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Jaskier wonders if Geralt knew. He wonders if Geralt shuddered at the intensity of Jaskier's devotion, if he felt the love crawling up his spine, paralyzing him. Indomitable man, whose care seemed coarse when it actually flowed like velvet. Jaskier could fall in front of Geralt's knees, let him walk all over him, give him a God's power.
Geralt's destroyed him before. He continues to in small ways, dropping Jaskier's smile ever so slightly. He wants to crawl inside this man, wrap his intestines around him like a blanket. Can't you see, Jaskier'd beg silently. Can't you see what you do to me? Can you see yourself when I sing, do my melodies reach you? I can't follow you when you're so far away.
Now he's here, bleeding out on the ground, eyes hallowed by dark bruises. He can't move, can barely speak. His jaw grinds in pain. His hands are patting the ground, fingers shaking. He finds Jaskier's hand. Squeezes. Jaskier sits closer, gingerly touches Geralt's forehead.
"Jask--" Geralt rasps. "Where's Ciri?" The grip on his hand goes tighter. He would set the world on fire, Jaskier thinks, if only to keep his daughter safe.
"I don't know, Geralt," Jasker whispers, his insides clawing out of him, wanting so badly to shush, to comfort, to ease Geralt's fire. "I'm sorry."
"Is she safe?"
"I don't know."
"I have to get to her." His voice strains with desperation. He tries to move his body, sweat drips down his forehead. His back stubbornly holds him prisoner on the ground. "Help me!" He growls at Jaskier, spittle forming in the corners of his mouth. "Please," he begs. "She needs me, please."
Jaskier can only apologize, let Geralt squeeze the life out of his hand. He can only hold him, soothe him, hum to him. Ciri's fate gnaws in the back of his mind, the guilt coiling around his conscience. Geralt could hate him, push him away at any time. He could rip him to pieces and the worst part was that Jaskier would let him. No punishment was enough.
Can Geralt smell the betrayal, the lapse of judgement, in responsibility? Can he see Jaskier shamelessly naked, floating away on ecstasy, escaping him? Can he sense Ciri waking up alone, abandoned?
Jaskier takes Geralt's hand, his strong grip, and places it on his throat. "I'm sorry," Jaskier says again. "I'm sorry." Jaskier wishes he'd do it. He wishes Geralt would squeeze, squeeze so hard that Jaskier floated. Instead, Geralt stares, a look of deep hurt in his eyes. Jaskier cups his other hand on Geralt's face. "We'll find her," he says. "We will."
"Lay here with me," Geralt says. "Sing me something."
With great effort, Geralt draws his hand back from where Jaskier held it against his neck. Jaskier lies down beside Geralt on his side, props his head up on his shoulder.
"For if your goal be paradise," he hums softly. Geralt closes his eyes, finds Jaskier's fingers and intertwines them with his own.
Indomitable man, Jaskier thinks. I wish you were soft with me all the time.