#the only scene that actively felt Messy to me was the fight with the roaches but they may have cleaned it some more for the final product | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

funkzpiel · 4 years

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Geralt whump, hypothermia and frightened-but-competent!Jaskier... these are things I crave...

Coming at me with that good, good witcher whump – bless you.

Jaskier found the witcher in the snow. Were it not for the black leather of his armor, Jaskier might not have seen the pale man at all. But he did, thank the gods, he did. As for how, well… that surprised even Jaskier. Years of following Geralt around had rubbed off, evidently. When the white wolf of Kaer Morhen didn’t return by nightfall to the inn they had purchased a room at, Jaskier knew something was wrong. Knew that he had to go look for the man despite his loathing for all things cold and wet – both of which the thick mountain snows of Skellige most certainly were. The snow was so thick it was useless to take a horse, the poor beast liable to break a leg negotiating the blindingly white terrain. That’s why Roach got to stay all cozied up in the stable with her blanket and her hay – the lucky bastard – while Jaskier trudged through knee high freezing hell.

But if Geralt was too nervous to take Roach, experienced rider as he was, then Jaskier wasn’t about to take her. He’d rather freeze to death than face Geralt’s wrath when he realized Jaskier had put his horse in danger. He’d seen enough of what happened to beasts and bandits that dare target Roach to know better.

Thankfully it had not stormed again since Geralt had braved the mountains to hunt down the creature the villagers had posted a bounty for on their notice board. That meant the witcher’s trail still lingered, and that was precisely what Jaskier followed to find him. He traced Geralt’s steps, tracking the man’s path first through the woods, then higher up into the mountain, and finally to an abandoned cave. Jaskier stood outside its gaping maw, arms wrapped tight around his rib cage, and cursed Geralt with lazy, low brow curses. Too cold to be any more eloquent or creative than that.

There had been a fight, that much was clear. If Geralt was here, the man would have been able to read the scene as easily as Jaskier might read a book – every scuffle in the snow and each broken branch in the surrounding treeline spelling out a story that Geralt would have narrated in short, succinct statements beneath his breath. But Geralt wasn’t here, and while Jaskier knew he’d no doubt miss a good deal of information from the scene, he tried his best to fill the witcher’s shoes. It was almost like the man was there with him. He’d seen Geralt do this so many times, the witcher’s own words echoed in his head as he bent at the waist to look at the story Geralt and his target had written into the snow.

“Must be the monster’s lair,” Jaskier murmured, his own sentences becoming short, mirroring the witcher. “Large prints, at least twice as large as Geralt himself. Claws, if that bit over there is anything to go by. And blood… hopefully not his,” his stomach sank, but he continued. He followed the arching paths in the snow, sometimes getting lost in them. Here, something had slid across the snow, clearing the ground all the way down to the grass from the force of a jarring blow. There was a short depression in the snow, clearly a spot where Geralt had done a tight dodge roll to escape from a swipe of deadly claws. On and on the twisting messages went until finally Jaskier had a decent understanding of what had happened.

They had gone on to the left of the cave, fighting and dodging and making use of the terrain until a high arch of red spread across the snow and the bark of a nearby tree – the sort of splatter a strike from a sword would make, thankfully, meaning it was Geralt who had gotten the upper hand – and Jaskier could see from the footprints that it had taken a lot of effort. It would have been a slow, powerful blow; the sort of attack that would have needed Geralt to brace himself entirely. But the print in the snow was long and messy. He had lost his footing. Hadn’t seen that the ground – covered in thick snow as it was – had given way to a cliff edge far sooner than it appeared to. Jaskier approached the marks in the snow slowly, careful not to slip himself, and looked down its steep slope.

There were two long, deep, tumbling lines stretching all the way down the side of the cliffside – one far larger than the other and streaked crimson in great bursts – and at the bottom he spotted them: a werewolf and a witcher. Both still as death. The world fell silent, or perhaps it had always been silent and it was Jaskier that had been stunned to quietness in every sense of the word. He could see wind stir the grey, metallic fur of the beast even from as high up as he was, but he couldn’t hear the wind. Couldn’t feel it. His skin felt tight and staticky with dread, clammy and cold. His heart beat so fiercely against his breast that he could feel it swaying him minutely on his feet.

“Geralt,” he gasped, barely more than a whisper. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t be dead. Not him. He survived everything. He couldn’t have died, not to something as stupid as uneven footing. It couldn’t be. The urge to slide down the mountain was great. So great in fact that Jaskier nearly did just that. But he looked at the deep line that marked Geralt’s descent. Noted the stain of red that began halfway down, right after a rock that just ever so slightly peaked out of the deep snow. There were dangers hidden beneath all that fluffy white powder. Rocks, deep pockets of missing cliff face. Jaskier would be of help to no one if he ended up face down right next to the witcher, just as broken if not more so what with his human constitution.

His eyes lingered on Geralt’s dreadfully still form in the snow. The man’s legs were practically buried. He was flat on his belly, his face mercifully tipped to the side. A halo of blood bloomed at the crown of his head like some martyr in a painting.

“Gotta get down,” Jaskier muttered, babbling words into the air in an effort to do something, anything, instead of just standing there. He lost track of what he said. Mumbled nonsense – for Geralt, for himself. Cursing the werewolf. Cursing the mountain and the snow and the gods that brought them there. It took time to navigate a path down to Geralt safely. Time that Jaskier felt passing keenly, every second sluggish and dragging. How long had Geralt been in the snow? Was he even alive? How much time did he have? Was it too late?

He reached the jagged landing, nearly falling face first into the snow. He held his footing though, took a moment to steady himself with a breath, then finally went to Geralt’s side when he was certain he wouldn’t fall. He kept his eyes on the werewolf as he approached – eyes fixated on the open maw of the beast and its fangs the size and girth of his own fist, yellow and dry. It had had its mouth open for some time then, its tongue lolling into the snow in death. Dead. It was dead. He was decently sure it was dead at least. Surely even a beast couldn’t lose that much blood without dying. But even so, he kept a wary eye out in case it moved. Not that he would know what to do, but it felt foolish to ignore it altogether.

“Geralt,” he said in an urgent hush, turning the witcher over so he could see the man’s face properly. “Geralt, wake up! It’s me, your favorite bard, your most lovely rescuer. Maidens would pay to awake to a face like mine. So stop being so melodramatic and wake up!” He babbled senselessly.

The man felt cold as death even through Jaskier’s gloves, and the sight of grey veins that threaded out sickly around his eyes nearly made Jaskier shriek before he remembered that was normal for a witcher. Just the remnants of a potion. Were he to open the man’s eyes, no doubt they would be black – and sure enough when he pried them apart briefly to look, they were black as pitch. A potion that did not stay active in the body for terribly long at that. It meant Geralt hadn’t been down here for hours, at least. Maybe just one or two, if it was only just beginning to fade from his system. It also meant he had no chance of gauging the man’s welfare from his pupils.

It was likely what had kept Geralt alive. Witcher constitution or no, a man could only lay in the snow so long before death came for him like it would anyone.

Jaskier slapped Geralt’s face lightly, patting those pale, gaunt cheeks in an effort to rouse the man. But the witcher merely groaned – just the shortest, barest murmur of discomfort – and did not stir. There was a gash above his right brow that stretched from halfway through his eyebrow, across his temple and just above his ear. The whole thing was a bloody, crusty mess that oozed sluggishly. Beneath all the blood Jaskier knew the man’s brow was bruised an ugly purple, grey veins spreading lightly from the wound as the potion worked to close it. So he was likely dealing with a concussion at best, and of course, hypothermia. Lovely.

“I can’t wait to sing you the ballad about the stupid witcher who dragged his poor bard out into the snow,” Jaskier grumbled weakly, too worried for the words to truly hold any heat as he looked around for something to make sense of what to do next, “Where he couldn’t bring a horse to help him, and how it was the bard who saved the day.”

When it became obvious that Geralt would not wake and that no miraculous sign would come floating down from the heavens, Jaskier huffed, hands on Geralt’s still – but breathing – chest, and forced himself to think. It was hard though, when he could feel the snow eating through the knees of his trousers. It was freezing. Already he felt chilled to the bone. He couldn’t even imagine what the meant for the witcher…

He had to warm him up. Without a horse, he had no chance of dragging the witcher through the snow back to town. It’d likely just get them both killed. And despite what Geralt might think about the bard and his survival instincts just because of his profession (and admittedly sometimes his decision making in general), Jaskier had picked up a thing or two over the years; if not from the witcher or from Oxenfurt University, then from his stint on the streets before he had found a way to get people to pay him for his songs. He was no stranger to seemingly hopeless situations. It wouldn’t be the first cold winter night where he had to find shelter outside of the normal inn or tavern.

The clawing cold in his ankles and calves and knees reminded him of those days. Reminded him of how easy it was to end up homeless, belly empty and curled in some alley with nothing but crumbled up posters and notices stuffed in his clothes to keep him warm. He scowled.

Jaskier would never follow Geralt into the mountains again, he vowed, even as distantly he knew he’d never not follow the man into the mountains now – the memory of this, of Geralt face down in the snow, would haunt him too keenly for him ever to let the cold dissuade him again.

He needed shelter. The closest shelter, unfortunately, was the very cave that started this all. A cave that sat just above them, protected by a steep cliff face. It was a daunting task, but dragging the witcher up to the cave was far more realistic than getting him back to town. Jaskier gave himself a moment to bow his head, exhausted already by the task that laid before him. He had helped steady Geralt before – and while Geralt was a broad man, he wasn’t a terribly heavy man. The work of witchers didn’t pay consistently enough for the wolf to truly hold any sort of burdensome weight. But he was still a big man. Tall, broad in the shoulders. Muscled in that tight, corded, almost misleading way that men who fought in light or medium armor tended to be. Lithe and dangerous.

Jaskier drew in a deep inhale, held it, then exhaled it, his eyes trailing down to the witcher nearly in his lap. Sooty lashes frosted over, so dark against the contrast of his pale skin – skin made only paler by the cold and the snow. Jaskier brushed a bit of hair from the man’s brow, wincing when it broke free of the wound on his brow in a manner Jaskier imagined couldn’t be comfortable. Then, blessedly, the witcher’s lashes fluttered. What followed made Jaskier’s stomach flip. The black eyes common to his potion had faded – that small saving grace now gone – and now Geralt was trying to lock onto him with hazy, disoriented amber eyes. The man appeared incapable of truly catching sight of him, pupils dilating and contracting in sluggish, sick little stuttering lurches.

“Geralt? Are you with me?” Jaskier asked. The witcher merely grunted. The bard couldn’t tell if that meant the man recognized him or not. Did he even know where he was? Was he truly even awake at all or just reacting to stimuli? The witcher’s gaze drifted constantly, looking at him, then trailing over his shoulder slightly before jerking back to his face. Like he was tracking multiple things. Or multiple Jaskiers.

“I’ll take that as a no,” the bard muttered with a huff. He stood, still bent at the waist as he dipped two hands under either of the man’s armpits and eased him up. “Of course. Why make this easier and miss out on the thrill of carrying your very lovely ass up the mountain? You know, I think I will write a ballad about this. Why sacrifice this tale of my heroics to spare your dignity?”

He grunted as he hefted the witcher into an upright position. Then just sort of stood there, awkwardly holding Geralt up as he realized he had no idea how he was going to drag the witcher up to the cave. Jaskier suddenly understood the man’s fondness of for the word ‘fuck’ as he realized nothing quite summed up the situation like that one word did in that moment. Tight and hissed through his teeth, resigned and exhausted. Efficient.

He got Geralt onto his back eventually. Distantly he knew it wasn’t the best way to get the man to safety. It compromised his balance, for one thing. Made him walk with a hunch that cramped his shoulders and lower back viciously not even five minutes into the journey. But it felt important to keep Geralt out of the snow, and the thought of dragging the man over rocks and jagged cliff edges as he precariously navigated the path he had used to get down there just felt cruel. So he got there. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, but he did it – and all the while the witcher’s chin dug limply into his shoulder, his breath short and weak against his neck, heating and cooling his jaw in little bursts. He still hadn’t properly ‘woken’ yet, and while the man had never been one of many words, his utter silence left Jaskier with a greasy feeling in his gut. ‘Hmms’ and grunts had never felt like much of a conversation until they were gone.

Although Jaskier could not help but admit that an unconscious Geralt was a much friendlier, easier patient than conscious Geralt. While the witcher was by no means a complainer, he was not exactly a good sport when it came to injuries either. They tended to frustrate him, make him terse and surly. Lord help the fool who tried to offer any sort of medical help in those situations either. Unless it was grave or something Geralt literally couldn’t do himself – like cleanse a back injury, he’d sooner take up another monster fight than accept help. It was as if he viewed triaging himself alone just as vital as upkeeping his training. So no, this wasn’t the first time that the bard had seen the witcher wounded – but it was the first time he had seen the man accept help, consciously or no, without so much as a grumble. And that scared him. It scared the absolute hell out of him.

He babbled to the witcher, of course, on the off chance Geralt might answer. It was an effort to establish normalcy. Weak and ineffective, but irresistible nonetheless. Jaskier complained about the man’s weight even though he was worryingly light for a man who had to fight werewolves twice his size. He told Geralt about how he had found the man because of what he had learned following the witcher around, how maybe he could be a decent tracker now, all things considered.

“Perhaps next go around,” he panted heavily, “I’ll do the monster hunting… I’ll track’em down… lull them into peaceful surrender… with naught but my… lute strings… and unmatched way with… words—godsabove,Geralt,I’mgoingtothrowyourarmoroverthebloodymountain.”

He wanted to drop to his knees once snow gave way to cold but wonderfully dry rock. He wanted nothing more, actually, than to fall face first onto that dark, smooth cave floor and sleep, hypothermia and responsibilities be damned. Which wasn’t a good sign, he acknowledged distantly. But he ignored it. He had to.

If there was one saving grace about the fact that Geralt had collapsed so near a monster den, it was that it had been a werewolf’s den. Had it been anything lesser, Jaskier may have worried about what else live in the cave – but in the times he had followed Geralt on his adventures, they had never once come across a werewolf den that had anything else co-inhabiting that space. Not when they were like this: mad and bloodthirsty and far too gone for Geralt to even consider sparing.

So he set the witcher down as deep as he dared to go without losing sight of the entrance and the feeble light it offered. And then, much to his distaste, he left Geralt there. Only for a moment, only long enough to gather as much dry kindling as he could find – digging under the heavy bottom layer of pine trees where the snow could not reach – and returned. Part of him wanted to go deeper into the cave, but he remembered Geralt’s words about fires and smoke. He knew to stay close to the entrance, to give the smoke a place to travel. He stacked it the way he had seen Geralt stack kindling a hundred times. Carefully, putting the drier tinder in a little alcove of sticks and twigs and anything he could find that he thought may even remotely burn. He took the flint he had stuck into his pack and managed to coax the little bundle into a small but hearty blaze. His fingers were so cold, even despite his gloves, that his bones felt more like shards of broken glass beneath his flesh than anything remotely human. His knees ached, he couldn’t feel his toes. Even so, he forced himself to open his pack and continue on. Because if he stopped, if he gave in, then that would be the end for both of them.

“Right about now I wish you were a white wolf, Geralt,” Jaskier said, prattling on mindlessly, the words more a habit than any proper intention, “You’d be so warm and fluffy. Gods, I have to stop thinking about it, it’s just making me horribly depressed.”

He hadn’t brought much, unfortunately. A pack with minor medical supplies. A skin of water, a knife. A little book and a pen and ink, of course, because gods above forbid that he bring a blanket and miss out on the scant opportunity that he had some enlightened epiphany of literary genius. Then he stilled, book in hand. It was no blanket, but it was not purposeless. Insulation. Tinder. His eyes drifted to the fire heavily, his heart already swelling painfully in his chest. Better to burn it, though, than freeze to death. No scribble of feigned creative breakthrough was worth dying over. So, he set it aside for when the fire would eventually grow low, resigning his notes to their fate. Scarce supplies laid out before him now, he knew there was only one saving grace left that might spare them. Had the werewolf left supplies in the cave?

And blessedly, thankfully, he had: a thin bedroll, a set of blankets, a ratty pillow. Liquor and water, a few scant scraps of food. Jaskier took the blankets in hand, heedless of any fear of fleas or smells, and breathed out a soft, “By the muse’s tits, thank the gods,” before gathering it all and dragging it limply to Geralt.

Which left the final step, one he had been largely avoiding – albeit any other day he would have found it enjoyable. It was time to strip, and while it would be damnably cold in the beginning, it would be worth it in the end. The few times he had shared the alleys with other wayward souls had proved as much to him. Those rare moments burned in his mind’s eye, a discrete promise that what held true in the past during those worst nights would also hold true now, mountains or no.

But gods above would it sting to lose what scant layers and heat he had now to do so… Better to rip it off like dried bandages than procrastinate any longer, however. The blankets and bedroll would be useless if wet anyway, and their soggy clothing was more a comfort of the mind than any true measure of warmth.

He went about stripping them both as quickly and efficiently as possible. Normally he’d be loath to rush through an opportunity like undressing his stoic witcher, but the paleness of Geralt’s skin and the bloodless look of his nails urged him to forego sightseeing. Jaskier’s own fingers fumbled on the man’s many clasps and ties and fastenings, but piece by piece he slowly divulged Geralt of his armor, then his shirt and trousers, until finally he had the white wolf naked at his feet. He went about getting the man comfortable first. He rolled him gently until his back was firmly on the thin bedroll, then covered him with the blankets he had found. His lack of shivering was worrisome, but there was nothing more to do for it but continue as quickly as possible to the next step. Which meant it was Jaskier’s turn to disrobe. Joy. It smarted horribly to lose his shirt, his pants even worse. But as he removed his boots, the pale blue of his own toes was impossible to ignore. It was worth it, he knew, but his animal hind-brain writhed with every article of clothing lost until finally he was bare in the cave, skin crawling like a spooked horse from the chill.

“Alright, Geralt,” he muttered, teeth clacking, “Scooch over, you overgrown mutt.”

He hopped from foot to foot, the cold touch of the rock floor unpleasant and unkind to the soft souls of his feet. He lifted the blankets and slipped in as quickly as possible, eager to drop them again and seal any holes that might let cold air in. He tried to ignore the fact that there was no immediate difference, tried to ignore the gibbering voice in his head that said this was a dumb decision and they’d freeze to death because of it. He knew it would work. He’d lived it before. It was all a matter of time now. Time, and warming Geralt as much as he could. He pressed himself flush against the witcher’s chest, easing the man onto his side as gently as possible so that he might embrace him. Hands around his sides, he vigorously began to run them up and down Geralt’s back, encouraging bloodflow and frictious heat while using skin to skin contact warm as much of Geralt’s torso as efficiently as possible. His torso and those rows of ribs and vertebrae that protected the man’s heart, thumping so slow beneath his hands. Witchers naturally had slower hearts, he reminded himself, trying his best not to count each beat. It wasn’t too late. It wasn’t.

He had Geralt’s head tucked awkwardly in the space beneath his chin, and between his jaw and the pillow. It left the man breathing softly against his throat, mouth somewhat open against his skin. Jaskier shivered and forced himself not to focus on it even as he buried the memory away. He had never held the wolf, not like this. Geralt was not one for allowing himself to be vulnerable, and while the man had opened up throughout the years, this was still uncharted territory.

Slowly, like spring sneaking in to thaw the last lingering frost of winter’s hold, Jaskier felt the man begin to warm against him. Their skin sang a chorus with one another, exchanging heat, building upon one another as together they warmed the small, tight pocket the blanket had formed around them – legs and feet curled together to keep the blanket’s ends pinned in a way so that no air could escape. Pale, blueish skin began to pinken. Jaskier could feel pins and needles begin to crop up in his fingers and toes – and knew it was working for Geralt as well when the man finally, blessedly, began to shiver. It started in short, soft little titters that steadily grew stronger, bolder, until the man was properly wracked with them. Jaskier could not tell if the witcher was then propelled by them or driven by instinct, but he found the man pressing closer to him – head curled into his neck and shoulder, arms shifted to curl in tight in the space between their chests, legs entangled. His breathing became stuttered as the shivers caught up with his jaw and teeth, and for all the world the witcher – larger than life as he was – seemed strangely small in Jaskier’s arms.

The fire lasted longer than he had thought it might, and Jaskier couldn’t help but feel grateful, loath to leave this moment as he was. He knew what it was like to be held. He knew the feel of a person’s arms wrapped around his hips or slung across his chest. The joy of being gathered close and wanted. Knew what it was like for Geralt to hold him like that. But never had Jaskier been able to return the favor. Geralt seemed to have a preference toward being the one doing the holding and Jaskier – more than willing to be held – didn’t ever think to argue. But this was… nice. It brought a strange, unidentifiable warmth to his chest, knowing that for once it was him that had done the protecting. That when they ended up with their backs against the wall, he had proven himself useful despite Geralt’s constant huffing about him tagging along. He kissed the side of Geralt’s neck while the man was still too lost to so much as grumble about it. Enjoyed having the wolf soft and sleepy in his arms. Enjoyed knowing this side of him existed.

“We are going to have to talk about your cuddling habits when this is over, Geralt,” Jaskier said into his hair, brushing fingers through it, ridding it of a few scant leaves. “Because for a man as grumpy as you are, you are secretly quite talented at the art of being the little spoon. It almost makes me wonder if all this time your general grumbliness has just been a ruse. I should have cuddled you years ago, honestly, I’ve never met a man that nuzzles as much as you do, gods above, has no one ever held you?”

“Hmph,” the man huffed, open mouthed and breathy against his shoulder; his first reaction since opening his eyes in the snow. Jaskier craned his neck to try and get a look at him.

“Geralt, witcher-dearest, are you awake?” If anything would get the witcher to react, it would be a horrible pet name. But Geralt’s lashes just flickered against the naked span of his shoulder before falling closed again, and Jaskier just had to trust that a witcher’s constitution was enough to heal what he could not. He faintly remembered something about not letting people with head wounds sleep – but that ship had long since set sail.

Eventually Geralt’s arms went from between them to wrapped around Jaskier’s waist, holding him tight just as he would when they normally spooned. Jaskier wondered if Geralt held so tightly to stop himself from twisting in his sleep, from seeking his partner’s arms to hold him instead. It was a theory he’d have to investigate – if he could ever manage to shift without waking his usually light-sleeper of a witcher.

They stayed like that for some time, and it was only just as Jaskier was watching the fire dim – wondering if he should finally get up and tear paper from his notebook to keep it alive – that the witcher stirred.

“Jaskier.”

That was it. Just his name. Jaskier. As if that one word, made of scant vowels and syllables, spoke volumes. To anyone else, it was just a name. But one did not spend as much time with the witcher as Jaskier had without picking up on the man’s language – namely, the art of speaking as little as possible. A craft that largely rested on the heavy shoulders of monosyllable communication and body language. The man really was a wolf, Jaskier swore it often.

“Hmm?” Jaskier asked, mimicking the witcher’s token manner of replying by not really replying at all, just to see what he’d do. Because he knew what the man was trying to ask: What in the bloody hell is going on?

And it was a legitimately fair question, considering the fact that the witcher – a man used to taking care of himself and waking up alone unless coin paid for company otherwise – had just woken nestled under a blanket that smelled fiercely of wet dog, naked, curled into his bard’s chest. Did Jaskier mention naked? They were very naked.

“Jaskier,” Geralt repeated meanfully, just the slightest hint of a growl rounding out his name. Jaskier felt relief bloom in his chest. It was not a full out surly response, nothing like Geralt’s usual moodiness when being looked after whilst injured, but it had more spunk to it than when Jaskier had found him dazed, pupils blown, face down in the snow next to a werewolf’s corpse. And yet, despite his disorientation and his ire, he hadn’t precisely moved away.

“You didn’t come back to the inn,” Jaskier finally said, and when he leaned back to give Geralt a little space, he had to stop himself from smiling when Geralt followed. “So I followed the direction the townsfolk said they saw you wander off in. Found your trail, followed your prints – I was practically you, squatting down in the snow, grumbling observations under my breath—”

“Jaskier.”

“—You slipped,” Jaskier cut to the chase, his cheery tone fading somewhat as he remembered the piercing shock of seeing Geralt crumbled at the bottom of the cliff. “Fell down a cliff not far from the cave. Werewolf’s dead, by the way, you did a lovely job. I’d just appreciate it if you didn’t go trying to kill yourself next time, if you don’t mind. I’d rather not have a repeat experience of carrying your handsome ass up the mountain on my back again.”

Geralt laid silently in his arms. He was still so close that Jaskier could feel his lashes sweeping against his skin with each blink. Jaskier waited for him to pull away. Waited for him to bark grumpily about being taken care of. Moments ticked by slowly, and yet it never came. He was still awake, Jaskier could tell by the man’s breathing.

“Geralt?” He asked, uncertain of what to do.

“Hmm.”

“Are you alright? Warm enough? Dizzy? Any trouble with the light, or—”

“—M’fine,” Geralt murmured, the words tinged with a sort of sleepiness Jaskier wasn’t used to hearing from the witcher. Not so much something worrisome as it was simply, well… unexpected. Something lazy, like the tone you might expect from a lover after a rousing night in bed. The sort of tone a person got when they felt at ease, confident in their safety, loath to leave the comfort of their sheets.

Jaskier blinked, his stupidly shocked expression slowly melting into a grin.

Geralt liked being held. He wasn’t about to ask for it. He’d deny it if it was offered. But waking to it? Unable to resist as he had been, unconscious and all – he didn’t want to stop. It was an opportunity where he didn’t have to resist because there was pragmatism and logic in sharing body heat here, out in the middle of nowhere in the middle of winter.

For once, Jaskier kept his mouth shut, no more keen to ruin the moment that Geralt was.

“Werewolf’s den?” Geralt finally mumbled.

“Yeah. It was the closest shelter I could find. Not the nicest inn we’ve ever spent the night in, but it’s most certainly the cheapest. Better than the snow, certainly. It almost has a sort of primitive charm to it, don’t you think?”

“Werewolf’s blanket?”

Jaskier paled a bit and said, “Don’t tell me the curse is transferrable through fleas or something.”

Geralt snorted against his shoulder, so similar to normal it made relief melt Jaskier’s limbs around him. “No. Stinks.”

“Ah,” Jaskier said sympathetically, nodding lightly, “Of course. Yes, we’ve borrowed a bit of supplies from the werewolf. I don’t think he’ll miss it. I apologize for not having more fragrantly pleasing items with which to prevent us both from dying.”

Geralt snorted again.

“S’fine.”

“S’fine. M’fine. Really putting me at ease here, Geralt,” Jaskier prattled on, unable to stop now that Geralt could finally hear him. Exhaustion was buzzing around his eyes. Now that he had confirmation that the man was okay, it was like it hit him in a stampede, no longer able to ignore how utterly tired he was. He yawned over Geralt’s shoulder before pressing a sleepy kiss into the man’s nape before he could stop himself. He held still, waiting as he realized what he had done but Geralt just… let it be. If anything, Jaskier thought he might have pressed in the slightest bit closer. But surely not…

“You found me,” Geralt finally said – not so much unsure as just cementing facts, like when he’d observe footprints in the mud, following them until he found what he was looking for. Jaskier wondered what he was looking for this time.

“Yes, I found you,” he said, simple and succinct, just the way Geralt preferred. He felt the man press further against his neck, as though he needed nothing more than confirmation that he was safe, and fell back into a doze against him. Allowed himself to be held. That was probably as closed to ‘thank you’ as Jaskier would ever get – and yet it felt like so, so much more. It felt like trust, like a bridge that they hadn’t quite been able to close the gap on until this moment. While Jaskier had never doubted Geralt’s trust in him in the ordinary, this felt uniquely distinct – trust beyond what he had been given before. Trust that Geralt could sleep peacefully and let go, and Jaskier would watch his back. Keep him safe. Be capable of keeping him safe.

In that moment, wrapped in a ratty blanket in a snow covered cave, Jaskier thought he could get used to this big spoon business.

#The Witcher #geralt x jaskier #Gaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #hypothermia #cuddling #big spoon/little spoon action #witcher writing

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