“It’s strange.” Geralt frowns, pressing his forehead to Jaskier’s. “Your fever still hasn’t broken.”
Jaskier’s skin flushes hot, his breathing quick and labored, his scent threaded with exhaustion. His body is slumped against a mountain of pillows but still needs to borrow support from Geralt to stay upright. It’s truly pitiful how weak the human body is if a simple cold can last this long.
Geralt checks his temperature every time Jaskier looks slightly better, but every time he finds Jaskier’s skin burning against his, and now is no exception.
“Perhaps I…” Jaskier exhales, leaning into Geralt’s space. “I just need more time.”
Geralt pulls away, opening his eyes. The sight of Jaskier sick is not something he wants to see for long—his face is unhealthily red, his eyes glistening with ever-present tears. Some deeply buried part of Geralt’s heart aches when thinking about Jaskier in pain.
“Oh,” Jaskier says, “You are staring at me.”
For some reason, his face becomes even redder. Ever the shells of his ears are pink now, so Geralt touches it, tucking the stray hair away from Jaskier’s face.
“I don’t understand,” Geralt answers, feeling the warm air between them. “The healer said it should be down two days ago, but every time I check it seems to spike again—”
“Don’t think too much of it!” Jaskier interrupts, his voice rather panicked. “We humans are like this, you know that.” he laughs without humor. “Unreasonably fragile and all.”
“Still, maybe I’m checking the wrong way.” His hands are normally colder due to his slower heartbeat, so Geralt has been using his forehead. It should be more accurate. “Let’s see again.”
With that, he cups Jaskier’s cheeks in his palms and rests their foreheads together once more.
A gasp escapes Jaskier’s lips. It must be his body’s reaction to the discomfort.
“Don’t move.” Geralt nuzzles, trying to calm Jaskier but his heart rate is picking up, his breaths also coming in deep and shuddering. “Can you take deep breathes for me?”
Jaskier does as he is told, and Geralt concentrates on catching signs of the lingering illness.
This time, Jaskier is scorching hot under Geralt’s fingertips, even worse than a moment ago.
“Your breathing doesn’t sound right,” Geralt muses. “Let’s hope it’s not an infection.”
“There’s…ahem,” Jaskier clears his throat. “There’s nothing major, I promise.”
But worry only creeps up in Geralt’s chest. “Your voice has gone deep.”
Jaskier croaks, “it’s not dee—”
“There.” Geralt catches the rasp in Jaskier’s voice. “Now it’s all hoarse too. Your fever has been burning for days, and it’s getting worse. It doesn’t make sense.”
At that, Jaskier flinches nervously like he’s trying to hide something, and Geralt can’t help but soften. It must be hard with the fever coming and going. On top of it, there’s the discomfort of his quickened heart and irregular breathing—all terrible symptoms from the cold.
Jaskier must be reluctant for Geralt to see the lingering effects of his sickness, so he doesn’t get left behind.
“I’m fine,” Jaskier says, straining his voice carefully like he’s putting on a mask for a performance. Even his pupils are blown wide. It must be the delirium from the fever, but he’s still trying to reassure Geralt.
Geralt dislikes this very much.
“Hey.” He runs a hand down Jaskier’s back. “It’s okay. We’ll stay for as long as you need. And I’ll be here and take care of you.”
“You will?” A hint of smile tugs at Jaskier’s lips, so Geralt nods gently.
He gestures for Jaskier to make space on the bed and places himself on top of the covers. Jaskier’s cheek presses against Geralt’s collarbone, waves of heat still coming off of him, and every time Geralt tries to soothe him with more touches, Jaskier lets out a small, high-pitched, sad sound. So Geralt touches him more.
“You are so good to me when I’m sick.”
“Hmm.” Geralt tilts his chin so Jaskier is more comfortable. “Don’t get used to it. I’ll need to check you every day, and as soon as the fever is done, we will prepare for leaving.”
“You’ll have to wait for a long time,” Jaskier mumbles through a yawn.
Jaskier is not even thinking straight anymore. With his strange cold somehow getting worse for no reason at the most random times, he must be exhausted.
Geralt hums softly as he strokes Jaskier’s hair and nape until he drifts off. A smile blooms on Jaskier’s face in sleep, and Geralt should only be proud.
