Jaskier opened gritty eyes to a room he didn’t recognize. Rubbing his face, he sat up, wondering where—
The bard blinked, surprised at the sound of Geralt’s voice. He turned—
“What happened to you? You look awful!”
The witcher’s face didn’t even twitch, which was likely more a testament to the man’s apparent exhaustion than Jaskier’s blurted observation. In Jaskier’s defense, though, the man hadn’t seen the witcher look so sickly…well, ever. The man’s eye bags had eye bags, his face was even paler than normal, and his hair was half out of its usual ponytail in rather uneven chunks.
Overall, it looked rather like the witcher had spent the past three days ill too.
Geralt stared, looking at Jaskier like…well, like he was some sort of striped unicorn.
Jaskier tried not to wince at how gravelly the witcher’s voice sounded. Clearly the man had been through something while Jaskier was…otherwise preoccupied. A point for later investigation, he mentally reminded himself, trying not to lose his caravan of thought.
“You know, not pulling my weight the past few days. I’ll make it up to everyone though! I have this wonderful recipe from the cook who worked for my family, it makes rabbit taste—”
Jaskier blinked, surprised at the hands that were gently pushing him back onto the mattress he’d been trying to get off of. Honestly, he wasn’t sure whose room this was, but he’d been trying to leave before the owner came by and kicked him out.
When he opened his mouth to say this, however, he soon found himself gaping as Geralt manhandled him into lying back down.
Jaskier’s jaw clicked shut, and he stared as Geralt tilted his head, hand still splayed wide against Jaskier’s chest. He told the bard to breathe in deeply once, twice, and Jaskier found himself doing so, absolutely bewildered.
The feeling didn’t change as Geralt’s hand found his forehead, tension leaking from the witcher’s shoulders at whatever he found there. But then Geralt was smelling his wrist, and this was getting decidedly weird—
“Geralt, I’m fine. Seriously, I don’t know what’s happened to you, but—”
The witcher gave Jaskier the most withering look the bard had ever seen on his face before, even after that one time in Toussaint. Which, Jaskier maintained still wasn’t completely his fault—
“You don’t get to say you’re fine, Jaskier.” Geralt rasped, grip tightening around the hand he still held.
“You almost died, Jaskier!” Geralt growled, voice suddenly vicious in a way that reminded Jaskier far too much of the last time he and the witcher had such a heated conversation on top of a mountain.
For some reason, it was that thought which made Jaskier snap. The idea that no matter how hard he tried, Geralt would always leave him behind, or—or be pissed off, when Jaskier apparently didn’t have the decency to be sick elsewhere.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Geralt. How dare I barge into your home, and demand that you take care of me. How could I beg you to set aside some of your precious time for one measly, useless bard.” Jaskier yanked his hand back, sitting up and resolutely plowing on when he saw the witcher’s mouth open.
“But wait, it wasn’t me who asked to be here, was it? And I certainly didn’t ask you to—to barge into the abandoned room on the other side of the keep I found, and bring me to—wherever this is!” Jaskier waved his hand around the room.
And maybe he could have stopped there. Geralt seemed less angry, and if Jaskier didn’t know any better, the man looked almost…guilty. But that wasn’t an emotion the witcher ever had, not when it came to Jaskier, and that just pissed off the bard all over again.
“So no, I didn’t ask you for help, and I certainly never intended to be such a burden to you. I’m well aware that if you could, you’d have foisted me off on some poor inn keeper or healer if I so much as sniffled.”
Jaskier sneered, expression apparently so violent that Geralt physically took a step back. Jaskier used the extra space to stand, ignoring how dizzy the movement made him.
“Now, I’m going to go start shoveling out the stables. If you need something—Geralt!”
Jaskier growled at the arms wrapped tightly around him, pinning his own down. He squeaked as he found himself dragged backwards, in the opposite direction from the door he’d been walking towards. Seriously, what did the witcher want?! He’d been perfectly clear earlier about the idea of Jaskier lazing about, so why—
Jaskier blinked up at the ceiling, wondering how he’d ended up back on the bed, this time with the witcher underneath him. What was happening—
Jaskier froze, brow furrowing at the words.
“I didn’t—Yennefer found you, and you were—if I’d just looked, maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad—if I’d just—”
Jaskier blinked, trying to make sense of the Witcher’s mangled explanation. He vaguely recalled purple eyes and—caterpillars? But he wasn’t sure what was real or not, his fever having gotten rather high very early on this time.
Jaskier cleared his throat.
“Geralt, it wasn’t…there was nothing you could do—”
“No, Jaskier.” The arms around him tightened once, before loosening. “You—you tried to tell me, and I just—I ignored you, accused you of being lazy, like you’re not the most hard-working human I’ve ever met—”
“Okay, Geralt, now we both know that’s a bit of a stretch—”
“No, Jask, you’re—” Geralt exhaled heavily out his nose, the warm air tickling Jaskier’s neck. “You’ll complain until I want to stick paper in my ears to find some peace—”
“But no lazy human can keep up with a witcher, through rain or sun, or start an entire operation to help save a race he doesn’t belong to, or climb a mountain just to help a—a friend, who doesn’t appreciate him nearly as much as he ought.”
And that…Jaskier swallowed the lump in his throat, refusing to start crying right now, not when he was literally still on top of the hulking man that was the cause of said tears.
“I almost…you stopped breathing, Jaskier. I didn’t…a few seconds more, if the fever hadn’t just—just vanished, like it had never even been there—”
Jaskier could hear how ragged Geralt’s own breathing was, and he couldn’t exactly blame the other. It must have been…strange, to see Jaskier go from being deathly ill to perfectly fine within a matter of seconds.
“The three days couldn’t have ended at a better time, then.” Jaskier mused, only realizing he’d said the words out loud when he felt Geralt stiffen beneath him.
“In my defense, I would have gotten sick regardless! And I did try to tell you.”
The bard tried not to shiver at the growl he felt through the witcher’s chest.
“I, uhm, kind of made a deal. With a fae.”
“In my defense, I made the deal before that incident!”
“You remember that time we came across that ring of mushrooms, right before we separated for the winter?”
The witcher’s arms grew tighter as he spoke through gritted teeth, “you mean the fairy ring I explicitly told you to avoid?”
“I repeat, in my defense, you didn’t explain why, so I—”
“If you just listened, for once in your life—”
“You know what? I don’t need to explain myself to you. If you’d be so kind as to unhand me, I’ll gladly make my way back to my room!” Jaskier pushed against the unyielding grip on him. “I can’t grant you your one life’s blessing quite yet, but I—”
“No, Jaskier, you can’t—you’re too weak, you’ll get sick again—”
Jaskier laughed, a brittle sort of thing.
“I assure you, Geralt, you don’t have to worry about me getting sick any time soon. I’ll be out of your hands by the next time I so much as sneeze, so—”
“Jaskier, that’s not what I—”
Geralt cut himself off, inhaling sharply.
“I don’t—I didn’t mean, what I said. On the mountain. I was—angry, and I took it out on you, because—because you’re always fine, no matter what I say or do, but that’s not—it wasn’t fair. To you.”
Jaskier swallowed, mouth dry as he closed his eyes against the prickling sharpness.
“I made the deal with the fae, so that I’d never get sick on the Path again. So that I’d…I’d always be prepared, and not—”
Jaskier listened to the wind beating against the walls of the keep, the crackle of the fire.
“For twenty years, I’ve been fine, Geralt. And I can’t—I can’t do it anymore.”
“No, you don’t—I can’t keep being your—your beating bard, or whatever you want to call it. I am—”
Jaskier laughed wetly, biting back the whine that wanted to crawl out.
“I am tired.” He whispered, as if it was his greatest confession. The admission of weakness made his stomach twist even now, a remnant of the fear he had every time he admitted to being less than perfect to the witcher.
Jaskier didn’t dare to even breathe, waiting for Geralt to push him away. To tell the bard he wasn’t worth the effort, even with the coin he earned. Maybe if he braced for the rejection, mentally prepared for it, he could—
Jaskier tensed. That wasn’t…what?
Geralt moved his arms, and that made more sense. He was just apologizing for having to get rid of the bard, which…that made sense. And Jaskier could help with that, could at least turn to let the witcher push him off—
Jaskier squeaked as he was pulled back down, this time with his head half-smushed into Geralt’s chest.
“I said no leaving the bed, bard.”
Jaskier glared at the black fabric under him.
“You haven’t eaten anything in three days. You’re dehydrated. And, while you might not get sick now, it could make next winter worse. Right?”
Jaskier frowned, grunting out an affirmative. It would figure that now, when Jaskier wanted to just lick his wounds in peace, Geralt wanted to talk.
“Well, it’s not like food and water are just going to miraculously appear, dear witcher.” Jaskier snarked, turning his head so that Geralt could hear him.
The witcher grumbled, but seemed to see Jaskier’s point, gently rolling Jaskier onto his back on the side of the bed next to the wall.
Jaskier thought that he’d get a chance to slink back to his room, and was already looking around to try to find where his clothes had gone, when Geralt simply grabbed a bowl from the desk. A bowl which had some sort of soup or broth in it already, that the witcher heated with a quick igni.
Geralt carefully handed him the bowl, only letting go once he was sure the bard had a steady grip. Jaskier stared down at the opaque liquid with small chunks of veggies and meat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so annoyed at being given food.
It was utterly ridiculous.
“Eat.” Geralt urged, looking like he was about to grab the spoon and start feeding the bard himself.
Jaskier took a tentative bite, eating more quickly when he realized that he was a lot hungrier than he thought, and the soup was well seasoned. Still, he was only able to finish half a bowl before he had to stop, which seemed to bother Geralt if his scowl was anything to go by.
“Geralt, it’s fine. I just…haven’t eaten much lately.”
The witcher’s eyes narrowed, and Jaskier looked away, wondering if Geralt knew how long “lately” was. If the witcher was aware that the meals he didn’t show up to, he didn’t bother making up.
Still, Geralt just grunted, apparently accepting Jaskier’s explanation for now as he took the bowl away.
And then Geralt was wrapping him up in furs, practically tucking him in—
“Geralt, I just woke up—”
“And you spent the last three days fighting to breathe with fluid in your lungs and a fever so high it should have caused brain damage. You need rest.”
“I can rest in my own room, then. Not wherever this is. Seriously, Geralt, whose—”
Geralt gave him a funny look, as if he was second guessing Jaskier not having brain damage.
“Your room isn’t fit to sleep in. You’ll stay in mine, at least until we can find one where you won’t lose your fingers to frostbite.”
And that was…Jaskier rather liked his fingers. Rather needed them, too. He’d just assumed all the rooms in the keep were dreadfully drafty and cold, but he had to admit, this one—Geralt’s, apparently—was much warmer than the one he’d been using. And, admittedly, he wasn’t exactly eager to go back to the frigid space, so he simply hummed in response, glancing around the room with more interest now.
“Sleep, Jaskier. It will be here when you wake.”
…Jaskier definitely didn’t blush as he closed his eyes, not the slightest bit embarrassed at his curiosity. It was just the heat, from all the furs.
Jaskier turned to the right, then the left, trying to get comfortable. He was, unfortunately, still exhausted, but even though his body craved rest, his mind would not be quiet.
What would happen, when Jaskier woke up? Would Geralt try to find a way to break the blessing (curse)? The witcher had apologized, with real words, but would that actually change anything? Could Jaskier bring himself to believe the witcher, or was he just setting himself up to be hurt again. And—
Jaskier’s eyes flew open as Geralt grabbed his hand, looking rapidly between their conjoined appendages and Geralt’s face.
“Rest, Jask.” The witcher leaned forward, calloused fingers reaching out to gently slide Jaskier’s eyelids shut. The bard breathed out as he did so, letting go of tension he wasn’t aware he was holding.
“I’ll be here when you wake.”
And that…it didn’t fix everything. It didn’t erase twenty years of being abandoned and yelled at and ignored. But it was a start. Enough, at least, for Jaskier to relax into the mattress beneath him, drawn to the land of slumber by the pull of exhaustion and the soothing circling of Geralt’s thumb over his knuckles.
But for now, at least, it was enough.
