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The moment Geralt spotted the monster, he knew it would be a hard fight, but nothing could’ve prepared him for this.
Laying in a puddle of his own blood, the corpse of the monster just a few feet away from him, feeling himself bleed out. Geralt knows that he won’t make it. He can feel it, with how dizzy he already is, how fast the blood is flowing out of him.
He had a few close calls in his life, but now he knows.
He’s running out of time but all he can think of is Jaskier.
His bard, who for once stayed behind and let Geralt handle it alone, who is waiting for him back at the inn, worried as always. Who would tut and complain about the blood and wounds and then patch him up and kiss his neck, until Geralt would melt to the bed.
His partner who promised him forever but would have to mourn him and go on with his life.
Geralt was always scared of being left behind, but for the first time in his life, he’s aware that he’s the one leaving someone behind. His Jaskier.
“Sorry,” he whispers into the night, and just as he drifts off, Geralt swears he can hear someone shouting.
He wakes up and that’s a surprise in itself.
It’s hard to open his eyes, but Geralt manages and then winces immediately. His head is pounding and his side and chest are on fire, but he’s alive, somehow. He can smell herbs and power, a sorceress perhaps? Still, no amount of magic could heal what that monster did to him and just how much blood Geralt lost.
Something is wrong.
There’s another smell there, bitter and sour and painful almost, and underneath all of that is chamomile and pine.
Jaskier.
Geralt groans and someone moves in the room, and then there’s a gentle hand squeezing his. He squeezes back.
“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, voice hoarse and ruined. Geralt’s heart clenches. “Are you awake?”
He nods, using almost all of his strength and the bard sobs, a small, broken sound. Yet, the hand squeezing his doesn’t slack and Geralt can feel a whisper of a kiss against his cheek.
“Good. You can sleep more, my love,” the bard whispers in that ruined voice. “I’ll be here. Promise.”
With that, Geralt falls back asleep, undoubtedly aided by potions and spells. He doesn’t feel close to dying, even if everything hurts, as his heartbeat is slow and steady as always. The reason why is a mystery for another time.
This time, he’s awakened by gentle fingers in his hair and a familiar voice singing softly. Geralt groans and the singing stops, those lips instead used to kiss his cheek again.
“Hello, Geralt.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt mutters.
“Hi,” his bard whispers, right against his face. He still smells tense and scared, but the bitterness is almost all gone and Geralt can breathe easier. “Water?”
“Hmm,” he manages, before opening his eyes.
It’s dim in the room, and he’s grateful, but he can see his bard, sitting right next to him. Jaskier looks wrecked. His hair is a mess, there’s stubble on his face, his eyes are wild and red from crying. He’s absolutely disgusting but Geralt never loved him more.
His bard helps him to some water, holding his head steady and raising the cup to his lips, and Geralt lets him because it’s Jaskier. It’s actually nice, being cared for by Jaskier.
“How am I alive?” Geralt asks after the water, burning with curiosity.
Jaskier squeezes his hand and brings it to his own heart. “I made the sorceress bind us together. I kept you here,” he says simply as if he’s not turning Geralt’s world on its head once again.
“You what?!” he almost screams, angry and confused and yet grateful. Still, anger wins because now they’re connected. Now, if Geralt dies, Jaskier dies as well. How could his bard be so stupid?
“I made sure you wouldn’t leave me behind,” Jaskier explains again as if it’s not a big deal. As if it’s easy. “You’re stuck with me, now for real.”
“How could you?” Geralt hisses, helplessly angry.
Suddenly, Jaskier’s blue eyes are blazing with fury and the bard jumps to his feet, a flurry of movement.
“How could I?! How could I, Geralt?!” he screams, uncaring about their host. “You were laying there, fucking dying in the forest and you ask me how could I?! You’d rather curse me to living the rest of my long, fucking elven years alone, mourning your death?! I begged that old woman to use that much power and tie us together. It’s all I could think of, I know death, I know you wouldn’t have made it, so I did the only thing I could to save you. And I will never ever regret it!”
Jaskier is all burning anger and worry and righteousness but all Geralt can think of is,
“You tied your soul to a Witcher.”
Just as suddenly, the fury stops and Jaskier slumps on the bed next to him, hands gentle and loving as they cup Geralt’s face. He leans into the touch and tries to keep being angry.
“No, I tied my soul to the love of my life,” the bard says quietly and then smiles, his thumb caressing Geralt’s cheek. “Geralt, you stupid stupid man, I’ve loved you for 20 years and I will never stop. All I have from the elven side is my long years and my only love. I will only love once, and you’re it. It’s always been you, and it will always be you. To have you here, I would do it a thousand times over.”
The words fall from Jaskier’s lips easy as breathing, a poet to the bone, but Geralt can hear the sincerity in them, and he knows it’s true. Jaskier’s smell is soft and sweet and loving and he knows that the bard is speaking the truth.
It knocks the air out of him. Being loved like that, being loved so much that someone would tie their very soul to his to keep him alive…
“Thank you,” he rasps finally, more than a little overwhelmed.
Jaskier rolls his eyes. “That’s what you should’ve been saying from the start, Witcher. You can be so dumb sometimes.”
Jaskier’s voice is kind and soft as he says the cutting words so Geralt lets himself smile and his heart blooms again. He cannot begin to understand how such a kind soul could love a monster like him, how could Jaskier see him covered in monster guts and still kiss him tenderly, but he’s forever grateful.
“I love you,” Geralt says instead of voicing his thoughts.
“I love you too,” Jaskier replies, smile now reaching his eyes. He still looks tired and worried and Geralt just knows that there’s another lecture awaiting him, at least one, but for now, he’s alive and his heart, his very soul, belongs to the man in front of him.
He never thought that almost dying would bring him such a gift.
Geralt doesn’t say any of that, because he’s shit with words, but he can raise the blanket carefully and raise an eyebrow at Jaskier instead.
His bard nods and starts stripping from his bloodied jacket and pants, before carefully sliding into the bed.
For once, Jaskier is quiet and Geralt knows that it’s the trauma, the shock. He knows that there will be nights when Jaskier will wake up screaming for him, that he’ll hover for the next few days, still scared, that this will always be a dark stain on Jaskier’s heart, but for now he carefully gathers his bard close and lets him cling.
It takes a few minutes, but Jaskier begins to shake, soft sobs escaping him.
“I was so-so scared, Geralt, when I s-saw you there,” Jaskier mumbles into his neck, wetting it with his tears. “You were almost gone, and there was so much blood, gods, so m-much blood. I was so scared I’ll lose you.”
“You won’t,” Geralt promises him in a strong voice, one big hand carding through Jaskier’s hair. “You…saved me, Jaskier. You’re not losing me.”
“Good,” his bard whispers, voice dark suddenly, full of fury and pain. His fingers dig into Geralt’s bicep for a second, before releasing. Jaskier sighs and kisses the skin over his heart, close to the bandages covering his chest. “I’ll fate Destiny herself if I’ll have to, but you’re mine, Witcher.”
Geralt just smiles again, hiding it in Jaskier’s hair and holds him close. His little firecracker, his stupid, stupid bard.
And apparently, truly his forever.