A Little Life

Geralt

"Why am I all the way up here?" Jaskier asks, slung happily in Geralt's arms as they descend the winding stairs together. He sounds amused, but the question is a vice around Geralt's throat. The image of Jaskier limp and fading in Vesemir's dark basement lab sticks behind his eyelids like a bomb has gone off in front of him.

"I didn't- " he falters, avoiding the blue eyes seeking his. "I wanted you to be in the sun."

Jaskier is swimming in an old shirt of Eskel's and the warring scents confuse him. His brother's mangled, mutated body replaces Jaskier's on that same wretched table and for a moment, Geralt can't see anything else. A warm pressure against his cheek pulls him back, urges him to meet Jaskier's eyes. They are soft and unafraid, so close that he can see the ash-grey flecks in them and suddenly, somehow, it becomes too much.

Jaskier is here, right here pressed to his chest, but he is drowning again.

"Geralt..."

He shakes his head minutely and Jaskier seems to understand. The hand pulls back, but rests lightly against Geralt's chest as they make their way from the turret toward the sprawling main hall. Jaskier's fingers drum where his other hand rests on the witcher's shoulder, a nervous tick.

"So," he says, "where are the baths? There are baths, aren't there? You wouldn't tease me?"

Now, Geralt relaxes. If the corners of his mouth lift a little, Jaskier is smart enough not to mention it. He hums, and that graceful hand swats at him.

"Enlightening as always, thank you."

They continue past the drafty main hall, down another set of stairs, and into the underground level of the keep. As Geralt carries him down a dark hallway, Jaskier's fingers tighten on his shoulder. Geralt tucks his chin against the top of Jaskier's head, just briefly, but it is enough that he relaxes. Jaskier smells medicinal, still sick and salt-bitter beneath, but just there - at the crown of his head, where his chestnut hair parts in that ridiculous swirl - Geralt inhales the scent of sun-warmed sweetness.

As they near the end of the hall, the air warms, becomes humid and heavy with spicy incense. It's clear that Jaskier's interest has been piqued as he shifts impatiently against Geralt, peering and squinting into the dark.

"I'm going to put you down now," Geralt warns Jaskier. "Lean on me, don't push that ankle." When he feels Jaskier nod against his shoulder, he sets the bard on his feet, keeping an arm around him as he steadies himself.

"Where are we?"

"Close your eyes."

"Human eyes, Geralt. I can't see anything, I hardly think-"

"Jaskier," he breathes around the pain expanding beneath his ribs, "please, close your eyes."

"Alright," he replies, and he must hear the drowning, must feel the water pouring from Geralt's throat, because he stops arguing. "Alright, they're closed."

"Thank you."

Geralt swallows, forcing down a swell of nausea when Jaskier stills at the whoosh that flies through the air when he casts Igni. He recovers so quickly that Geralt might not have caught it, if he wasn't bracing for it. When Jaskier's eyes open, so does his mouth.

Geralt indulges himself with the look on Jaskier's face as he takes in the sight before him. Dozens of candles illuminate the space, not quite reaching the low ceiling of the cave. They dance atop mountains of hardened wax, dotted between blue-green pools of steaming water. A covered basket and a large tin pitcher sit beside the largest stone-ringed pool, just where Yennefer had promised him they would be. Geralt is pleased despite himself as Jaskier clings to him, clutching at him with one hand as the other flaps in front of them both.