Oct 30, 2021
HAPPY BIRTHDAY CONNOR!!!!!!!!
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Indonesia
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from France
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from Türkiye
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Germany
HAPPY BIRTHDAY CONNOR!!!!!!!!
Fear and Consequences
Summary: They’ve stopped the Unknowing, everyone made it out alive, and the Entities are weakened. Unfortunately, so is Jon.
The Entities exact their revenge on the Archivist for spoiling their plans, each taking their turn to cause him pain.
Hi everyone! Based on this post, as well as a wonderful suggestion from @artnerdsarah, @taylortut and I are writing a collaborative series where Jon will suffer through a different kind of illness based on each one of the fears.
Chapter 1: the Buried.
CW: illness, panic (non-graphic)
Until now—until this very moment—Jon thought he truly knew what it meant to stand in the wake of destruction. He thought he knew what it was like to be abandoned by people once considered friends, even if the abandonment was of his own making.
Until the moment that Martin will no longer meet his eyes.
“Devastated” doesn’t even begin to describe the feeling.
To be sure, he hadn’t been expecting the warmest of welcomes from the archival staff. Though they had managed to stop the Unknowing, they had quickly discovered that something still binds them supernaturally to this lightless old basement—and that “something” was likely to be Jon himself. The fact that he wasn’t dead or…unmade like the entities apparently have been seems nothing short of a miracle. But Jon feels nothing like a walking miracle at the moment.
Just work. Just focus, work, find Elias, and get them out of here.
He’s been sitting in his office for nearly an hour now, staring down the tape recorder and the pile of statements, wanting anything but to read one and feed whatever still remains of the Beholding. Perhaps that’s the worst bit of all—the knowledge that the Eye is still out there, requiring him to read the traumas and nightmares of others just for him to survive. He takes a deep breath.
Just do it and get them home.
He flicks on the desk lamp, steeling himself for the task at hand. Already, he can feel a headache beginning to build behind his eyes, pulling at him to just rest his head on the desk and drop off to sleep. Something heavy and oppressive sits in his chest as he begins to read, pulling at his lungs, quickening his breath.
It aches. His very soul aches.
He tips his head down and begins to read.
---
It’s been hours since he’s stopped recording, and Jon still can’t bring himself to stand. What he’s been doing for all that time, he’ll never be sure—his own thought processes seem so very far from him now, swirling up and away with the plumes of dust illuminated by the warm glow of his desk lamp.
What time is it?
Scrubbing a hand down his face, he frowns at the sheen of sweat that’s been building there. With disappointment, but not alarm, Jon reaches the conclusion that he’s most definitely coming down with something. This is evidenced by the fact that the incessant coughs pulsing from his chest had been what forced him to stop recording, whittling his voice down to nothing and leaving him gasping for air. Even now, it takes any bit focus that remains just to keep his chest moving, the very idea of coughing again exhausting him to the bone.
Really should lie down, he thinks, the thought floating somewhere high, high above him. He grabs hold of it anyway, using the momentum to lift himself to standing. Bracing heavily against the armrests of his chair for support, he only makes it halfway upright before the room starts spinning wildly around him.
“Nngh,” he groans, pitching forward to lean against his desk, squeezing his eyes shut against the pounding in his temples. It takes everything in him to keep his trembling knees from folding beneath him as he desperately pants through this unbearable dizziness.
Just breathe just breathe just breathe
At last, the sickening swirling of colors around him eases enough to allow him to stand properly, still bracing one hand against the wall.
I’m really not…not well, he thinks as he swipes another shaking hand over the renewed sheen of his brow.
The ache in his chest only deepens when he finds the rest of the archives abandoned, painfully making his way down to the cot.
Martin’s cot.
…Martin.
Martin…could call him, maybe?
No, better not, better not, he’s so angry with me
…why is he so angry?
Why does it hurt like this?
If a few tears spill down his cheeks as he collapses onto the blanket, the one that still smells so distinctly of Martin—none but himself and the statements will ever know.
---
“AAGH!”
Crash.
Jon jolts to awareness at the sudden noise, propping himself up to half-sitting and staring at the sight before him in shock.
Wh…what…
There stands Martin, bent over his knees, one hand clutched over his heart…and the shattered ruin of his favorite mug spilling over the floorboards.
Oh god.
Jon looks down at once, the memories of the previous evening washing over him in a most unpleasant fashion. The humiliation of it all brings a deeper flush to his cheeks, and suddenly he can’t bear the idea that Martin has found him here, of all places, snuggled beneath his blanket.
“Christ, Jon! Nearly killed me! What are you doing here?”
Oh god oh god
Quick as he can, he swings his legs over the side of the cot, jerking his body upwards in a less than fluid motion—and immediately regrets it.
“Whoa, Jon? You alright?”
Jon can feel the blood draining from his face as the room begins to darken, lungs pulling him down with each painful inhale, and sways—
Right into Martin’s arms.
“Sit back down, Jon— just sit down, come on,” he soothes gently as he guides Jon back to the cot.
The guilt of it all is nearly enough to pull him down for good.
Why are you kind why are you kind why are you kind
Tim takes the opportunity to arrive in the doorway, having apparently heard Martin’s yelp and assumed danger.
“Martin? You okay?” he asks tensely.
“Fine, but Jon—”
Martin is cut off by a sudden bout of coughing, damp and churning and painful, bursting from Jon’s chest with such force as to push his body toward Martin’s kneeling form.
“Oh Christ—”
He distantly feels strong arms reaching up to brace him, preventing him from sliding off the edge of the cot as his vision darkens.
“Jesus, what’s happened?” Tim demands, stepping forward.
“I-I don’t know, I just found him like this,” voice wobbling with timidity.
Or worry?
Jon doesn’t know, only that the coughing has stopped now, and that he’s got to focus on drawing as much oxygen as he can into his burning lungs.
“Hey,” Tim says sharply, snapping fingers in front of his face.
Has he been talking to me…?
“What’s going on? How long have you been ill?”
“I haven’t,” Jon manages to choke out, unable to lift his gaze to meet Tim’s.
“Don’t lie to me,” Tim hisses, leaning down.
“I-I’m not, I swear.”
“Tim—back up, now,” Martin demands, voice soft, but somehow very, very threatening.
It sends a shiver up Jon’s spine.
Or perhaps that’s the fever.
Do I have a fever?
With a start, Jon notices that he’s suddenly got a thermometer in his mouth.
Must have…drifted off.
The beep from the device echoes through his head, throbbing painfully behind his eyes once again.
“Jesus, it’s 39.7,” Martin says in shock, worry laced thickly through every word.
Please don’t worry
I don’t ever want you to worry
Even as these thoughts cross Jon’s fever-addled mind, he can feel his lungs bubbling again, whatever horrible wetness that’s come to rest there threatening to breach the surface. He can’t help it—he feels like he’s drowning, the pained gasps doing nothing to supply him—he instinctively braces forward, a white-knuckled grip on his knees.
“Talk to me, Jon. What’s going on?” Martin murmurs, planting a hand on his shoulder.
All Jon can do in response is pitch forward once again, vision fully shorting out this time as he coughs and sputters and gags for nearly a full minute. Panic rises in him as he finds himself unable to stop, growing dizzier and fainter with each passing second, yet his chest refuses to clear any of the debris it’s collected.
Drowning drowning drowning drowning
“Jon?”
There’s nothing for it now.
“Can’t—can’t—bre—” is all he can manage, inhaling with such desperate force that it very nearly topples him over.
“Okay, hospital, now,” Tim says from above, and the two of them reach beneath his arms, pulling him upwards—
Jon’s vision swirls into darkness.
---
Cold cold cold
Everything is so cold, and something is dripping unpleasantly across his face. Jon can’t help but furrow his brow against it, protesting the existence of whatever it may be. Something about the motion of wherever he finds himself now nearly lulls him back to sleep, the gentle rocking of it pulling him down—
Until his entire body is shaken by an unexpected BANG.
“Tim, slow down, for Christ’s sake,” Martin yells from somewhere nearby.
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to get our friend to the hospital,” Tim replies scathingly.
…must be in a car.
Who’s going to the hospital?
He opens his eyes in worry, sweeping them around, only to find that his vision is all turned sideways—his head pillowed on something soft.
Martin’s thigh.
Oh god oh god oh god
“Hey, there you are. You back with us?” Martin calls softly, leaning over into his eyeline with a gentle smile.
Jon only stares up at him in concern.
“Who’s goin’ t’the hosp’il?”
The slurred nature of his words alarms him, and he can feel his entire body tense in panic.
“Shh, it’s alright, just stay calm. You are going to the hospital, Jon, but don’t worry. We’ve got you.”
With this soothing thought, Martin replaces what had apparently been a cold rag across his forehead, still dripping moisture off the end of Jon’s nose. For his part, Jon does his best to follow his instructions, sighing against the relief the coolness brings.
It’s alright.
I’m alright.
Martin said so, so I am.
It’s alright.
He closes his eyes again, willing the fever to drag him back down.
---
“—up, Jon. Hey, you with me?”
Someone is shaking his shoulder roughly, drawing him back to unfortunate awareness.
“M’up, m’up,” he mumbles, not opening his eyes, feeling rather like a petulant schoolboy being awoken too soon.
The thought makes him giggle a bit. Or a lot, perhaps, based on Tim’s reaction.
“Alright, not worrying at all, thanks very much,” he says as he and Martin pull him from the car and support him between their shoulders, both having to bend down significantly to get the job done.
The sheer ridiculousness of it all only makes him laugh harder, before it morphs into a punishing coughing fit, doubling him over between the two of them.
“Not laughing anymore, huh?” Tim asks, somewhere between a joke and a grimace.
“It’s not funny, Tim,” Martin hisses back, no humor in his tone.
Jon wishes he had any strength to reply, but can only focus on breath in, breath out as they painfully make their way inside.
---
A few hours later finds Jon half-listening to the doctor who’s telling him that he’s apparently got pneumonia, that he must have been ill for quite some time for it to be this bad, that he should have come to the doctor sooner. If he could just focus, if he could just listen to what she was saying, maybe he could find a way to tell her that he hadn’t even been ill yesterday—
He finds that he cannot, and settles for trying to figure out if he needs to go to the chemist or not. Something to bring back to Tim and Martin, who might still in the waiting room, if he’s lucky.
I hope they’re still in the waiting room.
The idea of trying to make it back home on his own is not one that he wants to consider.
“Mr. Sims? Did you hear what I said?”
Jon snaps back up to attention, lips closing around a hastily-stifled coughing fit. The doctor merely smiles back down at him, a kind and gentle face that he would hate to disappoint.
“S-Sorry, I—” he breaks off at once, lungs not allowing him the luxury of speaking at the moment. Ever so patiently, the doctor waits for him to finish, wincing at the depth of his desperate hacking.
“It’s quite alright—understandable with such a high fever, certainly. I was just explaining that I will send a prescription for antibiotics over to your chemist, and you should pick them up as soon as you leave. You should also pick up some fever-reducers while you’re there. Do you have anyone waiting for you outside?”
Pain entirely unrelated to the pneumonia flares in Jon’s chest.
“I’m…I’m not sure,” he mutters, dropping his gaze.
“Alright—well, we’ll see then. If not, just stop by the desk and they’ll call you a cab,” she replies, patting his shoulder in pity.
For once, Jon accepts it without even a sneer.
---
Upon his return to the waiting room, Jon doesn’t even want to look up to see if Martin and Tim are still there. His face already burns about the fact that he is too dizzy to walk back on his own, having to be wheeled back out to the triage area instead. He does his best to hide it behind his overgrown hair.
There’s no chance they’re still here. You’re fine, just call a cab and go home.
“Jon?”
Martin’s voice reaches for him like a beacon through the fog; like a sunbeam in a rainstorm, immediately flooding his body with relief. Looking up, Jon is overwhelmed with happiness that both Tim and Martin are still there, waiting for him, immediately standing upon his entrance and staring down at him in concern.
“You okay, mate?” Tim asks, his brow furrowed deeper than Jon’s ever seen it.
Tears spring to his eyes at once, overwhelmed with the expression of fond worry, and he desperately tries to swallow them down.
“Oh god, what’s happened?” Martin asks softly, kneeling in front of the chair with a quick glance up at the nurse and setting a hand on his knee.
“N-nothing, nothing, I…sorry, I’ve just got pneumonia,” Jon stammers quickly, swiping at his eyes in frustration.
“Oh, is it just pneumonia then?” Tim replies, voice dripping with sarcasm.
God, I’ve missed this.
Jon can’t help but huff out a laugh, which immediately jerks his body forward into more deep and painful coughs.
“Right, sorry, won’t make you do that anymore,” Tim mutters, bracing Jon’s back with his hand.
Not trusting himself to reply, Jon merely gives a thumbs up.
“Could you walk between us if we held onto you?” Martin asks anxiously. “And do we need to stop at the chemist before we take you home?”
Jon nods in affirmation to both of these questions, lifting his arms for them to grab and pull him up out the chair. Martin gives a quick “thank you” to the nurse, who smiles patiently, and they set out towards the door.
Through the dizziness, through the fever, Jon’s mind wanders back to how thankful he is—and how little he deserves any of this. His eyes immediately begin to sting at the thought.
God, stop it.
“Hey, you alright?” Tim asks gently, having noticed the way Jon has dropped his head down to his chest.
“Fine, fine, I—”
He stops himself.
Honest. You’ve got to be honest.
“I’m just…thank you. For waiting for me,” he whispers, swallowing thickly at the lump burning in his throat.
“Aw, the fever’s made him into mush! Softened the heart of stone! Who ever would have thought?” Tim yells in delight, a broad grin spreading across his face.
“Come off it, Tim, he’s just trying to be nice,” Martin scolds, though the beginnings of a smile have started to creep up his face as well.
“Yeah, yeah, alright. But don’t expect this treatment from us every time, you bastard. This was only to stop you from dying.”
Jon can’t help but smile in return, and feel grateful.
(thank you for reading! next up is the Corruption, written by @taylortut!)
hi friend!!!! i love your writing!!! if you're taking prompts from the bingo card (if you're not then feel free to delete this!!), how about N5 for Jon? :) i hope you have a great day!!
‘fighting to pay attention to urgent information’ ahh i love this prompt!! thank you so much for the ask, it means a lot since i love your writing so much (and it inspired me to starting posting my stuff, to be honest). Here you go, I hope you like! This takes place right after Sasha makes her statement to Jon in season one.
Sasha is talking but Jon can’t hear her.
It’s all muddled in his mind. So many things have happened over the last couple of weeks- Martin’s worm attack and now Sasha’s encounter with Michael- and his mind is refusing to process. She gave her statement in his office and was now explaining the situation to Martin and Tim while Jon stood awkwardly in the doorway, trying to nod at the appropriate time.
“We’ll need a plan of attack if Prentiss comes or if any of us encounter Michael again,” she’s saying. “Martin’s already living here, but-”
A plan. Yes. A plan would be good but Jon can’t think beyond Sasha bleeding in his office and Martin throwing open his door demanding to be heard. The worms on the pavement crawl and creep and remind him of something he thought he’d finally put behind him but he’s been chasing it the entire time, hasn’t he?
His body feels at once too hot and too cold. Jon’s never understood that about illness. How a body can burn with fever and shake with a chill at the same time. But he’s not sick, he’s just...overwhelmed. Needs to eat a normal meal, needs to get some sleep. If he could just get a deep breath in his lungs the black spots would stop dancing in front of his vision and he could pay attention and come up with a plan.
But every other word is ‘worms’ and ‘infestation’ and all matter of disturbing things and his mind goes wild with imagination, horrible scenarios playing out in his mind as his breaths turn into an uneven staccato of sound that he tries to stifle.
“-could get more CO2 you think? Jon?” That’s your name.
“A-Ah, yes. I’ll t-talk to Elias.” Sasha nods and Jon is relieved to have said the right thing. The fog in his brain lifts; the panic eases for just a few moments but it only reveals more physical pain and he starts to shake. He knows he needs to sit down soon or he’ll be lying on the ground either way. So he slowly backs out of the room, hoping no one notices as his hands grasp at the wall for balance. He manages to stumble back to Document Storage before he hears someone calling his name. But he’s lost now, barely breathing as his heart stutters in his chest and he sinks to the floor.
________
Martin had been watching Jon while Sasha spoke. Martin watched Jon a lot- innocently, of course, and Jon never seemed to notice. He was either willfully ignorant or really that oblivious.
Martin was starting to double down on the ‘willfully ignorant’ theory.
Jon was nodding along, sure. But his face held a detached blankness, as if each word were in one ear and out the other. Of course he would zone out during this conversation; it involved real, actual supernatural occurrences. He only contributed once, a vague promise to talk to Elias, who was turning out to be a very useless manager. Martin thought Jon was getting better about this. After all, he seemed to believe both Martin and Sasha’s stories. But he watched as Jon moved further and further out of the room when he should be contributing to the conversation. He disappeared down the hallway and Martin let out an irritated sigh, drawing Tim and Sasha’s attention.
“What’s up?” Tim asked from his perch on Sasha’s desk. “Don’t worry, we’re gonna figure this out-”
“It’s not-” Martin got up, starting to make his way down the hallway. “It’s Jon. I can’t believe he would just walk out on this. I’m going to go talk to him.”
“Martin-” Sasha sounded hesitant but he ignored her as he spotted the open door to Document Storage. Why would Jon go here instead of his office? This was Martin’s room with his things. And I didn’t exactly keep it clean. “Jon?” he called out. “Jon, you need to- what are you doing?”
The man was leaning against his cot, knees brought up to his chest as he stared at the floor. His glasses were tucked into his sweater and his hair was a mess, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. And he was ignoring Martin in favor of whatever the hell he found so interesting about the floor. Martin stooped down to his level, ignoring the twinge in his knees on the cold cement. “What’s going on?” he asked again, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. God, Jon could be so infuriating at times, but he was still concerned.
Jon barely spared him a glance and tightened his arms around his knees, looking like a ball of tension. His shoulders moved very minutely upwards in a sort of shrugging motion and Martin thought he heard a mumble of ‘’nothing, fine,” under his breath and he couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He moved in closer, setting a firm hand on Jon’s bony shoulder- when did he get so thin?
“Look, I know it’s a lot,” Martin tried for comfort, though it was getting harder and harder to do so these days when the man refused to see reason. “But you can’t just bury your head in the sand whenever someone says something you don’t want to hear, alright? We’re all struggling and it would be a lot easier if we had a boss who actually listened instead of- shit.”
Jon was shaking so much. How had he not noticed? His breathing was off, like a sputtering engine as his white-knuckled grip dug into his knees. His face was ashen and sweaty. He was clearly unwell but he opened his mouth anyway in an attempt to respond. His eyes did not meet Martin’s.
“It’s- it’s all I think about,” he began, his voice more of a croak than the smooth baritone Martin was used to. “She’s after us, after you and Sasha and now there’s Michael and I don’t know what to do.” Martin watched in horror as his eyes filled with tears and his voice trembled. “And- and what if I go home and she’s waiting there? What if she gets Tim? What if we aren’t safe anywhere?” A slender hand shot out and grabbed onto Martin’s sweater, startling him as Jon’s eyes met his own with a desperate fervor. “I-I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. And Elias doesn’t even care, just w-watches while we all scramble around doing- doing-” his voice broke into a hacking cough and Martin couldn’t witness any more. He dislodged Jon’s hand and backed away. Seeing Jon like this was uncomfortable and he wasn’t sure what to do about it, so he went into his natural problem-solving mode. “I’m going to get you some water, yeah? You’re- you’re not well, we can talk about this later.” Despite keeping his voice soft and low, Martin watched as Jon shrunk into himself, desperately trying to stifle his coughs. “I’ll be right back.”
He hightailed it out of the storage area, eyes firmly on the ground and steps so quick he didn’t notice Tim until he ran right into him.
“Oof! What’s wrong, Martin?” Tim said as he grabbed him by the shoulder. “Boss giving you trouble?” Martin shook his head, voicing his next words as diplomatically as possible.
“He’s, um- I think he’s sick?” Tim’s brow furrowed in concern. “I’m just going to get him some water, yeah.” He walked off before Tim could ask another question; he didn’t want to leave Jon alone for too long but he also didn’t want to be subjected to Tim’s questioning.
It only took him a couple of minutes to grab some water and a cold towel but by the time he got back to the room Jon was laid out on his cot, eyes barely open as Tim said something Martin couldn’t hear and smiled softly at the man in the bed. He knew they’d all known each other before the Archives; it was something that he thought about quite a bit, to be honest. But he’d never really seen Jon interact with someone like this, so quiet and trusting that he nodded off right in front of them.
“There you are!” Tim said, uncharacteristically quiet. He reached out and Martin handed over the supplies, still stupefied by the whole situation.
“Just gonna let him sleep for a mo’ before I force this down his throat,” he chuckled as he gently placed the towel on his forehead. “Glad you checked up on him- didn’t realize he was having a rough go of it. I’m usually a bit more observant.”
“We’re all having a rough go of it, Tim,” Martin felt like he had to explain some of his frustration. “How did he let himself get to this point? I mean, he’s always so skeptical on the tapes but it turns out he’s worked himself up so much he’s sick and it doesn’t make any sense.”
“We all tell our lies, Martin,” The words weren’t said unkindly, but he remembered that Tim knew about his resume and though he didn’t think the man would ever tell anyone it did seem like the words were rather pointed. “His coping mechanism is all this skeptic nonsense. Don’t get me wrong, it’s terrible and very annoying,” Tim conceded, giving Martin a knowing look. “But not all of us ended up here accidentally. Most of us are here for answers. For a reason.” Tim’s far off look reminded him that he knew so little about the people he worked with. He wondered what Tim’s reason was, what Jon’s was. And if they would ever feel comfortable enough to confide in him.
Martin doesn’t know how to respond to those words, so he does what he does best- deflect and nervously offer his services. “I can throw the kettle on, maybe order some takeaway? Food would probably make him feel better.”
“Yeah, reckon it would,” Tim’s just staring at Jon as he fitfully dozed. Tim may not have been attacked directly but he looked tired and worried all the same. “He likes Thai.”
Martin noted the fact down for his mental file on Jonathan Sims. Hates spiders. Likes his tea with milk, no sugar. Hates my handwriting. Likes Thai. It’s not very comprehensive.
Later, when he’s making tea in the break room, he watches as Sasha slips into the hallway to Document Storage, attempting to go unnoticed. She’s got a hand to her shoulder like she’s trying to rub away the ache and Martin grabs some paracetamol out of the cabinet, knowing both her and Jon will need it. Everyone in the Archives likes to hide their pain, himself included. But maybe for one night they could help each other out. Four tired humans against two eldritch abominations.
Martin could get behind those odds.
ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27065482
i'm LIVING for your jaskier fics omg!! would you be at all interested in writing a prompt where Jaskier is riding Roach because he's not feeling well, but Geralt doesn't realize how bad the fever really is until he falls off? (if that's not interesting or too specific, I can try again! no pressure to write this!)
anonymous asked: would LOVE to see a sick Jaskier with a cold while they’re traveling, and how Geralt would treat him being feverish and sniffly/how Jaskier would complain lol
AN: absolutely! so sorry this took a hot second, but here you guys go --- hope you enjoy! ;)
The language of Jaskier is above all a loud one... but just as subtle as any beast’s dialect, filled with intricacies and rhythms that Geralt cannot help taking note of the more he listens. It’s really not the same thing, of course. Non-speaking monsters really can’t use their words; they have no way to express how they feel, except by eating you. Jaskier hasn’t tried to do that. Yet. (Sometimes the way he eyes Geralt in the bath leaves him feeling the day’s not far off.)
To the contrary — if anything, Jaskier is too verbal. He doesn’t know how to shut up.
Getting used to this took longer than Geralt would have liked. It also demanded considerably more patience than he realized he had. Somehow, staking out a monster’s lair for days in complete silence is bearable... but Sitting through one of Jaskier’s endless rambles is asking too much. Even Witchers can only endure so much.
“Do you ever shut up?” Geralt demanded one day, cutting off the motor-mouthed fool in the middle of another tangent.
Jaskier blinked at him, as though seriously considering the question, then shrugged. “Not a talent of mine, really.”
Miraculously, he did, for a moment. Despite all his instincts screaming to the contrary, Geralt nearly allowed himself to believe his outburst had worked... until Jaskier steppes on a twig, just a bit too loudly, then said, “I was asked the very same thing in bed not too long ago, actually, by this glorious milkmaid — granted, her accent was too thick to make out a word, so she might have been asking me to pass her my ruddy lute, who knows. But she was very enthusiastic —“
And that started him up all over again. Damn the gods.
In spite of it all, Geralt would be lying if he claimed to hate Jaskier’s blathering too much. Sometimes it’s... unique, not being constantly surrounded by silence. He wouldn’t call it nice, not be a long shot, but... it isn’t altogether unpleasant. Jaskier can make for entertaining company in his better moods, and he does keep things interesting. A routine pack of wargs can turn into a colorful job, so long as Jaskier is along to elaborate on it later. Geralt doubts he cuts such a striking figure “swinging his sword to the leaping beast’s belly”, as Jaskier’s latest gig claims, but...
Sometimes, it is nice not to be surrounded by silence. Even if that means putting up with Jaskier’s mouth more than he would like.
Case in point:
“Geralt.” A whine, then a cough, then a passionate sniffle. “Can we slow down? Please? I’ve asked thrice already —“
Four times. Geralt’s been counting.
Gritting his teeth, he urges Roach a bit faster, conscious of the sound of struggling bard trailing a bit behind him. Jaskier makes no effort to be discreet when he moves, so Geralt can hear everything in perfect detail. The crunch of twigs beneath his heavy feet; the strain of his breaths, a bit more labored than they should be, a bit more congested; the way his chest rattles when he launches into another coughing fit. Even with a nasty cold, Jaskier’s loud.
“Just because I can’t catch it,” says Geralt once the latest fit has passed, “doesn't mean you need to cough on me.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, I’ll be sure to aim my dying gasps towards the wilderness next time.” Backtalk is a talent Jaskier can’t help himself honing, even sick as a dog. His brows, foreword with childish petulance, draw even tighter together as he wraps both arms around himself, hunching in. A shiver courses through him; Geralt distinctly hears the rattle of chattering teeth. The second Jaskier catches his eyes lingering, however, he plays up his misery for the perceived audience, pouting and wiping at his face. Geralt rolls his eyes, looking away.
Geralt understands the patterns of many beasts, but Jaskier’s language was one of the easiest to learn. The Law of Jaskier: as long as he’s talking, he’s fine.
And he hasn’t stopped talking since early this morning. No, not talking — complaining. Gods help him, Jaskier hasn’t stopped complaining.
He still stubbornly follows Geralt out on the road, however; in spite of his red nose and phelmgy cough, Jaskier refuses to be left behind. It wouldn’t be the first time he chose to linger in a particular village which Geralt went on ahead, but Jaskier insisted the last one one didn’t appeal to him — “Everyone looks half-starved there. No wonder, the food tastes like shit. At midnight I half-expect them all to gather into a mob, hunt down the nearest visiting bard, and fry him on a spit. I have just enough meat on my bones, Geralt, but I wouldn’t be tasty —“
That rant devolved into a coughing fit that left Jaskier doubled over on the side of the road for five minutes, gasping and heaving. Geralt actually had to stop and wait for him. By the time Jaskier recovered, raising himself shakily up from his knees on the dirt road, he looked a mess. His face was bright red, tears lingering at the corners of his eyes; his chest still heaved. That was the moment any sensible person would have turned back… but Jaskier simply steeled himself and carried on.
Fool of a bard, Geralt thinks now, listening to Jaskier’s heavy footsteps behind them. He’s lagging, slowing them both down. His scent has picked up something unfamiliar, an edge of sour sweetness that can only be a fever. At least he’s walking on his own… but he’s not walking fast, is the thing, and they have to walk fast if they want to reach the next town before nightfall. As it is, the prospect looks doubtful; Jaskier has slowed them enough already.
“As soon as we find a bed, I’m collapsing in it —“ Jaskier pauses to sniff again, and clear a hoarse throat. “Then not getting out for a year. A year, Geralt. You’ll have to — drag me by my feet or something.”
“Something,” Geralt agrees, his mind flashing to images of swords and steel. Oh, he’d get the damned bard out of bed.
The trail gets rougher as they make their way further into the mountains. Even Geralt stumbles in places, and he’s built for this sort of travel. He’s wearing the boots for it. Jaskier is distinctly neither of these things. As Geralt’s must focus more of his attention on their way forward, he almost misses what’s going on behind him — the harshness of his companion’s breaths growing more and more labored, the way Jaskier’s coughs pick up force and frequency, the times he must stop — physically stop — to sneeze or hack his lungs out. Geralt tries to ignore it. He really does. But the fact that he almost manages, for about fifteen minutes, is what alerts him to a much more alarming fact.
Jaskier has stopped complaining.
As soon as Geralt realizes this, he jerks to a halt on the trail. Roach follows his lead… but Jaskier, his head down, doesn’t notice. Instead, he walks straight into Roach’s backside, nearly toppling off his feet.
“Agh — damn it, Geralt.” Even his indignation sounds listless. “Give a man warning next time, will you?”
“How,” asks Geralt, through gritted teeth, “do you feel?”
Jaskier blinks, appearing to weigh the likelihood that his companion is genuinely concerned or just annoyed. Whatever he decides, he isn’t wrong. Instead of offering an answer, he makes an inarticulate ‘hmm-mmm’, shrugging his shoulders. Geralt’s hard gaze bores into him. Jaskier shrinks under it. After a moment, the pressure grows too much; he breaks. “My head is pounding, to be honest. Feels… dizzy. I don’t know. It’s cold out here.”
“You have a fever,” Geralt observes.
Jaskier raises his eyebrows, then laughs softly, like he’s not surprised. “Right, yep, that makes sense. Figures you know me better than I do…”
He breaks off into another fit of coughing, which leaves his entire body quaking. Geralt has to actually grab his shoulder to steady him, just in case Jaskier should tumble over. As soon as he’s regained some kind of composure, though, Jaskier pulls away.
“I’ll be fine.” This time, there isn’t a trace of whine in his voice; he isn’t scraping the barrel for pity, but being deadly serious. “Not too long to the next village anyways, is it? I can make it.”
Geralt eyes him for a long moment, weighing the likelihood of getting there in a reasonable amount of time with Jaskier lagging behind. It’s not good. They’ve been making poor time as it is, because he’s had to slow his pace for the damned bard, but Geralt would prefer not to camp along the road overnight. (Because he doesn’t feel like sleeping on hard ground; not because Jaskier in his current state needs a warm bath and bed. Absolutely not.)
He sighs through his teeth. “Get on the horse.”
“What?”
Either Jaskier’s fever is high enough that he can no longer comprehend the common tongue, or he really is an idiot. “The horse,” Geralt emphasizes, patting Roach’s hindquarters in preemptive apology. “If you ride her, we may make it to the nearest village before nightfall.”
This is the one and only time Geralt has ever offered his precious horse; Jaskier knows this, as well as he knows this chance will never come around again. Maybe he’s just an opportunist. Maybe the promise of a roof over his head is that tempting. Either way, Jaskier doesn’t weigh his options for long before doing the sensible thing and getting on the damn horse.
Roach whinnies, making her displeasure at the entire situation clear. Jaskier isn’t helping matters, a dead weight on her back. The horse stamps her hooves, shuffling in dismay, but a look from Geralt chastises her. For the moment, getting the bard out of the woods will have to be more important than her dignity.
No, Geralt doesn’t like it either. One look at Jaskier’s face, though — the hollow-eyed pallor, and the distance, as though he’s drifted out to sea already — reminds him why it is necessary.
This time around, they are able to set a much faster pace. Roach keeps up, just as Geralt knew she would, even carrying the burden that is Jaskier. The sick man doesn’t help his case; rather than ride, Jaskier has both arms braces against Roach’s neck, clearly focused on just keeping his balance. There’s a precarious list to his posture which Geralt keeps an eye on, but he doesn’t actually fall; every time it seems like he might, he rights himself, and a new dawn of clarity rises over his face. It lasts only a moment, of course, before fading away… but it’s something.
It isn’t long before the woods begin to thin out. Geralt tracks their location by the trees, and by the hues of purple and gold beginning to blend together on the horizon. They haven’t far to go, and enough time to do it. Unless they run into any roaming monsters on the way…
He takes his eyes off Jaskier, and there’s the mistake. He forgets. When Jaskier was complaining, at least he was present; by airing his grievances he ensured that he could not be ignored. This quiet Jaskier is a foreign one, and Geralt isn’t used to him. So, he makes a mistake. He looks away, and doesn’t look back… until a gruesome thud echoes from behind him.
Geralt stops dead in his tracks. Roach lets out a distressed whinny. Jaskier says nothing at all.
“Fuck!” Geralt hisses, rushing back to the bard’s crumpled body. Face-down in the dirt, Jaskier makes no attempt to pull himself up. When Geralt hauls him upright with both hands on his shoulders, Jaskier groans, head lolling against his own chest.
Mud stains his cheeks, and a bruise is sure to form where he hit the ground hard. Even when Geralt seizes his face, though — and damn it, he’s on fire, worse than Geralt thought — Jaskier proves incapable of focusing. An incoherent murmur passes through parted lips. It does exactly nothing to alleviate Geralt’s minor panic.
“Jaskier! Wake up!” Is he even asleep? Geralt can’t tell. “Say something!”
He means it, and the realization comes as an icy shock — never did he imagine he’d ever miss the bard’s incessant prattling. Yet in the sudden absence of Jaskier’s voice, silence rings louder than ever, and it’s smothering Geralt to death. He should have seen this, should have known, should have realized, damn it —
“Jaskier,” he hisses, hauling his companion to his feet. The full weight of Jaskier’s limp body melts against his own. When Jaskier’s burning forehead falls against Geralt’s shoulder, he shrugs, trying to rouse him… but nothing does the job. Even when Geralt, grumbling furiously, is forced to haul Jaskier back up onto Roach and leap up after him, the fever permits Jaskier to do little more than melt against him. His head lolls, eyes half-open and staring into nothing. Worse than it all, he is completely silent.
For once in his life, Geralt misses the damned bard’s complaining.
i have a phone interview tomorrow for a science job (reviewing paperwork for cGMP standards, lmao) which is literally in the same building as the corporate side of my last job (my last place had a building for the desk work and the chemistry labs, and the manufacturing plant was down the street) AND i’m writing a test scene for a potential ghostwriting contract (which I haven’t done in a year, but hey, you do what you have to do lol)! if i get both jobs, it’s going to be a BUSY month, but things are starting to look up for me!! :)
your mess is mine
This is a commission piece I wrote for the lovely @taylortut, who asked for sick Merlin being stubborn and Arthur taking care of him. I did my best to deliver ;)
(you can also read it on AO3)
Merlin was, once again, being sent out to do Gaius’ job. This time it was a wave of illness in a town not far from Camelot, but Gaius was needed in the castle, so he was sending the next best thing. Merlin didn’t really mind having to help out when Gaius needed something done, but he wasn’t technically the castle healer, even if he lived with him. And, of course, there was the added bonus of Arthur being a pain in the ass any time Merlin had to do anything that didn’t involve him.
“I’m not letting you go alone,” Arthur insisted, for about the fourth time since Merlin had brought this up with him.
“Yes, you are,” Merlin said, “It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before, and there’s no point in you catching it and bringing it back to the castle with you.”
“What if it’s Morgana?” Arthur asked.
“Why would it be Morgana?”
“Why wouldn’t it be Morgana?”
“Because she has no reason to target a random village we’ve never been to?”
“Well, if it is Morgana,” Arthur said, “It’s not like you can protect yourself if something were to go wrong--”
“Thank you for your incredible confidence in my abilities,” Merlin cut in.
“--and I wouldn’t want to have to go through the trouble of finding a new manservant on short notice,” Arthur continued, ignoring Merlin’s interruption. As usual.
“Right, of course not,” Merlin said, lifting a single eyebrow, “Wouldn’t want to inconvenience you by dying, or anything.”
“Exactly!” Arthur responded triumphantly. “So I’m coming.” Merlin frowned, but let it slide. He couldn’t actually force Arthur to stay if he was dead set on following, as much as he might want to.
“Fine,” he muttered, “but don’t get in the way.”
Within the hour, they were on their way. From what little information Gaius had gathered, they knew that this illness wasn’t deadly, so long as the patient could get treatment. The problem was simply that this town was small enough that it didn’t have a proper physician who could handle what they were dealing with, so they’d sent word to Camelot to beg for help, and in turn Gaius had sent Merlin. He’d do what he could when they got there, maybe stay a few days to make sure the patients took a turn for the better, and then they’d go home. Easy.
Merlin knew it was something he could have handled by himself, but he was secretly pleased with the knightly entourage Arthur had insisted on bringing along. Sure, he didn’t necessarily believe this incident was Morgana related, but it was nice to have his friends with him anyway. They could be infuriating, but making this journey alone would be far less entertaining. They bantered back and forth around him as they rode, helping the time to pass far more quickly than it would have if he was on his own.
It was early evening by the time they reached the village, but not quite dark yet, which meant Merlin still had some time to get started. He got himself set up in the inn, but was gathering his supplies and heading out before the others had even finished climbing the stairs.
“Are you the physician from Camelot?” the woman that greeted him at the door of the infirmary asked.
“That’s me,” Merlin responded easily. She gestured him in and he stepped past her, looking around for a place to set down his supplies.
“We’ve been putting the patients up in the room just through there,” she said, nodding her head towards a doorway in the far wall. Merlin could hear muffled coughing from inside. She stepped up and opened the door for him, leading him through to the makeshift sickbay. The room was filled with beds, separated as much as they could be in the small but crowded space. The people laid up in them looked miserable; most were asleep, though fitfully, but the ones who were awake were shaky and coughing harshly. Merlin winced in sympathy at an especially rough sounding cough to his left.
“I’ll just get started here, if that’s alright with you,” he said to the woman. She smiled at him kindly.
“The sooner the better,” she said. “I have a bit of business to tend to, but I’ll just be in the front room if you need any assistance.”
“I’ll have more than enough assistance in about a minute, probably,” Merlin said. Just as he said it, the door creaked open again and Gwaine poked his head in. He turned back almost immediately.
“Found him!” Gwaine called behind him, and then the door opened wider as the rest of the knights piled into the room, followed closely by Arthur.
“See?” Merlin flashed a grin at the woman, who looked surprised at seeing so many people suddenly in her infirmary.
“Well, you won’t be needing me then,” she noted. “But don’t get too loud in here, many of the patients are sleeping, and they need the rest. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Merlin agreed readily. She smiled again and ducked out of the room.
“You could have told us where you were going,” Arthur grumbled as soon as the woman had left. Merlin shrugged.
“I assumed you could figure it out,” he said, “I mean, I came here to help with a plague. This is where the sick people are. It’s not too hard to put the clues together.”
Gwaine snorted from behind them. Arthur just rolled his eyes.
“Just tell us what you need us to do,” he said instead of quipping back, for perhaps the first time since they’d known each other. Maybe for once, he recognized that there were people who needed help more than they needed their bickering. At that realization, Merlin sobered up a bit too, nodding towards the patient just beside him. They seemed to have just woken up.
“Come help me see what we’re dealing with,” he said, turning to the patient. Arthur followed suit.
Over the next while, Merlin checked temperatures and handed out supplies. He directed Arthur and the knights to wherever he thought they were needed, and they let him take charge with minimal ribbing. They settled into an easy rhythm. By the time night had well and truly fallen, they’d made good progress. Even so, when Merlin looked up and took in the room, he knew there was so much more to do, and the sooner he could get it done the sooner these people would be back on their feet.
The knights filtered out slowly, heading back to the inn to get some well deserved rest. Gwaine clapped him on the back as he passed, muttering some joke about not staying out too late. Arthur stayed longer than the rest, hovering around Merlin and whatever patient he was working on, under the half-hearted pretense that he didn’t want to leave Merlin to walk back by himself. After another hour, though, even Arthur couldn’t hide his yawning.
“You’re no help here if you pass out on top of a patient,” Merlin griped at him. “Go back to the inn. I’ll finish up and head back in a bit.”
“Merlin--” Arthur started, but Merlin cut him off.
“Morgana isn’t here, she would have done something by now if she was. I don’t need an armed guard to walk to the inn, it’s barely across the street. Go. You’re useless if you fall asleep here, and I’m not about to carry you back if you do.”
“Well, that’s no way to talk to a prince,” Arthur muttered, looking mildly chastised, but there was no heat behind it.
“No, but it is the way you tell a friend to take care of himself.”
“Oh, coming from you?” Merlin chuckled at that, despite himself.
“Get out of here,” he said, “I’ve got more patients to tend to.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes and gave him a once-over, glancing between him and the door, as if debating whether it was worth it to do what he said. Merlin gave him a pointed look when he stifled another yawn. Arthur shot back a glare, mouth twisted in apparent displeasure at the thought of leaving Merlin to fend for himself, but eventually his exhaustion won out. He headed for the door, and Merlin relaxed a little. One stubborn patient put to rest, only a countless number more to go. He eyed the darkening room critically, lit a few candles, and got back to work.
The next few days passed in similar fashion. Merlin spent the day in the infirmary, stayed later than he probably should, and collapsed into bed for an hour or two of sleep before the cycle started again. The morning of their last appointed day in the village found Merlin stretched out in his bed, blinking awake to the sun and a steadily mounting headache. What he wanted to do, almost desperately, was roll over and go back to sleep. But he could hear someone moving in the room next to his, and he knew he had to get up and put himself together enough to get back to work. He groaned softly to himself at the thought, but pushed his blankets away and sat up anyway.
Even as he took a moment to rub at his forehead in an attempt to massage the pain away, Merlin knew he couldn’t spend too much time dawdling. There were still patients stuck in the infirmary who needed his help, and he didn’t want to leave them waiting if he could help it.
A quick knock on the door startled him out of his thoughts, bringing everything back into focus. He still hadn’t gotten out of the bed. He wasn’t entirely sure how long he’d been sitting there.
“Get up, Merlin, it’s morning,” Arthur called through the door. Merlin started to respond, but Arthur’s footsteps were already retreating, towards the inn’s tavern if he could hazard a guess. The knights were probably already there. Merlin forced himself up, trying to ignore the fatigue that slowed his movements.
By the time he’d gotten himself dressed, he felt better, if only slightly. The throbbing at his temples had faded to a more manageable ache, and he felt more awake now that he was up and moving. That was good, because he knew he had more work to do, and he didn’t want Arthur to catch on and worry him to death before he could finish. Besides, he was just tired. He’d finish up early tonight and get some sleep, and he’d be good as new for their ride back to Camelot. No big deal, and no need for his friends to worry about it.
He shuffled down to the tavern stifling a yawn. Percival looked up from shoveling what looked like egg and potatoes into his mouth when Merlin sat down.
“You alright, Merlin?” he asked, giving Merlin a once-over.
“Just tired,” Merlin deflected. He caught Arthur giving him a suspicious look out of the corner of his eye. He ignored it. He was fine, and he didn’t need Arthur trying to fix something that didn’t need fixing. The others seemed more than satisfied with his answer, digging back into their food eagerly. Merlin picked at his own food for a few moments, but decided in the end he’d rather get down to the infirmary and away from scrutiny as fast as possible.
“I’m heading back to the infirmary,” he said as he got up, offering no other explanation. He all but fled the room, wanting to get away from Arthur’s irritating scrutiny. The same woman from before nodded to him as he entered the infirmary, heading straight for the back room. The sluggishness he’d felt as he woke up was easily ignored now that he could give himself a task, and he got right back to work without a second thought. The knights arrived not too long after, and he pointedly ignored their glances as he directed them to where they should be working.
It wasn’t until hours later, when he thought about taking a break--just sitting down for a moment--that Merlin realized maybe this wasn’t just the lack of sleep getting to him. He paused briefly after finishing up with the man he’d been working on and glanced longingly at the chair beside the bed, wondering if he could just rest for a minute. He was so tired. His head was still pounding, and now that he was concentrating on himself, he could feel the itch that threatened a cough in the back of his throat.
“Merlin?” Arthur’s voice startled him, and he realized belatedly that he’d been staring at the chair for longer than strictly necessary. He shook himself out of it and forced himself to look up, catching Arthur’s eye.
“You sure you’re alright?” Arthur asked, quietly enough that the other knights wouldn’t hear it. The naked concern in his voice was surprising, for once not covered up by teasing insults or bravado. It threw Merlin off enough that he almost wanted to admit that he wasn’t; he thought that honestly, if he sat down right now, he might not get back up for a while.
He’d been pushing himself too hard. He was well aware of that, having stayed up helping patients well into the early hours of the morning nearly every night, barely stopping to rest. He wasn’t even entirely sure he’d eaten anything last night. He definitely hadn’t been taking the proper precautions to protect himself from the illness he’d been trying to treat.
Which actually made things make a lot more sense, Merlin realized when the cough threatened again. He must’ve caught it as he was working. Maybe that meant he should take it easy, like he would recommend to anyone else in this situation; but then again, he wasn’t anyone else. People still needed his help, and it’s not like he could transmit it to the patients anyway, because they already had it. So he could just keep working through it, right? It wasn’t that bad yet. With that in mind, he plastered on his best innocent expression and flashed a smile at Arthur.
“I’m fine,” he assured him, clearing his throat quietly to cover up a cough. As long as he kept his distance from Arthur and the other knights while they worked, they’d be fine too. He could still finish what he started, and he could rest later.
So Merlin ignored the fatigue dragging at him, pushing himself to stay focused and keep moving. He ignored the way his stomach rolled sickeningly when Gwaine suggested they break for a meal. He barely took notice of Arthur watching him, too intently concentrated on acting normal.
“Merlin!” Arthur called from across the room, forcing Merlin to look up. His eyes narrowed like he was analyzing him, and Merlin opened his mouth to respond, only to be caught off guard by the coughing fit he’d been forcing back all afternoon. He doubled over, feeling like he was hacking up a lung, and realized belatedly that maybe this was worse than he thought. He fought to get himself back under control, and by the time the coughing subsided, the knights had gathered around him with Arthur right up front.
“I knew you weren’t fine,” Arthur said. Merlin straightened and tried to shake his head in disagreement. He regretted it when his vision swam out of focus briefly.
“No, no,” he muttered, voice more hoarse than he thought he should sound, “I‘m okay, I swear.”
“No, you’re not,” Arthur insisted, “you’re burning up, and you’re an idiot for ignoring it.”
“That’s rude,” Merlin protested mildly. Arthur was right, though, as much as he hated to admit it. He’d been so focused on staying focused that he hadn’t even noticed how his vision had gone hazy, how his hands shook.
“Come sit down, you look like you’re about to fall over,” Arthur said, keeping a hand on Merlin’s arm when he swayed slightly. Merlin pulled back, though it was half-hearted.
“Arthur, I still have to--”
“No, Merlin, let the knights handle it.” Arthur guided him to a chair, and reached for the pitcher of water on the table next to it, pouring some into a cup he’d produced from somewhere. Merlin was finding it harder to keep up with what was going on around him.
“We’ve been watching you work for days now,” he continued, pressing the cup into Merlin’s trembling hands and coaching him to take a sip. “They know what they’re doing. They’ll finish up, and I’ll take you back to the inn and make sure you get some actual sleep.”
“Arthur,” Merlin practically whined, but there was no real force behind it anymore.
“No arguing,” Arthur said, as if reading his thoughts. “You clearly can’t take care of yourself, so I’m going to have to do it for you. I’m still the prince, so I will make that an order if I have to.”
Merlin sagged in the chair and resorted to just nodding. It was like everything he’d been pushing back had hit him all at once as soon as he sat down, and he found himself not wanting to argue the idea of resting. Arthur grinned at Merlin’s agreement and clapped him on the shoulder, nudging his hand to get him to take another drink of the water. He turned away to say something to Percival quietly, and then he was back, helping Merlin to his feet and back to the inn. By the time they made it to the room, Merlin was so exhausted he all but collapsed onto the bed.
“Thanks, Arthur,” he murmured, already half asleep.
“You’re too much trouble,” Arthur grumbled, but when Merlin cracked an eye open, he caught the smile on Arthur’s face. He huffed out a breath, settled further into the mattress, and let his eyes close again. He trusted the knights, his friends, to take care of whatever else needed to be done before they headed back to Camelot, and he trusted Arthur to take care of him until then too. With that thought in mind, he finally allowed himself to drift off into sleep.
Commissions ~ AO3 ~ Ko-Fi
HI I LOVE YOUR WRITING??? Your TMA fics are giving me LIFE. i read and reread every single one. You characterize everyone so well and I just love how you write!! <3
YOU’RE SO SWEET!! Thank you so much 💙💙💙 I’m relieved that the characterization good since I’m only near the end of S2 so far
sooo I might have drawn a scene from @taylortut’s fic because good omen whump is all I need (click for better quality)