Someone asked for this on A03, so I present part 2.5 lol
Head here for the first parts
Jaskier stared at what little he could see of the decrepit...castle? through the thick flakes of snow that had begun to fall an hour or so ago. If he had any energy left at all, he'd have jumped off of Roach's saddle and gone running through the knee-high powder straight to the large stone doors he could barely make out.
Unfortunately, all of his energy had long left him due to hours of shivering even in the warmer clothes he'd...stolen? been gifted? Either way, that combined with the four days of climbing had left him so exhausted, Geralt had finally had pity on him and lifted him up onto Roach, the bard no longer able to feel his fingers well enough to hoist himself up. It was disarming in a distant sort of way, like how the bard always felt when he spent his last coin on an ale, knowing he would make it back performing and yet feeling distantly anxious over the lack of money.
"—Jaskier."
The bard blinked, surprised to find the keep much bigger than it was a moment ago. That was strange. Keeps shouldn't be able to move. Was it magic? How could it—
Jaskier jerked backwards, losing whatever grip he might have had on Roach as the witcher urged her on faster. He pinwheeled his arms, trying to find his balance, only to fall backwards—
He blinked again, startled to find the witcher's face floating above him. The man was frowning, and Jaskier asked him what was wrong, trying to get the words out despite not really being able to feel his mouth.
Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, the bard's question just made Geralt frown harder, and the witcher muttered curses under his breath as he whistled. Jaskier watched as the witcher's hair swayed back and forth for a moment, before burying himself in the patch of warmth underneath the witcher's head. Usually the bard wouldn't risk such a thing, knowing how the witcher felt about any sort of physical touch, but the witcher was already holding him and he was freezing, so cold he didn't even really feel cold anymore, which was—it was—
Jaskier let his eyes fall shut, the motion of the witcher and the thud of the slow heartbeat beneath him lulling him to sleep.
~•~
As the bard slept, Geralt got Roach settled into the stable, grabbing Jaskier's lute and sliding it onto his back before making his way into the keep. Melitele help him if the bard found out he left it out in the elements.
He made a beeline for the main hall, only somewhat reassured that Jaskier had begun shivering again a few minutes ago. The bard needed a fire, needed to get warm soon, otherwise he would surely fall sick, and Geralt did not want to deal with a sick bard for the next week. Jaskier's voice was annoying enough when it wasn't nasally, not to mention the coughs that rattled his lean frame and the wheezing that left him breathless after that one infection of his lungs—
Geralt put the thought out of his mind as he made his way to the roaring flames, ignoring for a moment the other witchers who had greeted him when he arrived and were now, judging by the silence, wondering what in Melitele's name he was doing.
"Geralt?"
"Hmmm," Geralt nudged two large chairs closer together with one leg, making a pseudo-bed.
"What have you got there?"
Geralt looked up from laying Jaskier down.
"A lute."
~•~
When Jaskier awoke, the first thing he noticed was the sound of laughter, loud and deep, accompanied by low voices. Opening his eyes, he was mildly surprised to find himself not looking up at a vast grey sky, but up at a stone ceiling, visible due to the fire he could feel and see close beside him.
Realizing abruptly that he was now pleasantly warm, Jaskier hesitantly sat up—
"Jaskier, over here."
Turning, the bard smiled at seeing the witcher—
Jaskier blinked, almost stumbling as he made his way out of the chair—chairs?
Make that witchers.
Mentally shrugging off the mild surprise (mild, because even though Geralt hadn't told him where they were going, Jaskier knew he spent the winter with other witchers), he made his way over to the table, sliding onto the bench next to Geralt.
"Hello! I'm—"
"A bard. A human, bard."
Jaskier's smile became a bit more forced as he lowered his hand, clearing his throat. "Well, yes. That is true. But I—"
"This was reckless, Pup. You're very lucky he survived the climb."
Jaskier felt as Geralt froze beside him, and the bard opened his mouth, ready to defend the witcher against the old man—
"Still safer than where he was going," Geralt grumbled, grabbing the empty bowl in front of Jaskier and filling it with stew.
Jaskier rolled his eyes, but accepted the still-warm food. "Honestly, Geralt, I told you Oxenfurt has locks. Besides, if Marx had the guts to kill me himself, he would have tried to already."
Geralt scowled, opening his mouth to retort—
"Has he been traveling with you on the Path as well, then?"
Jaskier turned to the witcher who had spoken, a man with scars running down one side of his face that contrasted sharply with the soft wariness the bard could see in his eyes.
"That I have! Someone's got to sing about the White Wolf's battles, to memorialize them for all of time and posterity, and I—"
The witcher across from Jaskier laughed, his bright red hair almost glowing as he shook his head. "Leave it to Pretty Boy to end up with a human trailing after him. How on earth did you get him? What, did you save his life or something?"
Jaskier fought back a flush at being described like a—a dog, or some other animal, trotting along behind the witcher like an obedient, mindless slave. Still, this was a battle of wits—of words.
Jaskier smirked.
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch your name...?"
The witcher smiled, the action anything but nice.
"Lambert."
"Right, Lambert. Lambert, Lambert, Lambert...hmmm, I'm sorry, doesn't ring a bell." Jaskier shrugged, putting on a face of mild embarrassment, not cowed at all by how the other was now scowling. "I guess not all witchers are cut out for heroics, though. If you'd like, I think I could convince Geralt to give you some tips. Maybe even—"
Jaskier was pushed back sharply as the other witcher growled, the arm now in front of him attached to a face that was looking down at him with mild disapproval. Jaskier plastered on the most innocent look he could muster, and Geralt rolled his eyes, before giving Lambert a warning grumble of his own.
"No fighting at the table, pups."
"Yes, Vesemir."
"Yes, Vesemir."
Jaskier blinked, mildly surprised at the immediate response of both witchers to the older man's words. Huh. Well, that answered who was in charge, at least.
"He's not completely wrong though, Geralt. You know why it is we walk the Path alone. It's too dangerous for a human to travel with a witcher."
Geralt shook his head, and Jaskier went back to his stew, pleasantly surprised at how good it tasted. It seemed that whoever cooked had actually heard of a thing called 'spices', and not all witchers were—
"—Jaskier."
The bard blinked, having been thoroughly lost in thought.
"What was that, Geralt?"
"Take off your shirt, Bard."
Jaskier froze, before turning sharply to the white-haired witcher. "What in Melitele's name—"
Geralt moved to grab the bard's shirt, as if the issue was Jaskier being unable to remove his own clothes. The bard slapped the witcher's hand away, rolling his eyes as he took off the tunic with a slight shiver. The fire was burning brightly, but it was a large room, and Jaskier felt goosebumps erupt up and down his arms as the skin was laid bare.
"Happy, witcher? Honestly, this winter I'm going to teach you the concept of public indecency, because you seem rather foggy—"
"Is that not all the proof you need that he shouldn't be following you, Geralt? Look at him, he's got almost as many scars as a witcher!"
Jaskier rolled his eyes at Lambert's clear exaggeration, about to retort—
"This one he got with me," Geralt said, pointing at the Drowner scar. "The bard followed me, even when I told him to stay at the inn—"
"—which I would have, if you had just—"
"—and I couldn't smell him, not until—"
"—I dunked myself in a cedar essential oil, and it worked brilliantly—"
"—but otherwise," Geralt growled through gritted teeth, and Jaskier rolled his eyes, still feeling rather proud of his past-self's ingenuity, even if it hadn't ended up the way he'd been planning. "All of the other scars the bard picked up on his own. When I wasn't with him."
The witchers glanced between Geralt and the bard for a moment.
"You expect us to believe a bard ended up with all those on his own? That one there is obviously from some sort of monster!" Lambert exclaimed, pointing to the—
"In my defense, I thought there was only the one Foglet, and there were children! I wasn't about to let them be eaten!" Jaskier crossed his arms with a huff, finding it incredibly unfair that when Geralt saved the day he was praised, but when it was the bard taking a, quite literal, stab at it, all he seemed to find was scorn.
"He has more on his back, too," Vesemir idly noted, brows slightly furrowed. He cleared his throat, "but still, Geralt—"
"Thirteen—" the White Wolf pointed at Jaskier, then put his hand on the bard's shoulder. "One."
Jaskier glanced to the side, still a bit unsettled at being shirtless and more than a bit miffed that this introduction of sorts had gotten wildly out of hand, only to almost baulk at what he saw. Geralt had his chest puffed out, a hard jaw underneath what passed as a smile for the witcher, as if Geralt was—
Jaskier's eyes darted to the table at the small, conceding hums the witchers had let out, as if agreeing with Geralt, and Jaskier had to struggle very hard not to call the man out on his preening. If before Jaskier had felt like Geralt's pet, now he felt like he was a sheep being carefully guided by a sheepdog, the other witchers shepherds who were proud of Geralt for not letting Jaskier jump off a cliff or something.
The bard pulled his shirt back on with a sigh, mentally debating which comparison was worse.
"Now, what was that about a 'Marx' and 'killing'?"
~•~
"Bard?"
"Yes, Eskel?" Jaskier eased himself into the hot spring a few pools away from the truly boiling one the witchers were occupying.
"Where did you get that scar? The one wrapped around your thigh. It looks almost like—"
"It was a cat."
Jaskier found three sets of golden eyes now piercing his own, sharp as a witcher's blade.
Jaskier tried not to fidget.
"It was! It was just...a very big cat. With...a beak. And, well, it might, perchance, have had wings—"
"Jaskier—"
"It was dark! And it was nice at first—"
Jaskier ducked his head under the water at the chorus of swearing. See if he ever told them about that one scar his long hair now hid!
