Chapter Text
Jaskier can’t tell something’s wrong with the first sip. Nor the second. In fact, it isn’t until the bard drains the entire tankard of ale that he figures out that not everything is as it should be.
The alcohol pools in his stomach, sending a twinge of pain shooting through his innards. It almost makes him pause in his performance, but he shoots a smile at the crowd and keeps on strumming his lute. By the time he’s finishes singing one of his more bawdy songs— his newest rendition of the Fishmonger’s Daughter— he feels light-headed.
He decides to call it quits there.
“And with that, I shall say, good night!” He finishes with an extravagant bow. “You’ve been a beautiful audience. Thank you!”
The crowd applauses, although a few groan that he’s finishing the night young. It’s no matter to Jaskier though. He’s played plenty long enough to earn a room for the night. Maybe even for a free breakfast in the morning, if he’s examining the thankful expression the innkeeper is shooting him right.
He gathers his coin and meets Geralt in the corner— brooding and menacing just as the witcher always is.
“Well that went about as well as one can expect,” Jaskier says, sitting across from his companion. Something in his stomach does flips at the sudden movement. His face must have shown it too as Geralt raises a lone eyebrow at him. “Ah, I’m alright. Drank one tankard too fast, and let me tell you, it does not agree with my stomach.”
“Hmm,” Geralt grunts nonplussed.
The two have been traveling long enough together now, Jaskier knows the witcher trusts him to say something if he’s feeling unwell. Which he would! But it’s nothing really, just a weird drink. Probably didn’t ferment right— or sat around in a barrel too long. “Ready to go up?”
The witcher nods and the two head upstairs. As Jaskier reaches the last step though his vision swarms. Everything turns sideways. He stumbles to the side, reaching out, and placing a hand against the wall to steady himself. Then the world turns back upright and the risk of falling passes. Jaskier jumps as a large calloused hand appears on his shoulder.
Geralt’s words are short and laced with what Jaskier likes to pretend is concern. “What’s wrong?”
Jaskier places a hand on his stomach and waits a second for an abrupt wave of nausea to abate. “Must have stood up too fast.” He murmurs and the white-haired witcher’s eyebrows pinch together. He looks disbelieving at Jaskier then shrugs.
The touch on his shoulder leaves and Jaskier immediately misses it. Geralt is a miser when it comes to gifting small-touches. He deals out physical contact like he's playing a gwent game and trying to hoard all his best cards for the last possible moment.
He tries not to let the loss bother him.
Quietly, they make it to their room with no other problems, and by the time Jaskier gets undressed and ready for bed the entire ordeal is already being forgotten.
It was probably just one bad drink.
He’s sure it’ll be fine in the morning.
It is not fine in the morning.
Jaskier grits his teeth as his skin shivers while he buttons up his doublet. He was so sure that whatever ailment was besotting him would have been over with a good night’s rest. Apparently, that isn’t the case. It’s very much not over. In fact, his breathing is even more labored than it was before. And, every time he moves, an invisible hand tightly grasps on his stomach.
It’s not ideal. But he’s walked alongside the witcher in worse conditions.
He’s sure it’s fine.
Jaskier ignores the burning stare aimed at the back of his head as grabs his lute from the table. He turns and meet Geralt questioning look. “What? Can’t a man dress in peace?”
“You’re pale.” It’s an acute observation, one that despite the circumstances, makes Jaskier feel a little happy inside. He is never quite sure just how much attention the witcher pays him, but it warms his heart thinking that he is— in fact— paying attention to the bard.
“I’m fine. Really. As pickled as a plum.” Jaskier notes with a grin. “I’m not as young as I used to be though! Definitely can feel the drinks from last night. That’s the price of getting old.”
The stare drops as Geralt rolls his eyes and finishes packing up his things. He heads straight for the door leaving Jaskier scrambling behind.
“He-” Jaskier almost runs into the closing door. “Hey Geralt! Don’t just leave me!”
They both get outside, and the sun burns the edges of Jaskier’s vision. It's too bright. Has it always been this sunny in the eastern part of the country? He squints as he tracks Geralt’s moves towards the stable. The world swirls around him as he follows his friend.
“What’s the rush?” Jaskier asks. He ignores the desire to clutch his stomach.
“If you’re good enough to prattle, you’re good enough to start walking.” Geralt says as he opens Roach’s padlock. The witcher takes a sweet moment to simply brush the horse on her nose and run his fingers through her mane. Then he begins to saddle her.
“Didn’t you want to stop and eat breakfast? It isn’t like we don’t have the coin. Not to brag— okay maybe to brag a bit— but I did fairly well last night with my performance.”
Geralt shooks him a look, and doesn’t cease in his movements to saddle Roach. “The sooner we get to Dorian, the more time I have to track down a contract.”
“You’re right. Of course. But now ?”
“Yes, Jaskier, now .” And that is all he says before he mounts Roach in one swift moment, and motions her into a trot.
Jaskier fidgets, his stomach still swirling in his abdomen, before he quietly whispers, “Fuck it,” and follows his witcher.
The road to Dorian is long, and whatever random sickness Jaskier’s contracted is even worse out in the elements than it was at the inn. The wind is cold against his skin, the constant motion makes his stomach cramp, and only an hour into the journey he feels his legs scream in protest at walking. He tries not to let it ruin his mood though, picking at his lute, and humming song ideas as they pop into his head. One thing Geralt hates more than Jaskier’s constant noise is him slowing them down, so he tries his best not to complain as much as he usually does.
And, for all his earlier rush, Geralt isn’t in the worst mood. He hums and grunts at the appropriate time when Jaskier asks questions, and doesn’t even speed ahead when Jaskier starts singing.
It’s a good day despite feeling ill.
However, by the time midday rolls around, Jaskier is out of breath and lagging behind. He stops in the middle of the road, bending his spine and grabbing his knees as he tries to breathe. Sullenly, he watches with a wheeze as his travel companion rides away from him. And Geralt seems almost relaxed. In a way Jaskier doesn’t see often.
For a second a thought enters his mind not to say anything— simply watching his friend leave him behind. He could make do, lay low for a little while, lick his wounds, and head out to another town. It isn’t as if the two never split ways. They often did. For months at a time before meeting back up somewhere further down the Path.
However, the thought leaves just as fast as it comes, as Geralt slows down further up the road and turns around. He sees the man roll his yellow eyes and trot back for him.
“For a second I thought you were just going to keep riding,” The bard’s words come out short of a wheeze.
“Crossed my mind,” Geralt grunts.
“And you came back? Always knew you cared,” Jaskier teases.
“Don’t get too ahead of yourself. I can still get back on Roach and ride ahead.”
“But you wouldn’t— wait no Geralt— stop— I was only joking!” Jaskier quickly rushes over as Geralt moves to get back on Roach. “It’s just a joke. Now come on— don’t you want to rest? Have some a lunch?”
The witcher’s lips twerk upwards for a second. To a regular stranger it might have seemed like a grimace, but Jaskier has been on the Path with Geralt for years now. For the witcher— the move is practically the equivalent to a smirk. “You’re lucky Roach needs rest too.”
It’s a lie.
Roach is perfectly fine carrying Geralt almost all day long.
But Jaskier doesn’t refute it and instead falls into the easy motions of grabbing their packs and retrieving rations for lunch as Geralt unsaddles Roach. The two share some dried jerky and bread underneath the shade of an old oak tree, lapsing into an easy companionship. Jaskier mostly talks about what he plans to get at the next town and Geralt occasionally chimes in with things he needs as well— leather for his armor, potion ingredients, etc.
It’s nice and over far too quickly.
By the time an hour rolls around— a generous break according to Geralt’s standards— Jaskier’s stomach rolls with the idea of moving again. He grumbles as he stands to his feet, and almost immediately vomits. He stops and rests his hand against the tree. Taking a deep breath, he leans his forehead against the trunk and inwardly counts to ten.
His stomach twists inside his gut again.
Throwing himself to his knees, he barely makes it in time to heave into a bush. His stomach turns itself inside out. His throat burns from the acid. Everything inside of him violently thrashes against itself.
After he’s done, he spits up a long string of mucus. A moan leaves his mouth as his begins to tremble. He sits there for a few seconds, body shaking like a leaf, with his knees against the ground.
Blearily he looks up and immediately regrets it.
Geralt looks furious.
“I knew it.” A scowling frown spread across the witcher’s lips. “ You’re sick.”
“S-Sorry?” Jaskier gasps, still shaking.
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” And despite knowing that Geralt wasn’t angry, Jaskier still shrinks back a little. Something softens in Geralt’s eyes then. “We could have stayed a little longer at the inn.”
“You said you wanted to hurry-“ A vicious cough rips itself from Jaskier’s throat, and he doubles over again. However, this time, he thankfully doesn’t throw up. A large hand cautiously begins to rub small circles on his back as Jaskier chokes on nothing.
“Jaskier.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re an idiot.”
Jaskier wheezily gives a laugh that devolves into a series of coughs. Geralt continues to rub circles on his back as he tries to learn how to breathe again.
“You probably shouldn’t do that.” Geralt warns.
“Wh-what? Laugh?” Jaskier asks with a faux smile. He expects it to be a joke, or for the witcher to answer with something else, but instead Geralt nods sharply. “I can’t really help that Ger-”
And another wave of nausea washes over him. He doesn’t puke. There’s nothing left in his stomach, but he’s still gagging nothing into the air. He gets caught up in the rolling of his intestines— the remaining stomach acid rebelling against him.
There’s a sound of a cap unscrewing, and then Jaskier’s water skin is being held in front of him.
“Sip some and then spit it out. For the taste.”
Obediently Jaskier does exactly that. The water is cool and fresh in his mouth. He already feels better without the taste of acid coating his tongue. He takes another sip, a droplet running down the edge of his lips and along his throat. In the corner of his eye, he spots Geralt’s eyes following the water as it disappears into his shirt.
As soon as he stops drinking, Geralt gets up and starts to walk away.
Wait. What?
For a second, Jaskier’s heart speeds up as Geralt walks towards Roach. He can’t help but think this is the moment. This is where I’m being left.
But instead of ditching him– the witcher bypasses his horse and heads straight off into the woods. Jaskier isn’t being left. Not at the current moment. And really— Jaskier knows he probably wouldn’t. It’s only his insecurities playing with him.
For all his gruffness and onion-smelliness, Geralt has a good heart. Better than most people Jaskier meets out on the road. He isn’t the type of person to leave somebody in need. Most likely he’ll wait until they’re at an inn or a decent town before he takes off without a word. Without Jaskier.
He grunts as he crawls away from the pile of sick he left behind. Then he abruptly laughs. “I’m starting to sound like Geralt.”
Roach huffs slightly as she approaches him. He leans against a tree as the horse leans down and gently nibbles at his hair. It’s the most concern he thinks he ever saw Roach display to someone who isn’t Geralt.
When he first started traveling with them, the horse had taken an immediate disliking to the bard— almost as irritated by his songs and chatter as her owner was.
He reaches up and brushes his palm alongside her neck.
“Maybe that’s the key to your affections,” Jaskier murmurs. “Maybe you only understand half-grunts and murmurings from being around grumpy boots your entire life.”
Roach snorts.
Jaskier realizes he must be running a fever as her warm breath felt like a balm against the chilly air. He shivers as he curls up into a slight ball. He continues to pet Roach. “You’re such a good girl, taking us everywhere and never complaining. Should I start talking like Geralt to appease you. Hmmm?”
“Please don’t.” A low voice says above him. He snaps his head up to look at Geralt approaching from the woods. Jaskier hadn’t even noticed he was back. “Although I won’t complain about you talking less.”
“You know you love me,” The words slip out of Jaskiers mouth before he can stop himself. Geralt stiffens and Jaskier silently curses.
“That’s—”
“It’s a joke Geralt. A joke! I know that becoming a witcher doesn’t make you lose your sense of humor. I’ve met Eskel.” Jaskier quickly backtracks.
Stupid-stupid-stupid-bard! He internally yells at himself. You know better than this by now.
Geralt softly shakes his head. Then he does something entirely unexpected— he reaches out and places the back of his hand on Jaskier’s forehead. The bard has to do everything in his power not to lean into the touch. “You’re too warm.”
“Ah—yes— I think I might be running a fever,” Jaskier cringes.
Geralt’s face scrunches up like he was sucking on a lemon.
“Here.”
The witcher places something in the palm of Jaskier’s hand. It’s a…small spring of mint. Warmth pools in his stomach as he gently cups it in between his fingers. “Thank you.”
“It’ll help with the taste—” Geralt stops as his scowl deepens. “Had I known you were running a fever, I would pick up some yarrow.”
Jaskier shakes his head. “No, this is perfect, truly.” He stuffs it in between his teeth— chewing it until the flavor helped wipe away the taste of his nausea from earlier.
Another wind blows by them and Jaskier shivers.
Geralt looks away towards the road. “Can you keep going? Being out in the elements isn’t doing you any favors.”
Not wanting to slow down the witcher any more than he already had— Jaskier finds the words easily forming in his mouth, “Yes. Of course! I think I got most of it out of his system.”
“Hm,” The witcher hums disbelievingly, but doesn’t argue with Jaskier as he reaches down and helps pull the bard up on his feet.
A spike of pain shoots through his stomach. He stumbles slightly as Geralt's arms move to wrap around him, saving him from falling onto the ground. A whimper escapes him. Oh fuck. He wasn’t expecting that to hurt. Holy shit. Yeah— that certainly is something.
He winces.
It’s only then that he realizes that Geralt is talking to him.
“Jaskier, Jaskier, what’s wrong? Jaskier—“
“It’s fine Ger—“ And suddenly something bubbles up in his stomach, overflowing his throat and spilling past his lips. A warm and thick liquid dribbles down his chin. He opens his mouth in shock, but that causes more to run down.
Shakily reaching up, he touches the edge of his mouth, pulling his fingers away.
Red fills his vision.
Blood.
“Oh,” Jaskier rasps. “That’s not ideal.”
Thoughts begin to race in his head. Each one flying by in a blur of worry and unadulterated confusion. That’s not— that’s not supposed to happen.
“Geralt!” He cries out. His hand shoots out blindly, groping the air for his friend. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He lands his fingers on the man’s leather-clad shoulder. Looking up, he searches Geralt’s face for any sign of comfort. All he finds is shock and alarm. The man’s eyes are wide, his mouth slack open, and his hands frozen still reaching towards him.
Jaskier thought he had seen all the expressions Geralt’s face could make throughout the years.
This is a new one.
“Geralt!” He cries again.
What is happening to him?
Two strong arms wrap around his back and under his knees— sweeping him off his feet and against a broad chest. And the worst part? Jaskier can’t even enjoy being wrapped up in a fortress of pure muscle, too focused on the fact that he’s probably dying.
Not the worst location to die in though. Jaskier thinks, leaning his cheek against Geralt’s front armor. For once, he is thrilled that his witcher is wearing black and he doesn’t have to worry about his blood staining his clothes. His were probably ruined though. Such a shame. He really liked this doublet.
“Stay awake Jaskier!” Geralt growls, his voice leaving no room for argument. There’s a swinging motion underneath him, as he’s thrown over Geralt’s shoulder, the witcher needing his hands free to saddle Roach. It’s a rushed job. And when Jaskier is inevitably thrown on top of it, the horse whines her protest.
It’s not fun carrying both a larger man, such as the witcher, a bard, and all of their belongings. But Roach can do it for short periods of time. Jaskier knows she can. She did before.
In fact— now that he’s thinking about it— this entire situation is much too reminiscent of the time he was cursed by the Djinn. This would be the second time Geralt had to ride him towards help with blood covering the front of his clothes. And as much as Jaskier loves the feeling of Geralt sitting behind him, clutching him close to his chest, Jaskier hopes it’s the last time.
At least with the Djinn, they had known what was wrong. A curse was nasty. But it wasn’t unbreakable. Jaskier didn’t know what this could even be. He was sure he had just been sick. Drank some bad ale-
Melitele’s tits— the ale.
“’Da drin!” Jaskier slurs, needing to tell Geralt of his findings.
“Dammit Jaskier, this isn’t the time for that.” Geralt growls as he continues to push Roach faster. The thundering of the hooves roars underneath them, and Jaskier grumbles as his stomach churns more and more.
Oh wait— that wasn’t a good feeling at all.
Jaskier feels more blood start to dribble from his lips as he tries not to cough out even more blood. Blackness starts to swarm around the edges of his vision.
“Jaskier! Stay awake!” Geralt growls. And Jaskier hums a confirmation.
He’s working on that.
He blinks furiously as the black creeps further and further into his vision. Then with one final blink, everything turns to darkness.
Jaskier passes out.