Imagine if Jaskier got a really bad cold. He doesn’t have a fever, and he knows this isn’t going to kill him, but that doesn’t make it magically go away. His throat feels like he tried to swallow Geralt’s swords, his nose is dripping so much snot that he’s had to give up one of his old chemises for a handkerchief, and it’s been steadily drizzling for the past week, which means all of his clothes are thoroughly wet.
But it’s fine, it is, he can deal with all that until he wakes up on the fourth day of his cold to find his voice is gone. And Geralt just smirks, reminding him again that he should have invested in a thick warm cloak rather than a new doublet. Which is entirely unhelpful, and Jaskier would love to tell Geralt where he can shove his opinion, but limited as he is he sends Geralt a crude gesture and just silently follows after Roach.
Geralt is nice enough, though, to give the bard his blanket that night. Which is…something, even if Jaskier is still mad at the witcher for finding pleasure at his expense. It takes him ages to settle into a comfortable position on his bedroll, the wetness of the ground making the fabric damp, until he finally manages to fall asleep even with all the aches and pains he’s feeling.
And then he dreams of the Djinn, of trying to speak and hot blood spilling from his lips. He wakes with a scream that isn’t a scream, fingers scrambling over his throat, his mouth, and he can practically taste the warm viscous substance. He claws at it, trying to get rid of it, to make it stop—
Strong hands grab his own, gently lowering them until Jaskier’s digits spasmed, clinging tightly to familiar black fabric. He felt arms around him, tucking him close to Geralt’s chest, whispered words telling him that he was okay, he was safe, to breathe.
And Jaskier, chest suddenly burning, gasped greedily for air, large inhales broken up by silent sobs. He wasn’t sure how long it took to calm down, only aware that when he woke up, it was much later in the day than he and Geralt usually broke camp, and he must have fallen asleep in the Witcher’s arms.
Embarrassed, Jaskier tried to apologize, frowning when nothing came out still. But Geralt simply shook his head, telling him it was fine as he began to break camp, Jaskier rushing to his feet to help.
And Jaskier shivered as he reluctantly packed away the bedding, wondering if he could just wear the blanket as a cape, when he felt something warm and heavy land on his shoulders. Freezing in shock, Jaskier had just enough time to process he was wearing Geralt’s own pitch black cloak before he was lifted onto Roach.
The bard let out a silent squeak, feeling rather dizzy at the sudden movement combined with the sensation of cotton stuffed in his head. He didn’t have long to process his new position, as Geralt hoisted himself up behind the bard. The witcher grabbed the reins, warm arms firmly pulling Jaskier towards the Witcher’s chest with a command to sleep.
And Jaskier still hated getting sick, and would love to never lose his voice again, but when that night Geralt silently curled up behind him, arm loosely wrapped around the bard’s chest to ensure he could act at the first sign of a nightmare, well.
The bard concluded that being sick every once in a while wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
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