Chapter Text
When sleeping in the wild was still new for Jaskier, his sleep sparse and stirred by every sound and gust of wind the wild offered, Geralt’s presence, albeit not particularly forthcoming or friendly, would come to bring him some form of much needed comfort. On the nights where the new moon left the camp too dimly lit for Jaskier’s eyes to sense anything at all, he found that the slow, steady breathing of Geralt’s meditation, which he had come to know so well over many months, freed him from the fears riddling his mind in the darkness. The comfort Geralt imbued in him was ever present, a relief from the terrors haunting the dark edges of his vision, and the Gods knew he needed that.
It was no surprise when he once again awoke on such a night, his senses coming back to him, at first slowly and then all at once, startling awake to darkness broken apart by nothing but stars. The fire Geralt so generously had started had long ago burned to nothing but smouldering embers, barely enough light to make out the outline of the sleeping Witcher on the other side, but the vaguest outline of the inhumanly slow rise and fall of Geralt’s chest was enough to ease Jaskier’s mind. A soft sigh fell from his lips as he rolled over, determined to fall back asleep, but no sleep came for him. His heart continued to beat wildly in his chest, his body prepared to flee from the non-existent terrors it was certain scoured the edges of their camp, and though he knew there couldn’t be, Geralt would know, his body wasn’t so easily calmed. The forest seemed more alive at night, the rustling of leaves and grass enough to fool the creative part of his mind, a part of him that he during the day commended for its ability to conjure tunes and tales of grandeur and gained him esteem in taverns and castles alike. But here, in the dark, it was hard not to curse out his vividly creative mind for robbing him of his sleep with the unspeakable horrors it conjured up for him, every rustle of wind in the leaves overhead becoming ghouls and alghouls and kikimore, though his eyes still saw nothing but stars. In the end, not even the methodical breathing of his travel companion or the comfort of his still sleep-warm blankets were enough to lull him back to the blissful sleep his aching body so craved, and the next sigh to leave him was one of exasperation.
There was a brief struggle of tossing and turning in the dark before he managed to pull his blankets half off of himself, shuddering as he was hit with the almost unpleasantly cold night air.
“Geralt,”
His voice was so overwhelmingly loud in the stillness of the night, and Jaskier had to suppress an involuntary jerk as the urge rippled through his body. His eyes open, he looked in the general direction of where he knew Geralt to be, the stars above and the embers slowly dying out not providing his human eyes much besides the outline of Geralt’s meditating form. But at his words, the man stirred, and Jaskier breathed a soft sigh of relief, not as much from the rustle of movement but more so from the affirmative ‘hmm’ he got from the vague Witcher shape.
“Can’t sleep,” he simply muttered, sitting up and wrapping the blankets back around his frame when the before refreshing night air was quickly turning freezing. When his words were this time met with silence, he chose to not let there be silence between them, the anxious energy riddling him fuelling his words. “You see, I was having a very lovely dream where I wasn’t bruised from head to toe and my muscles weren’t trying to turn their own insides out, so I am actually very upset to be awoken at this time of the day… night,” he corrected himself, the irritation in his voice equal parts drama and exhaustion. He wasn’t new to travelling, very few towns and taverns holding his company for longer than a few weeks at a time, but travelling with Geralt was different. He didn’t stop for hours after Jaskier’s legs felt ready to give out, and the bard found it to be far less pleasant to ache day after day on the road without even pleasant conversation or appreciation for his art to smooth it over with, neither of which Geralt felt any need to grace him with.
Jaskier’s fingers found a loose thread on his blanket and fidgeted with it, his eyes staring into what felt like nothingness. “I mean, Geralt, what time is it even? No time to be awake is what it is indeed, and yet I can’t seem to fall back asleep. Of all the magnificent things I could be doing I am awake, here, in a freezing,”
Jaskier didn’t stop his rambling even at the several insistent ‘Jaskier’s coming from the other side of the now burned out fire. If it was anything less than pitch black, Jaskier imagined he could see (if not feel) the daggers of Witcher eyes glaring at him from the darkness.
He kept the blankets wrapped tightly around his body, the irritation in his voice taking on a whole other dramatic level now he had Geralt’s attention.
“Cold,”
He glared back in the general direction he assumed Geralt’s eyes to be (and Geralt would later note that the bard’s sour looks had been aimed more at an innocent shrub than the Witcher himself).
“Hard ground,” he concluded his sentence with tucking his face against his knees, eyebrows knit together
Jaskier was robbed of his chance to continue his dramatic ramblings by his surprised yelp when a hand at the back of his sleep shirt hauled him off of the ground, the blankets he had wrapped tightly around himself falling to his shoulders as he scrambled to get ahold of the man lifting him. Geralt easily manhandled him into a standing position, Jaskier’s knees almost giving out underneath his frame from the unexpected change in position, his sore muscles coming back at him tenfold. He had to involuntarily put a hand against Geralt’s arm to steady himself when his legs threatened to buckle against the unexpected weight, still on the uncomfortable side of too dark to see properly.
“What the fuck, Geralt?” He exclaimed when he got his footing, his hand leaving Geralt’s arm to instead pull his blankets tighter around himself, clinging to the warmth they provided in the freezing night air.
“Get dressed. We’re walking.” At that, the Witcher’s presence left his space as quickly as it had entered it, leaving Jaskier sputtering his complaints to the thin night air.
“Walking?” His complaints rung loudly in the still forest. “Geralt, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it is the middle of the night!”
“Hmm,” was the response from across the camp, earning Geralt another sour face in his general direction from his bard. Another several beats of silence went by, only interrupted by Jaskier’s insistent complaints.
“Frankly, have you gone mad?”
The bard let out a high pitched shriek (and they would later argue just how high pitched, with Geralt comparing it to that of a little girl, while Jaskier was adamant that it was quite manly and Geralt was just being mean) when the blankets tucked around him were pulled from his grasp. He was about to complain again when the air was knocked from his lungs, letting out an involuntary huff as his bag hit him square in the chest, fumbling to catch onto it before it clattered to the ground.
“Geralt!”
“It’s almost dawn,” Geralt spoke bluntly, though he knew it was a lie, already packing up his stuff, soon followed by the bard’s scarce belongings. “And you won’t shut up. So, we’re walking.”
If Geralt was a man of more words, he might have gone on several tangents about his reasons for dragging the bard along with him so long before the break of dawn. He might’ve said he was simply tired of the bard’s complaints, that there’s no need to stick around if Jaskier wasn’t going to sleep. But he wasn’t.
Instead he packed the bard’s belongings for him, pulling Jaskier’s sleeping mat from underneath him with a pointed ‘Jaskier’ when he was too slow to go get dressed, only acknowledging the bard’s protests with an indifferent ‘hmm’ at his continued sputtering, even as the younger man buttoned up his coat (a thick winter coat, suited for the approaching winter, which only got colder the further they got North. Geralt had fought with Jaskier for 5 long days to get him to wear it. The bard argued that it was unflattering, but Geralt had argued that pneumonia was far more unflattering. Geralt won in the end).
Geralt finished packing up camp before Jaskier was even fully dressed, Jaskier completely oblivious to Geralt’s amusement at his bed head while the Witcher helped him put on his bag.
“I can manage just fine on my own, Geralt,” the bard protested, hoisting the bag further up his back.
“Your fingers are freezing, just let me fucking do it.”
It still didn’t stop Jaskier’s quiet protests as Geralt with gentle hands smoothed out the bard’s clothes, making sure he had all his belongings. Even through the entire thing, the neutral expression didn’t leave the Witcher’s face. And even though Jaskier did try to keep up his sour expression, it was simply too much work. He instead went back to talking, his complaints slowly turning into his usual rambling, occupying himself with trying to warm his hands in his armpits while Geralt effortlessly lifted the bag that troubled the bard so much onto his shoulders.
And though neither spoke a word of it, Jaskier was grateful.
They walked a long time before the dawn broke.