Tired Buttercup

bodyguard au anyone? process video here.

While his mother was pregnant, bandits attacked her carriage and killed the guards. Fortunately, she escaped and ran as far as she could, stopping only when she went into labor.

Right in the middle of Broklion forest.

When Julian Alfred Pankratz was born, he did not cry or breathe. By all accounts, Jaskier was born dead.

But somehow, the Forest chose to give the newborn baby life.

Oh, he did his best to hide it. He never backed down from one of their verbal spars, even when he wanted nothing else than to hide behind the witcher, have him demand that Yennefer stop—stop insulting him, stop mocking him, stop threatening him.

But Jaskier knew he couldn’t do that. For one, Geralt trusted him to look after himself, to defend himself, at least to a certain degree. Monsters were one thing, but a witch that Geralt was—well, intimate with, and had a decently good relationship with was something else.

Plus, he knew that Geralt and Yennefer had struck up some sort of deal, that they both had need for some herb found deep in the woods they were now traversing. Why the witch couldn’t just buy it or, better yet, open up a portal to where it must be, the bard wasn’t entirely sure. The pair hadn’t bothered to share the details with him besides a comment about some sort of monsters in the area they couldn’t risk alerting with a portal.

And lastly, well…Jaskier didn’t need Geralt’s help with the mage. So far, the violet-eyed woman had done little more than spew hateful words, and maybe show off with a spark or two in her palms. Jaskier wasn’t a fool, could see the intimidation tactic for what it was, and saw no reason why he should be the one to back down every time the witch was in a bad mood.

Which was, quite frankly, always.

The bard had grown so used to her little sparks though, to the cold anger in her sharp eyes, that he never saw the blast of magic coming. One second they were bantering back and forth, no more or less heated than their arguments usually were, and the next there was a sharp pain in the back of his head, followed by a loud crack.

It took the bard a second to realize he’d been flung clear across the small glade they’d been making camp at, that he’d been blasted backwards into a tree, head and back taking the brunt of the contact. He blinked, trying to push the black spots from his vision, barely noticing the sound of Geralt coming back as he glared at the witch. She had the decency to look a bit guilty, but made no move to help him up, or to apologize, merely staying where she was a good few meters away.

That was quite alright with him, though, he thought as he staggered to his feet. Maybe this would be the push the witcher needed to make him see that as much as Geralt seemed to like the witch, it would be best if the bard wasn’t left alone with her. Melitele’s sake, the man had only been gone hunting for ten minutes or so, and look what had—

His trail of thought tapered off as the man himself appeared, eyes darting around the small clearing before glancing quickly between the witch and bard. It was easy to see what had happened. The sound alone was proof that it had been magic, and with nothing else in the clearing, plus the small dent he was pretty sure he’d made in the tree behind him, surely Geralt could—

“Take a walk, Jaskier.”

Jaskier blinked, stunned.

Geralt didn’t…he wouldn’t have just—

“Now, bard.”

Jaskier fought back a flinch, having grown used to the witcher using the term in a softer, joking tone in the years they’d been traveling together. But now, it was like all those moments together had never happened, like he was eighteen again and following after Geralt for the first time, the witcher telling the bard to get lost as he punched him in the gut.

The thought made his stomach roll uncomfortably, though that could have also been due to the dizziness he was fighting. He did his best not to stumble as he walked to where he could faintly hear a river, not that it mattered much with the way the witcher had already turned away from the bard, talking in hushed tones to the witch.

Jaskier walked until he was sure the sound of the running water would cover any noise he made, before his stomach got the best of him and he found himself bending over and vomiting into a bush. Breathing raggedly, he struggled to stand straight, the ground seeming to spin underneath him as his head pounded with every thud of his heart.

Wincing at the light that filtered in through the tree canopy, he gently touched the back of his head, hissing when his fingers brushed the spot that hurt the most. He wasn’t exactly surprised to find the digits red, he’d had enough head wounds to know this was a nasty one, but it didn’t—Geralt could usually smell his blood. And the witcher had never let him walk away while injured, no matter how pissed off the man was at the bard for how he got the wound in the first place.

But maybe he trusted Jaskier to take care of it, Jaskier considered as he staggered down to the river. Taking the doublet off and folding it beside him, he felt at the back of his chemise, trying to see if it was already bloodied. Feeling it was a lost cause, he quickly tugged it off too, using the small dagger he kept in his boot to make thin bandages from the material.

Jaskier could do this. It wasn’t the first time he’d cared for his injuries by himself, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. That had to be why Geralt had sent him away while he—while he dealt with the witch. That made sense. Better to—to calm her down, than to risk her setting the forest on fire next, or something.

Still, as he carefully brushed the blood away with hands that shook slightly, he couldn’t help the dark thoughts that crept into his mind. The realization that Geralt had gone to Yennefer, instead of Jaskier, even though Yennefer wasn’t the one hurt. Even though Yennefer was the one who had hurt Jaskier, who could have broken his bones if she’d thrown him a bit harder, who could have—have—

Jaskier swallowed hard against the creeping bile in his throat, shoving it down the way he couldn’t do his morbid imagination. He trusted Geralt, would always trust Geralt. But Geralt clearly didn’t see the witch as a threat, didn’t understand that the woman couldn’t care less about what happened to the bard, and that was—quite frankly, terrifying.

Because he could trust Geralt all he wanted, but if he didn’t—if the witcher refused to see the danger, then that meant Jaskier was on his own with this. Worse, actually, because Geralt would likely be around soon to drag Jaskier back to the woman, to the witch who’d sooner leave him dead on the side of the road if she thought Geralt would allow it.

Which the witcher never would, of course. He might not like Jaskier’s singing, or his rambling, or the way the bard spoiled Roach, or, well…

Jaskier bit back the urge to shake his head. Geralt and he were friends, no matter if the witcher refused to admit it. No witch could come between that, no matter what their relationship was. Geralt would never—he’d never—

The bard blinked sluggishly, trying to get his mind to work through the pain. It was fine. They’d only be with the witch for a short while. He could trust Geralt to keep him safe.

So truthfully, Geralt doesn't usually put a lot of thought into telling the bard off for his lying, wrong though it may be to lie to one's—traveling companion.

Most of the time, that is.

But right now...

"Geralt, can't we just—"

"No," the witcher growled for what felt like the hundredth time. He said one word, but if the witcher was a talkative man, what he would have added was that he was cold and covered in Drowner's guts and his arm stung a bit from where a Drowner had gotten a shallow scratch in because Geralt was forced to defend Jaskier from a straggler. Because no, the bard couldn't just follow directions, couldn't stay back at the makeshift camp with Roach like he'd been told. He just had to see the witcher fight, because Jaskier could never listen—

"Please, Geralt. I need a break—"

"If you want to stop so badly, fine." Geralt finally turned to Jaskier, feeling a bit bad for the look of pure hope and relief on the bard's face, before a bit of Drowner flesh dropped from his hair into his lap. "But I will be riding on, with or without you." He finished the old threat, one he hadn't made in months, years, that he would never consider actually following through on now. Once upon a time, certainly, but these days he would never truly abandon Jaskier, no matter how pissed off or annoyed the bard made him.

It was an empty threat, nothing more. Just enough to get the bard moving, so that they—

"Fine."

Geralt blinked at the anger in the bard's voice.

He watched silently as Jaskier stumbled forward, grabbing his things from off of Roach and stuffing what belonged to him haphazardly into his personal bags.

Geralt blinked again. That...what was happening? This wasn't supposed to—Jaskier was supposed to stop complaining, to glare at the witcher so hard the hairs rose on the back of his neck, not—

And then, apparently having decided he'd gotten everything, Jaskier turned—

And then—

And then—

Geralt cursed loudly as he slid off of Roach, reaching into his own bag of medical supplies before Jaskier could grab the salves and bandages he kept stored away for the few times they parted during the year. He swore louder as he cut away the rest of Jaskier's doublet and chemise, much to the bard's weak protests, audibly growling at the three long scratches over the man's right shoulder blade.

Still, he worked carefully to clean the blood and debris away, examined the wounds and breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that though they were long, they were not deep enough to need stitches.

"How?" Geralt muttered darkly, opening the salve with yarrow and sage, pausing for a moment to clean his own hands. He wouldn't risk infection, not because of something so foolish.

"A Drowner, obviously," Jaskier said, wincing a bit when the cold salve hit the wounds. Geralt grabbed his opposite shoulder, holding him still. "Went to relieve myself, and there it was! Guess I'd wandered a bit too close to the river," the bard said, and Geralt had to grab him quickly to stop him from shrugging, knowing the thoughtless action would not be without pain.

"Ah. Whoops," Jaskier chuckled a bit, his breath catching in his throat as it tugged at his wounds, and Geralt sighed, realizing there was no helping the bard.

Still, he didn't—he hadn't known—

"Thought you snuck after me," Geralt confessed, grabbing for the bandages now. "I didn't know..." the witcher trailed off, not sure how he should end the sentence. Didn't know Jaskier had actually been attacked where Geralt had left him, assuming incorrectly he'd be safe? Didn't know the bard was injured, as Geralt hadn't heard him be wounded, because it had happened when Jaskier was out of the witcher's range of hearing? Didn't know when Jaskier was asking for a break—

"We'll stop here. Tonight," the witcher said, tying off the knot and standing. He reached for one of his spare shirts, handing it off to Jaskier as the bard gave him a quiet thanks. While it didn't happen often, rare as it was for the bard to be truly injured, it wasn't uncommon for Jaskier to borrow Geralt's pants or shirts while the other man recovered. The bard's outfits were beautiful, fitted things, but they didn't lend well to being worn over thick wraps, to being removed easily and quickly for further treatment, or quite frankly to the comfort one desired when sick or injured.

And if Geralt grabbed Jaskier's things himself as he put the supplies away, putting everything the bard had displaced back where it belonged in their shared packs, well.

A quote from O'Neill: “The buffoonery of the Kewpies and the passion of my serious drawings playing side by side is unusual, but not too unusual. In this droll existence, the Hamlet and Lear have always consorted with the clown.”

Here’s some more of her “Sweet Monsters”. This series was very personal to her, and she meant to keep all these drawings private until Auguste Rodîn insisted she show them.