The Consequences of Leaving a Man with Bread in His Pants Waiting (Netflix Witcher, Sick Jaskier, don't neglect you bard PSA)

[fickle_tickle]

Summary: After their separation on the mountain, Geralt thought Jaskier would be better off without him. He was wrong. (AKA Jaskier is sick and Geralt is a very sad and sorry boy) Hey guys! I just had to write something with Geralt and Jaskier from the Witcher. Their dynamic is just *chef’s kiss* and they’re easy on the eyes as well. The djinn episode was so ripe with caretaking potential and it got me addicted to the sickfics that force Geralt to face how much he really cares about poor Jaskier. Sorry there’s not sneezing in this first part but I promise the setup will be worth it. It’s gonna be so angsty guys, get pumped! This picks up after episode where Geralt is a little turd on the mountain, and it actively ignores what really happens in the following episodes. It contains no spoilers and all the love Jaskier deserves.

 

 

The scent was unmistakable. So much so that Geralt scanned the marketplace for a glimpse of obnoxiously bright color with a cursory glance and pricked up his ears to the ambient chatter. If Jaskier was near enough to smell his incessant babbling ought be in earshot. Geralt should, no would hear him. No matter what had changed in the last year or so, surely the bard hadn’t picked up the ability to shut up. No matter. He hadn’t been looking for Jaskier and now was no time to start. Truth be told, now that the man had come to mind, Geralt was surprised they hadn’t crossed paths sooner. They ran into each other far more regularly when they were on what Jaskier considered good terms, but it wouldn’t surprise Geralt if the Bard had more to do with that than he let on. Either he’d gone to the effort to find the witcher before they’d separated on the dragon’s mountain or he was purposely avoiding him now, possibly both. Though Geralt would never admit it, all of these possibilities stung a bit, but it was better for both Jaskier and the hunt this way. Humans weren’t meant to withstand the path. Better get back to what worked best in the first place now than indulge in company and end up alone later anyway after witnessing the bard meet a grisly end. It was good he didn’t hear Jaskier. Now if only he could stop smelling him. The experience was entirely strange, too, as the scent was neither accompanied by its usual notes of chamomile nor masked by the punch of some sickeningly sweet cologne. It was simply the subtle and individual musk of the man himself, pure from even the salt of sweat or the vague bitterness of soap on clean linen. His bedroll had smelled this way for months after the mountain. Geralt had very nearly tossed it on the side of the rode along with the rest of the things Jaskier had left in Roach’s packs, but those things were useless dead weight that just happened to smell of the bard. It would have made no sense to waste blankets. It made no sense that he’d wanted to, so he hadn’t, and he’d thought of the man more often than Yen as a result. He would ignore scent of Jaskier now as he’d learned to then, but it was unexplainably strong, as though the man were standing right beside him. That’s when he sees it. Jaskier would sooner part with his right hand than his lute, yet here it was, stinking of him and hanging over some pawnbroker’s stall in this backwater village.

“Where’d you get this?” Geralt rumbles at the salesman, who raises an eyebrow.

“What’s a witcher want with a lute?” He mutters. Geralt’s intent gaze darkens into a glare. “If it’s information you’re after…” he continues, glancing at Geralt’s coin purse, “My memory’s a bit fuzzy. I’d need some thing to clear it.”

“How about some thing to make it fuzzier?” Geralt leans down and raises a fist. The man attempts to feign annoyance with a sigh, but there’s fear in his eyes.

“I bought it fair and square, mutant.” He spits. “The weeks the fella who pawned it had are up. Bastard’s probably on the streets by now if I had to guess. Said it was the last thing he had to sell had besides the shirt on his back.” Geralt grunts and strides away. Before he leaves the market, he picks up a loaf of bread. Whatever’s happened to Jaskier, he would have been hungry long before he was desperate enough to part with his lute, and he’d have bought it back if he’d recovered enough coin to stay well fed. The baker’s wife tells him where in town the beggars gather to keep warm this time of year, and he heads into the alleys behind the square in search of their camp. He hadn’t even noticed the chill in the air, but now he’s painfully aware of the impending winter. It’s late enough into fall for the nights to be bitter cold. The first vagrant the Geralt comes across tries to scramble away when the witcher turns to him, but Geralt grabs him by the scuff of his collar.

“I’m looking for a bard. Brown hair, blue eyes, answers to Jaskier.” The man keeps his eyes to the cobblestone and swallows hard. Geralt rolls his eyes and shakes him with a light tug of warning.

“I’d not tell the likes of you if I knew.” He strings the words together shakily, keeping his gaze intently on the street below. Geralt growls, beginning to feel an irrational heat crawling up from his chest. He doesn’t have time for this. Someone at the end of the alley sucks in a wet breath, and the witcher locks eyes with a young woman clutching a bundle of rags to her chest. The dirt caked on her face is streaked with the tracks of silent tears. Geralt heaves a heavy sigh and turns the man loose. He’s not angry, not at this poor sap. He’s just feeling…not worried. No, frustrated. That’s it. There’s no need to scare people already struggling to scrape by. The man shifts to situate himself between the witcher and what Geralt assumes to be his wife and child, finally lifting his gaze in tired determination. The witcher frowns, reaches into his satchel, and draws out the bread he bought earlier. He silently breaks the loaf down the center to hand the man the larger half and turns to leave. He’s only taken a few steps when the woman’s voice rings out.

“What do you want with him?” Geralt turns and tilts his head to the side. “The bard?”

“Just to find him. He, he’s a-” Geralt shifts uncomfortably under his clock and swallows, “a friend. I thought he might need…” he shrugs as the sentence dies in his throat. The woman walks further down the alley to stand alongside the man, shifting her sleeping child to rest against her hip. She worries her lip between her teeth.

“He was here, witcher. Good with little ones, he was, tried to be cheerful for ‘em and all. I’d have liked him to stay, but… when folks round here started to think what he had might be catching-”

“He’s ill?!” She nodded solemnly at the interruption.

“Aye. Tis how he ended up here in the first place. Poor Lark couldn’t sing no more… He’ll be in the hills by the forest’s edge. There are plenty caves to shelter in there. During the plague, the sick often went there to- um, heal.” She amends as the Geralt’s eyes widen. Her face softens with genuine sympathy. “There may be time to save him yet, witcher.”

[fickle_tickle]

Jaskier coughs. And coughs. And then, just to spice things up, he coughs. All he can do is cough, really. Oh, and shiver. He’s been curled on the stone floor for hours now, maybe longer, and it’s still cold beneath him. He feels like he’ll never be warm again. Jaskier sniffles and blinks to himself. That’s true actually; he won’t feel warmth again, seeing as he’s come here to die and he’s too far gone to build a fire. He’s too far gone to sit up, even. He wanders vaguely if he should feel scared, but he can’t seem to muster the energy. He probably wouldn’t want to be scared anyway, he muses, it just seems like the proper thing to be. Really, he just feels sad, but now, as things blur around the edges, the aching in his chest and the ache of loneliness have melted together and the hurt fades in and out as his mind wonders away and comes back to itself in dizzy circles. It’s not so bad as yesterday. He thinks he cried, but he can’t quite remember. Dying is quite boring in a way. It’s a good job he only has to do it this once because he really doesn’t have the patience to wait around like this again. Or now, really, but there’s no other choice. If only his life would flash before his eyes like in the stories. Then there’d be something interesting to watch. All the world’s a play…or was that a stage? Either way, he’s a very good actor. And his play would have adventure and action in the bits with Geralt. Geralt…there was something important to do with Geralt. He had to find him. Or had he already? He just has to find him. But all he can do is cough. He’s still coughing, Jaskier realizes. And shivering. ………………………

 

Finding Jaskier proves easier than Geralt was anticipating, which is more of a concern than a mercy. The raspy cough is so persistent that Geralt is able to follow it more quickly than a fresh scent trail. Curled in the fetal position and trembling like a leaf, Jaskier looks so small and frail on the cave floor, somewhere between a child and hollow body. An icy wave of fear crashes over Geralt, something he’s only experienced a handful of times in his extended life, and for a moment he simply stands uselessly. Then he shakes his head, looking a bit like Roach batting at flies, and throws himself into the work of setting out a proper sick bed. Jaskier can’t be moved, not like this.

“Jask.” He deftly wraps the man in blankets as unseeing eyes pass over him. “Jaskier!” The bard blinks dazedly.

“Gr’alt…?”

“That’s it.” He carefully levers Jaskier’s torso to rest against his side, cradling his head like a newborn as it lulls backwards, then spays a warm palm over his back and thumps gently as the coughing becomes more productive. “Hmm.” Once his friend’s finally caught his breath, which seems to have been eased by the new position, Geralt presses his water skin to his lips. “Drink.” He tilts the skin to encourage him a bit, and the coolness of the water seems to break through the fever haze. Jaskier gulps hungrily. “Easy, easy now.” Geralt’s never used such a gentle tone in his life, even to sooth Roach. Not yet ready to jostle his charge again, he pours some of the water over his sleeve and wipes at Jaskier’s brow, slowly patting at the sides of his neck as he sweeps down his hairline to his jaw. Jask’s fringe is crusted with dust and sweat, a nest of cowlicks dotted with bits of leaf litter. Under the swaddle of blankets and bedrolls Geralt’s provided, he’s wearing nothing but a threadbare undershirt. As Geralt tucks the edges of the layers under him, he registers that the other man is barefoot. He thinks back to the pawnbroker’s words. The lute truly must have been the last thing he parted with.

“Damn it, Jaskier. You…you idiot…” Feet were meant to be kept warm, especially in illness. Humans soaked them in hot water when they caught chills, didn’t they? Or was that for something else? Geralt growls. Injuries are one thing, but witchers rarely have run-ins with disease thanks to their enhanced constitutions. “Fuck…Fuck, Jask. What the hell happened to you?” Jaskier eyes have drifted shut, but his breathing is too ragged to indicate sleep. His face crinkles as he wriggles his nose. A bone deep shudder ripples over him.

“Ehh..ttCh!” Geralt frowns and wipes away the dribble with his dry sleeve as Jaskier coughs idly in the aftermath.

“You need a fire.” Silence doesn’t suit Jaskier at all. Perhaps that’s why Geralt feels the need to take on his role of carrying their usual one-sided conversation. Perhaps deep down he hopes Jaskier can hear and will be comforted. Either way, talking comes easier to Geralt when it's more or less to himself. Roach, after all, can be quite the conversationalist. “You always start sneezing when you’re chilled. And you’ve taken ill as well, haven’t you? Blessings, by the way…” Geralt grimaces. He doesn’t at all like the idea of leaving to gather kindling, but it’s simply too cold for someone so sickly and getting colder as the sun lowers in the sky. Sighing, he carefully shifts from under Jaskier and pulls him over to prop up against the cave wall. A thready moan hums in the bard’s throat. “None of that, now, I’m coming back. Roach is here with you. She’ll watch over you.” 

[crazy_cat_girl]

 I am SCREAMING...OMG YES!  I love everything about this!!🖤

[lsbn]

Yessssss this is awesome 😍😍😍

[ellwren]

Love this so much!

[fickle_tickle]

Hi again! Ok, so I wanted to do some flashbacks throughout Geralt’s and Jaskier’s time traveling together so I can play with varying degrees of sickness and different levels of closeness and care. I’m basing this off the Netflix witcher, and according to Google, Jaskier meets Geralt in the bar scene at 18 and travels with him for 24 years before they breakup on the dragon hunt. (Yes, he doesn’t look like he ages. It was a mistake, and there are lots of fan theories to explain why. Personally, I like to think he just aged like Paul Rudd but hey)

 

Geralt grunts as he snaps a branch the thickness of his leg from a felled tree. The dead wood is dry down to its core, something he needs to take full advantage of; he can smell the edge of a sharp nip of ozone on the breeze. On top of everything else, a storm is rolling in. He works to split the tree with his hands as quickly as he can. Witchers do not panic, because panic makes you sloppy, and when you get sloppy you die. Witchers do not consider using their blades as makeshift axes when they’re perfectly capable of braking kindling apart themselves, no matter how long they’ve traveled with an annoying human who won’t stop suggesting they dull sacred weaponry to clear foliage. Witchers (usually) do not need to remind themselves of these self-evident facts. Geralt, being a witcher, is therefore doing none of these things, except the last. He shouldn’t need the reminding, except that he’s not exactly sure what to do with Jaskier once the fire’s been built. It’s been years, maybe decades since he’s felt this familiar rush of adrenaline without the innate knowledge of the best course of action. Prior to today, Geralt was of the opinion that, having extensive training and experience, he was fairly well versed with humans. Now, he realizes that this is only true in the context of combat. In terms of care, he is only clumsily versed with one specific human. The good and bad news is that said human is Jaskier. He knows what illness (and subsequently improvement) looks like in the Bard, but his companion has never been laid so low before. Still, what he’s learned from traveling with Jaskier about the quirks of human frailty is already proving useful. The sneezing for instance….

 

(22 years ago)

“G-Geralt I’m freezing my tits off over here.” Jaskier is trudging a few paces behind Roach, already clutching both sleeping blankets under his chin so they drape over his cloak like an old woman’s shawl, his wind-blushed face poking out the small, round opening in the pile around his head.

“They’re long past their prime anyhow, Babushka.”

“Oh, oh, alright. You’re suddenly funny now, are you? I’d like to see you-heh… you, yahh…” Jaskier stops in his tracks, apparently unable to sneeze and walk at the same time. For a moment, he just stands in the center of the path with his mouth hanging open, squinting and sniffling. Even though there’s no one around to see this open- if not exaggerated- display of vulnerability, Geralt can’t help but feel a bit of second-hand embarrassment just watching. Only Jaskier could squeeze an emotional reaction from a witcher with something as simple as a sneeze. He’s particularly good at that, making Geralt feel before he even has the inclination to try not to. That and nothing else, apparently least of all walking through snow (which would be infinitely less confusing and more useful). Just as Geralt’s about to turn and head forward without him, the bard crumples forward with a soft “T’chuwh!” that dislodges him from his makeshift hood, which bunches around his neck.

“Uggh…Gods help me!” he moans before succumbing to a fit that sounds like something Geralt would expect to hear from a small lap dog but has him shuddering nonetheless. “Heh’tCHU! ECt’ew! Heh..Atch’huh! Tch’EW!” Geralt roles his eyes and nudges Roach back into an easy canter. “No, don’t mind me,” Jaskier mutters as he stumbles to follow while rummaging under his layers for a handkerchief, “I’ll just be back here, catching my death. No need to bless me, or heaven forbid, slow down the tiniest bit, so long as you’re considerate enough to carve my remains out of the ice on your way back down this bloody mountain.”

After a stretch of sniffling, Jaskier starts up again. “Heh..snf..hetch’UH! eCT’UEW! T’CHUhh! ‘Cheh-hiuw!” Once he’s managed a gasping nose blow into the lace handkerchief he’s been sneezing toward rather than into, he looks up to glare at Geralt, who hasn’t bothered to stop a second time. “Really? Not one blessing after all that?”

“You don’t need to be encouraged.” Geralt deadpans.

“En-encouraged!” Jaskier sputters, “It’s not as though I can help it! I’m cold, Geralt. My socks are soaked through and the wind- heh..h’TCHU!” At this, the Witcher raises an eyebrow and glances over his shoulder to give his traveling companion a quick once over. He’s the picture of misery; Geralt can see his shivering from here. Perhaps the bard is worse off than he’d thought, he deliberates as he listens over the wind. Jaskier’s heartbeat is steady, but his breathing is wet and uneven under the incessant chattering of his teeth. “and- and aren’t you worried my soul will leap from my body, or, or something?” he adds lamely between snuffles after recovering from the last expulsion. Geralt huffs exasperatedly at the suggestion before pulling Roach to a full stop to wait for Jaskier to shuffle over as he inspects him with a critical gaze. Jaskier, for his part, puts on a good show of looking pathetic, gazing up with wet eyes and sniffling intermittently as he rubs absently at his nose with a hand mittened in blanket.

“Hmm.” It’s not even snowing, but Jaskier is human. Geralt can’t be sure, but it looks like prolonged exposure to the icy wind along with the wet snow on the ground amount to the same struggle for Jaskier he’d be experiencing in a full on blizzard.

“Ect’kuh! T’chew!”

“Are you ill?” he asks seriously. He knows sneezing doesn’t necessarily mean humans have caught cold, but this seems excessive. Jaskier tilts his head to the side and sniffs thoughtfully, taking stock.

“snff..I-I don’t think so. Not yet, anyways. I always sneeze when I’m chilled. And I am to the bone, Geralt!” He pauses to pout pleadingly, and Geralt continues to meet his eyes, listening for once. “I need a fire. Quite badly, actually. Or it’ll only be downhill from here.”  And so went Geralt’s first lesson in the care of one Jaskier. The man had about melted with relief over the crackling fire, laying his shoes and stockings out to dry on a stone by the flames and stretching his legs to wiggle his numb toes beside them. Wet socks, he had mentioned offhandedly in his ramblings as he tuned his lute to sing an unrequested song about snowflakes, were a surefire way to catch pneumonia, according to mothers everywhere. Geralt was never sure whether this particular caveat ought to be lumped in with the worry of sneezing one’s soul out or not.    

[crazy_cat_girl]

OMG, I JUST LOVE THIS SO MUCH.
You're giving us FLASHBACKS to other SNEEZE TIMES and I just want to take this fic home and marry it, okay??I also love all the discussion about BLESSINGS in this chapter.

I don't often log in to the forum anymore but I saw you updated and I like NEEDED to log in and comment and tell you how awesome this is.

 

[fickle_tickle]

@crazy_cat_girl Aww thanks so much!! I LOVE getting comments, especially super sweet ones like this! I think of ideas to write, but then I don't always go to the effort because I'm like "eh, but who really cares" since I don't show my thirsty writing (which is the best writing I can do for some reason?) to anyone who knows me in real life bc I'm pretty private about being into sneezing. Knowing you are out there enjoying it as much as I would if I hadn't written it myself just makes me so happy! In fact, I'm gonna sit down and write some more of this story because of this comment! 

I'm so happy you're into the flashbacks! I was kinda inspired by the non-linear way the show did the plot. Plus Geralt and Jaskier's relationship is adorable and I stan character developement! So many fics have Geralt being super on top of sick Jaskier situations because he knows potions and first aid, but like... I don't think he can get sick himself (outside of the forum lol) and I like him being unsure of himself better. I've only seen the Netflix version of Geralt, but I feel like most of what he knows about people in an up-close-and-personal kinda way is at least 95% just based off Jaskier alone. (Sorry to fangirl haha!) 

[fickle_tickle]

Jaskier’s eyes don’t track Geralt as he makes quick work of building up the fire. Propped against the cave wall with the tails of his blankets crumpled clumsily behind his head as temporary cushioning, he’s well and truly out of it. Geralt can’t help but feel he shouldn’t have left, even though the impending storm is closing in. Staying put probably wouldn’t have done much in helping the bard cling to lucidity. Geralt growls. He should have thought to try warming the man with body heat. It would have been a temporary fix, sure, but it would have been enough to stabilize Jask a bit before gallivanting off into the woods. Geralt came back to find him coughing limply and staring listlessly out at nothing, the very same nothing Geralt happens to be standing in front of at the present.

“Rest, Jaskier.” Geralt speaks softly, careful to keep urgency from bleeding into his tone. The bard’s already slumped bonelessly, why can’t he just close his eyes? They’re exactly the same shade of cornflower blue they’ve always been, but somehow before it lent them a striking vibrancy, whereas now it seems pale and shallow when they sit without any visible thought behind them. Too close to death, Geralt realizes with the fleeting impulse to simply palm the lids shut with a gentle pass of his hand. No, that’s for corpses, not fevered bodies. Jaskier’s not all here, but Geralt won’t lose him. Can’t lose him.

Once the flames begin to lap hungrily at the dry brush, Geralt scoops up Jaskier in a neat bundle against his chest and carries him further from the entrance of the cave, where the wind has picked up along with the rumble of thunder in the distance. Gods, he weighs almost nothing. How long has he gone without a good meal? Geralt sits with Jaskier all but in his lap, gradually beginning to situate him to take on some of his own weight. Before he finishes shuffling him, Jask perks up enough to weakly nuzzle closer, pressing his face just below Geralt’s collar.

“Hmmm.” Geralt braces him with his arm and fusses with the jostled blankets. “Jask? Jask, wake up,” There’s a long silence, save for the crackled straining of Jaskier’s lungs. “…please.” There has to be something more he can do. When was the last time he remembers Jaskier having a fever? A cough? He racks his brain, shuffling through the clearest memories of the last few years.

 

2 years ago:

“Dandelions are my favorites.” The bard smiles dreamily over an open field spotted with yellow and white.

“They’re weeds, Jaskier.” Geralt mutters irritably. Jask scoffs.

“What kind of weed grows wishes?” he plucks a particularly long stemmed ball of fluff from the roadside and blows. Geralt sighs heavily through his nose and glowers. “Why do plants have to be rare and delicate to be proper flowers?” Jaskier continues on without batting an eye. “These are as much a part of the land as the views people hike to see. They belong here. Have you ever noticed, Geralt, how seashells shine like glass by the ocean?” The question must be rhetorical because he plows on without so much as a breath, despite the infamous ‘scary face’ Geralt is sporting. “But then, once they’ve sat around inside in decorative bowls long enough, the oranges dull into browns and the purples fade. Everything needs to belong somewhere.” At this point, he turns to face his beaming optimism at Geralt instead of the horizon. “They’re common because they’re tough. Survivors. Where there’s one, soon there’s many, and so they belong anywhere they go. That’s the trick of never being alone. Home can be everywhere.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. Jaskier’s especially hard to stand when he waxes poetic. Fucking metaphors. A weed is a weed, a monster is a monster, math is math! Not that it will do any good to say as much; sometimes it’s like Jaskier’s from another world altogether. He’s staring intently at Geralt, the blissful smile that broke across his face at the sight of the dandelion field still ghosting his expression in the quirk of his lips.

“What makes them weeds, really? Whatever people think of them, call them?” His voice has softened from its air of announcement to a contemplative hum. “What do they know?” “Hm.” Geralt spares Jaskier a glance from his perch atop Roach as something clicks into place. He’d never for the life of him understood why any human would willingly follow a mutant monster slayer. He’d figured Jaskier was just an idiot. But he wasn’t. He was the very odd, extraordinary sort of man whose favorite flower was a weed and whose best friend was a Witcher.

 

The unbidden memory brings a fresh pang of guilt. There’s something important just under the surface of it, though. Something to do with dandelions…

 

14 years ago:

There are biological rules that apply to humans as a whole: if you cut a man, he bleeds red. Almost as certain are the rules that apply to only to Jaskier: if not properly bundled up in the cold, he sneezes incessantly. Geralt would be inclined to think he was the only person alive with this particular quirk, if not for the fact that it turns up in the warnings of old wives’ tales and the karmic plot points of fables. That’s congruent, he supposes, because Jaskier is more like a fairytale character than any one else he’s ever met. Or maybe fairytales are more like Jaskier because he’s usually the one telling them. It doesn’t matter.

“ect’SHUuuh! T’Cheh!...snfffff…”

“Bless you,” Geralt grumbles in a manner that really says ‘shut up.’ He learned a few miles back, a few years back really, that he prefers blessing Jaskier occasionally over listening to him attempt to drudge up sympathy with wining. The bard sniffs and scrubs tiredly at his nose.

“Err, Geralt?” Geralt ignores him. Jaskier clears his throat and tries again. “Geralt, could we maybe stop soon?”

“We’re making poor time as it is,” the Witcher glares. “If you’d keep up you wouldn’t be so cold anyhow. No more stops.” If he were in a better mood, he’d hand over his cloak. He doesn’t need it; it’s early spring. A bit chilly, sure, but still spring. He knows the sneezes are involuntary, but they’re ridiculous and grating. And lagging behind to pick wildflowers (of all the imbecilic things) is totally within Jaskier’s control.

“hehhhh….snf…He’Kieck!” He pinches his nose as he pitches forward in an attempt to choke the sound, a clear sign he’s picked up on Geralt’s sour mood. The stifle backfires into a small spate of coughing. “…snff..Oh, pardon. Just a teeny tiny little rest? Please?”  

“You’ll have plenty of time to rest in Daevon when we get there. Preferably before nightfall.” Geralt growls before signaling Roach to trot ahead with a gentle tap. The remaining hours of the trip are notably lacking in chatter and singing. Jaskier doesn’t adjust his pace to fill the distance between them, which gradually widens as he slows the last few miles. Geralt thinks if this is his way of pouting, it’s achieved to opposite of its intended effect, even if it does have him glancing over his shoulder more than he’d like to admit. After turning to find the bard in the midst of a stifled round of sneezes, he stops exactly once to allow his traveling companion to catch-up and uses the opportunity to toss over his cloak. He should have given it to Jaskier earlier, really. Geralt was expecting to be barraged with not-so-subtly passive aggressive complaints from a prickly, indignant Jask, but once the man saddles up to him again he simply looks drained. He really is just tired, Geralt realizes when he falls back into a slower pace to straggle behind again. When they reach town, he heads straight into the inn rather than tagging along to chat with the sable hands while Geralt tends to Roach. The Witcher finds him slouched at the bar when he heads in himself.

“You have our coin.” Jaskier says mildly as the innkeeper walks over.

“Two ales.” He tells her. Jask looks like he could use a drink.

“Just the one, actually.” He gives a thin smile at Geralt’s raised brow. Jaskier isn’t one to turn down alcohol.

“You sure, love?” asks the innkeeper. She’s a plump woman with braid just the right length and thickness to look like a plaited loaf of bread. “They’d be on the house. I’ll give you as many as you’d like for as long as you sing. Not many bards with a Witcher in tow…you are the one with all the songs and the tales, aren’t you? I do love the one about the silver devil and the elves, so catchy!” Jaskier should light up and spring back to life at this, but he merely gives a warm smile and shakes his head.

“I’m afraid I’ve a bit of a cold in my head at the moment. I wouldn’t wish my singing on anyone right now.” Geralt blinks. He could kick himself right now.

“Oh dear, alright then,” She turns to fix Geralt’s mug. “You’ll be wanting a room as well, yes?” Geralt nods. “Only ones left had one bed, I’m afraid.”

“Hmm.”

“ect’TISHUO!” Jaskier sneezes rather suddenly and loudly into his hands, which he keeps tightly clasped over his face as he sniffles afterward.

“Blessings!” the innkeeper clucks her tongue.

“Ugh..right, good. Thanks. So sorry.” He mutters, turning away to dig through he pockets for his handkerchief. Geralt’s not entirely sure how he’s missed this. How long has he been ill? When was the last time he sang something? Yes, there was the sneezing, but Jaskier always sneezes when he’s chilled. Is it even cold enough for that, though? Hopefully that flush is embarrassment and not the beginnings of a fever. Jask is entirely two different kinds of sick in public and private. Geralt’s of the firm opinion that any sane person should want to be left the hell alone when he’s feeling like shit, but even then Jaskier seems terribly afraid to give strangers a reason not to want to be around him.

“Got ahead,” Geralt hands Jaskier the key and gives him a hesitant little pat on the shoulder, “You look…tired.”

“Gee, thanks,” He grumbles, but putters away to the room without argument. Geralt’s not particularly worried; Jask has had his share of head colds over the years. He just finds the fact that he didn’t notice…disconcerting. With his Witcher senses, he could hear the slight changes in the man’s breathing pattern, the stuffy sniveling and shuffling during the night. There’d been all the signs, but Geralt had just kept pushing him. Maybe he needs to pay Jaskier more attention. When Geralt enters their room, there’s a fire crackling in the hearth, and Jaskier is conked out on top of the sheets with his boots still on. His nose has run onto his lip and the blush Geralt noticed earlier still paints his cheeks. Geralt shakes his head fondly, gently testing his brow with the backs of his fingers. A bit warm, but nothing to fuss over.

“Heh? Uhh..do I pass?” voice rough with sleep, he doesn’t bother to open his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” Geralt frowns.

“Hmmm, good, right…Geralt, would you be a dear and put the kettle on?”

“…”

“No, no really…I-” Jaskier coughs dryly and clears his throat, sitting up on his elbow, “I was meaning to make tea. Got the fire-” He gives a vague, uncoordinated gesture in the general direction of the hearth, “and there’s dandelion root drying in my bag.” Geralt supposes he could make tea, just this once. Gods, he’s going soft.

“Is that what you were picking by the road? You already have all that chamomile.”

“Chamomile,” Jaskier says matter-of-factily around a snuffled yawn, “is for singing. Dandi- snf…ugh..” Jaskier waves his free hand frantically like he can bat the oncoming sneeze out of the air. “ehhh…ehhShuh! ShoUU!...Uhh, oh sod it all! Just put in the chamomile as well. Maybe, maybe a touch of honey, if they’ve got any in the kitchen?”  

“Anything else?” Geralt grinds out with dry sarcasm.

“Erm, ugh… a new head. Do they do decapitations here?” He flops back down and drapes his arm over his eyes. “A hot bath, soup… a back rub?” He peeks out from behind his arm hopefully.

“No.” Now that Jaskier has finished inexplicably pushing through, he’s settling into the usual song and dance of his seasonal colds. Geralt should have never agreed to make tea.  

[MyOwnPrivateSFC]

Aw! I love this so much!

[ellwren]

On 5/18/2021 at 3:19 AM, fickle_tickle said:

Jaskier should light up and spring back to life at this, but he merely gives a warm smile and shakes his head.

“I’m afraid I’ve a bit of a cold in my head at the moment. I wouldn’t wish my singing on anyone right now.” Geralt blinks. He could kick himself right now.

“Oh dear, alright then,” She turns to fix Geralt’s mug. “You’ll be wanting a room as well, yes?” Geralt nods. “Only ones left had one bed, I’m afraid.”

“Hmm.”

“ect’TISHUO!” Jaskier sneezes rather suddenly and loudly into his hands, which he keeps tightly clasped over his face as he sniffles afterward.

“Blessings!” the innkeeper clucks her tongue.

“Ugh..right, good. Thanks. So sorry.” He mutters, turning away to dig through he pockets for his handkerchief. Geralt’s not entirely sure how he’s missed this. How long has he been ill? When was the last time he sang something? Yes, there was the sneezing, but Jaskier always sneezes when he’s chilled. Is it even cold enough for that, though? Hopefully that flush is embarrassment and not the beginnings of a fever. Jask is entirely two different kinds of sick in public and private. Geralt’s of the firm opinion that any sane person should want to be left the hell alone when he’s feeling like shit, but even then Jaskier seems terribly afraid to give strangers a reason not to want to be around him.

“Got ahead,” Geralt hands Jaskier the key and gives him a hesitant little pat on the shoulder, “You look…tired.”

 

This is just so soft and lovely. I could read hundreds of pages of this.

[crazy_cat_girl]

Oh MY GOD this update is AMAZING!

UM, this is probably my most favorite Witcher fic ever? ❤️ I've read this chapter now like 18 times.  Geralt not knowing Jaskier is sick and accidentally pushing him too hard is probably my favorite scenario of all time.  The guilt when he finally catches on.  AH!  So good!

I totally agree with you in your head cannon that Geralt has no real idea what to do about human illnesses and I love the idea that he has gathered all this information solely by interacting with Jaskier over the years.  He's basically a Jaskier expert.  Jaskpert.  I love it.

 

[fickle_tickle]

Thank you all so much for your wonderful and sweet comments! I am once again motivated to write more! Sorry it took so long, I have a lot going on with work deadlines right now. Also, I am sorry there's not as much sneezing in this part. It's super soft though, and I promise the next part will have more (as you'll probably expect after finishing this chapter)! 

 

“Pity…” if not for his Witcher’s hearing, Geralt would have missed it, the word little more than a croaked whisper over the pounding of the heavy rain. He’s been holding Jaskier for the better part of an hour now, having found an awkward sort of sitting hug the best position for his breathing after pounding him on the back in the throws of a nasty coughing fit. Jask is draped over his shoulder like a wet rag, his head resting limply on the Witcher’s back with his neck fitted into the groove of Geralt’s broad shoulder. He can feel the beat of his heart against his chest and hear every shallow breath by his ear.

“Jaskier?” He rushes to adjust his as quickly as he can while still being gentle. Glassy blue eyes lock onto amber ones and the bard’s chapped lips split into a drunken smile. “What? What? Talk to me, Jask!”

“I…I-” and words brake into a shallow cough, and Geralt rubs his friend’s back idly with the hand supporting him.

“In your own time…just breath. There, that’s it.”

“I’d have found him, if you were…” He speaks with a husk of the voice Geralt knows.

“If I were…?” Geralt gives him the tiniest shake as he shuffles Jaskier to sit at a straighter angle.

“Geralt.”

“Yes?” Jaskier shakes his head ruefully and closes his eyes. “Stay with me, Jask. You need to drink more water.”

“If you were him…not, not ‘hello’” Jaskier enunciates the last word as if he’s talking to someone especially slow. Geralt frowns and presses the edge of the water skin to Jaskier’s lips. He’s clearly delirious. The brunette takes a long drag and clears his throat. “You look…just right. Lovely really. Just lovely.”

“Hm.” Geralt nudges him encouragingly with the water skin again, but this time Jaskier blinks slowly and turns his head.

“Oh, that’s exactly right, too. But, you see, he doesn’t touch so much,” he rattles on muzzily, “Probably…probably talks more… than touches. And, and…he doesn’t. Talk much, that is. So… you aren’t. Just can’t be…him, be Geralt.” Geralt’s eyes widen in recognition. To his dismay, Jaskier’s lips begin to quiver. “Don’t, please.”

“I- I won’t.” Despite having no idea what he’s agreeing to, Geralt truly means it. Jask is more cognizant than he originally presumed; definitely confused, but forming coherent thoughts. He’s just not…communicating them very well, which is so out of character it’s almost more worrisome than spouting mere nonsense. Jaskier sighs and relaxes, seemingly spent from the brief exchange.

“Good. Good, thank you. You’re the best I could hope for now. I’d hate to, really. Was always afraid to die alone, you see. So I thought, I said, I wanted…I…with Geralt there. And you’re close. Close enough.” Geralt pulls Jaskier’s face to his chest.

“I’m here, Jask. I’m here.” Jaskier had always been afraid of being left behind. Geralt feels awful about it now, but it’s a fact that he’s used to his advantage over the years. Poor Jaskier would always walk further, quiet sooner, get up faster at the words ‘then I’ll go on with out you’.

 

23 years ago:

“Then I’ll go on without you. There’s still at least one more Barghest to deal with, packs are never so small.”

“Well you can’t just-” Jaskier sputters.

“YOU should have stayed in the village, like I told you.” Jaskier flinches and looks away.

“I was only trying to help.” He tells the ground quietly.

“You always are, and you never do!” Geralt yells. A long silence follows as Jaskier wavers back and forth, wringing his hands. Geralt sighs.

“I’ll… meet you the next town over.” His voice has softened. He rubs tiredly at the back of his neck. “Shouldn’t be more than three days, give or take. Find us an inn, make some coin. You…do help with that.” Jaskier splits a wide, understanding grin like he’s just received a heartfelt apology. In a way, he has.

“Right. Sounds like a plan. I’ll be sure you’re met with good graces. You’ll be wrung out by then, I expect, looking like you do now with a dog or so to go.”

“Jask,” he growls warningly.

“Alright, alright! I get it, you’ve got a stick up your ass and you’re on the clock. I’m going, I’m going.” Geralt considers shouting out a warning not to straggle, that Jaskier needs to be in town before nightfall if he wants to be sure he doesn’t find the hellhound before Geralt does, but Geralt is not a worried mother. He’s not about to sound like one.

The hunt goes as smoothly as Geralt could have hoped for. The last Barghest turns out to be a straggler, not the alpha, and he isn’t stiffed on the payment. He sets out to the next town sooner than expected, opting to travel overnight rather than set up camp. He’d never admit it, but he’s actually looking forward to whatever Jask’s got waiting for him. A soft bed, maybe a bath…by now the bard will have figured out the best tavern in town as well. Just after the sun pokes its head over the horizon, he comes across the town graveyard. The gravedigger is knee deep in the earth, wiping sweat from his brow ever though the midday heat he’s woken so early to avoid is hours away.

“Lot of holes.”  Geralt observes gruffly from his perch atop Roach.

“No monsters to fight here, Witcher,” the man replies, “unless those swords can cut down a plague.” Geralt raises an eyebrow. “It’s a fever that’s put these poor saps in the ground. I’d turn at the next fork in the road, head toward Redania, if I was you. Nothing for you here.” Geralt wishes that was true. As he continues forward, he begins to wonder just how plague-infested the town truly is. He normally wouldn’t spare such a thing much thought, but he has Jaskier to consider now. Jask, who is drawn to crowds like a moth to flame; Jask, who caught a chill last winter from stepping in a puddle. Geralt frowns, deciding to forgo the bed, bath, and beer. Best get in, find Jaskier, and get the hell out.

When he reaches town, Geralt checks the mostly empty inn first, hoping Jaskier’s been smart enough to hole up there. No such luck. He decides to stock up on supplies and wait for Jask to make his way back. After all, the man’s in no immediate danger. The trip into town may as well be good for something.  Before he’s bought anything other than some dried meat, he spots Jaskier sitting cross-legged on the cobblestone of the market square, surrounded by a ring of grubby children. He’s in the midst of a story, his hands fluttering about to strike theatric poses, tracking the moments of clawed opponents coming from all directions. A girl who looks to be around 8 hangs on his every word, bouncing her legs excitedly as he appears to reach a climax and gasping as he mimes a quick uppercut and draws an invisible sword from his back. Geralt notices she has a dandelion tucked crookedly behind each ear, matching a clumsily strung crown Jaskier wears himself. With his sharp hearing, he’s able to listen in long before he’s within clear sight to the group.

“-and the beast from hell lunged from the from the rocks above, foaming at the mouth with fire in it’s throat. Its head hit the ground before its body; for the Witcher sliced it clean off with one mighty blow of his shining silver sword. Its great jaws hit the ground with the sound of a stone twice the size of it entire head,” Jask holds his hands ridiculously far apart to show the size, “It nearly struck me! And its bloody tongue splat out and spread over the ground like a gob of spit in a platoon. A single drop from its mouth burned the leather from my shoe!!” Jaskier holds up his foot and gestures animatedly to a scuff he’d gotten tripping over his own feet on the way out of a pub. As Geralt approaches Jaskier from behind, the children’s faces take on a look of wonder. He’s never seen humans so small show much besides fear. A boy with a dirt streaked face drops the sleeve he’d been wiping against his sticky nose to stare slack-jawed. “Ohhhh yes, you lot like that, do you? I’ve not even gotten to the good bit! Those of you with socks, hang on to them!”

“Jask,” Geralt rumbles.

“AH!” Jaskier grasps at his heart dramatically. The children laugh in delight. “Geralt, don’t startle me like that!” Jaskier scolds in a voice that projects far too deliberately to be truly aimed at Geralt, eliciting more giggling. “Petite ladies and small gentlemen, Geralt of Rivia!!” Jask scrambles to his feet and gestures gracefully with both arms as though he’s standing before an elegant court.

“We’re leaving. Now.” Geralt scruffs Jaskier’s doublet and drags him away, pointedly ignoring the bard as he raises his hand conspiratorially to his lips and mouths ‘grumpy’ to his audience as he stumbles backward.

“I know, I know, you hate getting dragged in to play theater, but in my defense you plucked right over,” still on the high of a good performance, he launches into conversation before Geralt can get a word in edgewise, “And did you see them?? They looked like King Arthur had come round from Camelot! You’re a proper storybook hero, Geralt! They’ll remember it as long as they-”

“Get whatever you’ve got in the inn and meet me outside the stables.”

“Huh?” Jaskier pauses in brushing off the back of his trousers.

“We’re leaving.” Geralt repeats irritatedly.

“Town?? Oh, come on Geralt! I know children don’t have any coin, but they’re the perfect audience. I promised you good will too, after all. Besides, they’re the sons and daughters of common folk; they’ve never been read a story in their lives! Can you imagine? Well, I suppose you can, but I, for one-”

“There’s plague here, Jaskier.” Geralt cuts him off flatly.

“Oh. Oh dear, um…what’s, what’s going around?” Jaskier draws closer to Geralt and glances about nervously as though he’ll be able to see it floating through the air.

“Fever.”

“Right. Good…Better than bubonic, I suppose.”

“Hmm.”

“How many…I mean to say, um, is anyone…well, you know.” Jaskier fiddles with his lute strap and tilts his head sharply to the side.

“Dead?”

“Yep.” Jask nods and gives the crowd another conspicuous glance.

“Hm.”

“Good Gods, that many? Let’s get lost! I’m not exactly in the mood to…t-heh..h’tCHOO!!” The sneeze takes Jaskier by surprise, scarcely giving him the time to turn his head. Geralt and the townsfolk nearby pause and look over. Rather suddenly, there’s a wide berth around the pair. Jask blushes fervently all the way to his ears.

“Pardon. Rather dusty, isn’t it?” Geralt quirks an eyebrow. “I- I think my allergies are acting up.” He adds a bit too loudly. Jask doesn’t have any summer allergies to speak of.

“They are terrible this time of year.” Geralt agrees.

[fickle_tickle]

Oof, a slight correction! I meant it's been 23 years of knowing Jask, not 23 years ago! That would put this bit like 2 years into the time they've known eachother, and I meant to write it as the most recent event of the fashbacks so far! It'd be a little over a year (like a few months before the fight on the mountain). Dang, I hate there's no way to go back and edit for stuff like this and all the typos. 🤷‍♀️

[MyOwnPrivateSFC]

I continue to love this!

Also, I can’t speak to whether of not they have time, but the mods can edit posts, and often will when there’s a compelling reason to (for example, a mistake that messes up a timeline, as opposed to a random typo). So you could try asking and tagging one of them, or using the Contact Us! button.

[crazy_cat_girl]

I love everything about this and I have re-read it about six times already.

Jaskier not recognizing Geralt because he is being too KIND to him, arghhh, tear my heart out!  I love love love it.

[ellwren]

Oh, no, cliffhanger!

[JustASneeze]

I love all of this!