Jaskier was freezing. His body pale, his lips blue.
“Fuck,” Geralt said, his hands hovering helplessly over the shape Jaskier made - terrifyingly still - under the covers. Geralt had peeled Jaskier out of his wet clothes, built the fire high, wrapped Jaskier in every blanket they had between them, and still …
“Fuck,” Geralt said once more, with feeling. He tried to remember what Vesemir had taught him about cold exhaustion, shivering fits, frostbite … it took far more dire circumstances to take down a Witcher, but one plunge into an icy lake had Jaskier as cold as death.
Body heat. Geralt needed to warm him. Skin-on-skin contact would be the most effective.
Quickly, Geralt stripped out of his clothing, hesitating at his smalls but ultimately deciding to keep them on. It wasn’t as if his cock would make much contribution to the proceedings, he thought with grim humor.
Jaskier’s breath rattled when Geralt slid under the blankets beside him. “G’alt?” he slurred, and Geralt’s heart pounded at how cold Jaskier’s skin felt under his hands.
“You’re fine,” Geralt said quietly, pulling Jaskier into his arms. “I’m here.” Jaskier was too weak to protest, too weak to do anything, really, but when he pressed his face into the side of Geralt’s neck, it almost felt as if he were nuzzling into the hollow of Geralt’s body.
That was a terrible thought. Geralt shouldn’t be enjoying this. Not when his … friend was near death.
Geralt closed his eyes, and counted out his meditation breathing, willing the beat of his heart grow stronger, to stir Jaskier’s body back to life. They fell asleep like this, locked tight under the covers.
Sometime in the night, Jaskier began shivering.
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