Chapter Text
“Watch me burn all the memories of you…” Jaskier finished his newest song quietly. It didn’t end up being quite as cathartic as he had hoped. He sent the crowd a smile that didn’t reach anywhere near his eyes as he jumped down from the small stage.
Applause and cheers rang out around him, but none of it registered. It had been nearly a year since the mountain, and his heart still hurt. He had hoped that writing a song of his heartbreak would help him move through it. Really, Jaskier should have known better than that by now. There was no moving on from this particular heartbreak.
He collected the small pile of coin that had been left for him by the crowd and he gingerly packed away his lute before heading to the bar. He ordered an ale and slumped down on the stool. Another long, sleepless night was ahead of him. Jaskier was at least glad that he had gotten a room before performing.
The bard’s first drink was nearly gone when the door to the tavern was thrown open. All conversations stopped as every patron turned to look at the newcomer. The air tensed around him, and Jaskier sighed.
Witcher. Mutant, the people around him whispered. Hatred and fear colored their voices as they cursed the man walking inside with uneven steps.
Jaskier sniffed the air tentatively and sighed in relief when the scent didn’t match the one he’d spent the past months avoiding. Instead of horse and onion, this witcher smelled of sulfur and blood.
Well. That wasn’t good.
Throwing back the last of his ale, Jaskier took stock of the man’s injuries as he came to a stop just down the bar from him. It must have been a nasty fight. Blood was squelching out of his right boot, and he had two arrows sticking out of his left shoulder. He was holding his steel sword in a tight grip, eyes darting around to assess any possible threats.
Ambush, then. Even worse.
“I need a room,” the witcher growled. “And some hot water.”
The witcher appeared about ready to topple over. He was wobbly on his feet at best, and looking paler than even a witcher should. Glancing down, Jaskier noted that he seemed to be leaning on his sword like a cane, favoring his left side.
The tavern keeper looked a little pale, but shook his head nonetheless. “We have no rooms left.” Jaskier sighed at the obvious lie and started toward the witcher.
“Listen, you piece of shit, I was just–” the witcher surged forward, clearly ready to throttle the man in front of him, even though his skin turned another shade whiter at the sudden movement.
“There you are!” Jaskier hopped over to the witcher. “He’s with me,” he told the frightened innkeeper. “I thought the beast had killed you!” Jaskier put his hands on either of the witcher’s arms and held him out to examine him. “Let me make sure you’re alright.”
“What the fuck?” the witcher looked angry and baffled at the same time. He sent a wary look to the bartender before returning his attention to the man in front of him.
“I already got us a room,” Jaskier said cheerfully, shooting a glare toward the witcher. “Let’s go so I can fix you up.”
The witcher seemed to not understand what Jaskier’s pointed look meant. His face pinched as he took a threatening step toward Jaskier. “I don’t know who the fuck you are–”
Jaskier put a dramatic hand to his forehead as he cut off the witcher. “Oh, dear. Mr. Innkeeper, it seems like my dear witcher has hit his head. He’s forgotten me and his manners. I’ll get him all fixed up so he can apologize. Would you bring a hot bath to our room? Pretty please?” He fluttered his eyelashes and didn’t wait for an answer. “Wonderful! We’ll be waiting.” Before the man behind the bar could get out a word, Jaskier already had the witcher by the arm and was dragging him toward the stairs.
It was a bit of a difficult task, with the witcher resisting putting too much weight on his right foot, and generally resisting being led upstairs by the bard.
“Where the fuck are you taking me?” the witcher tried to yank his arm from the grip of the surprisingly strong bard. “Let go!”
Jaskier looked behind him and stopped to glare at the witcher. “I am going to take a look at those arrows. So shut up, and follow me before you bleed to death.”
There was such an air of authority in his voice that the witcher looked stunned for a moment before closing his mouth and following behind the bard. He was led up the stairs and into a small room. Before he could look around much, he was shoved onto the bed. The bard began pawing at the wolven armor, peeling off what he could. It was much smoother than the witcher would have been able to do on his own, with or without the arrows to the shoulder.
“Have you taken Swallow or Kiss yet?” Jaskier glanced at the shoulder pad that was pinned in place, pulling back at the corners to see how deep the arrows burrowed into the muscle. Neither seemed to have penetrated too deep, and Jaskier sighed in relief.
The witcher blinked in surprise, forgetting to hiss in pain as the long fingers prodded around the wounds in his shoulder. “How the fuck do you know those?”
“Gods, are all of you so eloquent?” The bard backed away and stuck his hands on his hips. He took in the witcher for a moment. Short-cropped black hair was receding away from his forehead, and there was a nasty trio of scars that caught his right temple and eye. The scruffy beard and sour glare told him all he needed to know. He hummed for a moment. “Lambert, then.”
“What the fuck?” Lambert repeated, eyes narrowed. “How the fuck do you know who I am?” He looked around for his swords, which had inconveniently been tossed off of the bed as his armor was removed. He debated if it would be worth it to lunge for them, or to just try and kill the man with his bare hands.
Jaskier rolled his eyes, “Lean forward.” He pushed Lambert down until his back was at an easy angle for the bard to reach. Lambert was too shocked to fight back against the hands that easily controlled him. Gentle but firm fingers probed around the full arrow and the shaft of a broken one as they searched for the best hold. “This is going to hurt like a bitch,” he muttered, barely to the witcher, mostly to himself as he readied his stance to yank out the bolt.
“Who are you?” Lambert hissed, turning his head to take in the man.
He seemed to be well put together, though his hair had probably seen better days. It was a bit shaggy around his ears, and hung rather limply. He was wearing a bright doublet with matching trousers in a shimmery emerald green. He looked too small to be manhandling Lambert with such ease, and the witcher frowned as he tried to figure out the bard in front of him.
Jaskier raised an eyebrow and bent to look the witcher in the eye. “One whole sentence without the word ‘fuck.’ I think that may be a record for you.” He straightened himself and widened his stance a bit more. “Take a deep breath, Lamb.”
“Why the fu-uuuuck!” Lambert screamed as the bard tore the first arrow from his shoulder. He gave the bard a murderous look as the man simply tossed the bloodied arrow aside and readied himself to pull out the second.
His brain slowly began to catch up to what was happening. Namely, how he had been corralled into a small room with a strange man who happened to take away his weapons and strip him of his armor. A strange man that seemed to know far too much about witchers to be a harmless idiot just trying to help an injured man.
After a moment of mental preparation, Lambert sucked in a breath and shoved the bard away. Either he had lost more blood than he thought, or this man was really fucking strong. Jaskier barely stumbled into the dresser behind him. The witcher still tried to make a break for it, throwing himself toward the door.
There was a beat of silence as Jaskier glared for a moment before he lunged for the witcher’s waist. The added weight on his injured right ankle had the witcher falling to the floor with a loud crash and yelp of pain. Jaskier scrambled on top of him and pinned him down with one knee to his good shoulder and one to his lower back. “Stop squirming, you ass,” Jaskier growled.
Lambert struggled harder, trying to dislodge the strangely heavy man that was seated on his back. He felt like an animal that was about to be slaughtered, but he wasn’t going to go down without one hell of a fight. “Get off of me, you freak! I’m going to kill you!”
Jaskier scoffed, doing his best to hold the witcher down. “Heard that one before.” He got Lambert securely pinned to the floor and grabbed at the base of the second arrow. “On three, say Geralt.”
Stopping his struggling for a moment, Lambert frowned. “Ger-?” he started. “-aaaaaalllt!” The second arrow was torn free and a hefty pressure was set upon the two wounds.
“That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” Jaskier grumbled, leaning forward to examine the arrows’ holes in the witcher’s shoulder.
Lambert cursed at him and whipped his head around to scent the air when he heard footsteps. Someone was making their way to the room.
After a few quick knocks, the door swung open. A frightened pair of barmaids stood with buckets of hot water in the hall. “Oh, perfect!” Jaskier chirped, his knees still digging into Lambert’s back. “Go right ahead and dump those in the tub!”
The women scurried into the room to dump the water as fast as they could. Jaskier hollered his thanks after them as they hurried away, finally letting up on the witcher he had immobilized on the floor.
Lambert shoved him away as soon as he could move, growling as he threw his right arm around his back to keep pressure on his shoulder. “Who the fuck are you? How the fuck do you know about witcher potions, and what the fuck have you done to Geralt?”
The bard raised an unimpressed eyebrow and looked toward the tub of steaming water. He knew better than to expect any kind of thanks. His eyes flicked back to meet the witcher’s, then away again to the tub. When Lambert made no move, he sighed. “Get in the damn tub and let me clean up your back. Haven’t decided yet if I should give you stitches, or stab you again myself.”
Lambert was fully prepared to argue back, but something in the bard’s sharp glare set him on edge. Lambert growled lowly, but stepped out of his pants anyway, still taking extra care with his right foot. Jaskier couldn’t see the wound, but he could smell the blood. He decided to let the wolf deal with that injury on his own.
Lambert kept one eye on the bard as he got into the water. The heat curled around his sore muscles and he sighed, closing his eyes for a brief moment. He snapped back to attention when something touched his back.
“It’s a rag, my dear witcher. Can hardly do much damage with it.” Jaskier began gently but firmly cleaning the blood away from the wounds. He hummed after a few minutes. “If you’ve taken your potions like a good boy, you shouldn’t need stitches.” After tying a tight bandage around Lambert’s back, he stood and wiped his hands on his pants as he moved to leave the room. “Finish up and then meet me downstairs.” The bard paused at the door. “We have much to talk about.”