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.”