[Jaskier exhales the last huff of breath left in him, as he only barely catches the full weight of the Witcher. Like having the fucking wall of a fortress fall on top of him. He wraps his arms around Geralt's chest, maneuvering to under his shoulder to carry as much as he can. (Fuck. See he hasn't gotten any lighter, has he?)
He curbs the screaming in his brain, begging him to message Ciri. He can't do this alone. Carry Geralt onto the horse? All the way back?
Well. Fuck it. He has to.]
I know, you bloody lout, do you think I'm not fucking trying? [The words spit out, but there's hardly any venom left in him now. He digs the heels of his boots into the dirt, giving a countdown to three, two, one -- shoving his full strength upwards to push Geralt onto Roach's saddle, running to the other side to catch him before he can simply slide off the other side.
He hates it when Geralt says his name. It's always so godsdamn serious.] Quiet. You're on the horse, all right?
[But Jaskier isn't a fool. He pulls back the reins. Geralt is not staying on that saddle alone.] Stay. [He carefully lets go of Geralt, hands raised in the air as he takes a step back. Stable. Then he’s hopping onto Roach behind him, wrapping both arms around his friend. Tight. Taking his weight. The one thing he cannot do is let him go.
Because there's no way he can get him back on Roach without a thought in his head.] Good? Just lean your head back, Geralt. I've got you.
[Awkwardly, of course. The hold pulls on that scar on his arm, but he doesn’t let go. He picks up the reins again, turning Roach around. Back where they came from. His birds call out, but only in light chatter — or exclamations that he’s been found. He’s almost home.]
no subject
He curbs the screaming in his brain, begging him to message Ciri. He can't do this alone. Carry Geralt onto the horse? All the way back?
Well. Fuck it. He has to.]
I know, you bloody lout, do you think I'm not fucking trying? [The words spit out, but there's hardly any venom left in him now. He digs the heels of his boots into the dirt, giving a countdown to three, two, one -- shoving his full strength upwards to push Geralt onto Roach's saddle, running to the other side to catch him before he can simply slide off the other side.
He hates it when Geralt says his name. It's always so godsdamn serious.] Quiet. You're on the horse, all right?
[But Jaskier isn't a fool. He pulls back the reins. Geralt is not staying on that saddle alone.] Stay. [He carefully lets go of Geralt, hands raised in the air as he takes a step back. Stable. Then he’s hopping onto Roach behind him, wrapping both arms around his friend. Tight. Taking his weight. The one thing he cannot do is let him go.
Because there's no way he can get him back on Roach without a thought in his head.] Good? Just lean your head back, Geralt. I've got you.
[Awkwardly, of course. The hold pulls on that scar on his arm, but he doesn’t let go. He picks up the reins again, turning Roach around. Back where they came from. His birds call out, but only in light chatter — or exclamations that he’s been found. He’s almost home.]