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Geralt rushes past darkened city buildings and mossy brick walls, refusing to look at the body clutched to his chest. Guards and wandering harlots move out of his way, turning their gazes from his stormy expression. Jaskier flinches when Geralt growls at a drunkard who takes too long to dodge his path; the action, at least, reminds Geralt that the bard's still alive.
“You absolute fool,” Geralt fumes.
“Don’t be mean to me while I’m bleeding.” Bleary blue eyes blink up at Geralt.
Geralt huffs, growing silent as he continues his storm through the city. Shani’s home appears before him, the windows shut and darkened to provide privacy for the patients she treats on the lower floor. Geralt doesn’t know if she’s home— if she’s even in Oxenfurt— but he knows nowhere else to go.
“You’re determined to get yourself killed. I’ve never met anyone so reckless, so foolishly ridiculous in their so-called bravery,” Geralt rambles, not meaning a word of the insults— only the panic underneath. “I told you to stay behind, but you never listen. Why the hell—”
“Geralt? What’s the matter?” Shani turns as Geralt shoves his way past her front door, her eyes landing upon Jaskier before she’s fully finished her question. “Oh, gods.”
“He needs help. It was a bruxa outside the city,” Geralt says. He doesn’t look at the bard in his arms, doesn’t think of the blood soaking into his hands. “She got to him before I realized he was there. Can you do anything?”
Shani tenses, her jaw tightening as she nods stiffly. “Take him upstairs. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”
Without another word, Shani begins collecting supplies— bandages and thread for stitches, needles and painkillers. Geralt grimaces, following her directions and carrying Jaskier to the upper room.
“Geralt,” Jaskier groans as Geralt sets him upon the empty bed. Like this, he has no choice but to look at the gaping tear across his chest, the way his cream-shaded shirt has dyed red from the blood still flowing from the wound. Jaskier’s hands flap uselessly, his eyes blinking tiredly until they find Geralt. “I’m sorry.”
“Shut up,” Geralt says— habit, nothing more. If he pretends Jaskier isn’t bleeding out, then everything will be fine.
But Jaskier shakes his head, his eyes brightening with tears as he gasps through his pain.
“It hurts , Geralt,” he whines.
“I know.” Geralt softens his voice— gods, what the hell is taking Shani so long? “I bet you wish you’d listened.”
This, at least, curves Jaskier’s lips into something that’s almost a smile.
“I just wish we had more time.”
And, that— that freezes Geralt’s blood.
“What?” Geralt asks. The world curls around him, suffocating and choking him; nausea spills through his stomach, and he wants to grab Jaskier’s hand but finds he can’t move. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s okay, Geralt,” Jaskier says, his eyes blurring with the deluded haze of pain. “I always knew we wouldn’t have forever— but I wish that for some of our time together, I could have been brave enough to tell you how I felt. I wish I could have told you that I love you earlier.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt chokes. “Stop, you’re—”
“I wish it wasn’t like this, but I need you to know I love you. You know, don’t you?” Jaskier’s hands flail through the air as his voice increases in panic— whining, scared; at last, Geralt finds the strength to reach for Jaskier, easing him with his hand in his. The weak grip Jaskier offers him only frightens Geralt more.
“You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re going to be fine— Shani’s downstairs, she’ll be up any moment. You’ll be fine . If you think I’m going to let you die because of a vampire fight of all things, you’re wrong.” But Geralt’s voice cracks on the last word, breaking the certainty he tries to force into it. By the way Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s hand, he knows Jaskier can hear the fear behind each syllable.
“I wish I’d done things differently. I wish that I’d been brave. I wish I’d known, for even a moment, how it could feel to be loved by you in return. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, Geralt, it’s all—” Jaskier cuts off with a ragged gasp, the sound cutting through to Geralt’s heart. At the same time, Shani emerges from the stairs. She all but shoves Geralt away, directing him to the other side of the bed as she brings a vial to Jaskier’s lips.
“This will allow you to rest while I work. I know it seems scary, but don’t fight the sleep, okay?” She explains, briefly brushing her hand across Jaskier’s brow. Jaskier nods, but Geralt can see the panic in his eyes.
“It’s okay, Jask,” Geralt says. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
And he will wake up. Geralt doesn’t entertain any other option.
<><><> <><><> <><><>
“You really are an idiot,” Geralt whispers, hours later while Jaskier sleeps. His chest rises and falls with greater steadiness than before, his skin stitched and bandaged. Shani had left a while ago, collapsing onto one of the cots downstairs after working so late into the night. Geralt makes a note to himself to do something nice for her to make up for this— she’ll probably have him collect some rare herb for medications or something.
For now, though, he simply sits at Jaskier’s bedside and holds his hand, running his thumb across the pulse at Jaskier’s wrist. He speaks to himself, pretending he’s brave enough to say any of this to Jaskier.
“Of course, you would wait until the most dramatic possible moment to confess something like that. As if it wasn’t bad enough to have your blood on my hands— you had to hand me your heart, as well. What if Shani couldn’t help you? Did you expect me to carry on as though your words meant nothing? Or as if it wouldn’t kill me each and every day to know I couldn’t say the same thing back?” He sighs, more fondly than he had planned, and watches the back and forth brush of his thumb across Jaskier’s skin. “You don’t see how much you matter to me, how fearful I am of losing you. I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t protect you. I don’t know what to do now.”
Geralt’s voice trails into silence and he lifts his gaze to Jaskier’s face.
Blue eyes— dim and tired— look back at him.
Jaskier offers the softest gasp when their eyes meet, hesitating when Geralt exhales his name.
“I—” Jaskier starts.
“I didn’t mean for you to hear all that,” Geralt interrupts. He’d been so focused on Jaskier’s pulse— on his breathing and his healing— to notice as he woke. And here he’d been calling Jaskier foolish. “I don’t know all you heard, but— I didn’t want you to hear it like that. While you were supposed to be asleep.”
Jaskier turns his hand, shifting so he can fold his fingers around Geralt’s. Geralt’s eyes widen, his breath catching in his throat.
“I made a love confession when I thought I was dying in your arms,” he teases. “You’re allowed to say whatever you want whenever you want after a show like that.”
“You ridiculous bard.” Geralt leans closer to Jaskier, smiling even as he teases him; it’s funny how Jaskier’s voice has such a soothing effect on him. “You never have to wish to know what it’s like for me to love you. I already do.”
Jaskier takes a sharp breath, but it’s nothing like the pained gasps from before.
Geralt steals the next breath with his lips over Jaskier’s, trembling as they kiss. Jaskier leans into his touch, his hands running through Geralt’s hair. When they pull away, Geralt rests his forehead against Jaskier’s, smiling.
For the time, they say nothing. Geralt knows, they’ve already said everything that matters.