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Jaskier has often wondered how this might happen. If it might be at the sword of an enemy, or on the horns of some monstrous beast. Being eaten by a werewolf would, he thinks, be rather dramatic - or perhaps stumbling into a nest of ghouls.
He has suspected for some time now that it won’t be quiet or simple, like his father’s. It won’t be in a bed, of that much he’s quite sure.
He’d always considered drowning to be rather gauche. He loves the ocean, for one - but at a healthy distance - and his travels bring him closer to monsters and furious humans than it does to rushing rapids or dangerous riptides.
How odd, then, that there’s a burning in his chest and his vision is turning white around the edges as the rushing water presses down on him.
He’s thinking, absurdly, of his boots. New boots, utterly ruined. Perhaps if he’d chosen the lightweight pair he wouldn’t be sinking so quickly - gods know the layers of cloth and leather and wool must weigh the same as he does, soaking wet.
Geralt’s always telling him to dress sensibly. He did, for once, at the witcher’s behest, and now he’s sinking.
The ocean here is deep and cold. There are shapes flitting about him, in what little of his vision is left - dark, hulking shadows that lurk in the depths. Sirens, they could be. Or whales. Or perhaps just his brain slowly running out of air.
He’d panicked, at first, when the surf had tossed him like a ragdoll and there’d been saltwater rushing up his nose. He’d flailed on the surface, desperate to break the barrier between water and air. His arms, now, are leaden, his legs useless.
As a child, he’d swim in the lake when they holidayed in Toussaint. He remembered diving as deep as he could, pressing his feet to the silty floor and shooting back up like a cork from a bottle of champagne.
There is no bottom, here, no lakebed from which he can push himself from. Just darkness.
There is a fight happening within him, one he can’t control. He knows he cannot breathe here, but the pressure is too much and his lungs are screaming. He wants to take a breath, needs to breathe. Tiny bubbles escape his nose and the corner of his mouth, precious motes wasted in the water.
The whiteness grows, blinding him. His eyes burn. His ears start to ring - the sound deafening, drowning out the odd, compressing sound of the water and his own heavy heartbeat.
He needs to breathe, but he can’t, not down here, not in this blackness. But he needs to breathe. He needs to open his mouth and inhale and sooth his burning lungs, needs to let it in, let it in, breathe—
He opens his mouth.
Water rushes in.
They should have found passage on a larger boat.
That thought, Geralt knows, has come far too late.
The sloop is tossed on the water, waves taller than the buildings in Novigrad slamming into the side, into the deck. Men are rushing about, but their actions are futile - in this storm, all they can do is survive.
Geralt is shouting - demanding that Jaskier get back in the hold, where it’s safe. Jaskier screams back, his voice discordant against the crash of waves and the rolling thunder - the hold is completely flooded.
There’s a flash directly above the ship, the lightning forking dangerously close to the mast. Around them, men swear and shout. Jaskier flinches. On the port side, the water surges, the waves crest.
Geralt shouts again - you need to get—
And then, like a terrible conjurer’s trick, Jaskier is gone.
It takes two of the Skeillegan crewmen to stop Geralt throwing himself over the side after him. The captain - a man even larger than Geralt with a shock of startlingly red hair - curses him, tells him there’s no use - even a witcher won’t survive these waters.
Geralt shrugs them off, staring into the foaming, throthing water, looking. He’s better eyesight than the men, better senses, and where they only see surf he can see more.
A flash of red. He thanks all the gods and then some that Jaskier had chosen the red doublet this morning instead of the blue. His hands grip the railing again, but the eyes of the captain are boring into his back and he knows if he leaps, the captain will haul him back.
The ship rolls as another enormous wave crashes over them. Lightning, now illuminating the sky as far as the horizon, crackles above them then - like a stroke from the gods - comes forking down, exploding into sparks at the top of the creaking mast.
The wood screams. With a noise like the world ending, the mast splits nearly in two, toppling. The captain and his men have much bigger issues to deal with now than a thoughtless witcher, and in the sudden panic, Geralt braces himself against the railing and leaps.
The icy water makes him gasp instinctively. He’s swum in the waters off of Skellige hundreds of times, so he’s prepared for the bite against his skin, but it still manages to wind him every time. Cursing himself for not preparing a vial of Killer Whale, he dives.
Beneath the water, he’s still buffeted by the rolling waves, but it’s easier to see, easier to navigate without being battered by surf. The sea is dark, made darker still by the clouds above obscuring the sun, and he has to hone all of his senses, scanning around him for that glimpse of red.
There. Just below him, away to the left. He dives, kicking down with his feet. His armour, which he’d foolishly forgotten to remove, is heavy - but that only makes him sink quicker, and he knows his legs are strong enough to propel them back both upwards when he needs to.
Jaskier half floats, half sinks in the brackish water. His eyes are closed. There is no struggle, no kicking or attempts to save himself. There’s frost in Geralt’s chest as he grabs Jaskier’s wrist and pulls his limp body towards him, hooking an arm around his torso then kicking upwards, making for the surface.
There are dozens of tiny islands dotting the Skellige coastline. Some are merely rocks jutting from the seabed, home only to sirens. Some are larger, little sandy spits of land that, once, watchtowers could be built on. Most are somewhere in between - rock and sand and surf, land enough to breathe.
It’s one of these islands that Geralt hauls himself and Jaskier breathlessly onto, heart pounding. He lays Jaskier down against the wet sand as the storm rages above them, battering them with a mix of raindrops and hail. The shore is truly not so far, but the island is closer - quicker.
Jaskier isn’t breathing. His skin is pale - a horrible green-grey around his lips and eyes - and when Geralt puts a hand to his jaw he’s icy cold. Pulling aside the tattered remains of the red doublet, he presses an ear to his chest to better hear over the roar of the waves.
He’s not dead. Not quite. But close.
Geralt acts quickly. He locks his hands together over Jaskier’s chest and begins to press, arms locked, keeping the rhythm quick and steady. He remembers, in the haze of youth, one of the teachers at Kaer Morhen showing him how to do this. He counts to thirty in his head then, in a swift movement, pinches Jaskier’s nose and leans over him, locking their mouths together as he breathes into him, forcing air into his lungs.
Nothing.
He moves back to the compressions. He was hesitant, before, to use the whole force of his strength - so much more than a normal human’s - but now that restraint is gone. He presses into Jaskier’s chest with his full weight, desperate, willing himself to maintain the steady beat.
There’s a sickening crack that sends shivers down his spine as something inside Jaskier’s chest snaps. A rib, he thinks - possibly two - or his sternum. But Geralt doesn’t stop until he’s counted to thirty once more. Two more breaths are forced down Jaskier’s unresisting throat.
Geralt falls into rhythm. It feels easier now something has given way.
From the shore, barely even a quarter of a mile away, there’s a shout. He’s been spotted, clearly, but he doesn’t turn - doesn’t stop. He carries on. Chest, breaths, wait. Chest, breaths, wait.
It feels like an age has passed on this fucking island, but he knows it must only be minutes. Still he works, Jaskier’s cold body unresisting beneath his hands, beneath his lips. Exhaustion pricks at him: he can feel it in his stiff arms, in the way his breath catches, but he doesn’t stop.
It’s too late, his own voice echoes at him, he’s dead. Stop. Give up. He’s dead. This is your fault, you should never have allowed him to come. He’s dead, he’s gone - he’s—
With an awful, rattling wheeze Jaskier vomits an ocean of saltwater all over himself and Geralt. Acting quickly, Geralt pushes him onto his side so he doesn’t choke again. When his stomach and - Geralt hopes - his lungs are clear, he gently moves him onto his back again.
Jaskier takes huge, shuddering breaths, wincing as he does. His unfocused eyes meet Geralt’s gaze, and it’s immediately clear that he has no idea where he is. He frowns, mouth opening and closing wordlessly, but doesn’t speak. He coughs, and each cough elicits a pained yelp as his broken bones compress around his lungs.
Both of them are soaked and the rain painfully batters at Geralt’s frozen skin. He tries to shield Jaskier from the downpour as much as he can with his own body, anything to keep him safe. From far away, there’s another shout, and Geralt finally allows himself to turn.
They have been spotted. A boat - barely more than a small fishing boat - is skipping across the choppy waves towards them. Aboard are a man and a woman, the woman leaning in the bow, waving at him, trying to get his attention.
There’s a few feet of sandy shore around the island, and the woman jumps onto the bank while her companion keeps their vessel steady against the storm. Together, they haul Jaskier into the boat, careful not to jolt him too much.
The journey is swift and silent, and they keep the land to their left as they steer the tiny boat around into the harbor. The woman says they’re in Larvik, which means they’ve landed on Hindarsfjall: miles from where Geralt needs to be. Right now he can’t think about the Jarl waiting for him on Ard Skellig - the contract and the promise of a hefty reward. In the bottom of the boat, head resting against Geralt’s knees, Jaskier gazes unseeingly upwards. His eyes are red, and spit foams at the corner of his lips.
They make a bumpy approach into the harbour, where people are already gathered - the storm has seen off more than one ship this morning. Geralt hauls Jaskier from the boat and their rescuers - who he learns are called Enny and Kredan - lead him to the nearest inn. The tavern is packed with travellers waiting for the storm to pass, but the rooms upstairs are empty, and they’re quickly escorted up into a small, slightly damp room while Kredan rushes to get the healer.
Jaskier blinks up at them, hoarse words catching in his throat and his teeth chattering, as Geralt and Enny make quick work of stripping off his wet clothes. Geralt swears as they remove his tunic and his chest is revealed - covered in darkly mottling bruises in sickening purples and yellows. He freezes, the wet tunic gripped in white-knuckled hands, until Enny lays gentle fingers over his shaking fist.
“Better to be bruised than dead,” she says.
Geralt knows she’s right - but that doesn’t stop the churning in his stomach every time he sees Jaskier’s ruined skin.
Enny turns her back as Geralt slides off Jaskier’s sodden smallclothes before burying him beneath a heap of thick blankets. He gently rings as much water as he can from his hair, aware of Jaskier’s eyes on him the whole time.
Kredan returns shortly after they’re done, a tall, imposing woman at his side. As she enters the room, she pulls her dark hair into a tie at the back of her head and approaches the bed. Kredan is carrying a pack, presumably full of ointments and tinctures - but even Geralt is aware that there’s no medicine or potion that can cure drowning. All it will take is time.
She introduces herself as Senne and bends beside the bed, pulling back the covers to better see Jaskier’s torso, pressing at his skin with her fingers. Jaskier winces as she pokes at him, his waterlogged voice crackling back to life. He swears, the sound hoarse. It’s the first thing Geralt’s heard him say since he was thrown from the boat.
He writhes, but doesn’t seem to be aware of what’s happening around him - only that he’s in pain.
Geralt explains in broken sentences how he’d dragged Jaskier onto land, how he’d beaten his chest till he’d returned to life. He’s expecting her to chastise him for being so rough, but instead she smiles at him - one healer to another.
“You did right,” she says.
After several minutes of careful prodding, during which Geralt hoists Jaskier up so she can feel the sides of his ribs and his back, she announces that Geralt has broken not just his sternum, but two ribs as well.
“Very thorough job,” she comments as Geralt holds Jaskier and she wraps a strong cloth bandage around his middle, hiding the bruises.
“Usually I’d recommend ice,” she says, “for broken bones. But he’s half frozen to death as it is. Keep him warm. He’ll need to eat and drink, but it’ll be hard.” She hands Geralt half a dozen vials with clear liquid inside. “For the pain,” she says. “Don’t let him take too much.”
She leaves, and at last they’re left alone.
Jaskier turns on the pillow. Senne had forced one of those little vials down his throat as soon as she’d arrived, the sticky liquid spilling down his chin, and he’s hovering in the space between painlessness and the deep sleep of a strong painkiller. Without the agony of his ribs and burning lungs nor the delirium of the draught, he’s surprisingly lucid, if weak.
Even then, every breath Jaskier takes makes him grimace, and every cough makes his eyes water. His fingers flutter across his chest - Geralt had made sure his arms were free, knowing how much he’d shift in his sleep. He gestures, vaguely, to where his torso is bound beneath the blankets.
“Geralt…” His voice is quiet and strained - speaking with ruined, water-logged lungs and broken bones is near impossible. “You…”
There’s that guilt again, a twisting knife in Geralt’s gut. He’s been told countless times that the injuries were necessary, that he did what he could - but he knows that recovery will be so much harder with broken ribs to contend with alongside damaged lungs. Alone, either malady could result in Jaskier getting sick - his lungs filling with fluid, drowning him from the inside-out - but together, the risk has doubled.
If he’d been anyone else - if he’d been human - he wouldn’t have caused half as much damage. The purpling across Jaskier’s skin and the damage beneath it would never have happened. It didn’t take a witcher to perform compressions, to push air into another person’s lungs: anyone could have done it, and Jaskier would have been saved.
But he wasn’t anyone. He was Geralt of Rivia, Witcher, butcher - and his hasty actions could have damned Jaskier to an even slower death.
“I know,” he says, the words heavy in his mouth. “I… I had to…” and it feels like only a half-truth, like he’s wrong.
Jaskier mumbles something else, something Geralt cannot catch, then lets his head loll back so he’s facing the cobwebbed ceiling once more, eyes sliding shut. Geralt watches him nervously until he’s sure he’s fallen asleep. Even with the muffled sound of the tavern below, he can pick up Jaskier’s slightly strained heartbeat beneath the layers of blankets and bandages. He’s deeply asleep - and Geralt silently thanks Senne and her mysterious painkillers.
Geralt realises, quite at once, that he’s still wearing the sodden clothes he’d washed up in. Kredan had brought them both spare clothes, and Geralt strips off his waterlogged armour and his swords - miraculously still strapped to his back - before pulling on the Skelligan tunic and trousers. He hadn’t realised how cold he was.
He sits in the single, old-looking chair by the fire and waits, and watches. He knows that even now, it’s too soon to cease his vigilance. You don’t have to be in the water to drown. The first two hurdles are past - Jaskier didn’t simply perish in the water, and it’s been over an hour, now, and aside from the wheezing and coughing Jaskier’s breathing seems to be steady. Steady enough.
Not as steady as he’d like.
But still, that third hurdle is yet to come. He can’t remember the face of the mentor who’d pushed them into the lake one by one, can’t remember his name, but he can remember his warnings: you can drown on dry land, long after you’re hauled from the water.
Two days. After two days, he’ll be able to rest a little easier. For now, he needs to watch.
Hours later there’s a knock at the door. Geralt’s quiet respite is broken, and he’s barely managed to choke out a hoarse greeting before the door opens and Enny appears, her freckled face poking around the frame.
“You were expected downstairs,” she says, chastising him like he’s a child. “It’s late.”
Geralt just shrugs at her, and she takes that as permission to enter. It takes her telling him how late it is for him to even notice that the sun beyond the single, tiny window has nearly set. In her hands is a thick wooden bowl, a hunk of bread, and a spoon.
“You’ve got to eat.”
She presses the bowl into his hands, which turns out to be full of a thick stew, complete with dumplings - a rare luxury. She excuses herself, then returns not even a minute later with two full tankards of ale. She glares at Geralt until he eats, and as soon as the spoon touches his tongue he realises how hungry he is.
As he eats, she talks, apparently uncaring for his lack of response. She tells him that the boat they’d bartered passage on had, somehow, made it to shore, landing on the other side of the island. Aside from the boat itself, which was utterly destroyed, the only casualties had been Jaskier and himself. The captain had spoken of the “mad witcher and his idiot bard” in the inn where he and his men had taken shelter in Lofoten, and one of the other patrons had dashed across the island to let her know.
She chatters about the boat, and how destroyed it was, and how she sent the man back with word that Geralt and Jaskier had survived. She asks Geralt why he’s in Skellige - a question he does not answer - and how long he expects to stay. By this time, he’s finished his meal and is sipping on his ale, and he answers honestly: as long as it takes until Jaskier is better.
Truthfully, the contract that had tempted him to the island is the last thing on his mind. He’ll need to scribble a letter to the Jarl who’s been asking for him to let him know of the delay. Although, he thinks, this is Skellige: as soon as the storm has passed, the boats will be out again. Gossip travels faster than paper.
Enny asks how long he thinks it’ll be until Jaskier’s well enough to move, and Geralt doesn’t know.
“You can’t sit about here till then,” she scolds, clucking at him. “You’ll go mad.”
She’s wrong, of course: he can sit about here till then. For as long as it takes. Someone has to watch Jaskier. He explains this to her, and she looks at him with a soft, sad expression.
“You’ll need to sleep some time,” she says.
Frustratingly, she is correct about that - Geralt is exhausted both from flinging himself into the sea and the struggle to get Jaskier breathing again, and aside from the meal he’s not truly had a chance to rest. Even while watching over Jaskier’s gently sleeping form he’s on high alert, all his senses poised, listening for the slightest change in his breathing or the thud of his heart.
“Someone needs to keep watch,” he says, quietly. “His lungs… he could still drown, even now.”
He’s half expecting sympathy or shock, but she just rolls her eyes at him. “I’m Skelligan,” she huffs, “I know more about drowning men than you do monsters.” Her expression softens. “You have it right, though. Someone’ll need to watch him.”
“I can do it.”
“You need rest.”
“I’m a witcher.” He leaves no room for debate, and she scowls at him - but doesn’t argue back.
Eventually, she takes the empty plates and tankards and leaves him alone once more, but not before giving him a quick glance as the door shuts behind her.
All Geralt can do now is wait. He’s thankful that Jaskier isn’t bleeding or otherwise injured, that there’s no need to change the bandages wrapping his chest. If Geralt had to see those bruises again, he isn’t sure what he’d do.
It’s bad enough simply knowing they’re there. Each of Jaskier’s wheezing, laboured breaths feels like an accusation, condemning him. It had been so easy to break him.
Geralt can’t help but think back to their time travelling together - nearly twenty years, now - and the sheer volume of times he could have hurt him. Jaskier is always getting into trouble, and Geralt is always pulling him out of the way, pushing him aside, shoving him back. They’ve even fought, for Melitele’s sake - training, yes, but also foolish play-fighting spurred on by drink and unspent energy.
It’s a miracle that this is the first time Jaskier’s been so badly injured beneath Geralt’s hands.
He sits with that thought till the sun has set and the moon is shining through the window, illuminating Jaskier’s face like a pale, white mask. At some point in the night, Jaskier shifts from the unconsciousness of a drugged slumber to normal, peaceful sleep. He twitches a little, writhing against the sheets.
Geralt dreads to think what he could be dreaming of.
Despite sleeping for most of the previous day, Jaskier doesn’t properly stir till just before dawn. Clearly it’s the ache of his broken bones that stirs him from sleep as he opens his eyes with a sad-sounding groan. Geralt hasn’t moved for hours, and his stiff body complains as he turns at the noise.
“How long was I out?” Jaskier manages, the words coming slow and quiet.
“A day, give or take.”
He winces, and moans again. “Everything hurts.”
“You nearly died.”
Jaskier glances at him, and while his eyes are no longer red his skin is still pale, and his hair is sticking at weird angles where it dried still caked in seasalt. He licks his lips, about to speak, and Geralt is suddenly struck by how red and cracked they are - that too is from the salt, he thinks. He rises from his seat before Jaskier can talk, grabbing him a mug of room temperature water from the basin on the other side of the room and bringing it towards the bed.
“Drink,” he orders, pressing the rim to Jaskier’s lips.
Jaskier does as he’s told, but can only take the smallest sip - and Geralt isn’t keen to tip the mug any further than he needs to, so only a bare trickle can escape. He drinks, slowly, and the water soothes his chapped lips.
But then he swallows, and it’s clear the effort hurts, and he starts to choke - an awful noise that makes Geralt’s blood run cold - suddenly struck with the realisation that there’s nothing he can do. He throws the mug down, nearly spilling its contents all over the floor, and heaves Jaskier up so he can sit against the pillows. Jaskier coughs, then swears, his eyes glistening with tears. Geralt can only hold him as each cough racks his body, making him shout.
The fit passes quickly enough, and he’s left wheezing in Geralt’s arms, breathless.
“I can’t…” his chest rattles unpleasantly, “It’s too… fuck, Geralt, these bandages, help…”
He starts to scramble at the bindings, but his fingers are weak and Senne has tucked the edges away so they won’t unravel as he sleeps. For a moment, Geralt isn’t sure what’s best, but Jaskier’s scrabbling is getting desperate, his wheezing louder, and without another thought he reaches down and pulls them away, careful to only touch the fabric and not Jaskier’s skin. He knows he needs to move quickly for Jaskier’s sake, but he cannot let his hands linger now he’s so horribly aware of how much damage he’s capable of doing.
As soon as the bandage is removed, Jaskier lets out a huge sigh - shuddering around the edges - his stained chest rising and falling like…
Like waves.
He slumps against Geralt’s side, his arm pressed to Geralt’s body, his head resting in the crook of his shoulder. He doesn’t speak, just lays there, and soon his breathing steadies.
“Thanks,” he breathes against Geralt’s shirt. “Fuck.”
Once he’s calmed, he leans back, and Geralt props him against the pillows, as gently as he can manage. Jaskier peers down at his own chest with a pained expression, letting his fingertips drift across the bruised landscape.
“Gosh,” he breathes.
Now the bruises have had time to settle, they seem to explode from the centre of his chest like a flower, like a bloodstain. They’re darkest in the middle, right above his cracked sternum, fading through blue to purple to yellow, spreading across his ribs.
Geralt is amazed the bruises aren’t in the shape of his hands.
“Let me try again,” Jaskier says.
“What?”
“The water.”
He needs to drink, of course, and however hesitant Geralt is he cannot let him simply waste away. He passes the cup over, and this time Jaskier is ready for the struggle that swallowing has become. He chokes down the water with a little effort, sighing as he lets his head lean against the wall with his eyes shut.
For a while, neither of them move. Neither of them speak. Then Jaskier cracks an eye open, peering at Geralt in a way that would be conspiratorial were he not so clearly exhausted.
“Geralt,” he mutters.
“What is it?”
“I need a piss.”
Geralt knows he should have expected this. He’s desperate not to have to touch Jaskier, but it quickly becomes apparent that he won’t be able to get out of the bed himself, stiff and aching and awkward, so he does his best with only the most practical of help. He grabs his hands - not too firmly - which forces Jaskier to do the majority of the work himself. Jaskier swears all the while, complaining, but it’s better than the alternative.
The whole process is, thankfully, not as awkward as it could be, but when he's finished Jaskier nearly collapses down onto the bed, breathless. He swings his legs back around, leaning against the pillows.
He winces with each breath, and it’s clear that the earlier coughing fit has jolted his broken ribs, straining his lungs. Geralt offers him another sip of Senne’s painkiller, and at first he refuses - but after a particularly deep breath that leaves his hands balling into fists in the sheets he relents. Geralt only gives him half, but it’s enough to ease the pain, and Jaskier lets himself slide back into a lying position.
Soon, he’s asleep once more. The sheets have fallen away, and his bare chest is exposed, displaying the evidence of Geralt’s brute strength. He cannot bear to look, so twitches the covers up and over him, hiding the marks that only he could have made. He carefully avoids actually touching Jaskier’s skin. It’s like he could shatter beneath Geralt’s inhuman hands.
He’s been asleep for a few hours when the door opens again. Enny, clearly, has decided she does not need to knock. She brings food - roasted meat and tough vegetables, and a bowl of thin broth.
“It’s for when he wakes up,” she says, placing it on the table beside the bed. “Senne sent it over.”
She hovers while Geralt eats, chattering. She tells him about the other boat, which is now somewhere at the bottom of the ocean, and the survivors from the other wrecks. She tells him how Kredan has taken to talking about fishing the seabed for treasure. When Geralt finishes, she takes the plate.
“Thanks.”
“You should—”
He anticipates what she’s about to say. “I’m fine.”
It’s clear from her pursed lips and neat frown that she doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t press the issue.
The rest of the day passes slowly, and not much changes. Jaskier drifts between sleep and wakefulness till what Geralt guesses is late afternoon, when he finally wakes up properly. He’s more alert, now, and while the pain in his chest is still clearly bothering him and his words are still choked and hollow his eyes, at least, are bright.
“What happened?” He says, once he’s swallowed as much of the broth as he can manage.
Geralt hesitates. “Do you remember the storm?”
Jaskier blinks at him, his fingers steepling over the covers. “I remember… getting on the boat. And… noise. Shouting? Then waking up here.”
“Nothing else?”
Jaskier’s blank expression says more than words ever could. Geralt realises he’s going to need to fill in the blanks.
“There was a storm,” he says. “The boat was destroyed, and you… you fell overboard.”
“Destroyed?”
“Lightning hit the mast.”
“And I…”
“You nearly drowned. I… went in after you.”
“You fell overboard?”
“Not as such. More… jumped.”
Jaskier blinks at him. “And the ship was destroyed…” He seems fixated on that fact.
“Yes.”
“So, that explains…” he gestures at his chest, at the bruises. “...all this.”
It’s a perfectly reasonable assumption - a human body tossed on the storm, lost in an ocean of debris. Of course he’d take some damage.
Geralt hesitates. And then he nods. “That’s right.”
“And you pulled me out? You…” He frowns, lost in thought. “You saved me.”
I nearly killed you. You still might die. “I saved you,” Geralt agrees.
Jaskier treats him to a tight-lipped smile. He licks his lips, which are still red and cracked, and looks down at his hands, anywhere but at Geralt.
“Thank yo—”
Geralt can’t bear to hear it. He stands before Jaskier can finish his sentence, and all of his bones complain at once. He’s been stationary for far too long. He can feel Jaskier’s eyes upon him as he stalks up and down the tiny room - small enough that he can easily cross it in three strides.
It’s not too long after Jaskier has woken that Enny returns, flanked by Senne.
“You’re awake,” says the healer. “Let me check you…”
The next half hour is blissfully busy. Enny chats, as usual, while Senne sees over Jaskier’s bruises, presses an ear to his chest.
“How’s the pain?”
“Fine.”
Geralt watches his expression carefully. So, apparently, does Senne.
“It hurts like hell,” he admits, finally. “I can’t breathe.”
“Nor will you be able to, for at least two weeks.”
In the end, she leaves more painkillers, and carefully rubs an ointment across Jaskier’s chest - partly for the pain and partly for the bruising. She leaves the rest of it on Jaskier’s bedside with a warning to use it regularly. By the time she and Enny leave, Jaskier’s clearly exhausted. It’s not quite dusk, but he sips another mouthful of Senne’s medicine and slips to sleep.
Geralt, as ever, stays awake.
Dawn comes quickly. Jaskier sleeps soundly, and his breathing remains steady. Geralt knows that he’s passed through the most dangerous time, yet still he cannot allow himself to sleep.
The sun has just risen when Enny appears, barging in as usual.
“Geralt,” she says, “there’s—” She stops as her eyes fall upon him. “You look like shite.”
Geralt rubs at his face. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You look like you’re about to drop dead.”
“What were you saying?”
She flaps a hand at him. “Nevermind about that. You need to sleep. Erik’s got plenty of spare rooms, or we’ll drag a bed in here if you insist…”
“No, I need to—”
“But it’ll be best if you can sleep somewhere where you’re not going to let yourself distracted, of course…”
She’s ignoring him. “But—”
“But what?”
“....I can’t leave him,” he says, weakly.
Her shoulders sag. “You can’t do this all yourself.”
It feels like an offer. “If you… I can pay,” he says, quickly. “Crowns, or Ducats. Or Coppers.” he shrugs. “Take your pick.”
She scowls at him. “I’m not a fucking nursemaid, Geralt.”
He feels very stupid - of course not. It was a foolish assumption to assume she’d willingly take on such a job.
“My sister, though...” she places a thoughtful hand to her chin. “She’s wanting for work. She’s no healer, mind,” she adds quickly, “but good with herbs, and very patient. She was there when our Da…” she trails off. “Well,” she says, “she might be willing, for the right price.”
It turns out she is willing. Tess - who refuses to answer to anything else - is short and plump with a neat white scar across her nose which Enny tells Geralt she won through a bar fight. Tess already knows about the storm and the boat and the drowning and, yes, the ribs and the sternum and do shut up, Geralt, it’s not your fault - and she and Enny virtually push him from the room before he’s even had a chance to pay her.
Enny leads him down into the tavern, first, where he’s met by the familiar face of the captain whose boat had brought them to Skellige. Geralt’s insides twist when he sees him, but there’s no anger there. This man didn’t bring the storm. He’s not the one who left Jaskier battered and barely breathing.
The captain is, like Geralt, a man of few words. Enny leaves them sharing a meal and a bottle of mead, despite the early hour. They say very little to each other, and when Geralt is finished and the landlord - Erik - offers to lead him to his room, he turns to him.
“Witcher,” he says, voice low. “Is he…”
Geralt can’t find the best way to describe how Jaskier is. He swallows. “He’s not dead.”
That, at least, is the truth.
The captain gives him a short, stoic nod, but says nothing.
His room is fine, for what it is. The bed is longer than most found in these sorts of establishments, and while he protests that he doesn’t need this treatment, as soon as he sits on the edge of the hard mattress he can feel his body urging him to give in.
How long has it been, he wonders, since he last slept? It’s been two days, at least. He’s gone longer without sleeping before - but never after a fucking shipwreck.
He collapses onto the bed fully clothed, and he’s asleep in an instant.
People claim, he knows, that witchers do not feel. They do not dream. He knows this is a lie. He knows it’s a lie, because as soon as he’s drifted away, there’s water rushing in his ears, squeezing him.
The ocean is cold and endlessly dark. He’s searching, desperately, for a flash of red that never comes.
And then he’s on a beach, stretching as far as he can see to either side. In front of him is mountains, behind is the roaring sea. Beneath him is Jaskier.
He’s grey and cold and lifeless. Geralt pounds on his chest. Jaskier’s hair - somehow dry - ruffles in the ocean breeze. Geralt pounds on his chest. The sea behind him roars, bellowing like a monster. Jaskier is not breathing. Geralt cannot hear his heartbeat over the rush of water, and presses his hands against his chest, again and again and again.
There’s a crunch - a horrible snap, like wood breaking, like a mast being struck by lightning - and Jaskier’s chest caves in beneath his hands. Rushing water spills from the cavity in the middle of his torso, and Geralt shouts, but he cannot stop. Beneath his rhythmic movements, Jaskier’s body crumbles, breaking like driftwood, splintering. And still he cannot stop, he cannot stop until there’s nothing left and the waves, finally, overtake him.
Geralt wakes in a cold sweat. The room is pitch dark, and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust. It was dawn not five minutes ago, he’s sure.
He must have been asleep for hours.
His head is pounding and his mouth dry, but he stumbles to his feet anyway, steadying himself on the carved wall.
Jaskier.
He rushes from the room, down the corridor, towards the room where he knows Jaskier is sleeping. Light is flickering below the door - the fire is lit, at least - and he can hear people talking.
He pushes the door open, not even considering knocking. As he enters, Tess, Enny and Jaskier all fall quiet at once, turning to stare at him. There’s a long, heavy silence.
Finally, Enny stands.
“You’re awake,” she says. “Good.”
She grabs Tess’ arm, who very much looks like she doesn’t want to leave, and drags her from the room, shutting the door behind them.
In the bed, Jaskier is sat propped against a couple of pillows. He’s wearing a tunic, but even without being able to see the bruises Gerat still feels guilty.
“Geralt.”
Geralt wants to run. He wants to turn and leave. He doesn’t deserve for Jaskier to say his name so quietly, so softly. So tenderly. He deserves to be alone - alone where he’ll never be able to hurt Jaskier again.
Jaskier shifts against the pillows. “Geralt, Enny told me—”
Ice in his blood, saltwater in his ears.
Geralt runs.
He leaves the door open behind him and rushes down the stairs two at a time. Enny and Tess are in the tavern - Enny shouts after him - but he’s out the door and gone before either of them can stop him.
The Skellige air is cold against his face, and the sea roars.
“There’s just…” Jaskier shifts against the pillows, wincing as a sharp pain shoots across his chest. “There’s something off with him. I mean, I get that being in a shipwreck is hard, but…” he sighs, and even that hurts. “Something’s wrong.”
Enny, leaning back on the chair that she’d dragged up from the tavern below and sipping on her ale, shrugs.
“Of course something’s wrong,” she says, dismissively. “What with, you know...” She gestures at him blithely.
“You know what?”
“All the bruising and the broken ribs,” she sighs, leaning closer. “He’s worried about you. Honestly, the amount of times we had to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but you’ve travelled with him for years, so you must know more than us how hard he can be on himself…”
“I… what?”
She looks as if she’s talking to a small child, or perhaps a dog. “He broke your ribs, Jaskier. And your…” she clicks her fingers impatiently, “what was it?”
“Sternum,” prompts Tess, helpfully.
“Yes, that. Of course he’s rattled.”
“He broke my…” Jaskier’s mind is racing. But - no - it was the shipwreck. The debris. Or… or slammed against a rock, or a cliff, or the beach, or… “No,” he says, “No, it was the wreck…”
Tess and Enny share a look.
“Tell me what happened,” says Jaskier. “What actually happened.”
It’s Enny who speaks.
“He got you out of the water,” she says, “and dragged you onto this island, just off the coast. You weren’t breathing. You weren’t even really alive. He brought you back. Just apply enough pressure to the right spot…” She points again at his torso.
Jaskier is familiar with the concept - thumping on someone’s chest to get their heart beating again.
“Oh.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“He told me he saved me. But… he said the bruising was from the shipwreck.”
The sisters share another look.
“He should have told you,” says Tess, like it’s that easy.
Enny tilts her head. “I can see why he didn’t want to,” she says. “But he should have. You had to know…”
Jaskier’s heart is pounding in his chest. It makes his ribs ache, makes his lungs gasp. Each breath burns. Geralt saved him. He didn’t just pull him from the sea, like Jaskier has been imagining - he brought him back from the dead.
“Enny, I—”
The door slams open. There, hair a mess about his head, stands Geralt. All three of them start and turn to look at him, standing in the open doorway like a wild god.
Enny peers between them, then stands.
“You’re awake,” she says. “Good.”
She grabs Tess and marches her from the room, shooting Geralt a final glare as she does. He looks lost, he looks tired.
“Geralt.”
Geralt only stares at him. Jaskier is glad that Tess had insisted he get properly dressed - Geralt doesn’t need to see what he’s done to Jaskier’s skin. He rearranges himself on the pillows, attempting to sit straighter.
“Geralt, Enny told me—”
There’s nothing but panic on Geralt’s usually stoic face. And before Jaskier can finish speaking, he turns heel and runs.
Fuck.
He knows what Geralt is like. This explains so much - his newfound hestitance, the way he’s been moving so cautiously around him. Geralt has never been the most tactile man in the world, but now he’s downright chilly - or treating him like an artist might handle a particularly rare vase. Jaskier pushes back the covers and swings his legs from the bed. The movement jarrs his body, and there’s a stabbing pain in the broken bone above his heart, but he stands regardless.
His legs are unsteady, but he supports himself on the wall, determined not to let Geralt get away. Every movement hurts, his lungs are screaming at him to stop, but he refuses. He finally makes it to the door - open, thank the gods - and shuffles onwards, his bare feet pressing against the slightly damp wooden floors.
The stairs are hard, but at least there’s a railing to grip onto. His legs are stiff after two full days lying down, and he hopes they don’t simply give way as he hobbles downwards, but by the time he reaches the bottom step he’s got the feeling back in his knees.
He peers around the doorway into the tavern. It’s busy, and Enny and Tess are distracted, both pressed against the window and apparently locked in a hasty, whispered debate. No one is looking his way, and he takes the chance while he can. He speeds across the room, ignoring the way his chest feels like it's about to burst. He slides between tables, unnoticed. He opens the door, somehow, and is struck with a blast of ice-cold air and then—
“Jaskier!”
He’s been spotted. Enny is rushing towards him, and gathering his strength he throws himself through the open doorway, his feet sinking into the mud outside. There’s a figure a little way away - a figure he’d recognise anywhere, broad-shouldered and tall. In the misty moonlight, his hair gleams.
He tries to call out, but the wind pitches and his voice, hoarse as it is, is easily lost.
But Enny’s is not. She shouts once more - a proper Skelligan shout that bursts across the howling wind - and at last, Geralt turns.
His eyes go wide as he spots Jaskier standing barefoot in the mud. He calls to him again, even though he knows the effort is useless. Thick mud squeezes between his toes and he shivers, coughing, as Enny suddenly grabs him from behind, wrapping her own cloak around his shoulders.
“You fucking idiot,” she mutters into his ear, but she doesn’t have time to foist any more insults upon him before Geralt is there, still keeping a cautious, deliberate distance. His face is cracked - pained.
“Geralt,” Jaskier manages, “Please. Come back in.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I hurt you.”
“You—”
Enny yells above both of them. “Can we please continue this inside? It’s fucking freezing out here, and the idiot’s lost his boots, and all three of us know he’ll refuse to come back in unless you do too.” She scowls at Geralt.
For a moment, Jaskier thinks Geralt will run again. If he does, he knows he can’t follow him - not with his lungs on fire and Enny gripping his shoulders. But he doesn’t. He looks defeated, but he leads the way back into the tavern. Enny swears, and pushes Jaskier ahead of her, complaining the whole way.
Back in his room, Jaskier wraps the thick woolen blanket around him as Tess fuses over his feet. His toes are nearly blue, and she’s busily scraping away as much of the mud as she can. He’s still shivering, even though the fire is roaring. He feels like he’s perpetually choking. Coughs keep bubbling up from his chest, and each one shakes his ribs, making his eyes water.
“Idiots,” Enny mutters, as she rubs his arms through the blanket. “Both of you, utter idiots.” She rises, hands on hips, and rounds on Geralt. “If he dies now,” she says, “You can either blame yourself for leading him out into the cold, or you can blame him for being dull enough to follow you. Take your pick.”
When Jaskier’s feet are clean and he’s been forcibly bundled back into the bed, the women leave once more. Enny warns them that she’ll be bolting the door from the outside, and Jaskier isn’t too sure if she’s being serious or not.
She’d told him to take one of Senne’s draughts, swearing at him the whole time, saying how he was lucky Senne herself wasn’t here or she’d have chucked him back into the bloody ocean. He sips at one, mingled with water to lessen the strength. He has, he suspects, about half an hour before he becomes totally insensible.
He hopes it's long enough.
His chest stings, and while the bruises themselves have begun to fade the skin is still tender. He’s still coughing - probably the shock of the cold air - and each one is like a boot against his ribs. He needs to talk to Geralt, but it’s impossible to focus on such trivial things as begging him not to leave while his body feels like it's on fire.
He remembers the soothing relief that the strange, sticky ointment had given him the previous day and pushes himself up higher with a wince. He reaches for the little pot on the bedside table, but even stretching such a short distance is unpleasant as his ribs twist against each other.
The pot is too far away, the distance to great. Perhaps it’s better just to give in to sleep, and Senne’s draught. He lets his hand drop with a sigh.
And then Geralt grabs it. Jaskier watches as his fingers fiddle on the little clay vessel. He seems unsure - torn between two equally awful choices.
Finally, he lifts the lid, and the room quickly fills with the mingling smells of mint and rosemary.
“What if I hurt you?” Geralt mutters - speaking out loud the words that clearly have been tormenting him.
“You can’t.”
Geralt scowls at Jaskier’s chest. “We both know that’s not true.”
“You won’t, then.”
Geralt scoops a little of the mixture out, thick on his fingers, and peers at it like it might be poisonous.
Jaskier suddenly realises that he might need to take the lead. He pulls up his tunic inelegantly, grabbing it between his teeth, then leans forwards, taking Geralt’s hand and pulling it closer, towards his ruined torso. He presses Geralt’s fingers to the spot above his sternum where the bruising is worst and instinctively grimaces at the touch, at the slightly sickening throb. For a moment, he thinks Geralt is going to flinch away - but he doesn’t. His fingers, slick with ointment, barely touch him… but he doesn’t try to escape, either.
His hand, Jaskier realises, is shaking.
He guides it closer, so Geralt’s fingers splay across his skin. Geralt’s hand is warm - he’s always warm - and the touch is soft and soothing. He steers Geralt, at first, like he’s showing him how, like Geralt has never been forced to treat an injury like this before.
When he removes his hand, Jaskier is half expecting Geralt to stop, but he doesn’t - in fact, he reaches into the pot for more of Senne’s ointment. He only uses the lightest touch, never his full hand, only his fingers. Beneath his careful ministrations, Jaskier feels delicate - like he might suddenly smash into a thousand pieces.
He’s never seen Geralt so gentle before, so unsure. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, makes his stomach twist and fill with butterflies. Geralt touches him like he’s some worthy thing, like he’s art, like he’s valuable.
Yet still his hand shakes.
The warmth of Geralt’s hand and the soothing tingle of Senne’s mixture is an instant relief, and the pain - while still throbbing - lessens somewhat.
When they’re done, Jaskier’s torso shining stickily, he releases his tunic, letting it cover the bruises one more, adhering a little to his skin. He lowers himself back down, lying flat. The pain is lessened, like this.
Jaskier wants to pull Geralt down, to hold him. Even the fluttering touch of his hand had been nearly too much, but now he only wants more. He needs to show Geralt he isn’t a threat. But even he knows that offering to let Geralt lay beside him, to sleep beside him, is dangerous. It’s dangerous practically, of course: the bed is too small, and his broken bones give him less room to move, and sharing the space will only make the pain worse.... But it’s dangerous for him, too. He can already feel his heart threatening to shatter.
Geralt is about to move away, but Jaskier is quicker, grabbing his hand before he can. He stays so still, like even the simple act of sitting beside the bed is causing him pain.
“You saved my life,” Jaskier starts. Geralt looks like he’s about to argue, and Jaskier raises a hand to silence him. “You did,” he says, “they told me. And this…” he looks down at his chest. “This is proof.”
“I could have killed you.”
“You didn’t. You saved me. You brought me back.”
“I should have…”
“Should have let me die? Let me choke on sea water?”
“If I’d been anyone else…”
“If you’d been someone else, Geralt, you’d never have been able to fish me out of the sea in the first place. You’d have been killed. We’d have both been killed. Maybe the only reason it worked is because you’re so strong…” he lets his fingers rub against Geralt’s knuckles, back and forth. “I wouldn’t have been able to do it if it were you drowning.”
Geralt doesn’t respond, so Jaskier asks him the obvious question. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What would you have said?”
Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I would have said thank you for saving my life, you stupid witcher.”
“But I broke—”
“You did. From what I’ve been told you broke two ribs and my sternum.” Geralt looks guilty - like a man awaiting a sentence. “And…” Jaskier continues. “You jumped into the ocean to save me, during a storm. You dragged me to shore. You…” he realises he’s about to sound sentimental, but continues anyway. “You made my heart beat again. You made my lungs breathe again. And then, after all that, you brought me here and paid for my care and sat up with me for two full days to make sure I didn’t die.” He sighs, and squeezes Geralt’s hand. “Yes,” he says. “You broke a few of my bones. But I think, in balance, it all rather cancels out.”
It’s like Geralt can’t even bear to look at him. Stuck in the silence, Jaskier can only prattle on. He can feel the draught beginning to sooth the pain and muddle his mind. He speaks without thinking.
“Honestly,” he says, with a wheeze, “I was rather under the impression you were sick of me. A shipwreck would have been a neat way to finally get me off your back.”
Now that elicits a response. Geralt looks at him, his expression thunderous. Jaskier smiles back at him, sleepily.
“I suspect,” he says, “that I may have been wrong. Considering.” He pauses. What were they talking about? It slips his mind, like mist. “Please don’t leave.”
“I’m not safe for you.”
Jaskier turns against the pillow to look at him. “Do you have any idea how many times you’ve saved my neck? I’d be dead a hundred times over without you. You’re more likely to doom me by abandoning me, frankly.” He peers up at him. “And I’d just come find you anyway.”
This is funny, he thinks. This might even be a joke.
Geralt only shakes his head. “Why?”
Jaskier’s brain is fogging quicker, now. “Why what?”
“Why follow me?”
Oh. Well that one he knows the answer to, even if the rest of his body is gently floating away from him.
“Easy,” he says, slowly. “Because I love you.”
He yawns again, peering up at the ceiling. There’s a cobweb up there - he wonders how long it's been there. Years, probably. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of—
Geralt’s voice cuts through the fog. “You should sleep.”
“I’m fine,” Jaskier’s mouth feels heavy, his words are slurring. “I’m fine.”
He lets his fingers brush against Geralt’s skin. He’s not too sure where his hand ends and Geralt’s begins, his vision blurring.
Geralt says something - but Jaskier can’t hear him. He’s too far away.
Jaskier is pressed against cold, wet sand. Thunder rumbles ahead, and Geralt leans above him. This is, all in all, not so different from dreams he’s had in the past - although the sand is new. Wood is creaking far away, and rain batters down on them both. It stings where it hits his face.
There’s a crack, like the sound of a tree trunk splitting. Fear curls in his chest, and the sky above darkens. It’s not just grey, but a deep, ominous blue - roiling and bubbling like water.
It is water, he realises. Soon they’ll both be drowned.
He tries to move, but Geralt’s hands are pressed to his chest, keeping him pinned to the ground. He can only watch, wide-eyed, as the wave approaches - taller than buildings, taller than mountains. He can hear it roaring above them, and he realises that it’s not rain that’s falling on them, but spray.
“Geralt—”
Geralt silences him with a kiss. The wave crashes down on them both.
Jaskier wakes slowly, at first. He tries to move, forgetting what state he’s in, and there’s a crushing pain in his chest. He wakes very quickly after that. He tries to push himself up a little in the bed with a huff as his ribs complain at him.
Geralt is still in the chair at his bedside. He doesn’t appear to have slept - or, more likely - he slept for only a few hours and then returned. In fact, his swords are propped up in the corner of the room. The sight of them makes Jaskier feel a little uneasy.
“I’m fine,” Jaskier says, before he can start to fuss. His head still feels a little fuzzy, the dream not quite faded. “I was dreaming…” he says, slowly. “We were on an island. I think…” he frowns, trying to detach dream from real memory. He has to choose his next words carefully. “Did you…” he hesitates, and can’t meet Geralt’s gaze. “Did you kiss me?”
Geralt goes still beside him.
“I needed to get air into your lungs,” he says.
That explains the dream, then.
Geralt is fiddling with his hands. This is unusual, for him - he’s usually still and stoic. He doesn’t allow others to read his emotions, not if he can help it. Jaskier tries to remember their last conversation together. He’s fairly sure that he fell asleep halfway through it, slipping away as the painkiller dealt with the ache in his chest.
They’d been talking about Geralt leaving, about why he couldn’t leave, about why Jaskier was so keen to—
Oh no.
He’d told him - and then, he’d woken up, and asked Geralt if he’d—
Oh, fuck.
“I thought about what you said.” There’s a finality to Geralt’s voice that Jaskier can’t stand.
“...And?” He’s not sure if he wants to know the answer.
“I’ll stay.” Then - “You can stay. With me. If you’ve forgiven me for…” he trails off.
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
“But…”
“But what?” Panic, again, hot and tart.
“But I will have to go. That contract in Ard Skellig…” he rubs his face with his hand. “I - we - need the coin. And Jarls make good allies. You have to stay here. I’m not letting you climb a mountain with broken ribs.”
“But you’ll come back?”
“I’ll come back. I don’t know how long it’ll take. Could be a week, depending on what he’s got hidden up there…”
Jaskier perks up. “I’ll be alright by then.”
“Broken ribs take six weeks to heal.”
“Oh.”
“I need to set off soon.”
Jaskier is familiar with Geralt’s definition of ‘soon’. “So that means, what, there’s a boat leaving in half an hour?”
Geralt actually smiles. Jaskier hasn’t seen him smile since the shipwreck.
“Twenty minutes, actually.”
That is soon. Jaskier wishes they had longer together - but he supposes Geralt is keen to put some distance between them after the terrible confession he’d made to him last night. Perhaps he can pretend it was just the drugs loosening his lips, and that there was no real meaning behind the words.
“Enny and Tess will come down later,” he continues. “Don’t get into trouble. Don’t go standing outside in the mud again.”
“Noted. Um,” Jaskier fiddles with the blanket over his lap. “Don’t get eaten by a terrible monster, I suppose.”
“I’ll try not to.”
Geralt grabs the swords and slings them over his back, tightening the strap in place. He hesitates, for a moment, halfway between the bed and the door. And then he strides back to Jaskier’s bedside, jaw set, reaches out a hand, and—
He cups Jaskier’s face with about the same amount of pressure that Jaskier would use to pick up a baby bird. He’s still so unsure, so uncertain - Jaskier can read it in the little crease between his eyebrows, the hard line of his lips.
But then Geralt does something Jaskier cannot read - something he cannot anticipate, not even with his twenty years experience unearthing Geralt’s buried emotions.
He kisses him.
It’s soft, and light, and barely-there - and before Jaskier can even move it’s gone again, like it didn’t even happen. Geralt gives him one, final look - a curt nod, like he didn’t just do the unthinkable - and he’s gone, the door shutting behind him.
Jaskier can still feel his breath on his lips, his hand on his face.
As quick as he dares with his head still spinning and his chest still tight, he scrambles out of the bed and towards the window. People are milling about in the village, the winter sunlight bright. The sea sparkles, flashing at him.
As he watches, Geralt appears, crossing the small, muddy yard that’s attached to the inn. Jaskier assumes he’s going to head directly to the port, but as he reaches the gate and the rotting wooden fence he stops. He turns, and looks directly at him.
Half-dazzled by sunlight, Jaskier can’t quite see his expression. But he raises a single hand. Jaskier returns the gesture, and Geralt turns away, heading towards the ocean.
A week, Jaskier thinks.
He can wait a week.