#did jaskier just climb into geralt's lap in the middle of a tavern? yes

[when-a-humble-bard]

in which Geralt learns that Jaskier uses him as a scapegoat, but has his limits. Geraksier. First kiss. (warning for noncon touching by handsy patrons mentioned). Unedited. 

It’s safe to say that Geralt is surprised when it’s Jaskier that wants to leave first.

The bard grabs his lute from where he’d left it propped up in the booth seat opposite of the Witcher, scowling darkly and with far more force than the bard usually showed the instrument.  Geralt arcs an eyebrow at him, but Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice.

“I’m leaving,” he says. “I’ll see you in the room.”

“Jaskier.”

The bard stops and looks up. There’s a surprising fury in his blue eyes, his brows pulled low, and for a brief moment, Geralt wonders if he’s upset with him. But then Jaskier’s expression softens ever so slightly, and Geralt realizes that it’s not about him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Jaskier shakes his head. “It’s fine, Geralt. Enjoy your drink. Don’t finish early on my account.” Geralt’s gaze narrows slightly, looking for signs of the passive aggression the bard sometimes utilized when he was upset. But underneath his anger, he seems sincere.

“I’ve never known you to be one to turn in early,” Geralt says in response.

Jaskier averts his gaze. “Yes, well. First time for everything. I suppose the performance took more energy out of me than I’m used to. A rowdy crowd and all that.”

Geralt frowns at the blatant lie and looks at him properly. Not only was Jaskier’s performance tonight certainly not his most lively, nor the crowd notably rowdy, but even if they had been, Geralt had been traveling with the bard enough to know that Jaskier usually thrived when those things were true. Geralt takes in a deep breath, and then freezes.

Because there’s a faintly acrid scent underlying Jaskier’s usual smell of honeysuckle and cedarwood. Geralt is all too familiar with it, though he isn’t used to smelling it on Jaskier. Fear.

“Jaskier,” Geralt practically growls when the bard goes to leave again. “What’s wrong?”

Jaskier swallows and shakes his head. “It’s nothing you need to concern yourself over. Just a few overeager patrons with… the wrong idea in their heads.”

“Who?”

“Geralt.”

“Who, Jaskier?”

The corner of Jaskier’s mouth quirks upwards. “What, are you going to attack them for me?” he sounds amused. And something else—something softer—that Geralt can’t quite place.

Geralt, for the life of him, can’t find anything remotely amusing about this situation. “Maybe.” Jaskier looks taken aback, and opens his mouth to reply, but Geralt cuts him off. “Did they hurt you?” He takes another breath, but there isn’t the tang of copper to the air. Which means the bard isn’t bleeding.

“I—no,” he says quickly. “Perhaps they wanted to when I first refused their advances. But tell them you’re with a Witcher, and they usually back off.”

“Usually?”

Geralt doesn’t miss the slight flush to the bard’s neck. Nor the way his grip on the neck of the lute tightens. “They wanted, ah… some kind of evidence. A show, of sorts, given that I’m a performer.” Jaskier says the word with so much disgust, he has a feeling the bard is using their words and not his own.

Geralt’s brow pinches together in confusion. “What does that mean? We entered together, and most of the songs you played tonight are about me.”

There’s a glimmer of something almost like mirth to Jaskier’s eyes. “So you do listen to me when I sing.” Geralt looks at him. Jaskier holds a hand up in surrender, then uses it to rub the back of his neck. “I’m afraid that you may be missing the… implied meaning.”

“I don’t understand.”

Geralt had learned over the years that there wasn’t much that could make Jaskier blush. And yet, Geralt can see the slight tinge of pink darkening the bard’s cheeks. “Not ‘with’ as in solely travel companions, my dear Witcher. ‘With’ in a more… romantic, sensual sense.”

Oh. Oh.

There’s barely a beat before Jaskier is rambling ahead. “Which I don’t say to make you uncomfortable, Geralt, it’s just sometimes easier to claim that to people who may want to pursue certain advances with me and would otherwise not take no for the answer it is. You’re an intimidating person, after all, and I know that it’s perhaps not the most moral thing, to lie and drag you into it no less, but it has proven to stop rather enthusiastic hands from—”

“You said they wanted a show,” Geralt says, frowning. “What did you mean?”

“Wha—um. I claimed to be with you in that… romantic sense… and rather than taking it at face value, as most others do given all the other evidence, they wanted some… demonstration of proof.” The flood of embarrassment gives way to that flicker of anger from earlier. “I would prefer to not repeat their unwarranted suggestions.”

“Like a kiss?”

“Something of that nature. But you don’t need to worry, Geralt. I would never.” Geralt is startled by the way that statement—said with so much conviction—makes his stomach sink to his shoes. Jaskier didn’t want to kiss him.

“Oh.”

“I would… I’d never violate your desires that way,” Jaskier continues, and it makes Geralt blink. The bard is looking at him earnestly. “You know that, right? I may say that we’re together occasionally, to get the enthusiastic hands to keep to themselves, but… I can stop doing that too, if it makes you uncomfortable.”

The next question is spilling past Geralt’s lips before he can think to stop it. “What if I do desire it?”

Jaskier freezes, his bright blue eyes widening. “I… what?”

Geralt swallows and reaches for him, taking Jaskier’s hand in his own. “You said you wouldn’t kiss me because you don’t want to violate my desires. What if it wouldn’t be a violation?”

Jaskier’s eyes get impossibly wider. Geralt can feel his own heartbeat in his throat and hear the thundering of Jaskier’s in his ribs. “Are you speaking hypothetically?” The question comes out strained.

Geralt gently tugs Jaskier closer and the bard is all too willing to stumble the step or two that exists between him and where Geralt is sitting. “Do you want me to be?” the Witcher asks, risking a bold glance up.

“Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice sound somehow even more strained, but he’s pliant and willing when Geralt tugs askingly on his waist and brings the bard to straddle his lap. Jaskier swallows and Geralt’s gaze flickers to the bob of the Adam’s apple before looking back up.

Geralt snakes an arm around the bard’s waist to keep him from falling off. He leans forward, their noses barely brushing. He feels Jaskier brush his hand against his jaw before leaning his forehead against Geralt’s.

“Stop me if it’s too much,” the bard whispers.

The gentle touch and gentler words make Geralt ache. He releases a breath and closes the distance.

[threephasebird]

New thing I can’t stop thinking about: What if Geralt, unlikely as it might seem, gets talkative when drunk? And of course he meticulously avoids drinking too much in company and no one (besides Eskel and Lambert, maybe) knows his secret, but it’s bound to happen eventually, isn’t it? And of course, one day Jaskier saunters into a tavern somewhere in the middle of nowhere, spots Geralt at a table in a corner and walks up to him with a smile on his lips and a hand on his hips, saying, as he stops to look at him, “Geralt! What brings you to this remarkably unremarkable place?”, and without pausing for him to answer, he slides into his booth. “Ohh, that’s fun”, he says, “Let me guess –”

– maybe, he muses, his imagination running wild already, maybe Geralt was cursed and has been running with a pack of wolves ever since their last meeting, only having been released by his true love’s kiss this very night – although, he’d have to be tragically naked and without coin, and the table littered with empty tankards definitely tells the tale of a full purse. Well, not his best idea, then. Still, the prospect of riling Geralt up with increasingly absurd, yet artfully embellished explanations of how he ended up here fills Jaskier with gleeful anticipation. Maybe a thrilling love affair with the mysterious duke living in the castle on the mountain that ended years ago, only for Geralt’s aching heart prompting him now to return to –

“I’m on my way back to Kaer Morhen”, Geralt grunts.

That’s new, and a little bit rude, seeing how Jaskier didn’t get to propose a single one of the tales he’s spun.

What’s worse, he also doesn’t even get to finish giving him a deeply suspicious once over before Geralt – and Jaskier feels the sudden need to grab the tabletop for support, or maybe dab his forehead with a delicate lace handkerchief – continues to speak. “I had to fulfill a few contracts in order to stack up on coin again”, he says, staring moodily into the tankard that’s currently occupying his hands. Then he has the audacity to raise his gaze and fix his (stunning, beautiful, breathtaking) eyes on Jaskier as he mumbles, “I miss Ciri, though. If I leave first thing in the morning, I might make it back there in two weeks time.”

Jaskier is dimly aware that his mouth is hanging open and makes a conscious effort to close it. He’ll have to tell himself that this is fine, only that it’ll have to wait a bit because he really, really needs to gather himself and –

“I’ve been on the road for over a month”, Geralt continues musing, though, not taking notice of Jaskier’s desperate silent plea to hold on for a minute and clarify what the hell has gotten into Geralt. “Haven’t spoken to anyone but Roach. She, uh –”, and now, on top of everything else, the corners of Geralt’s mouth are twitching, “said she misses your music and your endless chattering. I’ve been hoping to run into you, but then, what are the chances of it actually happening?”

Jaskier – well, it feels a bit weird, because it’s Geralt, but then again, Geralt has told him time and time again to be more careful and less trusting, so he tries his best to inconspiciously get hold of the grip of the silver knife that’s been strapped to his belt ever since Geralt unceremoniously dropped it in his lap with a grunt after an unfortunate run-in with a Mourntart. “Geralt?”, he says, and he’s very proud that his voice comes out so firm that it seems to snap his friend out of his musings, “What’s wrong with you?”

Geralt stares at him for a few long seconds without blinking, which, uh, doesn’t do much for Jaskier’s focus on the matters at hand.(Stunning, beautiful, breathtaking indeed – he’d vow to write a song about Geralt’s eyes one day if it weren’t for the fact that he already did. Multiple times. It’s been a while, alright.) Finally, Geralt releases him and drops his gaze, which then lands on Jaskier’s hand and the knife, and something that could count as a grin is starting to spread on his face. “Nothing”, he says. “I’m fine. Don’t hurt yourself with that.”

Jaskier sputters. “I’ll have you known that I am perfectly capable of – but that’s not the point, isn’t it? The point is that something is very much not alright with you, Geralt!” He points his knife-free hand at him accusingly, for emphasis. “And you’ll tell me what it is right now! Are you cursed? Did someone slip a potion in your drink?” He gazes wildly around the tavern, trying to locate any possible culprits. “Or”, and at that his eyes narrow and he pulls out the knife from under the table after all, stopping with the finger-pointing and pointing the blade instead, “are you not Geralt at all?”

“Jaskier”, Geralt says with annoying and suspicious gentleness, “We’re in a tavern. People are staring at us again. I’m fine, please remove your knife.”

“Not unless”, Jaskier says slowly, “– not unless you tell me something that only the real Geralt could know!” He smiles, mildly impressed by his own cleverness, and Geralt sighs. “I just told you that I’m on my way to see Ciri, does that not count? Fine”, he says with another smile as Jaskier shakes his head, “only the real Geralt would know that –”

“By which you mean yourself?”

“By which I very much mean myself, Jaskier”, Geralt says, and his smile deepens, but he also rolls his eyes a little bit, which makes him appear more like himself alright. “Only I know that –”, Geralt gazes into his tankard contemplatively, “– you snore when you sleep on your back”, he says after a moment, and before Jaskier can open his mouth to protest in indignation, he presses on. “Only the real me knows that you can’t even shut up when you’re sleeping. That you sometimes wake up with your arms wrapped around me and wait for a few moments with your heart hammering before you remove yourself and pretend it never happened – although I don’t know why”, he adds, and whatever kind of information Geralt has on his heart rate, Jaskier is sure he’s just doubled the record. “Can you tell me why?”, Geralt repeats thoughtfully, and, yes, this is it, this is the moment Jaskier finally succumbs to his stupid crush and just dies –

– and then their eyes meet and Jaskier notices – oh shit, now that he notices how Geralt’s gaze is slightly unfocused, other pieces of information finally start falling into place: The table littered with empty glasses, the ever-so-slight slur of Geralt’s voice, how uncharacteristically unguarded he is…

“Shit, Geralt”, Jaskier says and lowers his knife. "Are you drunk?”

Geralt nods and smiles uncertainly at him.

“Wait”, Jaskier says, because his brain is still struggling to catch up with the situation, "How come I’ve never seen you like this? You’ve been drunk plenty of times while I was there, why are you suddenly so –”, he gesticulates helplessly at Geralt.

"I don’t get drunk”, Geralt mumbles, “Not when I’m with other people. Just tipsy. I only ever get drunk alone. I tend to –”, he grimaces and lowers his voice, "Speak a lot when I drink too much.”

“I noticed”, Jaskier says faintly.

"Now you know”, Geralt says matter-of-factly and glances into his tankard again. Jaskier dimly wonders if he should snatch it away from him to prevent him from drinking even more. "Fitting, isn’t it? Yet another thing that only you managed to uncover.” Geralt smiles again and fuck, that smile is doing things to Jaskier’’s heart. Suddenly, he’s overcome by the impulse to reach out for Geralt’s hands and press a kiss to his knuckles, or to climb over the table and sweep him in a hug and never let go, but Geralt looks like he’s zoning out staring at Jaskier, and fuck once more, how drunk exactly is he?

“I was lying earlier”, Geralt mumbles. "It’s not just Roach who missed you.”

With a swift motion, Jaskier is on his feet. "That’s it”, he says, because there’s no way he can deal with this any longer, "we’re getting you sobered up now.”

~ fin & dedicated to @eventual-consistency​ whose ear I talk off when tipsy, which inspired this AU ✧˖° ✧˖°

[seanfalco]

(More Than Just) Travel Partners - Part VI

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Jaskier x f!Reader Word Count: 3.7k Rating: M Warning(s): Violence, Angst a/n:  This is it, we’ve made it to the last part!  Please let me know if you enjoyed it.  I’m excited to begin writing a few one shots I’ve had in mind and requests are also open!

[ Masterlist ]

——

“Hey there, can I get you something?”

“Ah yes please, I’d like two pints,” Jaskier replied, leaning against the bar, not really paying much attention to the serving girl across from him, his mind still on the woman upstairs.  The woman he was absolutely head-over-heels in love with and whom we still couldn’t seem to bring himself to tell.

“Your playing was wonderful earlier,” the barmaid exclaimed, giggling as she leaned over the bar, deliberately showing off her… assets.

“Oh, well, thank you, truly,” Jaskier replied haltingly, barely noticing the woman’s glorious set of tits, his mind still half on [Y/N] and the other half on how he should go about telling her how he felt about her.  “I’m gunna be in that booth over there, if you just wanna bring my drinks over,” he said absentmindedly, pushing away from the bar to take a seat near the back as he waited for [Y/N] to join him.

As the serving girl came over with the drinks in hand everything happened so fast and Jaskier’s head spun as he was pushed back into the padded bench, the woman effectively trapping him with her body, her face nearly inches away from his.

“Whoa!” He exclaimed, completely at a loss for words as he threw his hands up and shrank back from her as far as he could.  “I-I-I think there’s been a bit of a mix up in communication here,” he spluttered, torn between wanting to push her off and not wanting to make a scene.  “All I wanted was the drinks!”

“Aw c’mon,” she purred, her lips brushing the shell of his ear maddeningly, “I saw the hunger in your eyes earlier.”

“Hunger?” Jaskier yelped,swallowing thickly as she tugged at his doublet, practically crawling in his lap.  “I think you may be mistaken, I’m certainly not hungry, at-at least not for, oh for fuck’s sake -- will you stop that?” he snapped, grabbing her arms to hold her still.  “While I’m sure you are no doubt a very lovely young woman, I am not interested and I would thank you to please - get - off - me!”

Of course it had been just his luck that [Y/N] had appeared right at that moment to find him in such an unfair and compromising position, none of which had been his fault.  

The broken look in her eyes as she’d gaped at him had frozen his blood and haunted him still; the accusation and pain in her voice nearly ripping him in two, and as he pushed Swift to the limit, barrelling through the forest after her it rang in his ears.

Even if she never wanted to see him again after tonight Jaskier couldn’t just let her get taken like that and not follow after.  What he’d said to her in the tavern was true, quite possibly one of the truest things he’d ever said, even if the timing had been abysmal and his face still stung with her well deserved slap.  Julian Alfred Pankratz would rather die trying to rescue [Y/N] than give up and live to sing another day -- even if he had absolutely no idea how the fuck he was going to take on this René fellow, the likes of whom was nearly the same imposing size as Geralt.

Pushing that worrying thought from his mind, Jaskier raced onward, hoping the path he was following was still the right one and he hadn’t lost her completely.

——

There was a pounding in your skull and it was getting worse.

Everything was muffled, as if you were hearing sounds from underwater, but with each pounding of your head it became clearer, sharper, more painful.  Stirring, your muscles screamed in protest and you realized you were hanging across the back of a horse, your head dangling and your arms bound behind your back.

A wave of nausea overtook you as your memories began to clear and you retched over the side of the horse.  At this René noticed you were conscious and slowed the horse to a canter.

“You’re awake,” he said, moving your hair from your face to look at you.  “Are you going to cooperate now, or keep fighting?”

You stayed silent for a long moment, weighing your options.  One, you could keep struggling, fight him all the way and possibly throw yourself from the back of the horse, but with your hands bound as they were there was no way you’d be able to land without serious injury and no way to get to your knives to defend yourself.  Two, you could play along, be good, possibly get him to lower his guard and then strike or slip away.  Maybe if you could get him to stop for a bit and untie you…

It would take a lot of convincing but in the time you’ve been on your own you’ve learned a great deal and become pretty adept at acting a part.

“Can we stop for a second?” you asked, not having to try very hard to sound like you were going to be sick again.  “I-I’ll cooperate,” you said, voice trembling -- also not hard to feign.  “I don’t feel so well, please?”

Your plea seemed to work and René slowed the horse further to a walk, turning off the hard packed dirt road and into the forest.  Stopping at a small clearing just out of sight from the main road René climbed down and pulled you down as well, though he didn’t loosen his bruising grip on your upper arm.

With his free hand he pulled a small waterskin from his horse’s saddle and unstoppered it, bringing it to your lips and helping you to drink.  “There, better?” he asked gruffly, taking a swig himself.  

“Yes,” you answered, your stomach twisting at how readily your subconscious wanted to fall back into your old cycle -- wanting to trust him when he deigned to be kind, no matter that he had just assaulted and kidnapped you against your will.

“Sit down there,” he grunted and you obeyed, carefully lowering yourself to the log he’d gestured to, watching, waiting for a moment you could use to your advantage.  Wincing, he crouched down and you noticed the cold circle of stones filled with ashes on the ground where a fire had once been.  While you wondered how René had known this was here he started a small fire before rummaging in his saddle bags.

As he sat down once more you saw he had bandages and salves in his hands and you suddenly remembered that one of your daggers had found its mark.  Shucking off his bloody shirt with another wince you studied the wound in his shoulder.

Good, you thought, that will slow him down some and potentially make escaping easier.

He noticed your eyes on him and scowled.  “I should punish you for that.”

Lifting your chin defiantly you merely stared at him coldly, despite the fear that twisted your insides.

“You’ve grown insolent,” he muttered, grunting as he cleaned the wound.  “What happened to your respect?”

“Respect?” you scoffed, unable to stop yourself.  “What I had for you back then wasn’t respect, it was fear and I’m not afraid of you anymore.”  You hoped he couldn’t hear the lie in your voice.

René stopped and slowly turned his face to you, the firelight glinting off his hard eyes.  “Maybe you should be.  You have a lot to answer for [Y/N]: running off in the middle of the night, stealing from me, spreading lies about me… and now adultery?”

Biting the inside of your cheek you made yourself hold his gaze, but didn’t answer.  He snorted derisively, resuming his bandaging.  “Months spent on the road with that foppish bard, don’t tell me you didn’t sleep with him.  I’m not a fool.  Did he know you were a married woman or did he just not care?”  He paused for a moment, studying you, and you kept quiet, though your anger was swiftly coming to a boil inside you.  

“I could have easily killed him back at the tavern, for touching what’s mine.”

“I’m not your property,” you spat, interrupting him, but René didn’t rise to the goad, instead continuing where he’d left off.

“If you truly cared for Jaskier,” he said his name with scorn, his lips twisting, “then you should be throwing yourself at my feet and thanking me for sparing his worthless life.  In fact, you carried out what I had set into motion more perfectly than I could have ever imagined.”

“What?” you asked; the word a whisper.

“Perhaps killing him would’ve been the kinder option, but let’s just say this one was worth it.”  René finished tying the bandages around his shoulder and spread his hands, smirking at the dumbfounded look on your face.

Finally it sank in and you couldn’t believe you hadn’t put the pieces together earlier -- the cloaked man in the tavern slipping a coin to the barmaid but leaving before she even brought him a drink; the stiff way Jaskier had been shrinking away from the woman, not holding her, his face aghast; and the most important: Jaskier telling you it had been a misunderstanding.  And you’d refused to even listen to him.  It felt as though a block of ice had dropped into your stomach.

“You paid that woman to seduce Jaskier,” you whispered.  “It didn’t work though, h-he resisted her,” you reminded yourself, grasping at the thought like a man drowning.

René’s head popped out of the top of the fresh shirt he’d pulled over his head and he shook his shaggy dark curls out of his eyes.  “Yes, but darling you made certain he wouldn’t follow us.”

You swallowed, bile rising to your throat at the memory of the sting of your palm across Jaskier’s face.

Oh Gods, he was right.

“I wouldn’t be so certain of that.”  

You heard Jaskier’s voice before you saw him and as he stepped dramatically out of the darkness into the ring of flickering firelight, nonchalantly twirling one of your daggers between his fingers your heart swelled.

At his sudden appearance René jumped to his feet, reaching for the short sword at his hip and worry washed over you as he pulled it free from its scabbard, pointing it at Jaskier -- his tiny throwing knives no match for the longer blade.

“[Y/N] are you okay?  He didn’t hurt you did he?”  Jaskier called instead, glancing at you as if René wasn’t even there.

“For the most part,” you answered, once more struggling in your bonds.  “A little more worried about you at the moment.”

Wetting his lips Jaskier shifted his gaze, eyeing the sword pointed at him warily.  “Don’t worry love, I know what I’m doing,” he quipped, even managing a cocky wink despite the way his adam’s apple bobbed nervously.

“I hate to question you, but do you?” you asked, your muscles beginning to burn once more as you continued to strain them.

“You should have stayed away bard,” René spat, beginning to slowly circle the fire, coming to stand in front of you, and Jaskier circled the opposite way, staying across from him.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t come for [Y/N]?” Jaskier asked and your heart leapt.  

This is not the time for romantics, you reminded yourself firmly.

Blinking, you nearly missed Jaskier’s first dagger flying toward René, a second one already in hand.  René dodged the first and the blade landed harmlessly somewhere near you.  Eyes wide, you searched the underbrush for the dagger’s telltale metallic glint, glancing back up to the two men in front of you.

Jaskier had thrown the second knife, but you’d missed whether it had found its mark or not, and you wondered worriedly how many daggers he had left on him.  Gasping as René lunged forward without warning, sword flashing, you cried out, fear strangling you as the blade came away red.  Jaskier stumbled back, managing to keep upright, but in the firelight you could see his blue eyes flash -- a mixture of fear and rage.

“Did you fuck my wife, bard?” René called, slashing  again as he advanced.

Tearing your eyes from the scene you frantically resumed your search for the missing dagger.

“Oh, a good many times!” Jaskier boasted, jumping back, narrowly avoiding the sword tip as it whistled past his chest.  “I hate to break it to you, but I think I’m a better lover than you in all aspects.”

Growling like an enraged animal, René lunged again, but Jaskier was quicker and he spun away, slashing at skin as he ducked under the sword.  Staggering back René howled in pain, grasping at his side, his hand coming away wet with dark blood.

Suddenly your eyes caught sight of the tiny blade half hidden in the sparse grass and you threw yourself at it, gripping it awkwardly in your half numb hands.  Frantically you began to saw at the rope binding your wrists behind you; hissing through clenched teeth as you cut yourself in your haste, but you didn’t stop.  

Jaskier managed to cut René again, an incredulous laugh bursting from his lips.  “You know [Y/N]’s told me about you,” he said, hate lacing his usually gentle voice.  “It’s no wonder she ran, from a monster like you.  You deserve to die an incredibly humiliating and painful death for what you’ve done to her.”  

Snarling, René leapt at Jaskier and though the bard’s last dagger managed to disarm him, cutting into his wrist, both men tumbled to the ground, René pinning Jaskier and his fist making contact with his face.

“Julian!” you cried desperately, your heart wrenching.  Sawing faster at the ropes and nearly dropping the knife as you cut yourself again; tears streaming down your cheeks as you watched the man you once loved rain blow after blow upon the man that held your heart now.

Managing to lift his arms in an attempt to block his face, Jaskier reached for the wound you’d made in René’s shoulder and dug his fingers in.  René howled like a feral animal, pulling Jaskier up by his lapels til they were nearly face to face.

“And do you think you’re going to be the one to give me that death?” he hissed, reaching for the sword.

The last of the rope fell away and you didn’t wait, pushing to your feet and scrambling toward the two men.  “No, I am,” you exclaimed, shoving the dagger in your hand into the side of René’s neck without hesitation.  The sword fell from his hand as a wet gurgle burst from his lips and his eyes rolled, going wide as he gaped at you, his hand clutching the hilt of the dagger sticking out of his neck.  His lips parted, eyes fixed on you, but before he could try to speak Jaskier grasped the discarded sword and sheathed it in René’s chest, pushing him backward and scrambling out from under him as he fell.

Your eyes met Jaskier’s, and for a moment neither of you spoke, the only sounds filling the clearing were the heavy pants of your breaths and the crackle of the fire.  Still in shock at what you’d done you looked from René’s lifeless body to your bloody hands, not quite able to move.

The next thing you knew Jaskier was embracing you tightly and you sobbed into his chest, the numbness of your shock receding.  At that moment you wanted nothing more than to tell him how sorry you were that he’d gotten tangled up in all this, that you should have listened to him, but most of all you wanted to tell him how much you loved him.  

Before you could say any of those things however, you felt Jaskier’s knees buckle and give way beneath him, pulling you down as well as you tried to hold him up.

“Jask!” you cried staggering under his weight.

“I-I’m fine [Y/N],” he slurred, trying to reassure you, but you could see that he was quite the opposite of fine.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood, we need to get you back to town o-or --” you felt tears welling in your eyes again, helplessness rolling over you.  Would he even make it back to town?  Pulling him up you looked around until you found where he’d left Swift, reins tied loosely to a tree branch, and that tiny bit of relief fueled you.

——

It had been nearly two days and Jaskier was still sleeping.  Shifting amongst the plush pillows in your chair next to the bed you rose and leaned over him, brushing a few stray strands of hair from his face.  Your fingers lingered, lightly tracing over the skin of his cheek as your gaze followed suit.  Nearly half his face was still covered with healing bruises, and several small cuts adorned his lips and brow from where René’s fists had made contact.

Fussing with the sheets that covered him, you checked his bandages once more, though you knew they wouldn’t need changed again until later that night.  Sighing, you leaned back and closed your eyes, saying a silent prayer to any of the Gods that would listen to watch over him.  After a moment you sat up and grabbed the book from the table next to you and flipped it open one handed, trying to focus on reading while you waited, your other hand gently stroking his hand.

A squeeze around your fingers made you pause and you tore your eyes from the page to look up at Jaskier’s face, your heart pounding painfully with hope.  Grinning softly up at your his blue eyes caught yours and he squeezed your hand harder.

“[Y/N], you’re here,” he murmured, attempting to push himself up; eyes widening as a grunt of pain crossed his lips and he instantly stopped, easing himself back while making a disgruntled face.  Instead he glanced around the room from where he lay, his brows furrowing slightly.  “Actually, where is here?” 

“A nearby farm.  I was lucky enough to find a healer and she patched you up,” you said, laughing softly, glad that even in this state he was still very much himself.

“How long have I been asleep?” he asked, clearly wanting to try sitting up again.

“Nearly two days.”

“Two days?” he yelped, disbelieving.  “I wasn’t injured that badly,” he scoffed.

“Jaskier, you passed out in my arms right after I got you on to the horse, and then you nearly fell off several times as I tried riding back to the village,” you explained, shooting him a level stare.  

“Yes well…” he trailed off, looking somewhat sheepish.  Suddenly he seemed to remember something and his eyes fixed on you with determination.  “Did we…?  I mean, we won, right?”

Swallowing heavily you nodded, not quite trusting your voice to answer.  You could still picture the blood covering your hands.  René hadn’t been the first person you’d ever killed, but he had been the first that you’d known.  Taking a deep breath, you spoke.  “He won’t be coming after me any longer.”  Jaskier squeezed your hand reassuringly and your lip trembled, his gaze soft.

“Jask, there’s something I need to tell you,” you whispered.  You knew it was illogical, especially after he put himself in grave danger to come after you, but there was still that lingering fear that even after saying what you were about to say he would reject you.

“I owe you an apology.”  Jaskier opened his mouth, but you steamrolled onward, afraid if you stopped you wouldn’t be able to start again.  “You tried to tell me what happened at the tavern, but I wouldn’t listen.  I’m such an idiot.  I slapped you in front of all those people,” your voice wavered.

“Hey hey, no, [Y/N],” he exclaimed, letting go of your hand in order to reach up and brush away the tears gathering in your eyes.  “I know exactly what it looked like --”

“Yes, but I should have given you a chance to explain.  I should have trusted you,” you insisted.

Jaskier quieted, recognizing that you needed to say this, his hand lingering at your cheek.

“I’ve never felt so safe or loved or right until I met you, and I kept up this wall, afraid to let you in, and then when I did, I was terrified I was going to lose it all, that you might turn out like him and so when I saw you like that, I just… I hid behind the wall again and ran.  I thought cutting my ties would be easier.”  Glancing up you found him watching you, a softness in his blue eyes that filled your heart.

“Jaskier… Julian, I-I love you.  I love you so much you steal away all my reason.”

An ecstatic smile slowly spread across his face and he reached for you with his other hand.  Smiling back tearily you obliged, climbing up onto the bed with him and letting him fold you into his arms.

“I know,” he stated simply, smiling against your skin.

“What?” you asked, turning your face to gape at him.

“I knew you didn’t mean it when you slapped me, that’s why I chased after you.  Well, I suppose part of me was afraid you did, mean it, but either way I wasn’t about to let that brute steal you away to do Gods knows what to.  Besides, I wanted to be the hero for once.”

A laugh burst from your lips.  “You certainly were the hero — my hero, more heroic even than Geral--” your exclamation was stifled abruptly as he pulled you in for a kiss; moving to pepper more kisses anywhere he could reach, murmured I love you’s between each before kissing your lips again deeply with a contented sigh.

A soft grunt from him reminded you to take it easy, he was still injured after all, and there would be more than enough time later for more physical apologies, so you contented yourself with settling in his arms and fitting your body next to his as he held you, running his fingers through your hair.

“I love you, Jaskier,” you murmured again, heart swelling as he echoed the words, squeezing you tighter.

“I love you, [Y/N].”  He shifted so he could see your face, the smile you loved so much gracing his handsome features.  Gods even mottled with bruises he was still handsome.  “We have to write a song about this.”

“Obviously,” you replied, brushing your nose against his affectionately.  “No one else would be better suited capturing our daring plight.”  

“Okay, good, because I already have some lyrics in mind.”