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The smell of blood caught his attention before anything else.
“Jaskier.” He exclaims, eyes locking on to the bard who sits but a few feet away, now dawning a silver dagger in his shoulder.
Blue meets golden with an attempt to shrug, though the bard seems to have not thought his plan all the way through as the pain makes him grimace. “I guess we’ll have to go to the healer now, right?” He attempts to laugh as well, but the pain clouds his bright eyes, hazing them into a sickly gray.
Geralt huffs out something that vaguely resembles a curse. The bard had been pestering him about a wound across his side, hardly deep enough to not heal within the next couple days, but the bard had argued about the massive amounts of blood he had lost. This was true, Geralt thinks, looking down at his armor that would need to be cleaned and repaired tomorrow, a massive hole in the side and the grass nearby stained with blood. He had thought that the bard’s silence was a victory, but he supposes he should know by now that if Jaskier is silent, it’s never good.
A talkative bard is a happy bard after all.
“Fine.” Geralt grunts after a while. There’s no way he’s letting his traveling companion bleed out from pure stubbornness.
“There’s one not too far from the inn.” Jaskier helpfully informs, standing to his feet. He sways in place a bit, leaning back against a nearby tree, and shutting his eyes for a second. The Witcher watches, waiting to see if he’d pass out. “This hurts,” Jaskier whines, but follows as Geralt rolls his eyes, making his way over to Roach. It takes a second for Geralt to latch onto the bard’s train of thought, and he sees him reach up to the dagger in his shoulder out of the corner of his eye, calling out too late.
“Jaskier.” But by that point, the dagger has already been removed and the bard is wiping clean with the hem of his shirt. Geralt huffs out a sigh of annoyance, drawing the bard’s attention from his current task.
“What?” He demands, a defensive tone rising into his voice. “I’ve already ruined this shirt by stabbing a hole in it, what’s a little blood going to harm if I’m just going to throw it away anyway?”
“You should’ve left the dagger in there.” Geralt replies instead. Jaskier shoots him a look of disbelief. “It would’ve helped to prevent you from bleeding out.” He explains, exasperated.
“Oh.” Jaskier looks down at the tiny blade in his hand before making an aborted shrug and sliding it back onto his belt. “Well then,” he turns his attention back to Geralt, “back to town?”
The Witcher reverts to grunts once more. “Hmm,” grabbing Roach by her reigns and leading the way back to civilization. Jaskier falls in step beside him and it’s his silence that has Geralt looking over at him every once and a while, trying to tamp down the concern rising in his chest.
A talkative bard is a happy bard after all.
The reach town within an hour and make a quick stop by the stables to make sure Roach is in capable hands before Geralt practically drags his bard to the healer. It is disheartening how fragile humans are, watching the red stain around his shoulder grow with each passing minute. Jaskier is a stubborn bastard, however, as he makes his way into the healer’s shop seconds before Gerald, already rambling on about how injured the poor Witcher was, demanding that he been seen immediately.
His sweet-talking is not put to waste, if not overdramatic, but as soon as he mentions how much blood Geralt has lost, the healer is scurrying away to the far side of the room, digging through his supplies. Geralt doesn’t bother fighting, even if the bard’s stupidity will get him killed one day, but the healer seems to catch onto his tense mood, eyes following the Witcher’s gaze over the where Jaskier sits.
“Don’t think I don’t see you’re injured as well.” The healer says loudly, before returning to work on Geralt.
“Oh, well, of course. Yes.” Jaskier clears his throat uncomfortably, squirming in his seat like a scolded child. Geralt huffs out an amused grunt of a laugh.
Soon, both of them are patched up and sent back to the inn with a stern warning to take it easy for the next couple of days. Jaskier spits some sweet, honeyed words over his shoulder, reassuring that they will, even though he knows they’ll be leaving by daybreak.
They walk back silently, adrenaline wearing off and tiredness hitting them like a tidal wave. Geralt’s gaze still lingers at the bloody stain on the bard’s shirt, despite how much he tries not to think about it. It’s only when they get back to the privacy of their room, Jaskier removing his doublet to reveal the stained undershirt that Geralt does anything about it.
He lets anger run through him because it’s an easier emotion to deal with than the other ones coursing around inside of him. He ends up pinning Jaskier against the wooden walls, fingers curling into the fabric of his undershirt, carefully calculated to not injure him anymore. Jaskier lets out a squeak of surprise that resembles his name, cornflower eyes widening in surprise. When he only gets a growl in response, he speaks again, relaxing from the initial surprise of being slammed against the wall.
“Geralt?” Jaskier asks worried, but there’s no fear resonating from him, just concern and confusion.
“Don’t ever do that again.” Geralt finally says, fingers curling tighter as golden eyes bore into him with an intensity usually reserved for the monsters he fights.
“Right, of course.” Jaskier gives a little nod, eyes dropping to the floor. “No doing stupid things even if it’s to help yo-“
“Jaskier.” Geralt growls.
“Got it. No more hurting myself.” Jaskier returns, just as sincerely and he is finally released, but Geralt doesn’t stray far. Instead, he hovers, keeping Jaskier trapped between him and the wall. There’s a bit of silence, but Jaskier has been traveling with Geralt long enough to recognize something deeper was going on. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he begins, hoping not to press the Witcher too far “But were you… afraid? For me, I mean?”
Geralt grunts in such a way that lets him know he’s right.
Jaskier frowns, heart aching in his chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He apologizes. “Can I hug you?”
Geralt lets himself fall against the bard’s chest, and Jaskier takes that for the ‘yes’ it is. “Sorry for yelling.” Geralt whispers in return, words muffled as they’re trapped in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, where he had buried his face.
“It’s okay,” Jaskier reassures, running a hand through his long locks of silver hair. “We should get some rest.” He says after a while, yawning as if to prove his point. Geralt grunts in agreement. He steps back some, but not before pressing a soft kiss to Jaskier’s lips. The bard’s eyes widen a bit, before quickly falling shut, deepening the kiss.
Geralt pulls back. “Sleep,” and then walks away, beginning to undress.
Jaskier squawks somewhat indignantly. “Excuse me, you can’t just kiss me like that and then demand to sleep. Geralt!” Geralt smiles as Jaskier continues to ramble on.
A talkative bard is a happy bard after all.