a super sneaky side blog

As is his usual luck, it's one of the few days Olruggio is awake before noon. While Qifrey struggles not to slump against the wall of their kitchen as his apprentices eat their breakfast in the other room, easily entertained by their own ideas, thank goodness, because Qifrey’s throat feels thick and the vibration of his own voice echoes through his head in sharp pains, Olruggio staggers downstairs and into the room, likely in search of coffee. His hair is mussed, and he's still blinking away sleep, but when his eyes lock with Qifrey’s they hesitate for a moment too long. 

Qifrey tries to smile, but it makes Olruggio’s brows furrow, so he just turns away to gently wipe his nose against his wrist. He’s been caught like always. It’d be easier to hold up the facade if Olruggio didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, because he just feels guilty lying to him. He sighs with defeat when Olruggio leans against the counter and levels him with a stern look. 

“You look awful.” Olruggio says, voice still rough. Qifrey sniffles again, nose irritated by the steam wafting off the bowls of oatmeal in front of him, feeling all too much like he's advertising his symptoms. “I’m quite alright.” He says, and his voice is just as congested as he feared it would be. How embarrassing he is. “Just a cold.” 

Olruggio huffs, leaning over to gruffly force a hand against Qifrey’s forehead that he's a bit too unsteady to dodge. “Jus’ a cold.” He murmurs. “You’re awfully warm for that.” Qifrey smiles again, suddenly finding his nose itchy. He pushes olruggio’s hand away, not unkindly, and steps back a bit to create space, waving a halfhearted hand in front of his face. “Not at all,” He can’t help the wince that comes across his face, the feeling aggravating both his sinus’ and his headache. “I’m merely warm from bearing near the stove. I’m in a fine state to-” has to pause to press a knuckle against his nose, which ends up having the opposite effect. The itch crescendos, so he has to whip around in an attempt to protect Olruggio from the worst of his symptoms.

“ ‘chT-!" he has to pause for a moment, curled over into his wrist, until his vision returns from static and he can feel anything but the thundering pulsing of his own skull. After a few deep breaths, he manages to straighten up and almost-look Olruggio in the eye. He looks annoyed, but not in the way he does when dealing with frustrating clients or mental blocks. He looks, frustrated, almost, closer to when their girls stubbornly refuse rest, or even Qifrey, sometimes. It's not a look he likes very much when it's placed onto himself. 

“Go to bed.” Never one to mince his words, Olruggio tells him flat out. “You’re going to fall over.” Qifrey was perfectly able to come to that conclusion himself, because there is still grey towards the corners of his vision, and his legs are starting to get suspiciously shaky. It's not something his lovely Olruggio should be seeing, though. Having his own weakness thrown back at him sparks an age-old defensiveness every time, like a cat backed into a corner. He sort of wants to snarl. 

“The girls need a master present.” He grits out instead between clenched teeth. Olurggio sighs, looking worn already, drags a hand down his face. “I’ll watch ‘em. I’m basically their master already.” He makes a shoo-ing motion. “Go off to bed before they start worryin’.” It's a bit lowbrow to bring them into this, but Qifrey can’t argue it, no matter how much his skin is prickling with desire to fight back. He sniffles against the back of his hand again instead of replying, starting to stumble his way upstairs to his chambers. Olruggio’s shoulders are tense as he passes, and his eyes look even more tired than normal, even though he doesn’t have any upcoming deadlines that he’s heard about. Not that he's been a good listener these past few days.

••●━━━ 𖤓 ━━━●••

His room is dark when he wakes up. Intentionally, surely, because he had been too tired to bother closing his own blinds when he collapsed against his bed, had fallen asleep with his head buried into the pillow to try to drown the light out. There’s only one person that would be in here, so he squints against the dark shapes, ignoring the way it makes him ache, and can vaguely make out a dark robe. 

Olruggio must be focused, or else he would’ve noticed. Qifrey takes his time getting up, for no reason relating to the way the world spins and heady pressure shifts in his face, tries to study Olruggio. There's the faint scratching of a quill, and Oruggio's posture seems stiffer than usual, like he's focused. Once Olruggio sniffles a few times, unconsciously, because his nose has started running since he lifted his head up, Olruggio looks up at him.

“Mornin’.” He says, voice soft like he knows. “Want a light on?”  Qifrey feels his face pull into a frown. “Why not just open the blinds? Natural light is always better.” According to Beldaruit, anyway, who liked to preach on the importance of nature at random turns. Olruggio opens his mouth, then shakes his head like he’s thinking better of something. “It’s the middle of the night, Qifrey.” Is all he says, quill taping an anxious rhythm against his paper. 

Qifrey sits up in a frantic motion, almost tipping over in the process. He has to grip the sheets hard and pant for a second, the whole world consisting of spinning shapes and his heartbeat in his skull. He sniffles again, uselessly, and Olruggio shifts around for a moment before handing him a grey handkerchief.

The gentle touch of fabric against his nose sets him off almost immediately. He barely has time to take in a breath before twitching. “ ‘dszhh-!” The shifting of congestion in his nose makes the itch reignite before he manages to catch his breath. He watches Oruggio's gaze as his breath wavers, on the edge, until he's finally set free. “ ‘dSZh - eH’dTZh!” thick and so unlike his usual sneezes, they hurt his throat. 

“Bless you.” Qifrey hums. He doesn’t trust his ability to talk. He's sick of this song and dance with Olruggio. Tired of pretending, tired of everything. He's exhausted, aching, and feels trapped in this room. 

“You’ve got a fever.” Oruggio says, startling him out of his fervor. His hands are gripped in the sheets, handkerchief still in hand. He avoids Olruggio’s eyes. “Nothin’ bad, you’re not too warm.” Qifrey sniffles again, pathetically, clears his throat into his shoulder. He’s so foggy-minded. “Okay.” he murmurs. “Thank you, Olruggio.” 

Olruggio doesn’t say anything, for a few minutes. Long enough that Qifrey nearly starts nodding off, lulled to sleep by rhythmic noises of anxiety. His quill never stops its tapping, probably bleeding through the paper and onto his sheets. Neither of them mention it. 

“Can I just take care of you, for once?” Qifrey finally meets his eyes, through his half closed eyes. He looks more ragged than usual, accentuated by the dark shadows of his room. Qifrey wants to ask him when he last got a good night's rest, when his next commissions are due, when the last time he checked up on the girls is. Wants to ask if Richeh ate much dinner, if Tetia is too hyper without enough to do today, if Aggott even looked up from her studies once. He does none of this. 

Instead, he sighs. “Will you take no for an answer?” he tries, to Olruggio's scoff. “Do you ever?” Qifrey can’t help but feel a little guilty at that, sinking back into the bed sheets with flushed cheeks. Olruggio stands, groaning, like he had been sitting there for a while. He shuffles across Qifrey’s room to his desk, full of books and scattered sheets of paper. There’s a bowl on it, and Olruggio takes it before returning to his chair heavily. He reaches out the bowl, full of cool oatmeal, until Qifrey begrudgingly takes it, is slow to release it like he is worried Qifrey will drop it. It lays heavy in his lap. He sets it aside, despite Olruggio's look, and neither of them mention it. 

  Olruggio shuffles around a little more and pulls a few snugstones out of his pocket. He sets them around Qifery’s form in the blanket, and they’re too warm, but he doesn’t have the heart to say anything with Olruggio’s thoughtfulness. He closes his eyes, too tired to keep whatever it is they have going, and lifts a corner of the blanket. “Come in here, then. You look tired.” 

Olruggio gives him a long look, and Qifrey’s worried the fever got to him for a second. But then he stands from his chair, slides into bed without complaint. Their bodies are so close, and wife's aflame. He falls asleep burning. 

••●━━━ 𖤓 ━━━●••

Qifrey feels disoriented when he wakes up. He can’t find anything that could have startled him awake, and he hadn’t had a nightmare. He stares at the dark ceiling for a few moments, trying to get his bearings, until he’s startled by a sudden  “ ‘rSZCHh!”, and the previous hours start to drift back to him. 

“Bless you..” Qifrey murmurs, voice surprisingly present. He must have passed the worst of it, finally. “Are you okay?” 

Olruggio makes a thick, snuffling sound somewhere to his left. The bed is still warm, so he must have just gotten up. “Yeah,” he says, and then it’s quiet for a few moments until the floor creaks with his return. “I didn’t mean to wake ya.” He says, voice more rasped then it usually is when he wakes up, nuzzling back into Qifrey. He falls back asleep quickly, but he tosses and turns uncharacteristically. It eats at Qifrey, keeps him awake. 

It’s likely sometime after sunrise when Olruggio starts to stir again. He never really settled, and at some point Qifrey stopped trying to help him for fear of waking him up, so his limbs are knotted in the quilts. He doesn’t seem to notice, blinking slowly at Qifrey. “Good morning,” he tries, with a smile. Olruggio doesn’t say anything, just buries his head back against Qifrey’s chest and takes a slow, congested breath through his nose. Qifrey’s heart hurts. 

They stay like that for a while. Qifrey doesn’t want to move him, but his nose starts to itch at some point, and despite his fight he ends up jostling him with a sharp movement. “h’TShh-! ‘tSZhih!” 

Olly startles up, probably having been half asleep. Qifrey wants to apologize, but his nose isn’t satisfied, so he holds a placating hand and shields his mouth against his other one as he sneezes once again. Finally, he falls back against the pillow, pushing Olruggio back against his chest with a gentle hand. Olruggio doesn’t say anything for a long while, and when he does speak it's rough and painful sounding. 

“I think we’ll both be stuck in here for awhile,” he says, and there’s nothing saying he’s mad at Qifrey for it but he can’t help but feel so guilty, especially when Olruggio’s so busy. “Somebody’s got to tell the girls.” Qifrey hums, allows himself the pleasure of running one brief hand through Olruggio’s messed up hair. 

“I’ll do it.” He says, without making any move to get up. “I think I may be better off than you are, now.” Olruggio huffs at that. He doesn’t want to move, feeling kind of like Olruggio is a cat that won’t come back if he moves even the slightest bit. But he can hear birds, faintly, and the floor above him is starting to creak with life as his girls start to stir. No matter what he wants, he can’t leave them entirely alone. 

So he gets up, and Olruggio watches him leave with droopy eyes, and he smiles at the girls as they trickle in, passing off his own stuffiness as just a bit of allergies. When he serves their bowls, he finds himself suddenly famished, so he ends up scarfing down a bowl in the kitchen while they eat in the other room. Their quiet chatter is so warm, but the light in the kitchen spills out from the windows. His head aches. He has to bid his girls farewell, instructing them to learn on their own for a second day, and return to his room with an orange and paring knife. 

Olruggio makes no move to sit up from where he’s sprawled out in his absence, so he sits himself at the edge of the bed. “Are they doing alright?” He mumbles into the bedsheets. “Of course,” he replies, choosing not to tease him for his worrying this time. “They’re a bit concerned, though.” Olruggio hums. “Too smart for their own good.” 

Qifrey has to stifle his laugh. “I brought you food,” he says, holding up the orange even though Olruggio can’t see it. Fruit doesn’t count as a meal, really, but Olruggio tends to get upset stomachs when he doesn’t feel well, so he’s hoping it's good enough. Olly groans into the mattress, but he eventually shifts around until he’s sort of sitting up. His face looks pinched, and it isn’t long before he’s muffling a heavy sneeze into his elbow. “ h’rRSZhh-iuh!” 

 “Bless you,” Qifrey says, and Olruggio makes a lazy flapping motion with his free hand before gasping again. “ ‘rRSCHhh’iuh!” 

if he is caught he'll get a little red and excuse himself

snzing in general tends to aggravate his headaches but stifling makes it worse.. but he'd rather die than let people see him snz naturally i think

tends to stifle even when hes alone out of habit, but sometimes they sneak past him. natural sneeze is kind of, like sharp and itchy. "hH'tsch - 'tSCh!"

his sneeze is so soft and unassuming he really doesn't need to hold it in at all

usually blesses others. esp olruggio because he thinks its cute. also makes comments on him like My goodness i've been hearing you all morning ^_^"....

i don't think hes very prone to illness aside from headaches, but i think that he's very good at working through it when he is + usually hides it

hmm.... dander allergy. very mild but he can't put the brushbuddy too close to his face

also very sensitive physically, esp when about to / having a bad headache. sometimes the feeling of his glasses on his nose set him off

Olruggio

natural snz!!! doesn't really get the point of stifling i think and also he is terrible at it

tries to stifle sometimes with clients to seem formal and it just ends up soo much more desperate at the end

harsh + vocal but not overly so. very tired sounding especiallyyy when its spring and hes been doing it all day. kind of like a. "hH - 'rRSHh'uhh!"

sorry im a little rusty.. he gets very drawn out fits that drive him crazy because hes constantly stopping his work to snz and he cant focus

sneezes either into his elbow or shoulder. usually does the thing where he'll like take a full step back to sneeze. if hes alone he still does it out of habit ^_^ cute..

apologizes if he startles qif or the girls but generally doesn't acknowledge it. gets embarrassed when anybody says anything

awful awful pollen allergy. especially to tree pollen. walk with me. tends to hide away during the spring because hes a bit embarrassed so qif will be like oh don't mind him hes just a bit sensitive ^_^ and get smacked upside the head

his allergy sneezes are a bit more frequent and itchy than his general ones, but still spaced out and typically singles. a double or more is rare and a full on fit would leave him pantinggg..

paws at his noise alottt so its very red. gets those wrinkle lines along the bridge.

The tavern was quiet. All the sensible people were holed up at home, already asleep. Jaskier yearned to join them. The thought of his own bed propelled his weary feet forward, walking him straight towards the innkeeper behind the bar.

“We’ll be needing a room for the night.”

The innkeep looked suspiciously towards where Geralt was warming himself by the fire.

“For him?” He cocked a skeptical eyebrow.

Jaskier frowned.

“Yes. I thought that was clear from the ‘we’. As in, he and I.” 

Jaskier was much too tired for this. He was well versed in this particular song-and-dance, far too used to the anti-Witcher sentiment that had driven him out of more than one inn. They ought to go where they were wanted, or at least give the man a talking to. They had just taken care of his town’s necrophage problem, you know. Jaskier gathered himself to make a fuss, but his attention was pulled away from the innkeep by a wracking coughing from the other side of the room- Geralt, still dredging up the swampwater he’d inhaled. 

Tonight, the Witcher didn’t need to hold his bard back from punching the barman, he needed to sleep.

Jaskier sighed, unfastened his purse from his belt, and sat it heavily on the counter. Right now, all he wanted was a room with a fire and a bowl of something warm to eat. And, if his purse permitted, a stiff drink. He couldn’t care less what it would cost, he was going to sleep in a real bed tonight, so help him gods.

The innkeep narrowed his eyes as he quoted the bard a number. 

Jaskier of course knew he was being gauged, but the weather wasn’t quite conducive to comparison shopping, and he hadn’t the energy for haggling. He sighed, fishing around his sopping pockets for a few more coins to meet the hefty price. So much for that drink.

“We’ll take it.”

:::

The short walk up to the single room shouldn’t have been so tiring, but each sluggish step pulled him down as if the swamp was still sucking at his boots. Geralt trudged up behind him, just as exhausted.

The door clicked open to a dreary room. Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to be disappointed at the meagre accommodations. He was overjoyed at the prospect of spending a night off the floor of the marshy forest they'd been trekking through for the past week. Even if the fireplace barely had room to stack a single proper log and the table in the corner was wobbly and the bed was overpriced and understuffed and several inches too short for the two of them to fit in comfortably.

Jaskier dropped his pack to the floor with a contented sigh. He rolled his shoulders and reveled in the weight lifted. For all he complained about the forgone luxuries of traveling light, having only one bag made unpacking the few things not stabled with Roach quick work. He immediately began to strip off his traveling clothes, eager to get into bed and chase away the cold.

Geralt eyed the single bed warily.

“Should probably do something about… this.” He gestured down at his muck-covered clothing. 

Jaskier looked him up and down, then groaned. Damn Witcher. Why did he have to be right?

As much as he appreciated the forethought (he certainly wouldn’t recommend sharing a bed with a Witcher-sized wet dog), Jaskier dreaded the hour a proper bath would put between him and his bed.

Jaskier was ready to protest, but as he looked over at Geralt, shivering even in the warm inn, nose and cheeks an unhealthy wind-whipped pink, he had to agree a bath would do him some good.

He sighed his resignation.

“Get the fire going, and I’ll send for some water.”

:::

Jaskier bathed as quickly as he could. As pleasant as the warmth was, he longed to get out of the water, wrap himself up in a blanket, and finally be dry for the first time since they decided to cut through that wretched bog. The water was still plenty warm when the bard surrendered it to Geralt. 

Geralt eyed the bard warily as he sank into the bath. It wasn’t like Jaskier to rush through his washing. He was usually one to take his sweet time, leaving Geralt to heat another bucket or scrape himself clean in frigid water. Still, the Witcher wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

As Geralt melted into the tub he uttered a sigh that gave way to a heavy cough. 

The sound made the bard’s throat ache sympathetically, and he cooed soothingly as he slid into his nightclothes and made his way to his usual vigil by the head of the bath.

The post-hunt bath had become something of a ceremony over the years, and Jaskier was well-versed in his role. That didn’t stop him from looking longingly at the bed as he lathered his hands and got to work.

Wordlessly, Jaskier began their unspoken routine, carting his fingers gently through the Witcher’s hair, slowly massaging his temples as he started the meticulous work of pulling the mud and grime from his scalp. The hot water would wash away the worst of Geralt’s aches, along with whatever manner of viscera he managed to get doused in. 

Jaskier kneeled beside the tub, compulsively checking him over for injuries he might’ve managed to miss and slowly detangling his hair. The soothing motion of calloused fingertips cradling his head allowed Geralt to let the tension bleed from his taut muscles, and feeling his hands against a very solid, very much alive Witcher was just what Jaskier needed to ground himself after an adventure gone awry. 

Tonight, the aura in the room was fond, but quiet. A late day with too many close calls and a long trudge through a rainy bog was enough to tucker them both out, and there was nothing to discuss that couldn’t be conveyed in their shared language of glances and monosyllabic murmurs.

It would have been perfectly silent if not for Geralt pulling his head away from the bard every few minutes to cough into a fist. Jaskier didn’t like the crackly quality to the fits. He was loath to think what was in that swampwater.

Jaskier’s nose prickled at the thought, reminding him that he’d managed to get knocked into the bog too, though Geralt was the one who’d been pulled under the surface.

The prickle quickly developed into genuine itch, and he barely had time to untangle a hand from the Witcher’s mane before snapping to the side, directing a throaty “Heh-Hurreschchew” into his soap-slick palm.

Geralt winced suddenly, jerking out of Jaskier’s grasp and splashing lukewarm water down the front of his dry nightshirt. Jaskier wiped his hand on the hem. I’d have to be changed again, anyways.

“Geralt?” The worry was heavy in the bard’s voice. Had he missed a wound? Was he pulling too hard on the silvery hair in his hands?

“Wasn’t expecting that.”

That did little to ease the bard’s anxieties. It wasn’t like Geralt to be so skittish. He beheaded a water hag without blinking an eye not three full hours ago. It usually took more than an errant sneeze to get a rise out of him.

“‘S loud.”

Ah. That’s why he was so jumpy tonight.

“Mmm. Head bothering you?”

The Witcher offered an affirmative grunt.

“Why don’t we finish up here and get some food into you, yeah? Then sleep?” 

The Witcher was reluctant to leave the soothing water, but it had gone cool by the time his hair was clean. He might as well get out.

:::

Geralt practically melted into the thin broth the inn sent up to the room for a few more of their quickly-dwindling oren. Jaskier looked over him in the weak light.

The Witcher was shoveling spoonfuls of soup into his mouth mechanically, staring blankly forward, eyes glazed over. He was wincing every time the thunder clapped or the fire popped or he swallowed a piece of meat or potato that wasn’t soft enough. In the firelight, the bard could see that his cheeks were flushed with what he desperately hoped wasn’t the beginnings of a fever. He looked about as miserable as Jaskier felt.

Jaskier would love to leave it for the morning. Really, he would. But if something was really wrong, he’d need to see to it tonight.

He sighed heavily. 

“Exactly how sick are you?”

The Wolf pulled in a breath to insist he was well enough, but instead found himself bent at the waist, hacking violently into his hand. The force and volume of the fit sent a stab of sharp pain though his head, and he bit back a moan. 

That settled that. Jaskier sighed.

“Thought so,” Jaskier tutted sympathetically at his Witcher, pressing a hand to his forehead, trailing it down to his cheek.

“You’re a bit warm, too. Do you have anything you can take? Could I make you some tea?”

Geralt muffled another congested cough into a clenched fist, but shook his head. 

“Just sleep.”

“Then maybe it’s time for some rest?” the bard asked, hopeful. “Here- why don’t you finish the rest of this,” he pushed his only half-empty bowl of broth in front of the Wolf “and I will go make up the bed.”

The Witcher frowned at the barely-touched stew, but before he could coax Jaskier into a few more bites, a soft kiss was pressed to his forehead and the bard pushed away from the table.

:::

Ten excruciatingly long minutes later, and Jaskier was finally ready to climb into bed. Geralt had finished his soup and was stoking the fire when Jaskier came up behind him. The bard took him lightly by the hand and led him to the bed, turning down the covers and slipping the amenable Witcher inside.

Geralt had a sleepy, contented grin on his face as he informed the bard that he was a grown man, and a Witcher at that, and he didn’t need to be tucked into bed.

Jaskier just tutted as he got in bed beside him.

“I’m sure you don’t, my love,” he said as he gently combed his fingers through Geralt’s hair. Jaskier’s light touch against the silvery tresses had nearly lulled his Wolf to sleep in when the bard pulled back with a sudden gasp that startled the sleep from the Witcher’s eyes. 

He tried to snuff out the sneeze, but quickly failed, grinding his nose into the shoulder of his linen shirt to stifle a feathery “Heh-TSCH, ItSCH! TiISH, ITsch, ItSCH! Heh-”

He gasped in a breath at the end of the unsatisfactory fit. “ngh, sorr-ITchsh. Gods. Sorry.”

The itchy outburst was soft enough that it had Geralt’s brow furrowed in concern instead of pain, but the shallow, ticklish sneezes were far from relieving. Jaskier could already feel the prickly feeling starting up again behind his eyes.

“Are you…?”

“Fine. Fine. snff. Just worn out.”

Geralt rolled on his side, tapping the warmed spot next to him.

“Better get some rest, then.”

Jaskier nodded his silent agreement before nestling into the Witcher’s arms. The bard frowned at the congested rumbling of Geralt’s breathing against his back, the gentle vibration wrenching  a ticklish cough loose in the bard’s own chest.

He managed to mostly bite back the fit, but Geralt could feel his shoulders jerking with the effort. The Witcher started to sit up, concerned.

“Jask…” 

“Hush, Geralt. It’s you I’m worried about. Your lungs sound positively awful. You need to sleep.”

Geralt’s sigh was unconvinced, but he settled back down.

:::

The Witcher was out like a light. He obviously needed the rest. Jaskier had no such luck. The on-again-off-again itch in his nose had cemented itself as a constant, faint buzzing, and thick congestion was quickly building at the bridge of his nose.

Jaskier pulled the collar of the soaked chemise he hadn’t managed to change over his nose and blew gently, hoping to shift the congestion enough that he could breathe with his mouth closed. 

The shift in pressure let him breathe, but the first breath of cold air stoked the buzz into a fierce prickle. The bard clasped his hands over the collar to catch the resulting “HehITschew!”

Geralt groaned beside him and mumbled something sleepily.

“Oh! Sorry. Headache. Right. I’ll- uh- keep it quiet, then.” His statement was punctuated by a liquid sniffle, firmly conveying that his nose did not intend to keep it quiet, then.

Geralt hmmed appreciatively and rolled over.

Most nights, the Witcher relegated himself to a few hours of meditation and dedicated the rest of the break to sharpening swords or keeping watch, but after a day of mudrucking and hag slaying, he deserved a proper sleep. Jaskier was not going to ruin it for him.

So, when the niggling itch that had been softly buzzing behind his eyes worked its way to his sinuses, he tried his hardest to squelch the resulting sneeze into oblivion. 

The “Nnhgh-tch” that followed roused the Witcher enough that he sleepily reached across the bed and wrapped his arms around the bard. 

At first Jaskier reveled in the slightly-too-warm embrace, but when the tickle in his nose returned, mounting into an irrepressible itch deep in his sinuses, he suddenly realized he couldn’t move enough in his Witcher’s grasp to bring a hand to his face.

Oh gods. This was not going to work.

“Could I maybe have my arms back?” he whispered. There was no answer. Then, a little louder: “Geralt? Darling? Are you awake?” His answer was a stuffy snore.

The bard sighed and set about extricating himself from the bearhug, but Geralt just growled drowsily and pulled Jaskier closer, ignoring his indignant protests.

“Yes, dear, this is all very nice and all, but I’m…” He cut himself off with a hitching breath as the itch manifested itself. “I’m… heh… I’mgonnasneeze-“ his prediction was immediately confirmed with a wrenching “HehISHschew! Hesch! HurRATCHsch!”.

He tried to pull as far away from the Witcher as possible, but as soon as he could open his eyes, Jaskier was taken aback by the sight curled into the bed beside him. Geralt was panting, calloused hands clapped over his ears, eyes screwed shut. Jaskier’s heart caught in his throat.

“…Geralt?”

He only responded by curling in on himself, wincing further.

“Ooh, dear. See, this is the exact thing I was trying to avoid…” Jaskier tutted in a whisper. “Let’s get you laying back, aye? There we are. Is that better?” Geralt’s tense muscles relaxed minutely as the bard eased him back against the backboard.  

Jaskier could feel the warmth coming off him as he pressed Geralt’s shoulders gently into the pillows. He tsked lightly as he pressed a soft kiss to the Witcher’s forehead, frowning at the steady heat.

“I think your fever has gone up a bit, dear. You need to sleep.”

He did need to sleep. And Jaskier knew that he wouldn’t be able to if he was sharing a bed with a sneezy bard. So when Geralt finally relaxed enough that his steady breath faded into congested snoring, Jaskier eased himself up from the warmth of his Witcher’s side, cast a final longing look towards the bed he desperately wanted to curl up in, and pulled on his boots.

:::

He was already far from warm, but the jaunt from the inn door to the relative shelter of the stable left Jaskier freezing cold and soaked to the bone.

The stable boy had long since locked up shop and headed to bed, and Jaskier reveled in the privacy of the dark stalls, taking the opportunity to violently scrub at his nose away from the prying eyes of worried Witchers. 

The familiar scent of fresh hay and molasses and leather mingling in the air soothed the mind he was now certain was at least a bit fevered.

The stable was quaint, but thankfully fully enclosed. Not many strangers were looking to dock their horses this far off the trade routes, so it was easy to find the stall where Roach was untacked. Jaskier was relieved to see she hadn’t quite settled in for the night yet. At least he wasn’t disturbing her sleep. It’d been a long day on the Path for her, too.

Roach greeted her visitor with a worried nickering and a gentle nudge to his shoulder.

“I’m alright, girl.”

She snorted her dissent.

Jaskier melted onto the dusty floor and curled up in the corner of the stall, letting his heavy head loll backwards onto the wall.

The puff of thick dust and old hay he kicked up was enough to tip his hypersensitive nose over the edge. At least out here, he didn’t have to muffle the exhausted “huh… hurISHchiew” that ensued.

He wished he’d had the foresight to grab a handkerchief from his pack. As it was, he wiped his running nose on his sodden sleeve.

“Gods kill me now,” he whispered, throat too sore to give the Almighty a proper cursing out. Instead, he settled for pulling a spare threadbare saddle blanket around his shaking form and coughing into the shoulder of his rain-drenched chemise.

Sleep did not come easily to the bard. He was too uncomfortable to settle down. The blanket was itchy and rough and too thin to be of much use. The wall of the stable was harder against his back than the straw-padded floor, but if he laid down flat his nose would clog completely and the cold air would burn the back of his throat and set him coughing. It was too cold, and then halfway through the night it was suddenly too warm. Then it was freezing, more so even than the rain had been earlier.

At least he was soothed by the thought of Geralt getting a solid night’s sleep in the relative warmth of their room. It was that warm thought that finally settled him enough to drift off into a dreamless sleep.

:::

With his bright white hair mussed into a tangled halo, a sheathed sword thrown over his bedclothes, and his cat’s eyes scanning wildly, Geralt looked half madman, half monster. Hardly the sight Jaskier expected to wake up to. With the way the Witcher had practically knocked down the stable door, however, staying asleep was not much of an option.

Jaskier sat up groggily, trying to preserve what little dignity a man who’d slept in a pile of hay could. 

“Oh. Hello there. What brings you to these parts?” Jaskier’s voice was scratchy and thick as he feigned nonchalance. Geralt was having none of it.

“Gods Jaskier. What were you thinking? I had to find out where you were from the barkeep! What are you doing out here?”

“Didn’ wanna keep you up. Did you sleep well? Feel better?”

“Did I- Melitele’s fucking tits, Jaskier, did I sleep well?”

Jaskier smiled up at Geralt from his makeshift straw mattress.

“Sound better.”

“You certainly don’t.” He really didn’t. The congestion had settled firmly in his head overnight, dulling his ns and ts, and his throat was roughened. It sounded painful.

“You shouldn’t be out in this. It’s freezing. Come on. Up with you.”

The Witcher pulled his bard to his feet, but the sudden shift left Jaskier reeling. The pressure in his head felt unbearably heavy. He stumbled forward a step before Geralt caught him by the shoulder.

“Jaskier? Are you alright?” His voice was as soft as a Witcher’s could be, the poor attempt at soothing that was usually reserved for calming a spooked Roach. Instead of answering, Jaskier wilted into his grasp, clinging to his side like a drunken limpet. He moved his hand to the back of Jaskier’s neck, frowning at the warmth there. It was damp, too, so either Jaskier had been sweating through this fever for a while, or he’d slept in a soaked shirt. Probably both. 

“Come on. March. We need to get you into a proper bed.”

Jaskier made no attempt to assist Geralt, instead pawing at his chest like a child.

The Witcher sighed, but obliged. He gathered up the bard, wrapping him in the saddle blanket and holding him against his chest, and carried him back towards the inn.