Sick!Geralt tries and fails to push through an illness
Witchers, despite what the stories around them may imply, do in fact have limits; they can be affected by and even die from poison, untreated wounds, and illness just like anyone else. The difference, of course, was in the severity of damage they could endure. The trials that create witchers improve their body's natural immune system, allowing them to heal faster from things that might leave an ordinary man down for days. Those trials also left witchers a memory of excruciating pain that allowed them to shrug off a certain amount of injury. Because whatever they were experiencing was definitely bad and hurt terribly, but it could never compare to what they experienced in their trials.
These memories were currently being brought back to Geralt, as his head pounded something fierce in the summer heat. He'd been feeling a little under the weather a few days before when traveling through the woods with Jaskier, but had shrugged it off thinking his healing factor would take care of it. Now they were in a rather large town, bustling with noise and smells that overwhelmed his senses and gave him some pretty severe nausea. The harsh sunlight wasn't helping matters, practically blinding his sensitive eyes and making his headache feel even worse.
When they'd first entered the town, Geralt had wanted nothing more than to stay at the local inn for a few days to silence Jaskier's constant whining (though he mainly just wanted to ride out whatever bug he'd caught, the bard's complaints were actually pretty minimal this time around). Unfortunately, he'd had a job to take care of first; a bruxa (of course it'd had to be a fucking bruxa) was luring people to the woods and draining them dry of blood. It had killed three already, almost four before Geralt was able to decapitate it with a silver sword. The fight had been unintentionally long, the witcher's waves of nausea, pounding skull, and aching joints were slowing down his reaction time quite a bit. He was lucky he hadn't gotten himself (or Jaskier) killed. The bruxa's constant and powerful screaming didn't exactly help matters either, especially when they broke through a Quen and slammed him against a few different trees. The number of potions he'd had to take for that fight certainly wasn't low, and now that the White Honey was starting to kick in his body was screaming at him for it.
Still, Geralt had refused to gripe about his predicament and was trying to push through. They just needed to get back to the inn, then he could sneak upstairs while Jaskier played for the drunkards and just sleep whatever this was off. He was fine, he'd suffered much worse in the trials. The dizziness spinning his world around and pitching black spots in his vision couldn't compare to when he was too disoriented to get out of bed; the nausea threatening to make itself known was far softer than the weeks of constant vomiting and dehydration he'd gone through; the sensory overload that was distracting him was barely noticeable versus the ones he'd had when he first got his senses, when a speck of light blinded him for a full day and the sounds of wind rustling scraped painfully at his sensitive ears. He was a witcher and he could make it to the inn…
After he paused for a bit, he needed to make sure those spots weren't actually sprites. They didn't seem to be going away; in fact they only seemed to multiply as he got more lightheaded. Maybe this was actually an enemy he could fight-
"Geralt…" The witcher found himself surprisingly startled at Jaskier's low murmur. He'd forgotten the bard was with him, sending alarm bells through his brain. He was so shocked at this development that he almost didn't hear Jaskier continue. "Geralt, I need you to get on Roach, alright? She'll be able to carry you back to the inn."
Geralt focused suddenly and the bard was correct; Roach was sitting, waiting for him to mount. He'd trained her to do that in emergency scenarios, though, was this an emergency? Surely he was fine. Maybe she was sitting for the bard. Had Jaskier gotten hurt? Was he dying? What if he died already and he hadn't saved him-
"Geralt!" Jaskier's (thankfully alive) voice snapped him back to attention, and he automatically mounted Roach. He was surprised when the bard slipped in behind him, though somehow he didn't find it to be unpleasant. "I need you to get Roach moving, alright? I'll guide her back to the inn after that."
He felt his leg swing over the saddle, and suddenly they were moving. Jaskier was behind him, and while normally that wasn't allowed, Geralt didn't complain; the bard was unintentionally (or maybe intentionally?) keeping the witcher steady as they went onward. The scenery kept changing faster than Geralt could process it, and even when he closed his eyes the dizziness kept his head spinning. His energy was draining fast now that he didn't have to walk, and he wanted nothing more than to fall asleep right then and there. He tried to keep himself awake though, and the bard's constant babbling assisted in his efforts. His voice was soft, so as to not bother the witcher's sensitive ears, but it was just loud enough to keep Geralt aware.
The ride came to a stop rather suddenly in his opinion, and it took all of his willpower to move from the saddle. Jaskier seemed eager to help him up (as though he knew something was wrong), and he kept close to Geralt's side as they walked back to the inn. Those twenty steps had been the most difficult challenge he'd had so far that day; the noises and smells alone were enough to make him want to run, and when he mistakenly opened his eyes, he could only see a sea of white with dancing colored spots before he snapped them shut again.
He focused on keeping himself moving, walking side by side Jaskier without leaning into him (the bard wouldn't have been able to hold his weight). Thankfully Jaskier was taking the lead, guiding Geralt without prompting into the inn and up the stairs to their room. When he opened his eyes next, it was thankfully dark and quiet. The witcher then remembered, with pushed down disappointment, that there was only one bed; it was big enough for the both of them, certainly, but he wasn't sure if Jaskier would be interested in such an idea. He decided to leave the bed for the bard and tried to find a good spot on the floor to rest.
"Geralt, what are you doing?!" Okay, so Jaskier was against the floor plan. Should he try to sleep outside? He didn't want to go back out but if that was what the bard wanted-
Oh wait no, Jaskier was removing his armor for him. It felt nice to have that extra weight lifted off. The bard's touch lingered longer it should've, but the witcher found it to be grounding and didn't instinctively push him off. Jaskier helped Geralt lay down on the bed, cutting him off before he could protest.
"The bed's big enough for the both of us, Geralt. Besides, you look like you need it more than I do." A warm hand brushed hair back from his forehead, and he leaned into the touch before he could stop himself. "You don't have a fever, thankfully, but I know you've been hurting all day."
"'m fine." He mumbled weakly.
"Try to stand up then." He shot up from the bed to prove his health...and all the nausea he'd been feeling suddenly rushed from his gut to his throat. A bucket found its way under his chin at just the right moment.
"Okay maybe that was a bad idea." He heard beside him, a hand tracing down his back as he threw up what hopefully wasn't the White Honey he'd taken earlier. When his heaves turned to shudders, the bucket moved away and Geralt found himself pushed back down onto the bed. He was knocked out as soon as his head touched the pillow.