Jaskier wakes up the the frantic twittering of birds; a little loud and nearby for his taste but the wildlife does what the wildlife wants and Jaskier’s just living in their jungle. Well, forest really, but who cares for logistics? Certainly not him as he stretches, back popping and foot nudging something small and solid as it does every—
Small and solid? That’s not something that happens every morning. Jaskier’s eyes pop open as he sits up abruptly, cool morning air making his arms raise with goose flesh. He blinks to clear his sleep-bleary eyes, squinting at the lump at the end of his bedroll. It looks feathery and solid and— Jaskier nudges it with his foot so that it rolls and, oh, oh yep, yep that’s a bird! There is a dead bird at the end of his bedroll how lovely.
Geralt comes back to camp to find Jaskier pacing around and peering at the open canopy of the clearing with a confused frown on his face. “Looking for something?”
“Oh! Oh, no, no, I was just...” Jaskier clears his throat, hands on his hips and hair still wild from sleep, “Ahem, breakfast?” He nods his head at the fire that he rekindled and has the bird roasting over, the scents of its dripping fat sizzling on the logs making the Witchers mouth water.
“Geralt, did that kikimore seem... bigger, than the last one you faced?”
Jaskier frowns at the response and falls unusually silent as he thinks. The dead birds— and sometimes squirrels or other rodents, most notably so far was a raccoon— have continued to appear at the end of his bedroll every few mornings. To say Jaskier has been alarmed is an understatement. He’s start considering that perhaps he’s sleep killing them, but how on earth Jaskier would have picked up the skills required to hunt wild game while asleep is a mystery. Maybe from watching Geralt? He doubts it, but it’s his best lead so far.
The other odd thing he’s noticed recently is that Geralt has been taking contracts for larger and larger beasts. Not that he didn’t take them for gargantuan monsters before, but the big contracts were usually interspersed with smaller, safer ones. But now he’s just getting exponentially larger, with no smaller contracts between. No more contracted drowners, no foglets, hell not even a nekker or two.
Jaskier’s started losing hair from stress. Which is a whole other problem.
The kikimore that Geralt just faced down— and won, thank the gods, Jaskier wasn’t ready to watch his best friend and love of his life die just yet— was the biggest beast to date. Ten feet tall and with tits to match, the monster genuinely made Jaskier feel fear. And for himself, too! Usually he’s just scared for Geralt’s well-being but this monolith seemed like it might have an appetite for lanky bards in addition to brick shithouse witchers.
They skip through the next few towns, Geralt stating that there were no contracts, until they reach a tiny hamlet with a posting for an ice giant.
Geralt rips off the contract and goes to find the alderman.
Jaskier is losing his mind.
The dead wildlife keep appearing, the contracts keep growing, the money piles up and he’s just found a dagger stuck in the cover of a brand new notebook. If this isn’t a threat then Jaskier is a terrible bard and should really relearn what life threats look like. He also isn’t quite sure who he’s pissed off this time, as he spends nearly all of his free time with Geralt, but it appears that someone has found him lacking and is making their opinions on his continued clinging to life very well known.
Jaskier is pacing anxiously when Geralt comes into their rented room, the dagger in one hand and the pierced notebook in the other. The Witcher glances down at them and his lips twitch up as he opens his mouth to speak when Jaskier spots him and rushes over.
“Do you know what I found, Geralt?” Jaskier knows his voice is a little shrill right now, but he thinks he deserves a smidge of hysteria after the months he’s been having. “Do you? Because I know exactly what this is. This-this-this has gone on for far too long!”
“I agree,” Geralt nods sagely and Jaskier splutters.
“You-you agree? So you’ve known about this the entire time?”
Jaskier throws his hands in the air, only narrowly missing shaving the end of his own nose off with the sharp blade, “Then why haven’t you done anything about it?”
“I have been?” Geralt frowns in confusion, cocking his head adorably like a puppy in that way of his that always makes Jaskier want to— stop. Focus, Jaskier.
“You have been? Have you been dispatching vagabonds and ne’erdowells behind my back? Why wouldn’t you just tell me about it?”
Geralt’s confused frown deepens, “Vagabonds and ne’erdowells? Jaskier, what are you talking about?”
“The threats, of course! The threats on my life! There’s been dead animals showing up on my bed for weeks now, Geralt! And it all makes sense, now that I know that you knew about this, why you kept taking larger and larger contracts. So you’d have enough money to set me up somewhere safe and, Geralt, while I truly do appreciate the thought, I cannot stress enough how much safer I feel in your presence than when I’m across the continent from you.
“And this! This was the final straw!” He shakes the notebook in Geralt’s face, “A dagger, right through it! It looks just like my songbook, pierced through its bleeding heart with no blood yet to stain its pages. It has to be a threat!”
Jaskier finally looks at Geralt and is mildly alarmed to see that the witcher’s cheeks have gone a pleasant dusty pink as he fiddles with his fingers. “What is it, Geralt? Are you okay? You’re looking a bit peeky.”
“I, uh—“ Geralt clears his throat uncomfortably as he scratches the side of his neck, “They aren’t death threats, Jask. I— Um... I was trying to court you.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Geralt grumbles, digging his hands deep into his pockets as he glares at the ground.
Jaskier is quiet for a few moment before walking closer, boot heels clicking on the wooden floors. He slips one finger under Geralt’s chin and tips the witcher’s head up to look into golden eyes.
“Then I suppose I’ll have to court you right back. And the first step of bardic courting is kissing the man who’s been courting you while you had a paranoia induced breakdown.”
