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not a friend so much as a cursed left knee by windburnt
Fandoms: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
13 Feb 2024
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Summary
They have been bickering for the last hour or so, teetering right on the edge of a nasty fight, when they run into the other witchers.
Or: When they find two of Geralt's friends on the Path, Jaskier wants to feel happy for Geralt. But Jaskier worries about his own place in Geralt's life as a friend.
And something seems off about the witchers.
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Bookmark Notes:
“I’m not stupid.” Gently, Geralt holds one of Jaskier’s feet to tug the first boot on. “You smell like way too much of that goddamn perfume and even more fear. You were shaking for most of the time I sewed your boot. Don’t even get me started on your heart rate.”
Geralt fiddles with the boot buckles. When he speaks again, his voice is unsteady. “And your smile was all wrong. When I first got into the clearing. That was how I knew.”
Eyes wide, Jaskier is struck into silence. A rarity for him.
Undetectable by the faraway witchers, Geralt asks lowly, “Did they hurt you?”
Jaskier nods, stunned into the truth, plain and simple.
“Both of them?”
“N-No. Just Romulus." Geralt seems to want more, gold eyes piercing, so Jaskier adds quietly, "Dax kept watch.”
Geralt reaches for the other boot, the one he patched together. The boot’s hollow shape collapses under the furious weight of Geralt’s fingers before he lets it go.
“Is the perfume covering what I think it is?” Geralt asks through gritted teeth. “I would smell blood, even through that disgusting stuff. But I don’t smell blood on you.”
Jaskier snorts a laugh, though the laugh cracks a little down the middle. “I really do hate your nose, sometimes.”
“Jaskier.”
Jaskier sniffles. “Yes, fine, it is what you think it is, okay? But I—” Tears return with a vengeance, smearing the sight of Geralt buckling the other boot onto his foot. “But I promise I didn’t want it. E-Even if they say I did, which I know they w-will, and then you’ll—”
The last buckle snaps into place. As soon as the sewn boot is securely on Jaskier’s foot, a snug fit again, Geralt leans forward and gathers Jaskier into his arms. Jaskier’s limbs soften like warm noodles, and he comes to the ground willingly, even as his aching body protests.
He is a puddle, stretched too far and too wide, losing himself, but Geralt’s big arms hold him all together. He is almost too warm, and he smells like dead deer, and he is everything Jaskier has ever wanted.
“And then I won't believe a word they say,” Geralt says fiercely. “Did you truly think I would believe anything they said over you?”
“But they’re witchers. You’ve known them forever.” Jaskier is crying again, salt on his face and snot in his nose. He burrows his messy face into Geralt’s shoulder and apologizes to the once-clean armor.
“And you’re you.” Geralt adds, with a modicum of confusion, “I’m not close with anyone, Jaskier. Humans or witchers. It was nice to hear how other witchers were faring, but that was it.”
“Trust me, I know. It’s not like I’m exactly your friend either,” he says, hiccupping through a laugh.
There is a painful silence after that. Geralt’s grip tightens. Then he tugs Jaskier snug against his hard chest, one palm curled around the back of Jaskier’s head, almost as if to prevent him from looking anywhere but the black armor.
“I never do this right. I’m no good with words—”
“It’s okay, Geralt,” Jaskier mumbles into his shoulder. “You don’t have to say anything. I get it.”
“No, you don’t."
Okay, so perhaps he doesn’t get it. Jaskier nods for him to continue on and tries to shut up.
After a moment, Geralt does continue, his words stilted. “It’s like the time that mage cursed me. Do you remember that?”
“You get cursed by lots of mages, Geralt. That’s sort of a weekly thing for you.”
Geralt grumbles, but concedes this point. Reluctantly, he elaborates, “The one that cursed only my left knee, so that if anyone hit it, I would die. Even if it was just because some tavern asshole kicked it.”
“Oh, that mage! Yes, I remember that.” Jaskier most vividly recalls the moment where he almost brushed that knee with his foot and nearly launched himself off the inn bed in a panic.
“I didn’t tell anyone then that my knee was fucked.”
“You told me,” Jaskier points out.
“You don’t count.”
“Okay,” Jaskier says slowly. He wiggles an arm free from Geralt’s hold and rubs his fingers idly on Geralt’s broad back. “So you didn’t tell anyone. Of course you didn’t. It was a huge weakness. You would have died if anyone hurt it.”
“You are like that.”
“Like . . . your left knee?”
Geralt nods firmly. “Like my left knee.”
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