Of Bards and Witchers

Twenty-First

    It's tense. Jaskier runs his tongue over his teeth and grimaces at the metallic taste, holds himself a little tighter where he leans against the bed post-- a bed post, yes, isn't that nice? It is. It's the nicest Inn they've seen in a while; the bed itself is clean, they have a drafting desk, a table with a water basin and fresh rags-- not so fresh anymore, who's fault is that--? and a complimentary bowl of fruit.

    His gaze slips to the Witcher's boots, but no higher. He knows the man is staring freely at him, slouching against the wall opposite-- and what a sorry sight he is. Blackened eye and bruise dusting his cheekbone, another across his jaw, split lip and bloodied nose; his fingers twitch but they ache from the bruises blossoming across his knuckles, so he stills them. He parts his lips.

    The Witcher beats him. "Jaskier--"

    "If you're going to say I've done wrong," he says, "I know it. I don't care."

    "Jaskier." The boots shift, the bard turns his gaze away as he tics his jaw.

    "I'd do it again," the bard breathes. "I will do it again-- as many times as I have to, Geralt. You might think it irrational or stupid, but--"

    "You're a bard." You stay put, I take the punches.

    "I'm not incompetent."

    "No," the Witcher amends. "You aren't."

    "I hate it," he says. Geralt is close enough now that Jaskier can't turn him out of his sights, reaching up to ghost his fingers along the bruises dusting his face. The bard dips his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

    "I know," Geralt murmurs, and he does. He just doesn't know what to make of it. Bards don't raise fists for Witchers, no one raises fists for bards-- except Jaskier does, the evidence is beaten into his face and fists, and Geralt does too ( every other minute, really ). "How are your hands?"

    Jaskier falls into himself, just a little bit, shoulders hunched as he breathes in. He'll never get over the man asking after him, as rare as it is. "Fine," he says, quietly. He opens his eyes, unfurls his arms after a moment, spreads his hands between them and allows his posture to relax. "They, um--" they hurt. A dull incessant throbbing that he can't shake. "... look worse than they are," he finishes.

    The Witcher hums somewhere deep in his chest, takes them by the wrist and it comes to him rather suddenly that they're awfully close. He bites his lip and the split opens again-- there's little he can do, stuck between a rock and a hard place ( a bed post-- again, a post! It's rather fancy-- and a Witcher ).

    "They're starting to swell," Geralt mumbles. "Ought to get the salve, otherwise Marx might come for your title."

    Jaskier raises his head, and it takes a moment-- Geralt peers down at him with just the barest hint of a smile and it clicks and the bard can't help his grin or the laugh that bubbles out from behind it. Damn it all, he thinks. They stand chest to chest in this moderately spacious lodging, caged against a bed post, and he wants-- well, it doesn't matter what he wants because he can't, but another bit of laughter spills freely from his lips.

    "Bollocks," he says, instead. "Valdo can sing as well a cat in heat, and I could outplay him with one hand."

    The Witcher hums. Belatedly, the bard thinks, it resembles a purr. "I don't doubt that."

    "Oh," he says. "So you do take it back about my fillingless pie--"

    "Jaskier."

    "-- and all it took was one barside brawl to admit it? Why, had I known--"

    "I change my mind," the Witcher mutters. He lowers Jaskier's hands, brings one of his own up to dust against the bruise on his eye. They aren't holding hands, per se, but Geralt keeps his fingers curled loosely around the bard's wrist at their sides-- You'll never let me live this down, will you?