Try, Please Try For Me

Why So Blue?

Jaskier nods and glances down at the spot where they had been, but he's been dressed in a soft brown tunic that covers it.

"The arrow you got shot with was made of ash wood," Geralt says. "Apparently it's poisonous to you."

Jaskier hums. "Well that's good to know."

That actually makes sense now that he thinks about it. He recalls reading once a warning in an old book to carry a staff made of ash or rowan if you go venturing in the woods, to repel the fae. But that was a very old book, and it's one of those things that no one does anymore, one that he'd written off as folklore rather than truth. Iron doesn't affect him, so he never put much thought into ash.

"The ash infected your blood," Geralt says. "I didn't know how to help you, the healer didn't either. You almost died." His voice is laced with guilt and Jaskier threads his fingers through the witcher's.

"But I didn't," Jaskier says softly. "You saved me."

Geralt laughs bitterly, and something twists in Jaskier's chest. "I'm the reason you got hurt in the first place," he says.

"No you're not. The bastard that shot me is."

The witcher doesn't meet his eyes. "It never would have happened if they weren't looking for me. It's my fault."

"No," Jaskier says firmly. "You stop that shit right the fuck now." He lifts a weak hand and tugs at Geralt's shirt until the man looks at him. "It was an accident, Geralt. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I promised to protect you and I didn't," he replies bitterly. "I put you in danger by just being near you."

Jaskier groans and grabs Geralt's chin so that he can't escape and forces golden eyes to meet his own. "Ugh, you stupid bastard of a man. You're doing everything you can to look out for me. And I like traveling with you, you idiot witcher. I like you."

"But I'm--"

"Geralt darling, if the next sentence out of your mouth is going to try and convince me otherwise you can shove it."

"But you--"

"Do you like me, Geralt?"

"Of course." The words come without an ounce of hesitation.

"Then shut the fuck up and kiss me. I'd lean over myself but I'm afraid I'm otherwise Incapaci-- mmph!"

Geralt's mouth is on him in an instant, hot and desperate. Jaskier kisses back with as much enthusiasm as he can muster without straining himself, while the witcher grips his shoulders like a tether, as if he's worried Jaskier will disappear if he lets go.

When they break apart he rests his forehead against Geralt's, breathing hard from the effort of a single kiss. "Do you believe me now?" he asks.

Geralt gives him a "hmmm" that Jaskier recognizes as a sound of endearment and kisses him again, this time chaste and sweet.

"There," Jaskier declares. "Now that that's settled, please continue. You said I was poisoned, how did we end up here?"

"I didn't know how to help you," Geralt tells him. "So I had to find someone who did."

Dread pools in Jaskier's stomach as Geralt tells him about how he found Twillthistle, the world tree and the sap that healed him.

"Twillthistle said that ash drains your magic," Geralt explains. "It prevents you from healing, or using glamour. Apparently it also reverts you back to your fae form."

The bard frowns as he processes the information. "So this--" he raises a blue and tentatively brushes his fingers against the base of his horns. "This-- is what I really look like?"

"That's what Twillthistle said."

But that's...that means he... "I've-- I've been under glamour this whole time?" Jaskier shakes his head. But that can't be right. Surely he would have known if that was the case, wouldn't he? How can his own reflection that he's seen for his whole life be a lie? This is-- this isn't him. "I-I'm..."

Geralt's fingers gently trace the back of his hand, and amber eyes fixate on him, full of concern. "Jask..."

Jaskier feels something hot on his face. He brings a hand up and finds wet tears running down his cheeks.

"Jaskier, are you okay? Geralt asks softly.

"I'm- I don't..." Fuck, he doesn't even know. How do you react to something like this?

"Hey, it's alright," Geralt says, gathering Jaskier into his arms. He runs a gentle hand through Jaskier's hair and Jaskier buries his face in Geralt's chest and cries. He cries desperate sobs until his voice is raw and the front of Geralt's shirt is wet with tears. The witcher's touch is soft and comforting, his kind words spoken into the bard's ear as he holds him through it for as long as he needs.

Finally, once his chest stops heaving shallow breaths and the tears stop coming, Jaskier lifts his head, and looks at his precious witcher. "You give good hugs," he mumbles.

Geralt breathes a small amused sound, and gives him a comforting smile. "Are you gonna be alright, lark?"

"I-I think so. It's just...a lot." He winces as his voice, rough from crying, cracks on the words. "I just need time to process it all."

"I understand," Geralt says. "Take all the time you need. I"m here for you."

Jaskier sniffles. "Thank you, Geralt."

Geralt cups his face in his hand and traces the pad of his thumb over the contour of Jaskier's cheekbone. His words are barely a whisper. "Would you believe me if I told you that blue is my favourite colour?"