Jaskier stirs honey into his tea, water splashing over the sides. Aiden watches him in bemusement from his spot on the couch in Jaskier’s chambers. “Not even a honey, I’m home?” he asks.
Jaskier supposes he could have given a greeting before he got home and went to make tea immediately, but this is an emergency of the highest level. He gestures at his throat. “I’m losing my voice,” he whispers hoarsely.
Aiden’s eyes widen, and he moves to get up from the couch, but Jaskier waves him off violently. Aiden settles back down with a huff. “Just because my leg is broken doesn’t mean I’m an invalid.”
Jaskier spares him the sternest glare he can muster up, but it’s not much when his heart is threatening to escape his rib cage because of the panic. The bardic competition is two days away, and he knew he shouldn’t have over done it with his practicing, but he simply has to beat Valdo. Valdo will crow about it and hold it over his head for the entire year if he doesn’t win, and what sort of an example will that set for his students?
“Come here,” Aiden says, patting the spot next to him.
Jaskier takes his mug and obeys, sitting down carefully so he doesn’t jostle Aiden’s leg. “I should really get Shani to come in and see how it’s healing,” he rasps.
Aiden shushes him, like Jaskier’s seen Geralt do to Roach a million times, and it’s hard not to take offense at being treated like a spooked animal. Aiden sets a hand over his heart, and Jaskier realizes he can hear how fast it’s beating, and his harsh breathing, too. Jaskier takes deliberate breaths until his pulse has slowed at least a few degrees.
“It’ll be all right,” Aiden says, but it’s a meaningless platitude.
Jaskier shakes his head. “I’m going to be laughed right out of Oxenfurt.”
Aiden pokes him in his side, more firmly this time. “Stop talking.”
Jaskier sticks his tongue out at him. The time they’ve spent together while Aiden’s been healing from his broken leg has made them much closer than Jaskier would have anticipated, and he leans into his side now, letting Aiden wrap an arm around him.
He bites his lip as he thinks about what he should do now. Call his performance off? He doesn’t want to just give up, but he’s completely and utterly worthless right now. He’s not even going to be able to teach his classes tomorrow. Fuck, he needs to let his assistants know.
Aiden must be able to feel his tension rising, because he tightens his grip on Jaskier. “Why don’t you get some sleep?” he murmurs. “Things always look better after a nap.”
It's a chore for Jaskier to not pull out his hair. “I’m not a child,” he whispers indignantly.
Aiden doesn’t let him go. “Didn’t say you were. Look, I’ll do it with you. Easy as pie.”
Aiden leans his head against Jaskier’s shoulder, and Jaskier does have to admit that Aiden feels very nice pressed against him. Muscular but lithe in a way Jaskier doesn’t get to enjoy very much anymore.
He finally settles back into the embrace and lets himself drift off, even though he still has no idea what he’s going to do about everything…
His nose twitches at the smell of something burning, and he cracks his eyes open to see Aiden by his fireplace, stirring something in a pot. “Trying to concoct something to just put me out of my misery now?” Jaskier asks, but he’s not sure that Aiden can even understand half of it with how he croaks each word.
Aiden scoffs. “I know a thing or two. This will help your voice.”
Jaskier tries not to get his hopes up too much. He’s had enough of Geralt’s mixtures to know that they don’t always do what they’re supposed to. “You should be resting. Your leg is never going to heal if you don’t let it.”
Aiden makes a talking motion with his hand. “You’re sounding like Lambert now, and that’s not a compliment.”
Jaskier scowls at him and gets up from the couch to peer into his bubbling pot. He wrinkles his nose. “Tell me there’s not drowner brains in there,” he whispers in outrage.
“It’s perfectly safe, and that’s all you need to know.” Aiden shoots him a winning smile.
Dear gods, this is going to be the death of him.
“I just want your voice back,” Aiden says, in a small voice. “I know… I know how it can be to lose something inherent to you.”
Jaskier looks down at him, frozen. For all of his posturing and story telling, he’s not that great when people try to be vulnerable with him, but he tries to paste on an encouraging face. Aiden swallows hard. “I was…captured, for a bit.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, I know how it feels.”
Aiden scoops up his solution into a mug and offers it to Jaskier. Jaskier peers down into it doubtfully, but really, he doesn’t have anything to lose and everything to gain if it does give him his voice back. He waits for the steam to stop billowing from it before he takes a cautious sip. It sears his throat going down, and he has to concentrate so he doesn't gag.
Aiden’s watching him intently, though, so he downs the rest of it before he can talk himself out of it, breathing through his mouth as he tries to cool it down. His throat is in fiery agony, and he puts his hands around it until, suddenly, it’s like someone has iced it down for him, unbearable in a different way. He wonders for a second if Geralt was right, and he never should have let a cat witcher into his home.
“What—” he starts, but stops when he registers that his voice came out perfectly normal.
His eyes widen, and Aiden grins back at him. He immediately goes through a set of scales, laughing in sheer exhilaration. “I could kiss you,” he declares, spinning back around to look at Aiden.
“I don’t think Lambert would appreciate that.”
Jaskier lets out a gleeful exhale. “I’ll just have to think of another way to show my undying gratitude, then.”
He puts a hand on his chin. “I know! You’ll be the hero of my next song.”
Aiden has a startled look in his eyes now, but that’s what Geralt looked like at first, too.
injured/healer role reversal, written for @whataboutthebard
Lambert/Jaskier, G
Jaskier holds Lambert’s handkerchief up to his nose, trying to stem the bleeding. His lip feels like it’s split, and he may or may not have a black eye. Looking at his reflection seems like a daunting task, so he stays on the bed instead.
He scowls as he thinks of the man who decked him for daring to sing something about witchers. It had started as a shouting match before devolving into a fist fight that Jaskier lost very badly before Lambert thundered downstairs, his expression drawn and tight.
One look from Lambert had him grabbing his lute by the neck and scampering upstairs, and now he’s just sitting here, waiting for Lambert to get back. He feels like he’s eight years old, waiting for his father to reprimand him after he’s done something wrong again. The thought makes his stomach turn, and he focuses on wiping the blood away from under his nose instead.
There’s a rattling of a key in the lock, then the door swings open and slams shut. Jaskier flinches. It’s impossible not to notice the blood on Lambert’s knuckles as he comes and settles on the bed next to Jaskier, his solid warmth a comforting presence pressed against Jaskier’s side. “Here,” Lambert says, the gentleness of his voice a direct contrast to everything else about him as he tugs the handkerchief away from Jaskier. “Let me see.”
Lambert’s eyebrows are pinched together as he takes Jaskier’s nose between his fingers and sets it, making Jaskier cry out. “A little warning, maybe?"
Lambert pats his cheek. “You probably deserved it.”
Lambert dips the cloth into the wash basin Jaskier has on the floor next to him, wetting it before he straightens back up to wipe at Jaskier’s nose. “That was stupid,” Lambert says.
“What? Fighting a man who already has a bad opinion of witchers and is probably gathering an angry mob as we speak?”
Scowling, Lambert says, “No, all your songs about us. No one else makes us out to be heroes, you know.”
Jaskier sniffs as Lambert starts dabbing at a cut on his lip. “That’s why I have to.”
Lambert clenches his teeth, and they sit in silence as he finishes his work. When all the blood is wiped away, he brings gentle fingers up to Jaskier’s cheek, stroking over it before moving up to brush his hair off his forehead.
Jaskier clears his throat. “At least this is a change for once. Usually I’m the one patching you up.”
Lambert glares at him. “And it should have stayed that way. I don’t need you to be making me worry about you.”
Jaskier's chest clenches at Lambert's admission; that someone is worrying about him. He looks down at Lambert, at the grim set of his mouth and the way his eyes are darting around, looking everywhere but at Jaskier. He leans forward to brush a kiss against the corner of Lambert’s mouth, making it twitch even though Lambert maintains his scowl.
“I can tell you want to smile,” Jaskier murmurs.
“I’m still mad at you.”
Humming as he guides Lambert to lay back against the bed, he arranges Lambert’s arms around him and settles his head on his chest. Lambert strokes his hair for a bit before he clears his throat.
“Tomorrow, we’re teaching you how to throw a punch.”
