#sick geralt

[fandom-happy]

Sicktember 2023 - Day 28: “I should have stayed home”

Summary: Malcolm has an unusual realisation that he isn’t indestructible.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Almost Sweet

i felt like hell a couple days ago and wanted to project a little, and i just wanna see geralt be a little soft and goofy

Pairing: Geraskier- could be read gen tho

CW: teen, geralt feels sick? jask plays nurse a little?

_________________________

Geralt woke with a massive hangover, at least that's what it felt like, but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall having more than a weak ale with dinner the night before. He groaned and rolled over, thinking he possibly drank enough to forget the whole night, though that wasn’t usually the case unless Lambert was involved. His body ached with every movement and his head throbbed no matter how much light he blocked out with the covers, and to make everything worse he was starting to feel nauseous. 

Absolutely nothing was worse than being nauseous in Geralt’s book. He would quite literally rather nearly bleed out or break a bone than throw up.

So when Jaskier greeted him with his perky “Good morning Sleepy Head! Fancy a lie-in today? Suddenly the monsters will hunt themselves? Hm?” Geralt rolled back over and groaned, his stomach doing a backflip at the movement. 

“How much did I drink last night?” Geralt moaned, doing his best to cocoon himself even more. 

He could almost picture the confused scrunch to Jaskier’s nose when he answered, “Nothing? You turned in early with a snide remark about my music giving you a headache.”

“Hm…” It was slowly coming back to him, but all Geralt could really focus on was the way his body was trying to punish him, “Crowd was loud… not you.”

There was a pause where Geralt thought Jaskier might simply saunter out of the room and leave him to suffer in peace, but Melitelle knows he’d never been a lucky man. 

“Geralt? Can I feel your forehead?” Jaskier asked, his voice softening just a touch, a nice compensation for how the dip in the mattress made Geralt’s head spin. The witcher didn’t have the energy to bat Jaskier’s hand away as he gently pulled the covers back and laid the back of his hand over Geralt’s brow. The cool touch was rather nice, actually, and a small pout snuck onto Geralt’s face when the hand disappeared.

Jaskier hummed in thought and slowly got up to grab a rag and wet it in the little basin of water provided, “You’re sick, dear. Didn’t even know witchers could get sick.” He brushed some hairs off of Geralt’s forehead and laid the cool cloth over the too-warm skin. Geralt couldn’t quite stifle a shiver as the rest of him suddenly felt far too cold but still sweaty and hot. 

“Must’ve eaten…” Geralt trailed off and clenched his jaw as a wave of nausea passed over him, “...something bad…” 

“We’ve shared meals for weeks, my friend. You simply caught something fighting monsters in the pouring rain.” Jaskier almost sounded amused in the way that usually made him roll his eyes, but he didn’t have the energy to be gruff. Instead, he just furrowed his brow and pulled the blankets back up to his chin. 

“Try to sleep it off, I’ll be back shortly,” Jaskier whispered, flipping the rag over to the cool side and earning a contented hum from Geralt. 

To Geralt’s disappointment, he got no sleep, only watched the door and wished that Jaskier wasn’t taking so long doing whatever it was he was up to. He’d never in a million years admit he wanted company for company’s sake, but as the minutes ticked on he began to worry that the bard wouldn’t return till after sundown. Maybe he’d found some well-to-do townsfolk and was charming them with inflated tales of adventure for a spot at their table or a cozy bed without a sick witcher. 

It was because of these thoughts, nothing more, that his face lit up when Jaskier finally returned, “You’re back.”

“You look relieved,” Jaskier laughed, setting down a basket on the table and a bucket by the bed.

Geralt could feel his eyes glaze over as Jaskier took the rag from his forehead with a little wince, “Who want’s to stay with a sick witcher?”

“Me,” Jaskier tutted, pulling a mug of steaming liquid from the basket and sitting next to him on the bed, “Drink this.” 

“What is it?” Geralt asked, looking from the cup to Jaskier warily, not out of distrust but definitely not wanting to make himself worse. 

“Poison.” 

A small laugh bubbled up out of Geralt but oh mother of fuck did  it make everything feel worse, “Jask, no,” he moaned, trying not to laugh as Jaskier chuckled at his misery “Don’t be funny. It hurts.” 

“Gods you’re almost sweet when you’re sick,” he observed, tucking a stray hair behind Geralt’s ear and guiding his chin a bit to the side so he could tip the contents of the mug into Geralt’s mouth bit by bit. 

When Jaskier pulled the mug away, satisfied with how much he’d drank Geralt was feeling rather sleepy but still cold, “M’not.”

“Mhm, sure.” Jaskier didn’t seem to bother hiding his sarcasm but the gentle strokes to Geralt’s cheeks and forehead made up for the slight in his book. He briefly thought he should be upset by the affection, that he needed to push Jaskier away for some noble reason, but he was too tired to be noble. And if he couldn’t sleep then at least he could have this? 

“Do you still feel cold?” Jaskier’s voice almost sounded distant and Geralt realized that he was starting to shiver from the light sheen of sweat all over his body. 

When he nodded, eyes still closed tight, though he wasn’t sure when he closed them, Jaskier’s hand disappeared from his forehead. Geralt whined at the loss, only to be jarred back to his upset senses by Jaskeir clambering over him and shuffling under the covers with him. 

He weakly protested as Jaskier enveloped him in a warm embrace, “But you’ll get sick.”

“If I haven’t already, I doubt I will now,” Jaskier soothed, running his fingers through Geralt’s hair, “Just let me know if you think you’re about to be sick.” 

“Mhm…” Geralt nodded, for once allowing himself to settle back into Jaskier and breathe. It was nice to have someone to take care of him for once. 

[victoriablackrose]

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Witcher fics

The Wishing Stone Au, aka M.E.S.S Universe (yes I know I’m a dork, but I thought of the acronym and 🤣)

The Mysterious Enchanted Sneeze Stone AKA the Wishing Stone (many characters) (cold) (fin)

The Bardic Competition (Geralt) (cold) (unfin?)

Unrelated Witcher fics

Danger in the Water (Geralt) (sinus infection) (fin)

Lessons in Listening to Witchers (Jaskier) (flu) (fin)

Lambert fic (Lambert) (cold) (fin)

Thank You For Staying With Me (Jaskier) (fin)

Geralt And The Griffins (Geralt) (cold+whump) (unfin)

Battling a Sneeze (Geralt) (dust) (fin)

A Wolf, A Bard, and the Flu (Geralt) (flu) (fin)

Not Crying Wolf (Geralt) (cold) (fin)

Bad Colds and Broken Legs (Geralt) (cold) (fin)

Slow and Steady (Geralt) (cold) (fin)

In Hot Water (Geralt) (flu) (fin)

Finally Safe (Geralt) (cold) (fin)

Six sentence ficlets

Concussion (Geralt)

A Chill (Jaskier)

Peaky Blinders

Tommy Ficlet

No Rest For The Wicked (Tommy) (flu) (fin)

⬇️ Commonly used tags ⬇️

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Whump you say? Geralt gets Hanahaki

I’ve been waiting for you, Anon. I’ve been waiting for this prompt specifically and boy when I tell you I might have cried writing it...

2k ish (a little less) words long. Idk why y’all were worried, it’s me. It’s gonna have a happy ending.

tw: Hanahaki, blood mention, illness, angst with a happy ending, whump with a happy ending ---

It had started up just before they parted ways for the winter; Geralt had quietly coughed a handful of rose petals into the corner of his cloak and hidden them from sight as Jaskier gave him their yearly parting embrace. “See you in the spring, Geralt!”

“Hmm.”

You might not ever see me again, actually, the Witcher thought. He tried not to let anything show on his face; not his fear and certainly not his longing, but he ached to tell Jaskier that he loved him and that he’d miss the bard’s presence through the long and dreary cold of the winter months. Geralt also knew that if he told Jaskier the truth about his feelings that he may never set eyes on the bard again anyway, regardless of how the disease currently wracking his body developed over their time apart. He was sure that Vesemir could identify whatever the strange illness was; the old swordmaster might even have a cure ready to go in the old storeroom. If not, they could send for Triss. 

“Safe travels.”

“And you as well,” Geralt nodded curtly. He mounted Roach with all his usual grace and ease, biting back another cough and tasting the sickly sweet floral note of rose rising up his throat to coat his tongue again. 

---

“Fuck,” Vesemir sighed. “It’s Hanahaki disease, Geralt. It’s not going to be easy to cure now that the pass is full of snow.”

“What’s Hanahaki disease?”

“It’s-” the eldest Wolf Witcher scrubbed his hand over his bearded face and took a moment to compose himself. He’d seen it happen before. He’d seen human bodies buried in the ground with entire root systems crawling from their chest cavities. He’d watched young men and women alike cough entire violet or rose or daisy buds from their mouths while they shivered with fever and seemingly unending pain, but a Witcher? Vesemir hadn’t even thought it was possible for a Witcher to contract such a frivolously deadly illness. “I don’t know exactly how to explain this to you, Geralt.”

“I won’t go screaming into the hills, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” his middle-child joked, “I can’t run very far anymore without a coughing fit.”

“I can’t send for Triss or Yennefer, either. They won’t be able to do anything,” Vesemir spoke calmly and evenly. Geralt, propped against some pillows on adoptive-father-enforced bed rest raised an eyebrow. “It’s a disease that eats at you from the inside out. It latches on to, uhm, romantic feelings and grows with them until it overtakes its host completely. Or until the host, uh… confronts those feelings head on and admits them to the object of their affection.”

“So this is…” Geralt’s eyes were wide and terrified. The eldest Wolf had never seen the stoic boy look quite so scared before, and he’d seen him go through the Trials. “This is going to kill me, is what you’re saying.”

“Who are you in love with, you stubborn oaf!?” Lambert cried, marching into the room from where he’d been lurking in the hall. He startled the other two Wolves and Geralt coughed out another handful of petals. The blood that came with them was surprisingly new. 

“What do you mean!?”

“He means,” Vesemir said, as slowly as possible (so that even the great Geralt of Rivia would understand his situation), “That until you tell this person how you feel, the flowers inside you will continue to grow and dig their roots in and, if you never tell them how you feel at all, you will eventually die.”

“Then I guess my fate is sealed,” Geralt smiled sadly, settling himself back against the pillows. “My time as a Witcher is up. Coughing up flowers isn’t the worst way to go, all things considered.”

Lambert growled angrily. “I’m not ready to lose my brother yet, Geralt, so just tell us who you’re pining after and we’ll go fetch her back!”

“No.”

“Why the fuck not?!”

Geralt, growing increasingly more feverish and already exhausted from everything that had happened that afternoon, closed his eyes. “Because he deserves better than me, Lambert. He deserves so much more than I could ever give him and I’m not about to steal him away like a selfish ass and force my feelings onto him for my own sake. I’d rather die.”

“Self-sacrificing bastard,” the youngest of the Wolf Witchers snarled, storming from the room. “Ass! Cock! Fool!”

Vesemir could only nod his agreement and follow silently after.

---

Jaskier read the letter once.

Then he read it again.

After a third time through he was sure that he hadn’t misunderstood the contents.

Dear Jaskier (aka Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, Prof. of the Seven Liberal Arts at Oxenfurt),

I am Eskel, brother to Geralt of the Wolf Witcher School at Kaer Morhen. I write to you now to ask for your presence at the keep. Geralt has fallen gravely ill and will not likely make it through the season. He does not know that I have written to you, but as his best friend and companion on the Path, I thought it my duty to invite you to see him one last time before he’s gone for good. He’s loathe to admit it, but he misses you and fears for your safety come springtime.

Sincerely,

Eskel of the Wolf School

Somewhere beneath the bright embroidery of his doublet and the hand-woven muslin of his chemise, Jaskier’s flighty, deeply-loving heart shattered into a million pieces. 

He grabbed his heaviest woolen cloak from its peg near the door and made for the stables at once.

---

“Geralt!”

The White Wolf opened his eyes a sliver to confirm that he wasn’t hallucinating again; ah yes. What a lovely last dream to have before I die. Standing in the middle of his bedroom at Kaer Morhen, covered with still-melting snow, was Jaskier. The bard’s blue eyes were brimming with tears and his bottom lip was wobbling violently as he gazed upon the Witcher’s withering form.

“Geralt, what’s wrong? Your father and brothers sort of explained it to me but I’m still not sure what’s happening. You’re dying?”

“Don’t worry, bard,” Geralt smiled. A loud, sudden cough wracked his body and he bent over double, spitting a blood-spattered but fully-bloomed rose out into his cupped palm. He laughed joylessly and tossed the bloom onto his bedside table. “I’ll be out of your hair, soon. Won’t this be a last ballad to write, a wolf dying as he’s eaten by flowers?”

“I don-”

“Hush,” Geralt rasped. Jaskier dropped his cloak to the ground uncaringly and rushed to his Witcher’s side. He sat on the edge of the mattress and took Geralt’s closest hand in his, grasping the appendage to his chest and sobbing into the sword-calloused skin like his tears might save his best friend’s life. “Don’t be sad, Jaskier.”

“I am sad, Geralt! I’m absolutely fucking terrified and heartbroken and crushed! Vesemir said you could heal this at any time but you just… you just won’t because you’re stubborn and an idiot and the sweetest goddamn man I’ve ever met in my life! How dare you tell me goodbye when you are perfectly capable of fixing this problem yourself! How could you promise to see me in the spring and then break your word by dying well before the grass turns green again?! You bastard!”

“You won’t miss me after another year passes,” Geralt reassured him, flexing the hand still held tight in Jaskier’s grip. “You won’t even remember me by the time the first daisies spring up.”

“How dare you,” the bard cried again. He pressed a nervous kiss to the tip of the Witcher’s pointer finger before letting go completely and dropping his head into his own hands. “How dare you say those things to me when you know full well that I love you with all my stupid, fragile mortal heart. You asshole.”

“Wh...what?” 

“I love you, Geralt!” The Witcher stared up at his friend with nothing but confusion written across his handsome features. Jaskier reached out, wiping a smear of blood away from the corner of Geralt’s mouth as tenderly as any maiden in any of the bard’s favorite romance novels. “I love you and I’ll never forgive you for letting yourself die on me like this.”

Geralt blushed. He stammered. He coughed up two or three more bloody roses and Jaskier tossed them all into the fire with rage blazing in his cornflower irises. 

“I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything on this gods-forsaken Continent and now you’re going to take yourself away because you’re, what, scared of something? Is it Yennefer? If she’s refusing to help you then I’ll ride all the way to Vengerberg by daybreak and then I’ll break all her fucking fi-”

“I love you, too.”

“What?” Jaskier asked, stopped mid-rant and mid-thought by the Witcher’s sudden admission. “What did you just say to me, Geralt? If I didn’t misunderstand, you said you loved me too.”

“I did. I do! I have loved you for a rather long time, actually.”

“Well, I’m glad we’ve settled that,” Vesemir said from the doorway. He turned on his heel and disappeared. “See you both for breakfast tomorrow, I’m sure. Well... maybe breakfast is being a bit optimistic. I’ll see you for lunch.”

“What did he mean?” the bard asked. His eyes flitted between the empty doorway and Geralt’s guilty grimace. “What the fuck did Vesemir mean when he said he’d see us at lunch?! You’re still clearly dying and I-”

Geralt felt his fever receding and coughed experimentally. There were only a few brown, half-dried petals that fell from his lips. No blooms. He coughed again and nothing came out of his mouth at all. He grinned and laughed, tugging Jaskier up onto the bed and against his broad chest. “Vesemir was right!”

“What the fuck is going on?!” the bard begged. His hands twisted into the neckline of Geralt’s shirt, holding him still and steady. Blue bore into gold with such heated intensity that the Witcher thought he might pass out regardless of his recently healed disease, “What just happened!?”

“I- I told you I loved you and it cured the Hanahaki!”

“You had fucking Hanahaki and I was the cause of it? Oh Geralt, I’m so sorry! I should have noticed sooner! I should hav- Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“I didn’t think you loved me back.”

“You didn- Geralt, have you been paying any sort of attention for the past seven or so years? I follow you everywhere, I bandage your wounds, I put food on your plate and a pillow under your head whenever we get the chance. I bathe you and mend your clothes when your fingers are too stiff from practicing your forms to do it yourself… you utter fool. You buffoon. You great, dumb, goofy, idioti-”

He was cut off by Geralt bringing their mouths together with such gentle but insistent pressure that all Jaskier could do was melt against him. His hands unwound from the shirt and stabilized against the Witcher’s pectorals instead. He sighed into Geralt’s mouth, swallowing down the happy sounds his dearest Witcher made in return. When they were finished pouring out their affections they sat, breathless, curled against the pillows of Geralt’s enormous bed. 

A large pointer finger slipped beneath Jaskier’s chin and tilted his face up, locking their gazes, “This isn’t how I wanted you to meet my family or see Kaer Morhen for the first time, but I’m glad you came. I know the journey through the snow couldn’t have been easy, even though I’m sure there was some magical assistance.”

“For you, my love, I’d travel the pass barefoot.”

“You’d die of exposure.”

“Not if your life was on the line,” the bard murmured against those flower-chapped lips. “For you, Geralt, I could survive anything. Just as you must swear from this moment on to survive whatever you can to make it back to me.”

“Will you go back to the academy until spring?”

“I’m never leaving your side again, Geralt of Rivia. Come flora or fauna, you’re stuck with me for good.”

“Hmm. Good.”

“Just… Just don’t bring me flowers any time soon.”

[i-used-to-wear-the-fedora]

That Time Geralt Picked Up a Doppler

-A Doppler named Johan has been having a really bad stroke of luck lately and it's traveling when he sees the bard Jaskier and decides to walk around in the bard's skin.

-It's nice people smile and cheer him-but then he's grabbed by a weird white haired witcher named Geralt.

-This rinky dink village was supposed to be a small stop for food and medicine. Geralt has come down sick with a cold. All his senses severely dulled by his illness.

-He's tired when he grabs what he thinks is Jaskier to make their way back to the path and get a move on.

-The Doppler is heavily confused but doesn't say anything to the suck witcher in fear he'll be slain by the man.

-Geralt's to sick and tired to notice any difference as they move along and despite...well everything the doppler begins to actually like talking to the witcher and he doesn't sneak off into the night.

-Meanwhile almost a half day away in the rinky dink village, Jaskier wakes up to find not only Geralt gone but people saying he did things that he very clearly remembers not doing. Even getting in trouble with a man who says he slept with his wife (he didn't...well probably)

-Now Jaskier finds himself trying to catch up with both Geralt and the doppler.

[ellwren]

Witcher Migraine Headcanon

Witchers are resistant to illness, but there is no canonical reason they couldn’t get migraines. Their keen vision, hearing, and other heightened senses would make migraines really rough. I’m thinking especially of photophobia that makes any bright light become throbbing torture, or of sensitivity to sound, so that basically the result is that the poor witcher just needs to whimper in a dark, quiet place and be gently cuddled by his bard.

[highwaytosickfics]

witcher sickfic w/Sick Geralt

(hey i just finished this so have some sick geralt with a lot of other writing around it)

To say that Geralt’s words during the dragon adventure had hurt Jaskier would’ve initially been an understatement; without context (and a little bit with context) they crushed the bard to his core. He’d worked hard to boost the popularity of the witcher, knowing exactly what kind of treatment the White Wolf received from other people, and that was the thanks he got? A one-sided friendship and a mouth full of hatred? If he were a worse man, he could’ve written a negative ballad out of spite.

Jaskier wasn’t that type of person though, and after hearing the details from the dragon and her bodyguards it wasn’t difficult to forgive the silver oaf in his thoughts; the man had lost the love of his life because he’d preferred her alive, and Jaskier found himself even more irritated with Yennefer than he’d been after the djinn incident. She struck gold in the lovers department with Geralt, a man more handsome than anyone else Jaskier had ever seen, and she dumps him because she thinks their attraction towards each other is magic-based? What fucking bullocks.

Still, the bard knows he shouldn’t hang around the witcher when he’s in this kind of a mood; he’ll give Geralt a couple months to brood, and when they next meet they’ll be back to their same old banter. There probably won’t be a verbal apology, of course; that whole “witchers don’t have emotions” thing seems pretty ingrained in Geralt’s mind regardless of its validity, so he’ll probably hunt something tasty or do something else to make it up to the bard.

At least, that was what Jaskier had thought a few weeks after their separation. It’d been a whole year now and the White Wolf still hadn’t gotten around to finding him, though the war with Cintra and Nilfgaard probably had something to do with it. Rumors circulated that Geralt had finally picked up his Child of Surprise, who was 13 now and running for her life from Nilfgaardian forces. Where they could be was beyond the bard’s imagination, as he spent his days moving from town to town, playing at taverns and romancing maidens. It wouldn’t surprise him if there were some “Jaskier Jr.”s floating around at this point in his life (though no one had contacted him with that sort of news).

The night was going along like any other; “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher” always made wallets shake with urgency, though he didn’t bring that little tune out as much lately, and some of the other hits he’d written post-adventures seemed to bring people to the edge of their seats in shock and amazement. He was so distracted by the cheers and sounds of people putting coins in his case, Jaskier had almost missed the hooded trio coming in from the storm outside and pulling up to the bar. Their conversation went on for about the length of “The Fishmonger’s Daughter” before one handed the bartender some coin as the other two walked towards the staircase that led to the inn rooms. 

The forgotten figure seemed to have a stumble in his step, his moves were sluggish and obviously plagued with exhaustion. Despite this, the man (obvious now from his frame) practically dragged himself back outside, immediately getting re-drenched from the ongoing downpour. A lock of silver escaping the cloak made Jaskier heart stutter, quickly gathering his stuff together and leaving the crowd to a younger bard as he went to follow what he hoped was his witcher.

He was rewarded when he entered the stables and found Geralt slumped against one of the pens. Roach was nuzzling her master in a worried manner, trying to get him a bit dryer to no avail. Jaskier was cautious in his approach, even though he knew the witcher had long sensed his presence.

“Been quite a while since I saw you, Geralt.” The bard began, carefully lowering himself to the cold, dirt ground. “Though I expect that was more your doing than mine.”

The other man just huffed, he was never much of a conversationalist.

“So how’d you get stuck in the pens? Have an argument with the Lion Cub of Cintra?”

“She seems more bonded to Yen than me.” Geralt finally grumbled, revealing a slight rasp to his voice. “Was told that ‘ladies need proper rest’.”

“Like you don’t?”

“Hmm.” the hum turned to a cough the witcher failed to suppress, a small fit that Jaskier found to be quite unexpected. 

The bard turned to Geralt, observing him properly for the first time. The bags under his eyes weren’t new but definitely more prominent from the last time they’d met; there was a slight tremor in his limbs and a struggle in his breath. Even his eyes, which normally sparkled like topaz in the sun, were dulled by fever. He looked less like a dangerous wolf and more like a drowned pup, the comparison only intensifying when the poor man failed to stifle a series of sneezes.

He’tchuu, het’chu, ‘chu!

“Ooh, Geralt.” The bard felt his heart skip in concern, his hand moving unconsciously to check the man’s temperature. The witcher tried to snap back, but it was more a reflex than anything and Jaskier was able to avoid it and feel the skin boiling under his palm. “You’re this sick, and they still sent you out?”

“They-*cough* they don’t know-”

“How could they not?! You’re burning alive here, Geralt!”

“Didn’t want them to.” He grumbled, obviously resisting the urge to lean into Jaskier’s touch. “Have to protect Ciri from Nilfgaard.”

“Nilfgaard’s been pushed back by the wizards now, Ciri will be safe for quite a while.”

“Could-*cough* still send bandits-*cough cough*”

“Which is why Yen is protecting her tonight, right?” Jaskier stood slowly, lifting Geralt up with him. They stumbled slightly from the weight, but managed not to crash. “Come on, you can sleep in my room tonight.”

“Jaskier…”

“Don’t ‘Jaskier’ me! You’re not sleeping out here tonight, it’s far too cold out. And I know you haven’t gotten a bath in ages now - gross, is that ghoul guts?”

“Cemetaur.” the witcher clarified as his bard rolled his eyes.

“Of course you’d be picked to fight the most dangerous kind of necrophage in this state.”

“Hmm.”

The men stayed relatively quiet for a while, as Jaskier and Geralt made it up to the room the bard had splurged on. There was only one bed, of course, but that certainly wasn’t new for the pair (in their early days, they were often too poor to afford much else). The bath was drawn quickly for them upon seeing the witcher’s tremors, and Geralt soon found himself sinking into warm water that seemed much too cold to his fevered skin. He didn’t complain though; a bath was a bath, and warm water was often better at reducing fever than anything too hot or cold.

It wasn’t long before Jaskier found himself sitting down in the bath as well, next to the man who’d never apologized for his cruelty towards him. Somehow he didn’t really mind it; In fact, he found himself much more amused than angry, as he watched Geralt slowly loosen the grip on his tough facade. With silent permission, the bard took gentle care into unraveling the witcher’s hair from the well-worn tie that kept it together and he began to wash the dirt and guts out of it. Geralt relaxed quite easily under Jaskier’s touch, so much so that it was difficult to pull the tired man from the bath and into clean, dry clothes. 

The undershirt and pants were actually the witcher’s size for once, as the bard had (stolen) forgotten to return them at different points in time. Geralt took a vial from his pack and downed it straight, making a face of disgust at the bitter taste of what he said was a cough suppressant. Jaskier laid Geralt down slowly, and the witcher seemed confused at just how much care the bard gave towards him. The words escaped his tired form before he could even process them.

“I’m sorry.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened for a moment, before he gave a small smile laid down next to Geralt.

“I forgave you so long ago.”

The smile that Geralt gives him back makes his heart skip again for different reasons than concern.

“Thank you.”

[wickedrum]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion, Original Witcher Character(s), Casmir the Hawk Additional Tags: Sickfic, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Implied Relationships, Implied mental illness, Sick Character, Caretaking Summary:

Geralt gets sick after rusalka hunting. Jaskier tries his best to take care of him, but needs a little help.