Chapter Text
Roach was a beautiful mare. Anyone with half a brain could see she was loyal first and foremost to Geralt, and her temperament was truly ideal for the witcher. She never balked mid sprint, never shied away from monsters, never ignored a whistle from the witcher. A magnificent horse, every muscle rippling with power and confidence. She trusted her rider not to let her get hurt, although she certainly didn't seem to approve of the witcher's goal of intentionally seeking out the things that wanted to eat them. But she tolerated it nonetheless — when they broke camp for the night, she was quite content to take her pick of the nearby plants or, when Jaskier was present, she instead hounded him for treats.
At first, she hadn't been interested in him. Neither had Geralt, for that matter. She had taken one look at the bard, in all his peacocking glory, and snorted dismissively right in his face. She spurned all attempts to pat her, instead taking a warning bite at his hand and flicking her ears in annoyance, and riding her was out of the question even if Geralt had allowed it. Even when Jaskier tried to bring her treats and bribe her for her favor, she had merely helped herself to whatever it was he had offered, and then gave him a look that clearly said 'You didn't think I'd warm up to you just like that, did you?'. But Jaskier was nothing if not persistent. Roach, ever faithful to Geralt, mostly just ignored him. Paid him even less attention than the flies that occasionally tried to settle on her flank, swatting them away with her tail.
But then the unthinkable happened. They had passed through a small town offering a contract for a 'terrifying, awful beastie killin' all our goats, please help us kind witcher sir' that later turned out to be two beasties, two forktails in particular, and of course Geralt had accepted the contract. They'd already fallen into a rhythm after weeks of travelling together; Jaskier set about preparing the campsite, gathering wood and lighting a fire, while Geralt went off to do his witchering business. If it wasn't too dangerous a creature, sometimes Jaskier went with him. Other times, he simply waited for him to return.
This time he did not return. It was growing dark, now several hours after the witcher had left, and Jaskier was restless. Roach eyed him from where she grazed, and even she seemed to feel his concern. She didnt care one whit for Jaskier, but Geralt mattered to her. Finally, he could take it no longer. "He's gotten himself into trouble, hasn't he?" he grumbled, rising to his feet. "Stay here, I'll be back soon." he insisted even as he backed away to the edge of the clearing. At least he knew the rough direction the witcher had gone, but he'd be hard pressed to find his trail especially with the darkening sky. How could a man so large be so damn stealthy?
There — he caught the scream on the edge of the wind, and for a moment his blood ran cold. He ran towards it without hesitation, ignoring the instinctive urge to turn around and run away from whatever was causing that scream. He broke free of the underbrush, and there he saw it. Two forktails, one already quite dead, but the other wailing and thrashing around, spraying blood from what was likely a severed artery even as its entrails spilled onto the ground beneath it. It was dying, and not quickly or painlessly. He winced at the sight, his stomach churning at the gore, but more importantly, his eyes fixed on the witcher.
Geralt had the tip of his blade plunged into the soil, leaning his weight against it heavily like he was trying to stay upright. The scent of copper hung thick and cloying in the air. He was wounded. "Gods, Geralt, are you-" he rushed forward once more, only to freeze dead in his tracks as the witcher held a palm out in his direction, not even turning his head to look at him. "Geralt?"
"Stay away." he growled, his voice even more gravelly than usual, which was rather impressive as he always sounded like he'd been gargling rusty nails each morning. "It's not dead yet-"
"It's fine, look, it's... well, its insides are now its outsides, I don't think it's really in much of a position to- are you- oh, fuck, Geralt!"
The witcher grimaced but then he was toppling, and Jaskier barely managed to grab him enough to keep him from thudding into the ground. They were of similar height but Geralt felt like a great big armor-wrapped bag of rocks and it was all he could do to lower him gently before he dropped the witcher. There was blood soaking the side of his armor and running in rivulets to the grass beneath them — likely not a lethal wound if treated, but he wasn't a healer, he didn't have the skills to treat such a serious injury.
"Fuck, Geralt, I need you to stay awake long enough to get back to Roach." he insisted, settling one of the witcher's arms over his shoulder and dragging him back to his feet. At least Geralt had enough awareness to sheathe his sword, but then the rest of his concentration seemed to be focused on putting one foot in front of the other no matter the pain it caused him. If he passed out, Jaskier would have no choice but to drag him across the forest floor, and he'd much rather avoid that.
"It's alright, you're alright, we're nearly there." he grunted through clenched teeth, ignoring the worry gnawing at his belly. Geralt would be fine. It wasn't the first time he'd been injured and Jaskier was going to keep it from being his last. "That alderman owes you at least half as much coin, one beastie my arse." he growled. Anything to keep himself from thinking about how Geralt's breathing was ragged, even though he tried to keep it even.
Finally, after what felt like hours, they reached the clearing where Roach lifted her head to glare at him reproachfully, like it was his fault the witcher had gotten hurt. "Don't give me that look." he grumbled, moving to sit Geralt by the fire. He'd left it well-stoked and it hadn't burned out yet, but he shoved in a few more sticks and branches to keep it ablaze for a while longer.
"I'm going to clean and bandage it, but I don't- I can't-"
"You can."
It was the first thing Geralt had said since Jaskier had found him, and it had a strange way of making his heart do a little somersault in his chest. Geralt wasn't concerned. Geralt trusted him.
"Alright." he took a deep breath and steadied his hands and then he quickly began unlacing his armor, getting it out of the way and pulling aside his ripped shirt to see the extent of the wound.
Twin gaping slashes, exposing muscle and tendon and gods was that his hip bone? He blanched and bile rose in his throat, but then Geralt's hand caught his wrist.
"Breathe, Jaskier."
He let out a shaky laugh. Trust Geralt to be the one comforting him when Jaskier could fit three fingers into the wound.
"Water. Rinse it."
"Right, of course. Got it. Understood." he leapt to his feet, stumbling to retrieve the waterskin and coming back to kneel beside him. Blood on his hands, staining the soft blue of his doublet, dripping into the grass below—
"Jaskier-"
"No, I'm alright. It's going to hurt, I'm sorry." he continued apologising even as he uncorked the skin and poured the water in a steady stream across the wound, watching the dirt flow free.
It occurred to Jaskier that perhaps Geralt usually tended to his own wounds. He doubted the witcher would seek out a healer unless he had no choice.
"Saddlebags, there's a kit-"
Jaskier knew the one. He hopped up again and moved to Roach, but the scent of blood and *fear* had made her skittish. Her head turned suddenly as Jaskier reached for the bag, her teeth snapping closed on the air just shy of his fingers.
"Roach, please, just let me-"
She wasn't having any of it. She shifted back, looking rather like she might try to bite him again. Or trample him.
Frustration flared up within him, anger born of worry. "Now isn't the time for your attitude!" he insisted, feeling the hair on the back of his neck rising. Of all the times for her to get snappy at him, she chose the one moment he needed to be quick. He took another quick grab at the bag, but she nickered and stepped back, ears flicking as she tried to bite him again.
"Enough!"
Roach went still, and then she slowly bowed her head. Cowed? Jaskier was hardly intimidating to a horse of her bulk and attitude, and she'd made it painfully clear she'd never listen to him. But there was something odd in his voice, something that had Geralt's head snapping up as his medallion shivered, something that made the birds and insects in the trees around them fall silent.
Jaskier frowned at her as he stepped forward again, but this time she ignored him as he retrieved the bag. He sighed with relief and returned to Geralt, kneeling down beside him. "Alright, I have it. You don't..." he hesitated, fingers lingering just above the bottles. "You don't want me to stitch this, do you?"
His mouth was dry.
It was one thing bandaging shallow wounds, cleaning small cuts and scrapes. But this? This was far, far above his level. He was a bard for gods' sake. His fingers were talented on the neck of a lute, or the strings of a harp, or any instrument he spent a little time learning, not stitching wounds.
Geralt moved, one hand retrieving a vial from the bag. He uncorked it with his teeth and drained it in one go, no, not drained, he paused when there was just a trickle left. His hand stretched out and he upended the vial, pouring the last of the liquid onto the wound where it bubbled and hissed on the mangled flesh.
"You've mended clothes before." he grunted, setting the empty vial aside. "Same thing. Pull the edges closed, potion'll do the rest."
The bard swallowed, but he found his hands moving before he even realised. He'd seen the kit before, potions and dried herbs, a needle and a spool of sturdy twine, several strips of bandages. How many times had Geralt stitched up his own wounds with no one to help him? His brows furrowed with concentration as he threaded the needle, tying a thick knot in the end of the twine.
"I'm not sure this is entirely the same as mending a tear in a shirt." he murmured. He hesitated, but golden eyes flickered up to meet blue. Reassurance, silent comfort like a firm hand on his shoulder. It would be okay.
He pressed his lips into a thin line as he used one hand to press the jagged flesh together the way he would a torn seam in a shirt, the sharp point of the needle diving into his skin. Blood wet his fingers but he shouldered on, ignoring the churning in his stomach and the anxiety creeping through his bones, the needle rising and sinking through his skin. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. The first of the two tears began to pull together, curving along his abdomen and around to his hip like a twisted smile.
Geralt didn't make a sound, nor did he flinch, even though it must have hurt greatly. He simply watched in silence as the needle wove through his flesh, his expression unreadable, never changing. Jaskier found himself wishing he could read minds if only so he could take a peek into the thoughts behind those cat eyes. Was he angry? Disappointed? Did he not want Jaskier to see him injured? Or maybe it was nothing so complicated, and he just wanted the pain to stop.
He moved to the second gash, this one wrapping around his side and finishing just shy of his back. Back and forth, back and forth. A quiet apology spilled from his lips when he had to guide the witcher to roll onto his side to get better access to the wound, knowing the movement had to be uncomfortable. It took less time than the first but it felt like a lifetime.
Finally, he sat back on his haunches, bloodied hands resting palms-up on his thighs. "Bandage?" for the first time since he'd travelled with the witcher, he was completely speechless — not because he lacked the words, but because he didn't trust himself to speak them. His voice would break, the concern and worry would pour forth like the bursting of a dam, and he'd say something stupid and foolish and Geralt would withdraw that tiny bit of tenderness he'd shown.
"Bandage."
Gods bless Geralt's refusal to use multi-syllable words. He might have made things awkward. The bleeding had stopped for the most part, the potion and his crude stitches working to keep him from bleeding out. Geralt would heal quickly, but the thought did nothing to calm his nerves. He nodded, rinsing off both his hands and the wound one last time before he wiped his hands on his trousers and retrieved one of the longer bandages.
It took him a moment to find his voice, but he was pleased it didn't quiver. Years of performing in front of a crowd had given him the perfect mask to steel his nerves, put a smile on his face and act like his heart wasn't at all racing in his chest. "Well. That wasn't at all terrible, not as bad as I thought." he said lightly, beginning to wrap the bandage snugly around his waist. Always reverting to humor and witticisms to mask his true emotions, especially when those golden eyes never once left his face.
"I can hear your heartbeat, Jaskier."
Ah, well. That wasn't fair. That decidedly fell under the category of cheating.
His lips curled into a wry, self deprecating smile as he tied off the bandage. "It's fine. Really. I'm just... worried." he admitted. "I can't say I like seeing something like that."
Geralt's expression darkened for a moment, but he held his hand up to stop him before he nudged another thick branch into the fire. The flames cast shadows across the two of them, which had quite an interesting effect of making Geralt's eyes much more beast-like. And yet there was not a trace of fear within him, only genuine concern and frustration.
"I'm pretty sure I could see bone, Geralt. That's not just a little scrape. I don't want to hear how you're used to it, or how you don't need my help." he said firmly. "I won't hear a word of it. One day you'll get into too much trouble to deal with by yourself. It's not a crime to ask for help, especially if it's being offered so freely." he insisted.
"Jaskier-"
"No, Geralt."
A low, warning grumble rumbled through the witcher's chest. He didn't care much for being interrupted, but it wasn't about to stop the bard. Not this time.
"No, you're going to listen to me, just this once. I'm not doing this because I owe you, or because of the coin or the fame." he pressed, leaning forward slightly, eyes bright. "Everyone treats you like some kind of monster, like you're no better than the beasts you kill. They'll tolerate your presence as long as they want something and then toss you out on your arse like a cheap whore come morning, with half as much coin as their contract offered. Maybe you don't see the problem with it or maybe, gods forbid, you think you deserve it, but I see how it really is, and the way they treat you is foul. It makes me sick to my stomach every single time, and you just accept it. That's enough. You deserve better."
For once Geralt listened to his protests without complaint, regarding him curiously, warily. The medallion on his chest shivered again, so much that even Jaskier saw the twitch. Odd, but hardly enough to distract him from his tirade. He wasn't even close to finished ranting yet. He opened his mouth to continue, but that was when Geralt finally spoke up.
"Thank you, for your help." he said bluntly, those piercing eyes fixing Jaskier in place as effectively as if the witcher had driven his sword right through his chest and into the ground beneath him. "I don't need your help- let me finish, bard. I don't need it, but if you're going to be so adamant about it..." he gave a slight shrug with one shoulder, propping himself up on one elbow. "I guess I'll get used to it."
It was quite possibly the nicest thing Geralt had ever said to him.
"You'd better." he said softly, hoarsely, his throat tightening.