samstree:

“You shouldn’t have refused the poppy,” Geralt says, brushing away the sweat-soaked hair at Jaskier’s temple. “It’s probably harmless.”

Jaskier’s eyes are bright despite the pain he must be in.

“Probably being the point, darling,” he answers, smiling faintly. “It’s a risk.”

Geralt sighs. “Since when are you scared of a little risk?”

The cast around Jaskier’s forearm rests against his chest, holding his broken arm close with a tight sling. He looks only slightly uncomfortable, with his lips pursed into a thin line, when in truth, Geralt can smell the mixture of hurt and fear and know Jaskier’s nonchalance is only a brave face he’s putting on for Geralt’s sake.

“Since the day I became a drunkard,” Jaskier says, voice softer, “or rather, the day I decided to stop being one, but you know that. They’re all…very similar, poppy and wine. Things that numb the pain so well it makes you dependent, makes you go crazy with the lack of it.”

Geralt sighs again, more heavily this time, and attempts to hold Jaskier closer, but realizes the difficulties of it when there’s a massive cast between them. His arms circle around Jaskier awkwardly, ending up hovering around his stomach.

“I know, but I—” Geralt finds himself frownig with guilt, so he hides it by resting his head on Jaskier’s shoulder and nuzzles gently, not sure which one of them he’s trying to sooth. “I don’t want to see you in pain.”

Especially not when he was the reason Jaskier turned to alchohol in the first place, not when Jaskier has spent years just to piece himself back together—he’s so careful these days, too careful, it breaks Geralt’s heart.

“Hey.” Jaskier turns to him, wincing with every movement. “I’m not. It’s only a broken arm. It barely hurts.” 

His heartbeat quickens at the lie.

Geralt has half a mind to berate Jaskier if he isn’t physically curled around his side so protectively. The visuals of it all might defeat the purpose. “And you say I down play injuries,” he says eventually.

“You are you, dear.” Jaskier pokes at Geralt’s forehead with his good hand playfully. “Your life is all grand and tragic and song-worthy already. There’s no need for martyrdom to be added to the mix, despite your best effort.”

“And you need it?”

“Well, I’ve been told the suffering hero is an attractive look.”

Geralt lifts his head and meets Jaskier’s eyes, not sure if he should be concerned or exasperated. Blue eyes stare back at him, glassy with pain, but still proud.

“Let me Axii you, at least,” Geralt says, “It’ll be like sleeping. You won’t feel the effect, so there’s nothing to get addicted to.”

“But—”

“For me?”

The plea comes out a lot softer than anything else Geralt has said today, and it must work, because Jaskier visibly softens too.

He’s like that. The more Geralt fights him on something, the harder Jaskier rejects it just for the sake of stubbornness, but as soon as Geralt lowers his voice and asks, really asks, there’s nothing Jaskier wouldn’t grant him.

Sometimes, Geralt fears the power he holds.

“Don’t want to sleep,” Jaskier whispers. “Who will be there to stop you from blaming yourself for everything?”

“So if I can promise not to do that,” Geralt adds, “it’s a yes?”

Jaskier pouts, eyeing him skeptically. “You promise?”

Geralt nods with a hand over his heart. “Swear on Roach.”

“And you will hold my hand while I’m unconscious, like in the stories? All the tragic heroes have a lover who does that. The fair maiden always stays until he wakes up.”

Geralt presses a kiss to Jaskier’s lips. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Jaskier chuckles a bit at the comparison, and shifts down on the bed, his injured arm still secured safely over his chest. The simple movement makes him hiss, so Geralt runs his fingers through Jaskier’s hair until it passes.

“I don’t regret it,” Jaskier says, right before Geralt’s hand makes the shape of the sign. “Getting sober was the best thing I’ve ever done, you know that, right? I’d rather have thisthan all the wine and poppy in the world, brokens bones and all.”

And Jaskier believes himself to not be grand and dramatic enough? Geralt only smiles. “I know. I love you too.”

Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut at the sign of Axii instantly, and the crease between his brows smoothes over in dream.

Geralt finds Jaskier’s uninjured hand, links their fingers together, and waits.

hugging your science paper fresh from the printer because it’s warm and you’re not