[He doesn't need to ask if there was any effect when he knows Geralt so well. He can see that his words do have an effect, which -- it is not impossible, but Geralt shoulders all of his foolishness and genius so evenly.
He does not reach for his friend. His arms wrap tighter around his middle. Tight enough to squeeze. It nearly hurts. It does not hurt as much as dying.
Just the once.
Tighter still. It is a fool's errand to keep on pretending that he is above this, that he is not part of it. That he is not affected. Bleobheris is bold evidence. Moglad unable to stay near him. The death of the glade. Perhaps Geralt stirred death in his footsteps, but Jaskier did not bring spring back, either.
God. Why does it feel good? That's the worst part. The part that leaves him sickened. It is not him but it is.
Jaskier drags in a breath.] You're not dying alone here, either. [This time he touches Geralt's shoulder, and he squeezes. A curse -- whatever it is -- it cannot take away who they are, either. He will not allow it. Jaskier wants to... do more. Be more. More than a cowering thing in the face of that which is too large, too powerful, whether it be a monolith, or an empire, or the fears of a Witcher.] Something is wrong with me. I truly did not mean it. Nor, I think, did you mean to say this. Whether it's true or not. [He knows it is. Jaskier brings a hand to Geralt's cheek. Makes as if he might lean up and kiss him --
Instead, he simply pinches.]
I should have mentioned it. I've been trying to think... this wasn't happening to me. [He pulls away. His touch, in fact, may be as poisoned as Geralt's. (Hasn't he known that all along?)] I don't want to hear this talk of dying alone. We'll find her, Geralt.
[He moves back to the Singularity. With a final shaking breath, he presses his hand flat against it. He does not draw back immediately. He ignores the sickness in his gut. (This new fear of his friend he now has to carry with his own fucking death.) Jaskier closes his eyes and hums -- a tune similar to what he thinks that feeling within the monolith must be.
He jerks, but doesn't disconnect his hand. Though his pulse races in his throat, he is still.
There. In his mind. It feels nearly physical, but he knows it can't be. Like... the prod of a cat's paw.]
Hello? [He tilts his head back to look up at it.] Fuck. It really is -- [His fingers curl as he lifts his hand.] It isn't... talking. But there is something in there. I felt it reaching.
no subject
[He doesn't need to ask if there was any effect when he knows Geralt so well. He can see that his words do have an effect, which -- it is not impossible, but Geralt shoulders all of his foolishness and genius so evenly.
He does not reach for his friend. His arms wrap tighter around his middle. Tight enough to squeeze. It nearly hurts. It does not hurt as much as dying.
Just the once.
Tighter still. It is a fool's errand to keep on pretending that he is above this, that he is not part of it. That he is not affected. Bleobheris is bold evidence. Moglad unable to stay near him. The death of the glade. Perhaps Geralt stirred death in his footsteps, but Jaskier did not bring spring back, either.
God. Why does it feel good? That's the worst part. The part that leaves him sickened. It is not him but it is.
Jaskier drags in a breath.] You're not dying alone here, either. [This time he touches Geralt's shoulder, and he squeezes. A curse -- whatever it is -- it cannot take away who they are, either. He will not allow it. Jaskier wants to... do more. Be more. More than a cowering thing in the face of that which is too large, too powerful, whether it be a monolith, or an empire, or the fears of a Witcher.] Something is wrong with me. I truly did not mean it. Nor, I think, did you mean to say this. Whether it's true or not. [He knows it is. Jaskier brings a hand to Geralt's cheek. Makes as if he might lean up and kiss him --
Instead, he simply pinches.]
I should have mentioned it. I've been trying to think... this wasn't happening to me. [He pulls away. His touch, in fact, may be as poisoned as Geralt's. (Hasn't he known that all along?)] I don't want to hear this talk of dying alone. We'll find her, Geralt.
[He moves back to the Singularity. With a final shaking breath, he presses his hand flat against it. He does not draw back immediately. He ignores the sickness in his gut. (This new fear of his friend he now has to carry with his own fucking death.) Jaskier closes his eyes and hums -- a tune similar to what he thinks that feeling within the monolith must be.
He jerks, but doesn't disconnect his hand. Though his pulse races in his throat, he is still.
There. In his mind. It feels nearly physical, but he knows it can't be. Like... the prod of a cat's paw.]
Hello? [He tilts his head back to look up at it.] Fuck. It really is -- [His fingers curl as he lifts his hand.] It isn't... talking. But there is something in there. I felt it reaching.