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you be my fire and I’ll be your gasoline, Ch.9

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They ride in silence for some time after that, but the silence is comfortable enough for Jaskier to relax, let his guard down again, lifting his face towards the sun and basking in its warmth. Around them, the Path becomes busier than it had been for the last couple of days, the castle of Denesle and its surrounding lands growing closer with every hour. They should reach it by nightfall.

Jaskier’s leading the way, and it’s only when the setting sun paints the sky in shades of red and orange that Geralt finally asks why they’re headed to Denesle at all, since it calls for a two-hour detour.

“Well, my darling,” Jaskier smiles, reaching into his saddlebags and pulling out a neatly folded letter. “That is because I like to plan everything in advance, including the sources for my coin. There’s a ball being held in celebration of Eyck's cousin receiving his knightly title. I’ve arranged lodgings in the castle and a tolerable payment for entertainment that I am to provide.”

Geralt’s eyebrows arch in what seems to be a mix of mild surprise and pride. He reaches out for the letter, opens it, runs his eyes over the neat lines of runes.

“And my part in that is?”

“Looking pretty and not getting in the way,” Jaskier says, beaming a smile at the witcher. “Eyck is not the biggest fan of witchers, from what I’ve heard, but his cousin, Luke, is reportedly a much lovelier creature. So my plan is to stick close to him and avoid Eyck, because I don’t really feel like throwing hands.”

“When you say that his cousin is a “much lovelier creature” it sounds like you’re planning on batting your eyelashes at him the entire evening,” Geralt points out, snorting.

“Oh, I am,” Jaskier grins in response. “Gotta make sure he remembers his big evening, do I not? And him being enamoured with me probably means a better bedroom.”

“Because he will hope to sleep with you.”

“Who doesn’t?”

Geralt rolls his eyes in exasperation, but Jaskier just blows him a kiss, disarming the witcher completely. His mind, though, wanders, and Jaskier finds himself thinking back on the couple of instances when he’d been to a ball or a banquet with Coën, and they both flirted their way through the whole thing shamelessly, looking for someone that they both liked for the three of them to then spend the night together. Coën rarely slept with women, most of his appetites directed towards his own sex, but there still had been a night when Jaskier managed to talk him into it, after a noblewoman with the best tits he ever did see set her eyes on him.

And though Coën could be territorial — for Jaskier’s pleasure, mostly, — he’d never been jealous, having told the bard repeatedly that there is nothing in this world easier than sex, and that he wasn’t going to be the one to complicate it. He slept with anyone and everyone he wanted to, and Jaskier was more than welcome to do the same — when they were together, none of it mattered, regardless.

Now, sliding a sideways glance towards Geralt, Jaskier wonders, distantly, if the Wolf would ever agree to a similar arrangement. They haven’t necessarily discussed past lovers, but from the couple of things that Geralt let slip, Jaskier deduced that if the witcher crossed paths with a woman that possessed so much as a hint of magic, sleeping with her suddenly became his vital need.

That was… different to the Geralt that Jaskier was used to, but he supposed that he didn’t mind. All that bothered him was the thought that, maybe, the witcher treats all his lovers the way he treats him, that Jaskier isn’t special, and Geralt is simply unusually affectionate for a witcher. For that reason, Jaskier decides not to offer him the same arrangement that he’s got with Coën, not right now, at least. It’s not like he was planning on sleeping with anyone in the immediate future, anyway.

However, he does ask:

“You are fine with me batting my lashes at him, are you not?”

Geralt gives him a look.

“What is this, primary school?” he says. “You’re not going to hurt my feelings by giving your attention to someone else.”

That, Jaskier thinks, Is certainly a relief.

When he graduated from the Academy, he promised himself that he was never going to change anything about himself for the benefit of others. He kept that promise over the eight years of knowing this realm’s Geralt, no matter how appealing seemed the thought of adjusting himself more to the witcher’s liking, and he wasn’t going to change for his other version. This Geralt treated him like an actual human being, never snapping or snarling at him, and that made Jaskier’s chest constrict with barely contained emotions, but that didn’t mean that he was going to tailor himself to the witcher’s standards if the demand was to ever arise.

Knowing that he doesn’t have to, at least in this, allows him to breathe easier.

Relationships are a complicated fucking thing, he thinks to himself, And half-relationships are even worse.

“Lovely,” he says instead, smiling. “It’s settled, then. I make sure we have nice rooms for the night, and you stand there, admiring my unmatched skills.”

***

Denesle greets them with lit bannisters and the heady scent of rose bushes. Geralt sneezes at it like a dog and refuses to stop.

“Once we’re past the gates, just follow my lead,” Jaskier says. “Ask questions when we’re alone.”

Geralt gives him a somewhat agreeing look and sneezes again. Whether or not he’s allergic to roses, he doesn’t say. Jaskier doubts that witchers can be allergic to anything to begin with, but Geralt’s watering eyes beg to differ.

“Is the event tonight?” he asks.

Jaskier shakes his head. “Tomorrow. We’ll stay here for two nights. I enjoy sleeping under the stars as much as the next man, but before performing, I’d much prefer to stay in a proper bed.”

Geralt sneezes in agreement, and Roach flicks her ears at him, unimpressed.

At the gates, they are greeted by guards who let them through without much questioning after Jaskier hands them the letter signed by Eyck. They do give Geralt a double take but the witcher stays silent, as agreed, and they make it through into the courtyard without any trouble. It’s there that Jaskier suddenly feels a sharp stab of anxiety at the thought that he’s got no idea about what he’s going to do if they run into the other Geralt.

That thought, however, is quickly cast aside, as there is no way that Geralt would ever go to any sort of event of his own volition, and seeing that for the past eight years it had always been Jaskier that dragged him to them, they’re in no real risk.

Jaskier swings down from Cerbin’s saddle with easy grace, and when a stablehand comes over to take the reins from him, he gives them over, running a gentle hand over his stallion’s nose before smiling and telling the young boy with adorable chestnut curls to take good care of him. The stablehand blushes under the gaze of Jaskier’s blue eyes and bows his head, saying that he ought not worry.

Geralt regards the whole exchange with a somewhat surprised look on his face, but stays silent as he dismounts and hands the boy Roach’s reins, as well. The stablehand looks at him for a fleeting moment before his attention is back on Jaskier, already walking towards the castle gates. Geralt, still silent, follows.

They get past the gates without further questions and are greeted by a servant woman who seems to know Jaskier, as she smiles at him, bright as the sun.

“Viscount de Lettenhove!” she beams. “What a pleasure to see you in our humble domain.”

“It’s just Jaskier, my darling Iona,” the bard replies, his smile just as bright. “And don’t let Eyck hear you calling Denestle “a humble domain””

“Oh, what does he know,” Iona says, rolling her eyes before her attention switches to Geralt, who sneezes as a way of greeting. “And your esteemed companion is?”

Geralt opens his mouth to answer, but Jaskier is quicker.

“Oh, of course, where are my manners? This is Gervant.”

The expression that flickers over Geralt’s face is hard to decipher but Jaskier bets that it’s disbelief.

“Gervant?” Iona repeats as if trying the name out on her tongue.

“Of Corvo Bianco,” Jaskier adds quickly. “He is visiting the North from Toussaint. It is his homeland, after all. Though it’s been— how many years?”

“More than the young lady has lived,” Geralt says.

That’s not true, as he’d mentioned that he’d left the Northern Kingdoms a few years ago, and Iona is in her mid-thirties, but his name is also not Gervant, so as far as Jaskier is concerned, the witcher is playing along perfectly well.

“Then I can only hope you will find a little time to entertain us with the stories of your home,” Iona says, before ushering them both towards a grand staircase leading deeper into the castle. “But you both must be awfully tired after your journey, so off you go, your rooms are ready, and I will have someone bring you dinner momentarily.”

Before Jaskier has the chance to say anything else, Iona already runs off, preoccupied with the preparations for tomorrow’s grand event, and there is another servant, this one male, who appears out of nowhere to take Jaskier and Geralt to their rooms.

They walk up multiple staircases, the castle alive with activity, until finally, the servant makes a turn for the West wing of the castle and leads them down a long corridor decorated with tapestries and suits of armour hidden in the alcoves. This is the guest wing, and the wealth is, of course, of display.

Denesle might be a small castle but it is a castle nonetheless.

“Master Luke has expressed his wish for a promenade in the gardens after you are done with your dinner,” the servant says to Jaskier when they reach the door to what the bard can only assume is his room. “If you feel like you are not too tired after your journey, of course.”

As he talks, his gaze never leaves Jaskier, and it’s clear that the invitation is extended towards him alone. The bard gives Geralt a quick glance over the servant’s shoulder but the witcher doesn’t even notice, studying a painting depicting a hunting scene.

“I’ll be delighted,” Jaskier says, and finds it to be true. Meeting Luke before the festivities tomorrow seems like a good idea, and he is rather intrigued by Eyck’s younger cousin. “Please, tell him that I shall be ready in two hours time.”

Unwilling to draw unnecessary attention to them travelling together, since Geralt shouldn’t really be in this realm in the first place, Jaskier doesn’t stay in the corridor to see where the servant takes the witcher, instead opening the door to his room and slipping inside. Geralt knows where he is, he will find him.

Inside the spacious room, the hearth is already lit, and Jaskier’s bags are waiting for him by the chest at the foot of the bed. This is the first time in nearly two weeks that he’s alone, and as Jaskier falls onto the bed, he breathes a sigh of relief.

Travelling with Geralt was easy and familiar — for the most part, — but he still needed time to himself, regardless. It was like that with everyone, and the witcher wasn’t at fault in the slightest. No matter how much of a people person Jaskier was, from time to time he needed to be left alone, even if for just an hour or two. Just so he could get all his thoughts back in order, breathe some air that was only his.

Geralt, he imagined, was also enjoying the opportunity to be alone but still close enough to fall asleep in the same bed when the time came.

The furs on the bed are soft to the touch, pleasantly warm, and Jaskier runs his hand through them, revelling in the thought that he’s going to sleep in this bed for two nights. He was used to the Path, and he loved it, he really did, but he couldn’t deny that he missed the comforts of good beds, rooms that had more than one window and meals prepped for him by someone else. He was a viscount by blood, and that never went away, no matter how many years he spent on the Path. And though Jaskier didn’t want to run the estate in Lettenhove, like his father, though he left home to build a different life for himself, there were often times when he’d lie awake at night and dream about life at court.

At some point, when he was still in the Academy, he thought that he might one day marry into royalty. It wasn’t necessarily a plan, but he did entertain the thought.

In recent years, though he still thought about court a lot, he didn’t feel like that was the way he wanted to be connected to it. He didn’t know if he wanted marriage at all, and it wasn’t even Geralt that made him feel that way. He just wasn’t sure it was for him.

Sitting up on the bed, Jaskier makes himself take off his riding doublet that he’d opted for instead of the armour to avoid unnecessary questions here, at Denesle. He knows for sure that Iona has already sent someone to prepare a bath for him, and the thought of spending the next hour in hot water sends a thrill of anticipation down his spine. The days have been growing steadily warmer with the summer fast approaching, but the nights were still cold, and Jaskier was dreaming about finally not being cold after the sun had set for the past two weeks.

By the time he hears a soft knock on the door, a servant’s voice informing him that the bath is ready and that the dinner will be brought up shortly, Jaskier is already dressed in nothing but a loose chemise. Leaving the door to the bedroom unlocked so that someone can bring in the tray later, he slips behind the door to the adjacent room where a steaming wooden bath is waiting for him, the water fragrant with oils.

He feels suddenly tired like the two weeks have caught up to him in one instant, but more than the physical tiredness that comes naturally with spending long hours in the saddle and then sleeping on the ground, he feels emotional exhaustion. Travelling with Geralt had Jaskier asking himself a lot of questions, and since their conversation in the morning, Jaskier couldn’t quite keep his mind from circling back to it over and over again.

The hot water, blissfully, makes all those thoughts fade.

Jaskier barely notices as time goes by, fixing all his attention on the soaps and salts that are provided in neatly organised rows on a small wooden table next to the tub. He washes his hair twice, getting rid of all the dirt from the Path, runs a washcloth over his whole body until his skin is pink and tingling. Tomorrow he won’t have time for a bath, and he needs to look his best for the celebration.

Stepping out of the water and onto the soft towel by the bath, his hair still dripping and water running in rivulets down his chest and back, Jaskier wraps himself in a bathrobe left hanging on a hook for him, and the softness of it feels heavenly against his freshly scrubbed skin.

If it was up to him, he probably would’ve eaten dinner and gone straight to bed, but he knew he’s expected for a rendezvous, and if Jaskier was used to anything, it was late nights. Sometimes he was dreading them, but tonight, despite his lingering tiredness, he was excited to meet the young knight. It’s been a little while since he had the chance to feel like he’s at court, and though Denesle wasn’t in any way connected to the royal family, it was better than the backwater taverns and inns that he’d spent most of his time in when he wasn’t sleeping under the stars.

The dinner he’s served is much better than what he’d gotten used to, as well. Aside from the venison and roasted potatoes, the silver tray is also laden with mushrooms, fresh bread, stuffed peppers and two desserts — a bowl of berries and a slice of pear pie.

Jaskier manages to finish all of it, not only weariness catching up to him but hunger, too. They ate on the road, of course, and there hasn’t been a single night that he had to go to bed with an empty stomach, but a hare roasted over the fire with only salt to use a spice wasn’t quite the same as a multi-course meal that he didn’t have to hunt, skin and cook himself.

By the time Jaskier pushes the tray of empty plates aside, he’s only got a quarter of an hour left before he’s supposed to be downstairs, and so, he dresses a little hastily, opting for high-waisted trousers and a billowy chemise that trails laces from the V-cut of the neckline that he would’ve done up if the meeting was scheduled during daytime. The evening, however, allows for a little frivolity.

Jaskier’s hair is still a little damp from the bath despite him spending the better part of the hour by the hearth, but it’s too late to do anything about it, and so he decides that it’s just part of his charm. And he already reaches for the door handle when he stops, quickly paces back to the bed and hides a dagger in his boot. Not because he fears for his safety but because he’d rather be prepared than not, Coën taught him that much, at the very least.

He slips out into the torch-lit corridor, making his way to the staircase, and from behind the other doors of the guest wing, he can hear muffled voices and laughter, even soft music. Most of the other guests that are to be attending tomorrow’s celebration have already arrived, then. For better or for worse, Jaskier doesn’t hear anyone familiar.

At the bottom of the staircase, Jaskier is met by a servant who informs him that he is just in time, and takes the bard through several rooms and corridors to the other side of the castle, where a grand double door opens out into the gardens.

Before he knows it, the servant disappears, and Jaskier is left alone on a pebble path. All around him, trees and bushes are lush with fresh leaves and flowers, and the air is filled with a heady scent of roses, hyacinths and jasmine. From somewhere further up the path, Jaskier can hear water splashing softly, which must be a fountain.

“I hope you can forgive me for not allowing you to rest at such an hour,” comes a voice from somewhere on the right, and though Jaskier’s first instinct is to whirl, he makes himself turn without a rush. “Truth be told, I am just too excited to be able to finally talk to someone who has travelled as much as you have. I’d not be able to sleep if I had to wait until tomorrow.”

Standing now face to face with the young knight, Jaskier suddenly realises that describing him as “a lovely creature” to Geralt had been an understatement. Backlit by the braziers burning along the garden path, Luke is a dream of any Beauclair painter with his curls of golden hair, soft brown eyes and a smile that could melt the ice of the Blue Mountains.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Jaskier smiles. “I’ll choose talking about music and travelling over sleep any day.”

The evening is surprisingly warm, and Jaskier did have two goblets of wine with his dinner, so getting cold doesn’t seem like a concern. Luke is dressed in a similar fashion to Jaskier, though his chemise is of a stricter cut, with no trailing laces and no open necklines. If they really are to talk about the Path, the conversation has the potential to last for hours.

“I suppose we will be formally introduced tomorrow, but until then, I’m Luke,” the knight says, extending his arm for a handshake.

“Jaskier.”

They take the path they’re on further down into the garden, past the lush and neatly trimmed flower bushes and perfectly aligned trees, and the conversation flows easily. Luke asks Jaskier about his first travels, about how he went about getting used to being on the Path for weeks at a time with the only guarantee being that when he wakes in the morning, the Path will still be there.

Jaskier understands why he’s asking.

As a young knight, Luke is expected to leave the family estate and go out into the world, prove himself worthy of his name and of his title. And though it’s clear that he’s eager to see the Continent, Jaskier knows how scary it is, deep down. When he’d decided to leave Lettenhove behind, we couldn’t sleep for days. If there was someone by his side who could tell him at least a little about what to expect, it would’ve been easier.

And so, he answers all of Luke’s questions, reassures him that he’ll get used to it, that he’ll find a rhythm that suits him.

“What about you?” Luke asks, stopping under a jasmine tree and reaching up to pull a branch toward himself, bury his face in the lush flowers, breathing in. “Have you found yours?”

He pushes his golden hair away from his face, leans against the trunk of the tree, a little more relaxed than before, like a weight is slowly lifting off his shoulders. Luke, Jaskier realises suddenly, isn’t hoping to get him into bed, he genuinely wants his company. It’s been a while since the last time he’d met someone that treated him like that.

“In a way,” Jaskier replies. “I love being on the Path, but there are times when I am reminded just how much I miss being at court. Or, well, something akin to it, like here.”

“You flatter us,” Luke smiles, a little coy. “Our humble estate can hardly be compared to any court.”

“Nonsense.”

They move deeper into the gardens, walking slowly and stopping every now and then to breathe in the smell of the blooming trees and bushes. Jaskier tells Luke about the healing properties of some of the plants they pass by, and about those that can be found outside of the castle.

“Have you learned all that from the witcher? The White Wolf, one that the songs are about?” Luke asks, at one point, unknowingly driving a sharp needle into Jaskier’s heart.

Geralt had never taught him anything other than heartbreak. He didn’t like Jaskier travelling with him for longer than a couple of days at a time — if at all, — and never bothered to make sure that the bard did well on his own. A thousand times Jaskier told himself that while the witcher wasn’t a bad man, he did not deserve the love that Jaskier felt for him, and a thousand times his reasonings shattered on the stones of his feelings.

Jaskier couldn’t will himself not to love, loving was all he knew how to do.

“From someone else,” he says, quick enough that the silence doesn’t betray him. “But I also read a lot about medicinal plants when I had the time. In Oxenfurt, there’s an entire section dedicated to the topic, you should take a look the next time you’re there.”

It wasn’t too long ago that he had to go and find the right plant on his own for the first time. His second year of knowing Coën, the witcher took him treasure hunting, always on the lookout for all sorts of trinkets that he insisted on collecting, and Jaskier was not experienced enough to know that when estates are abandoned, it’s not only treasures that are left behind but also traps. He’d pushed a door open, unthinkingly, and before he could take a single step inside, Coën pushed him out of the way, an arrow hissing through the air and lodging itself in the witcher’s side.

“I need you to go back the way we came and find ribleaf,” Coën says, one hand pressed tightly to his stomach as he slides carefully down a wall. He winces, just slightly, and Jaskier’s heart skips what feels like three beats in a row. “It’s a small plant with bright green leaves, looks like a weed. When you tear a leaf off and rub it between your fingers, it smells very bitter, like something you would sniff to fight back nausea. It’s usually isolated from all other greenery.”

Jaskier’s hands shake violently as he listens, watching the black fabric of Coën's shirt stick to his torso, soaked with blood. Only gods know why the witcher had decided not to wear his armour. Where his hand is pressed over the wound, the feathered end of the arrow protruding grotesquely in between the witcher’s fingers, his pale skin is painted bright red.

Jaskier kneels in front of him, afraid to touch but also craving to feel Coën’s subtle warmth, know that he’s alright. He whispers apologies, feeling like he’s to blame for the wound because it was his lack of awareness that got them here. Coën, however, just laughs, a little breathlessly, wincing from the pain. His impossibly green eyes sparkle with benevolent adoration.

“I’m not going to die from an arrow in my side, Jask,” he says, his other hand, one not covered in blood, coming up to cup the side of the bard’s face. “I doubt it will even leave much of a scar. I’m sending you out to find ribleaf mostly because you need to learn about medicinal plants, and this seems like a good time to start.”

“Ribleaf is great for healing all sorts of wounds,” Jaskier says, shaking off the memory and turning to face Luke. “You can use it as salves, but you can also steep it in hot water, and it will help both with fighting against infections and preventing them in the first place.”

Luke hums in acknowledgement, his brows knitting closer together for a moment and pushes himself away from the tree, inclining his head towards the garden path again. Jaskier follows him without a moment’s hesitation, allowing himself to just enjoy the walk and not think too hard about anything else. Gods know he’d been thinking way too much over the past couple of weeks.

“When are you planning to leave?” he asks when all there is to say about medicinal plants has been said. “Soon?”

Luke nods, pushes a lock of molten gold behind his ear, lifting his head to look up into the night sky. He’s hiding it, but Jaskier can tell that Luke’s fighting a complicated mix of emotions. He also felt them when leaving Lettenhove.

“In a week’s time,” Luke replies as they reach a fountain, mermaids carved out of stone. “I will miss home but I can’t wait to escape Eyck’s constant expectations and lectures. It’s like he wants me to be his exact copy, just blonde.”

He chuckles and shakes his head, almost apologetically, but Jaskier cuts him off before he has the chance to take anything back.

“I know what it feels like to be the subject of someone’s neverending expectations,” he stops by the fountain, and leans against the basin, folding his arms over his chest. “And I know what it feels like to miss home. In the worst of times, I used to think that, maybe, I left too early, that I was too young, but over the years, I realised that you can never truly be old enough to leave home. You can only grow up once you’ve left.”

He’d left Lettenhove when he was fifteen, going away to Oxenfurt to study, and the first thing he did when he got to his tiny room was cry. He knew people his age who were already married, and some even had children of their own, but Jaskier was allowed to keep his childhood for a little longer, and so, when he’d arrived in the Academy, and it finally hit him, what could he have done, of not cried for the last minutes of his carefree innocence?

After that, once the lectures started, and he met more people than he could remember, he quickly got into the new rhythm of things, falling madly in love with the newfound freedom to express himself, to love, to break all the imaginable rules. But he never forgot that first day, when he sat on the tiny single bed, pressing the blanket that his mother gave him and that still held her scent, to his face, and crying his eyes out, asking himself why in the name of all the gods did he decide to leave home.

“You’ll be alright,” Jaskier says, smiling at his memories. “For the first couple of weeks, you’ll keep asking yourself what possessed you to make the decision you’ve made, but soon enough, you’ll learn the new—”

Before he can finish, something catches his attention, a sound that doesn’t belong in the quiet of the summer night, and after that, it all happens too fast for Jaskier to keep track.

Somewhere in the lush trees, there is a loud rustle, a crack of a branch, and the next second, the silence of the night is shattered by a loud flap of giant wings. A harpy, it’s beak dangerously open and talons outstretched, makes a dive towards Luke, and Jaskier’s dagger is in his hand long before he thinks about it.

Pushing Luke, too stunned to move on his own, out of the way, he slashes at the harpy, the edge of the silver dagger slicing through its foot and making the beast shriek in pain and anger. It twists in the air, feathers moving so fast that it’s disorienting, and dives again, much faster. Luke, now on his back in the grass, reaches blindly to the side, desperately searching for something to use as a weapon, but before his fingers close around a rock, Jaskier strikes at the harpy again, twisting a pirouette to gain more momentum.

The tip of his dagger sinks into the beast’s thigh, and just as it turns to retaliate, Jaskier rips it out and plunges the blade into the harpy’s soft underbelly. Hot blood rushes down the dagger, spilling over Jaskier’s hand and forearm, the light cotton of his chemise stained beyond salvation in an instant. But a dagger is not the right weapon to fight a flying opponent, and so, even as Jaskier rips it out again, hoping to wound the harpy mortally, the beast twists in the air, screeches and makes a sharp turn towards the edge of the garden and out of the castle grounds. As it flies away, wings moving heavily, it drips a grotesque trail of red onto the grass and stone path.

Jaskier’s head feels fuzzy, his own heartbeat so loud in his ears that it’s hard to hear anything else. All around him, the night smells of wildflowers and blood.

“Luke,” he hears himself say, turning around. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

The familiar sense of euphoria that always comes with a hunt is there, somewhere deep in his chest, but much stronger is the anxiety, so sharp that Jaskier feels like he’s going to throw up. Over the years, there’s only been one time when he’d found himself ambushed like that, and then, he was only responsible for his own life. Now, he feels suddenly unprepared, dazed. Looking down at his hands, covered in slick blood, he can’t immediately tell if it’s just the harpy’s.

“Apart from me probably waking up tomorrow and finding half my hair grey?” Luke responds, his eyes still wide, glassy. “I think I’m—”

Before he can finish, one of his trembling hands lights up to his shoulder, more unconsciously than willingly, and Jaskier tracks that movement with his eyes, his stomach making some sort of a dangerous flip when he sees blood on Luke’s shirt, the fabric torn open on the shoulder. Next to the tear, there are dark smudges from what can only be his fingers. When he pushed Luke out of the way, he was already bleeding.

“Don’t,” Jaskier says, quickly, coming closer to kneel down next to Luke. “Don’t touch it, you’ll get dirt into the wound. I’ll— fuck, I’ll take you back inside, let’s get you up.”

Slipping his bloodied dagger back into this boot, Jaskier forces himself to take in a deep breath, but that does nothing for vertigo, the sweet scent of flowers and blood all around him overwhelming. Jaskier extends a hand to Luke, and helps him get up, steadying the young knight when he sways dangerously, pale and still completely stunned. Jaskier can’t blame him, he knows what it feels like — seeing your whole life flash before your eyes.

They make it back to the castle, and as soon as the servants see them, there’s a rush of anxious activity, seemingly the entire household gathered around them in a matter of seconds. It feels disorienting and overwhelming, but Jaskier still manages to tell the majordomo what had happened, carefully letting go of Luke when two more servants rush over to hold him up and take him somewhere where he can be patched up. As they part, Luke’s bloodied fingers slip over Jaskier’s wrist, and the bard promises to come to see him in the morning. It’s a promise that he intends to keep, but as soon as Luke’s weight is gone from his shoulders, his knees seem to buck under him, and Jaskier has to hold on to the railing tightly as he makes his way back up the staircase. He feels nauseous, tremors going through his body in waves.

There’s a burning pain somewhere below his ribs like he’s been branded with something, but he can’t bring himself to look, afraid that if he looks down, he will collapse.

When he reaches the floor that his allocated bedroom is on, he has to will himself to keep going, fighting the desire to simply slide down the wall and lie down. The smell of blood and flowers clings to him, and every sense in Jaskier’s body seems sharpened to a dangerous point. It must be the sudden rush of adrenaline, he tells himself, counting the doors to find his own.

He just manages to step into the bedroom when there’s a knock on the door, and in the quiet room, it sounds so loud that Jaskier starts.

“What happened?” comes Geralt’s from behind the door. “I heard voices downstairs, and when I came out to look for you, the whole corridor reeked of fresh blood.”

Passing a hand over his face, jaskier makes himself take in a deep breath because otherwise, he fears he will throw up the moment he opens his mouth.

“Come in,” he says. “It’s unlocked.”

Without looking to see if Geralt accepts the invitation, he sits down by the hearth, the low flames a pleasant, grounding warmth. He should wash the blood off his hands and change into something clean, but he can’t find it in himself to stand up.

A moment later, the door opens, and the witcher steps into the room soundlessly. Jaskier can hear him taking in a breath to smell the air for blood.

“There was a harpy in the garden,” he says before Geralt can ask. “I did not expect it, Luke got hurt. He’ll be alright, it’s nothing too serious, but I just— I just need a moment. I feel like I��ve had about a barrel of spiked vodka.”

For a long moment, Geralt just stays by the door, and Jaskier thinks that he might just leave, but then the witcher comes closer, and sits down next to him, giving Jaskier’s ruined chemise a once-over. The sleeves are soaked through with bright crimson, and, blooming like flowers all over the front of the shirt, are stains. Jaskier doesn’t think about them, doesn’t care about them. He feels like something completely out of his control is happening to his body, and when he lifts his eyes, he sees Geralt’s medallion vibrating violently as it did back at the inn. His head seems to pound in rhythm with it.

Geralt also looks down at his medallion, his brows pinching together in an expression that Jaskier doesn’t like. That expression is saying “We will have to talk about this later”, and Jaskier— gods, Jaskier doesn’t want to talk. He wants this to stop.

And it does.

As quickly as it had begun, it stops.

The headache, the nausea, the pain below his ribs, agonising just a second ago — it all just disappears, leaving behind nothing but a slight sweet smell in his nose.

Jaskier sucks in a breath like he’d swam up from a great depth and finally resurfaced, his lungs burning. He coughs, putting the back of his hand to his mouth and almost expecting to see blood, but when he takes his hand away, none of the blood is fresh.

“Geralt—” he starts but is cut off by the way the witcher is looking at him, at his side.

“How the fuck are you still conscious,” he says, almost to himself. “You’re bleeding out.”

Jaskier follows Geralt’s gaze down to his side, where he feels the searing pain, and it is immediately taken over by a new wave of dizziness when he sees his chemise completely soaked through with blood, three long rips in the once-light fabric. He must’ve not felt the harpy rip through him because of adrenaline, but Geralt is right, how did he even make it up the stairs?

“Fuck,” he whispers to himself, barely audible. “Fuck, fuck, okay, shit. Okay, I’m still alive, that’s something. And if it stays that way, the next time I see Coën, I’ll have what is basically a witcher scar to show him. I— fuck, okay, okay.”

Geralt reaches out to him but Jaskier moves his head sharply, telling the witcher to wait. He needs to see the wounds himself first, no matter how bad they are.

“If I pass out, there are medics here in the castle, they’re currently helping Luke, I assume. Find them,” he says, and Geralt nods, not breaking the fragile silence.

Jaskier reaches down, his hands shaking as he pulls on the soaked fabric of the chemise to lift it up. It sticks to his skin with nauseating warmth, and, knowing that he will never be able to get the blood out, Jaskier throws it into the fire so that he won’t have to deal with stains on the floor.

From where Geralt is sat, Jaskier hears a muffled noise, like the witcher wanted to say something but made himself remain quiet. When Jasier finally looks down, he realises why.

Under his ribs, his skin is covered in blood but completely untouched.

[read it on ao3]

#the witcher #geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geralt x jaskier #calton writes #geralt/jaskier #the witcher netflix #you be my fire and i'll be your gasoline

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