifeline that should have extended centuries more, reached for fifty-eight more years and then stopped. He would die in the forest not far from here after a battle with an alghoul. It would be… painful. Lonely. A witcher’s end and an unmarked grave.”

A nervous flutter had started in Jaskier’s heart and had now moved into his stomach. “And how long ago did you say this was?”

Her smile was sad. “Fifty-eight years ago.”

For a moment, it was hard to breathe. He felt as though his lungs had turned to ash.  Surely, this woman could not be right. Geralt wouldn’t let himself be beaten by an alghoul. Her power must have been nothing more than delusions, an overactive imagination or too long spent in the tavern that day. He could not lose Geralt. 

Vaguely, he felt like he might be sick. Deianeira continued to speak.

“I thought it was clear, but... there was a whisper at the breaking point. A faint, whispery line. It came and went with the flickering of the light but it was there .”

“What was it?”

“I did not know then,” she said. “But I know now. It is you.”

“ What?”

“ You are the difference. You are the ghost of the line that continued past his death. His fate is tied around you.” She shook her head. “There should not be a way for his life to continue past his own death, but there is something about you, Julian. There always has been.”

He sat up, startled. “How do you know that name?”

She smiled at him. “Just as you see things I cannot, I see things you cannot. I see that you love him more than anyone else in the world.”

It felt like all the air in the room had been sucked out. He could not bring himself to say anything. Deianeira leaned forward and took his hands in her own. Her skin was warm and her hands were a strong, grounding presence.

“You need not hide that, child,” she said softly. “Your love is your gift. More than your music, more than your wit, more than anything else you have learned. In everything you do, you love proudly and gladly and well. That is the strength of your gift. That is the chance you have given your witcher. When I met him and told him of this fate, he merely thanked me for my time and left without a word. I did not tell him of the whispering line because I did not have answers for its mysteries. Now I do, for he is in the woods hunting the alghoul that will be his destiny, and his bard turns up on my porch.”

Jaskier’s head was spinning, thoughts and fears chasing each other around so quickly that he could not grab on to any of them. There was only one constant in his mind. 

Geralt is in danger. Geralt is in danger. Geralt is in danger. 

I have to help him. 

“What do I do?” he whispered. “Please, I… tell me how to help him.”

She squeezed his hands. “Find him at sundown. I do not know what you will have to do, but know this: it will only work if you both are on the same page.”

Jaskier stared at her, blinking. “What does that mean? Same page of what ?”

“Go,” she said, releasing his hands and shooing him up out of the chair. “He’ll be deep in the woods by now. You have a few hours until sunset. If he has not returned by then, find him. Go on, shoo!”

Jaskier protested, but Deianeira was having none of it, talking over him and gesturing towards the door until he somehow found himself standing back in the street where the child had almost knocked him over. 

So. Geralt was possibly going to die tonight, according to a woman who had met him sixty years ago, his only hope would be Jaskier figuring out how to tell Destiny herself to fuck off, Jaskier had no idea where Geralt had gone in the first place, and he still had not replaced any of their supplies. 

Lovely. 

“Well, first things first, I suppose,” he muttered to himself, straightening his doublet and continuing his walk towards the market. 

If he was going to save Geralt from the clutches of Death, he should at least be able to feed him afterward. Supplies and food first. Then he could figure out what in the world he was supposed to do with himself between now and sunset. 

If they both lived through this, it would make one hell of a song. 

|-|-|-|-| 

It was shaping up to be a spectacular sunset, the sky above the treetops gilded in golds and pinks that would make any painter reach for their brushes. The breeze was cool and pleasant, ruffling Jaskier’s hair as he walked, and he could hear birdsong in the forest. It was, all in all, a lovely evening. 

However, Jaskier thought to himself, swearing as he tripped over a tree root, trudging through the forest looking for a witcher that could very well be dying had a way of making it a wee bit difficult to appreciate a good sunset. Funny how that worked. 

He had paced most of the afternoon away, checking and rechecking that he had packed his newly acquired first aid supplies into the bag he slung over his back and desperately trying to remember anything Geralt had ever told him about alghouls.

Really, all he could remember was that they had a taste for human flesh, much like other ghouls, but were ballsy enough to prey on the living as well as the dead. Delightful. 

Now, with leaves and twigs crunching underfoot, he was walking into the woods. He wanted nothing more than for Geralt to walk out of the trees, perfectly healthy, and berate Jaskier for leaving the town. 

So far, there was no sound save his own racing heart. Geralt had been gone most of the day. If he’d spent it all in the woods, there was no telling how far away he might be. Most monsters, however, were lazy; if something had been preying on townspeople, it wouldn’t be an entire day’s walk from the town. The monster would be close by, and where there were monsters, witchers were quick to follow.

Jaskier could only hope he came across Geralt before the monster came across him . He had a dagger in his hand, but he sincerely hoped he’d never have to use it. It had seen more use as a paperweight than a weapon, for Melitele’s sake. 

A twig snapped somewhere to Jaskier’s right. He turned on his heel, heart pounding painfully in his chest. 

“Geralt?” he called. “Geralt, is that you?”

There was no reply. Leaves rustled. 

Jaskier swallowed and forced himself to speak, keeping his tone light. “My dear witcher, if your idea of a practical joke is scaring your only friend half to death, you and I are going to have words . Come out, will you?”

Again, no reply. 

Perhaps he had imagined the noise?

Another twig snapped. It sounded closer this time, and if Jaskier strained his ears, he could hear something breathing. He tightened his grip on the dagger; whatever it was, it didn’t sound like Geralt. As carefully as he could, Jaskier crept through the brush towards the noise, his stomach tying itself in knots. 

Run , Geralt’s voice said in his head. You’re going to end up as something’s dinner and it’ll use your little dagger as a toothpick.

Quiet, you, he thought to himself sternly. 

Taking a deep breath and steeling himself, Jaskier leaped into the clearing with his dagger held out in front of him. 

“ Roach?”

Roach looked up from her grazing and huffed at him, unbothered by his sudden appearance. 

“Oh, I am so glad to see you,” Jaskier said, sheathing his dagger and running up to her. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, you sneaky girl, lurking around in the woods like that. Where’s your witcher?” 

She huffed again as he stroked her mane. She was loosely tied to a thin sapling with enough slack to wander a little and graze. Jaskier untied her lead, stashing it into one of her saddlebags. 

“Come on, girl,” he said, taking her reins in hand. “You have to help me find Geralt. If you’re here, he couldn’t have gone far. He never leaves you far behind.” 

Roach tossed her head, nearly yanking the reins out of his hands, and tried to stamp on his feet. Jaskier fought back a very sudden urge to scream. 

“Roach, please,” he said, running a hand down her neck soothingly, “It’s just me, you know me. Let’s go find Geralt and get out of these creepy woods. Come on, doesn’t that sound nice? We’ll get you back to the inn where it’s warm and dry and I’ll steal you some apples from the kitchen again. Just come on. Help me find your witcher.”

Roach tossed her head again when he took the reins, but he kept his grip. She stared at him for a long moment. 

Finally, just as Jaskier was about to give up on this plan, she dropped her head and stepped forward, walking beside him placidly. 

“Oh, good girl ,” he said, shoulders sagging in relief. “You can have all the apples you want once we find Geralt, I promise.”

Her tail flicked, swatting Jaskier in the back of the head. They walked through the woods in silence that seemed to stretch on forever, Jaskier’s ears straining for any sound of Geralt or the monster he’d been looking for. The silence was deafening. Even the birds seemed to have gone quiet as the last bits of sunlight faded from the sky. 

Fear had settled into his stomach, cold and heavy. He had been in the woods at night before, of course, but almost always in the company of a witcher. Now, he was alone (except for Roach, who would probably run off and leave him at the first sign of trouble). Even worse, Geralt , wherever he was, was alone and likely hurt. The seer’s words from that afternoon kept playing in his head, filling the silence with her terrible certainty. 

He is in the woods, hunting the alghoul that will be his destiny, and his bard turns up on my porch.   

They came across a small clearing that looked far too familiar for Jaskier’s liking.

“Roach,” he said, “Have we been walking in a fucking circle?”

Roach snorted at him, nudging his shoulder with her nose. Jaskier had seen her do the same to Geralt when she wanted attention or a treat. He absentmindedly reached up and stroked her nose, staring around the clearing as though if he glared at it hard enough, it would transform into a different part of the forest. 

Night had fallen properly now, and it was hard to tell by moonlight, but Jaskier was fairly certain this was the clearing he had found Roach in. There was a roughly Roach-sized patch of flattened grass where she might have been lying down and a thin sapling like the one she had been tied to. Tears pricked at Jaskier’s eyes, hot and sudden. He had no idea where Geralt was or how to find him. He had more experience in the woods than most traveling bards, sure, but he was after a witcher. He was never going to find Geralt in the dark unless Geralt wanted to be found. 

His witcher was going to die and there was nothing he could do about it. 

“Let’s stay here, Roach,” Jaskier said, wiping his face with his sleeve. “Geralt never leaves you alone for too long. He’ll come back.”

Please let him come back. 

Time passed slowly. Jaskier found himself wishing that he had brought his lute to pass the time; he was terribly nervous and needed something to do with his hands. Instead, all he had was a dagger and a bag of supplies, both of which felt extremely useless at the moment. 

The still night air was pierced by a loud whistle. Roach picked up her head, her ears pricking forward. Jaskier jumped back to his feet, his heart racing. 

The whistle came again in three short bursts. Roach neighed loudly, scaring Jaskier out of his skin. 

“What has gotten into you, girl?” he said, stroking a hand down her neck. “What is it?”

Roach tossed her head again, stamping in place. Her ears were forward and she was looking around the clearing. Something small and hopeful started in Jaskier’s chest. She only looked this excited around Geralt. 

Again, a long whistle followed by three short bursts. It sounded louder this time. Again, Roach called back.

Moments later, Jaskier could hear footsteps through the undergrowth. 

“Geralt?”

“ Jaskier?”  

Jaskier could have wept with relief. Geralt staggered into the clearing, holding a bloody burlap sack and pressing one hand to his side. His eyes were black, reflecting the weak moonlight, and Jaskier could make out dark veins tracing down his face and neck. Still on potions, then. 

“The fuck are you doing here?” Geralt said, scowling.

“There was a soothsayer in the village, she said she met you ages ago and saw that you were going to die hunting an alghoul in these woods and that I had to come and find you and — ”

“Wasn’t an alghoul,” Geralt interrupted, tossing the bag towards Roach, who leaned down to sniff it. “Fucking wyverns.”

“But it…” Jaskier trailed off, shaking his head a little. The blind panic that had settled around him since that afternoon lifted slightly. “She said…”

“She lied, bard,” Geralt said, easing himself down to the ground with a low groan. He tipped his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. “Fuck. At least about the monster.”

“Geralt, are you hurt?” he said, moving forward and kneeling in the dirt beside him. Up close, the panic settled back in tenfold. Geralt’s hand was dripping crimson where it was pressed against his side, his knee swollen and unnaturally bent, bruises and cuts seeming to multiply before his eyes. He pried Geralt’s hand away and gasped. 

Geralt’s side was shredded. Blood was still oozing from the wound, the remaining skin a mess of blood and bruises. A chunk of the muscle on his side was missing , an asymmetrical dip in his side that definitely had not been there when he’d left. Jaskier was fairly certain that he was seeing Geralt’s fucking organs and a flash of white that might be a rib. He felt like he might throw up. If Geralt were a normal man, this bite would’ve snapped him in half. 

“Melitele’s tits, Geralt, what happened ?”

“Told you,” Geralt said, not opening his eyes. “Fucking wyverns. Thought there were two by the tracks. Found six. One got behind me and bit my side, shook me and dropped me down a hill. Hit rocks at the bottom and they swarmed me again.”

“There’s… so much blood, Geralt,” he said, reaching out to help unclasp his armor. “It took a bite out of you and that knee is definitely shattered, we need to get you to a healer, I don’t even know how you managed to walk back here.”

Geralt shook his head. “Can’t… get that far,” he said, his voice growing alarmingly quiet. “Losing too much blood. I need to stitch up here. Hand me my bag.”

“Let me help you, you ridiculous fucking witcher,” Jaskier said, setting his own bag beside Geralt and standing to get his potion bag. “You can hardly take care of all that yourself.”

Geralt grunted but did not protest. Jaskier was going to have to count that as a win. 

He could not shake the looming feeling that something was wrong. Deianeira had seemed very certain that it would be an alghoul that would have caused this, not a pack of wyverns. Perhaps her vision had been wrong, or perhaps the alghoul would be later this year if they passed through this town again. 

As though Destiny could hear his thoughts and existed to spite him, a low groaning sound and heavy footfalls echoed from just outside the clearing. 

Geralt swore loudly and hauled himself to his feet, his face going impossibly whiter. 

“What the fuck was that?” Jaskier demanded.

Geralt drew his sword. Silver. The one for monsters. 

“It’s your fucking alghoul,” Geralt said, bracing his injured side against the tree and holding his sword in front of him. “Get on Roach and if I tell you to run, run.”

“Geralt, I —”

“ Now, Jaskier!”

Jaskier scrambled up into Roach’s saddle, already privately determined that he would not be running away no matter what Geralt said. 

The alghoul lurched in the clearing, a hulking, grotesque thing. The stench of death wafted off of it as it locked its beady eyes on Geralt. 

For a moment, nothing moved. Then, the alghoul sprang forward with a roar and Geralt pushed himself off of the tree to meet it. The fight had nothing of Geralt’s usual finesse; with a leg that could barely hold weight and a terrible wound in his side, it was all he could do to remain upright. His footwork, normally quick and agile, was slow and halting. Geralt landed a few glancing blows, but the alghoul seemed unbothered and swung at him again and again. 

Jaskier gripped his dagger tightly in his hand. So far, the beast did not seem to notice him or Roach in the far corner of the clearing, tucked behind the trunk of a tree. If it would just turn its back to him… 

With another loud roar, the alghoul tackled Geralt to the ground and lowered its head to his neck. There was an awful wet sound.

“Geralt!” Jaskier yelled, leaping down from Roach’s saddle. In his haste, he tripped, falling to his hands and knees. “ Geralt!”

The alghoul turned to look at him, blood dripping down its chin. Jaskier pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the trembling in his limbs, and held his dagger out in front of him. The monster rose once more, eyes fixed on Jaskier.

It didn’t make it one step before the tip of a silver sword burst through its chest. It looked down as if surprised, raising a hand to its chest. The tip disappeared, and a moment later swung down in a silver arc, severing the alghoul’s head from its shoulders. 

The beast crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut. Behind it, Geralt stood for a moment, swaying, before letting his sword clatter to the ground and collapsing. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier swore, rushing forward and dropping to his knees beside Geralt. A bite mark on his neck was gushing blood far too rapidly. Jaskier knew with cold certainty that Geralt could not make it back to the village in this state. He’d lost too much blood and his leg would no longer support him. They were stuck in the woods. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, shaking his shoulders a little. “Geralt, stay with me. I need you to stay awake.”

Geralt’s eyes opened, blinking slowly. The familiar yellow was slowly returning. “You okay?”

Jaskier laughed, an edge of hysteria making it sound slightly crazed. “Am I okay? You’re lying in the dirt bleeding to death and you want to know if I’m okay?”

“It saw you,” Geralt said, “Did I kill it?”

Jaskier sat down and gently guided Geralt’s head into his lap. Tears that had been building all day finally began to fall. “You killed it,” he said, running a hand through Geralt’s hair as gently as he could. “I’m safe, Roach is safe.”

“S’good,” Geralt mumbled, his eyes drifting closed again. 

“No no no, keep your eyes open,” Jaskier said, tugging at his hair slightly. “C’mon, Geralt, you have to stay awake, tell me how to help you. I have your potion bag here, what do you need?”

Geralt was quiet for a moment, clearly struggling to focus. “White Honey first,” he said. “White, round vial. Then Kiss, red vial, and Swallow, blue vial.”

Jaskier firmly ignored the idiotic part of his brain that wanted to find some bawdy joke about how witchers named their potions and dug through the bag.

“Fuck, I can hardly see,” he said, digging through and straining his eyes. “I should have brought a torch, what was I thinking …”

A small flame danced on Geralt’s fingertips. “Be quick,” he said. “Can’t hold a Sign long right now.”

Jaskier nodded, pulling out three vials and sighing in relief when Geralt nodded. The flame flickered out.

“Alright, which one first?”

“White Honey, unless you’re trying to stop my heart,” Geralt said. “Then the other two.”

Jaskier obeyed, hauling Geralt semi-upright and tipping potions into his mouth. The last of the black veins around his eyes receded, and Jaskier waited with bated breath for something else to happen, some clear sign that Geralt would heal and that they could leave this nightmare forest behind them. 

Nothing happened.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said softly, not bothering to hide the tremor in his voice, “Are you dying?”

“Hmm. Feels like it.”

Jaskier’s heart ached fiercely. He let Geraly lay back down, stroking his hair and cradling his head in his lap. Trying, at least, to offer a little bit of comfort. 

“Is there anything else I can do?” he asked, keeping the rhythm of his hands steady. “I can try to stitch that wound.”

Geralt’s brow was furrowed tightly, his face pale and drawn. “No point yet,” he said. “Either the potions work or they don’t. If they work, I’ll stitch it. If they don’t…”

“You’ll die.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said, closing his eyes. “You don’t have to stay.”

“I bloody well disagree, thanks,” Jaskier said hotly. “What kind of friend would I be if I left my best friend to die in the woods alone?”

“I’m a witcher,” Geralt said. “We die on the Path. Always alone.”

“Yes, well,” Jaskier said, blinking through a fresh wave of tears and ignoring the squeeze of his heart that always happened when Geralt said things like that, “You’ve always been a bit of a rebel, my dear wolf, so you’ll just have to put up with my company a little longer.”

“I don’t… put up with you,” Geralt said, voice growing soft. “It’s… I like traveling with you. You’re never… scared of me.”

“Oh, my darling witcher,” Jaskier said, bending to press his lips to Geralt’s forehead. “Never. I have never been scared of you, but I must admit I am terrified for you right now. I am scared that you’re going to die alone and in pain in the woods trying to save a world that doesn’t appreciate you.” 

Geralt had closed his eyes at the touch of Jaskier’s lips. “Not alone,” he said, “I have you. And it doesn’t hurt too bad.”

“You’re lying to me.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said, looking up at him. “Maybe.” 

Jaskier continued to gently stroke his hair and talk or hum quietly, trying to keep Geralt from slipping into unconsciousness. He wasn’t sure if Geralt would wake up again if he passed out now. 

Gods, his heart was breaking. This was the man he loved more than anyone else in the world, the one he had been following for so much of his life, writing songs about and falling slowly in love with. 

“The soothsayer was wrong,” Jaskier said. His voice broke. He did not care. “She said I would be able to save you, but she was wrong . I can’t do anything. Geralt, I’m so sorry.”

Geralt smiled. “Not your fault,” he said. “And you are doing something.”

“Keeping you company is not the same as saving your life!”

“I’ve walked my Path alone for decades,” Geralt said. His voice was alarmingly quiet now, his breath shallow and rasping. Talking was waning what little strength he had left, but Geralt seemed determined to say something. “Witchers die alone. End up in an unmarked grave if we’re lucky. Forgotten before we’ve gone cold. But I have you.” He sighed, closing his eyes and seeming content to rest his weary head in Jaskier’s lap. “I’ve always had you.”

Jaskier moved to sit beside him, laying Geralt’s head down onto the ground as gently as possible. He took Geralt’s face in both of his hands, brushing one thumb gently under his beautiful golden eyes. 

“Please don’t hate me for this,” he whispered before he leaned in and kissed Geralt. 

Frankly, Jaskier wasn’t sure what he had expected. To be shoved away, maybe. Geralt to be angry or disgusted or just plain confused, almost certainly. 

He had not expected Geralt to gasp softly into his mouth and kiss him back, running a hand through his hair and pulling him closer until Jaskier was leaning over him and kissing him desperately.

A shiver ran down Jaskier’s spine. His lips, pressed against Geralt’s own, felt like they were tingling. Geralt’s heart, deathly slow beneath his fingertips, began to beat faster. He drew back only enough to breathe, leaning his forehead against Geralt’s. 

“I love you,” Jaskier said, closing his eyes. A tear dropped from his eyes onto Geralt’s cheeks, seeming to glow for a moment before disappearing into his skin. Neither one of them noticed. “I think I always have.”

“Fuck, Jas, c’mere,” Geralt said, pulling him back in and kissing him again. For all the desperation in his voice and the tremor in his hands, Geralt was gentle and his kiss was unhurried, as though they had all the time in the world. 

Jaskier had kissed noble lords and ladies at fancy court balls, cute barmaids in secluded corners of charming taverns, and classmates at Oxenfurt in the quiet of the expansive library. None of them held a candle to kissing his witcher, covered in blood on the floor of a forest. It felt like a piece of him long-missing had finally slotted into place, a part of his soul that had been aching for so long finally rejoicing. It felt like coming home . Geralt tasted like the potions Jaskier had tipped down his throat, an odd mix of something vaguely alcoholic and herbs and magic , and Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to care. 

“I love you,” Geralt whispered against his skin, turning his head to kiss Jaskier’s cheeks, his nose, his forehead. “I love you.”

“Please don’t go,” Jaskier whispered back. “This is not how this is supposed to end. Please don’t go.”

“Jas, look at me,” he said, “I’m here. You... it's your healing. It's getting better.”

Jaskier looked. He stared in disbelief. Geralt’s wounds, spilling the last of his vitality onto the forest floor just moments ago, had stopped bleeding. The alghoul bite on his neck seemed to have shrunk.

“Geralt?” he asked “Are your potions working or is this a magic witcher healing thing?”

“It’s not my magic,” Geralt said. “It’s yours .”

Their conversation from weeks ago leapt to the forefront of Jaskier’s mind. Geralt’s insistence that there was something magic about Jaskier’s kisses seemed much less like a fairy tale now.

“Geralt, I have magic !” Jaskier exclaimed, looking closer at the wound on his side. It was still deep, still painful, and still in desperate need of a healer, but the bleeding had all but stopped, and the skin around the wound had regained some of its normal color. “Holy fuck, I can do magic. ”

Geralt laughed. It was the sweetest sound Jaskier had ever heard. “I know, bard,” he said fondly. “I tried to tell you.”

“I didn’t think it could be true, I thought that was just…”

“Just how kissing works?”

Jaskier flushed slightly, embarrassed at his previous reasoning. “Are you really going to be alright?” he asked, looking closely at his face. 

“Hmm,” Geralt said with a crooked smile. “Better kiss me again to make sure.”

For what felt like the first time in ages, the tightness in Jaskier’s chest eased. Geralt was here, teasing him like always and looking up at him with adoration plain on his normally stoic face. He was alive and they were going to be okay. 

He bent to kiss him again, laughing in delight when Geralt leaned up on one elbow and yanked him against his chest to kiss him senseless. He was getting blood and dirt and monster guts all over his jacket, and he didn’t care one bit. They stayed in the clearing, kissing and patching Geralt’s wounds until the first edges of the dawn started casting light through the trees, lighting their way back to the village. 

As they made their way back, Jaskier bolstering Geralt’s bad side, Geralt pressed a kiss to his head. 

“Thank you,” he said. “For coming to find me.”

“My dear, it would take more than an alghoul and some trees to keep me from coming after you,” Jaskier replied. “I’m just glad I found you.”

“So am I.”

“Where will we go now?”

Geralt hummed, thinking. “It’s nearing winter anyway,” he said, “And this wound in my side will need time to heal, magic kisses or not. We’ll start heading to Kaer Morhen in the morning.”

Jaskier’s heart fluttered. “We?”

Geralt kissed him again, like he’d been doing it for years. 

(Gods, they should have been doing this for years .)

“Yes, we,” he confirmed. “Come home.”

Jaskier squeezed his hand, feeling lighter than he had in years. “My dear, sweet witcher,” he said, “I am home.”