The Jaskier in question pops out the middle of a dense bush like an alert stoat. “Yes, Geralt?”
“What the fuck are you doing?” Geralt asks, crossing his arms. It’s a visual illustration of his current demeanour, just in case the bard is unable to pinpoint it tonally.
“Picking berries,” Jaskier boasts, “making myself useful. See, Geralt, not only am I handsome, quick-witted and, if I do say so, beautifully cultured, I am also a dab hand at foraging.”
“Modesty is for dullards and the pious. I cannot be accused of either affliction.” Jaskier says, wading out of the undergrowth. His upturned cap is brimming with the fruits of his labour. Working so selflessly has made him appealingly flushed. The hat is thrust towards Geralt, who takes it.
“No, thank you.” Geralt says.
“No? After my back-breaking hard work, the sweat and the effort and Gods, I think I even have a splinter – no, he says. Just like that.” Jaskier huffs, and tries to snatch the bounty back.
Geralt holds the cap away from him. And then, the absolute bastard, he pours all the berries onto the ground in a miserable heap. Jaskier makes a sound like a goose with a kazoo.
“Geralt!” His falsetto is pitched high, “What in the bloody–”
“They’re not blueberries, Jaskier.” Geralt says.
The bard bumbles. “I– what?”
“They’re sweet amber berries. I don’t particularly want to spend the evening shitting so hard that I can’t sit tomorrow. Do you?”
Jaskier has the decency to look chagrined. “Ah.” He says, eloquently. And then he brightens. “Good thing I waited to share them instead of snacking as I picked then, huh?”
Geralt snorts, flinging the ridiculous hat back to its equally ridiculous owner.
“I’m fine!” Is the rushed response, which has Geralt’s guard up immediately. “Peachy, actually. Dandy, just absolutely a-okay, perfectly–”
“Stop listing adjectives,” Geralt growls, “and tell me you didn’t drink the potion.”
“I most assuredly certainly didn’t not drink the potion.” Jaskier says.
Geralt’s eyes narrow like a high-wire tightrope, and Jaskier is losing balance.
“Alright, fine.” The bard admits, “I may have had a sip. Or two. But in my defence, Yennefer has labelled it ‘beauty’, and it is a fetching shade of pale pink – actually, come to think of it, it tasted sort of like roses. Ooh, and honey!”
The groan Geralt emits comes from somewhere deep within his body, uncurling like a slumbering bear woken in the midst of hibernation. “It’s for female humans, you fool.”
“What?” Jaskier quacks, looking side-long at the bottle. “Oh, how terribly cliché. Pink for the girls, and I suppose there’s a blue– wait, what does that mean for me? Geralt?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” Geralt says, “but I suspect you may be blessed with some magical enhancements, unless we can get Yen to give you an antidote.”
“Enhancements?” Jaskier asks, bewildered baby-blues a faux advertisement for innocence. “Ah, fuck. You mean tits, don’t you?”
Jaskier pats his own chest, as if debating the development. He tilts his head. Then he sucks in a sharp breath, horrified. “My doublets won’t fit!”
“That’s what you’re concerned about?”
“Naturally! Melitele’s ti—oh, bollocks. Not the right time for that.” He’s pinching his own nipples beneath his undershirt and it’s distracting enough for Geralt to smack his hands. “Ouch. Where’s Yen?”
“In her apothecary.” Geralt says, “Working.”
“Right. Well. Time for some of the old Pankratz charm, eh? What rhymes best with ‘Yen’… hen, zen, bullpen…”
Geralt sighs. “Shut up, Jaskier. I’ll do the talking.”
Geralt is floating pleasantly in the space that exists between consciousnesses, thin threads of gossamer-reality woven spider-quick across his memory. A fight. An injury. A Jaskier with healing supplies.
“I’m here, Geralt.” Jaskier says, kneeling. The witcher’s lazy-hazy vision flicks to him. He is backlit by firelight, looking entirely too holy. Not a sacrament of a bard, no; Geralt has never seen a human being so utterly immersed in both debauchery and kindness, like the ideals were distilled into drink and instead of picking one shot, he downed both at the same time. Geralt has seen him do that. The thought makes him laugh.
“Hush darling, you’ll pull the stitches.” Jaskier chides, bossy-britches. “What’s so funny?”
“Remember that tavern in Attre?” Geralt’s voice is slurry, even to his own ears.
“The awful one that tried to charge you thrice-over for a tankard of brine? As if you couldn’t smell it, the absolute buffoons. What a useless establishment.”
Geralt giggles. The sound is a delirious squeak, but he’s too strung-out to care. “You punched the barkeep in the face.”
“I did, dearest, and I’d do it again.” Jaskier says.
“Right in his face!” Geralt guffaws, and then winces. Jaskier tuts, examining the bandages covering his midsection.
“Shh, now. You need to rest, Geralt.”
A sticky blink, and Geralt reaches blindly for his companion. “Never said thanks. For that. You are good to me, Julek.”
Jaskier’s hand tightens in his own. “Did you just call me…?”
It’s a sentimental moment he’ll treasure alone, because Geralt lapses back into unconsciousness, thick fingers tangled with Jaskier’s. The bard smiles fondly.
Jaskier makes for an unlikely guardian, but he stays awake all night.
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