Chapter Text
“Jaskier!”
“What?” Geralt was exasperated, but what else was new? Jaskier had spent the last fortnight lagging behind him and not for the first time, he cursed the bard for galavanting drunk in the evenings and flirting with men and women alike in lieu of sleeping.
“You’re falling behind.” Without waiting for his excuses, he directed Roach to walk on. Maybe it would be better to camp in the forest and force the fool into a good night’s rest so they could make better time in the morning. Whatever grumbling Jaskier was doing behind his back even his Witcher’s ears couldn’t pick up on it and he let it be, choosing a clearing large enough for the three of them.
“Should we not push on to the village?” Geralt raised a brow in question.
“Why? So you can wile away my hours in the arms of a stranger?” He set about making their fire, refusing to look at the damage he knew his words had wrought; the whiff of sour disappointment was enough.
“What do you know of how I spend my time?” Geralt tapped the side of his nose.
“Enough.” Huffy and pouting, Jaskier didn’t deign to meet his eyes over the fire for the rest of the evening, instead turning in early on the cold ground with naught but his bed roll. It only served to keep them both awake and even when Geralt tugged him close, the chattering of his teeth didn’t cease. When morning came he barely kept his feet after yanked up, grabbing hold of the witcher’s arm for balance until the apparent dizzy spell had passed.
“Sorry. Don’t know…” His breath hitched when Geralt checked for fever and found none.
“You just need to warm up.”
Jaskier didn’t argue with Geralt’s assessment, just followed doggedly after packing his kit messily and tying it to the saddle. His fingers were sluggish and sore, likely from long nights spent separating patrons from their coin with charm and song. Jaskier knew the village Aldermans were always stingy old bastards who refused to give Geralt the advertised price after he solved their every problem and he wanted to pull his weight, supplement their income with his talents when he could. Prove that he wasn’t just a useless tagalong wasting resources and time.
But he was tired. Exhausted really and he’d been looking forward to catching up on his rest at their next stop, not shivering miserably through the damp. Sleep was hard to come by aching as he was from keeping up with Geralt’s pace and stamina. Witchers didn’t tend to sleep very long and camp tended to be set up late only to be broken early.
You begged for this.
So he was keeping up, despite the weariness weighing down his limbs, settling heavy in the heart of him. What hurt more were Geralt’s accusations. That Jaskier cared only for frivolities and drink when truly he was working his fingers to the bone playing late into the evenings when they weren’t sleeping rough to be able to tip his earnings into Geralt’s pouch to cover his half of the provisions. It stung to know Geralt thought he only wasted his time. He may smell of lady’s perfume but only because flirting drew more of their fair attentions which in turn increased profit.
He was too tired for anything else.
Drained.
Fatigued in that bone deep way that made your whole self shake. In the way that felt like you couldn’t get enough breath in your lungs no matter how deep you inhaled. Made your body ache and the room spin with the lack.
Jaskier was trembling and cold, feet twisting up beneath him on the path in an attempt to trip him up. He stopped, held a hand over his burning eyes only to come to staring up at the sky. He must’ve collapsed but he couldn’t remember through the pain in his head and he touched away the sweat gathering on his face. Above him, the canopy swirled, sickening, and he pressed the back of one quaking hand against his mouth as his stomach lurched painfully. Roach’s steps were long gone and Jaskier wondered if he’d finally been left behind. The very idea of trying to get up brought tears to the surface where they streamed down his cheeks and into the soft hair at his temples. If he could just get some sleep, just a bit.
You won’t get it lying in the road.
Getting himself under control, Jaskier forced himself up and staggered directly into Geralt.
“Sh’put a bell on you…” murmured low and slurred, syllables tripping up on his tongue.
“Jaskier?” There was concern buried in the gruffness of his voice and the bard’s breath lodged in his throat. He was so tired. “Tired?” He must have spoken out loud; rude of his mouth to do so without express permission. His vision blurred and he lost his remaining balance, tipping most all of his weight into Geralt, bracing his uncoordinated body against that wall of muscle. “What’s wrong? You’re trembling.” Brusque, and again, a broad palm ghosted against his skin, searching in vain for an answer that made sense.
“Tired. Insistent, trying to make it make sense, the rest of his words caught up and caged somewhere else. He was slipping down Geralt’s chest, reeling, heaving for air, and before he could hit the dirt again he was lifted, pressed so close he got lost in a heavy heart beat.
Warmth enveloped him and a heavy arm slung over his chest prevented him from moving, keeping him pinned and calm. Jaskier didn’t remember how he got here in this room with its ceiling of naked beams dancing with shadow cast by a low burning fire or being stripped of his brocade doublet and matching trousers. When he strained to get a better look he was rewarded with a low growl from the witcher cozied up next to him.
“Go back to sleep, Jaskier.”
Later, bathed and dressed and fed, they were on the road and it was lovely to have the spring back in his step as he skipped along beside Roach, annoying Geralt with limerick and rhyme and taking great advantage of his lenience.
“Next time, tell me, Jaskier. So I don’t need to scrape you off the ground.”
“Tell you what?”
“Hm.” The bard could hear the frustration in that simple hum. “That you need rest. Or coin. I figured out what you were really doing when I paid for the room.” He stopped. “And saw your hands.”
“Ah.” Jaskier let his steps carry him forward until Geralt could no longer see his face and let the sorrow of being misjudged well in his voice. “You said you knew so I left it at that.”
“I didn’t know all.” A large hand lighted on his shoulder like a butterfly and lifted away as quickly. “It was wrong of me to assume.”
“And?” He allowed himself to grin, cocky and delighted to be so useful and recognized for it at last.
“And. For pulling your weight.” Jaskier glowed, retrieving his lute from its case and strumming a joyful chord.