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Geralt was finding it hard to look away from the figure across the camp. Though, he supposed, they could hardly be called a figure. He let out a sigh as his eyes were drawn yet again to the shivering pile of furs.
“Jaskier, this is dramatic, even for you.” The bard was laid as close to the fire as he could be, without setting the furs piled on top of him ablaze. The Witcher didn’t get a reply, and though Jaskier hadn’t said more than five words to him since they set up camp it still took Geralt a little by surprise.
Geralt rolled his eyes, finishing the bowl of stew in his hands.
The cause of all this had occurred a couple of hours ago, they had been walking through the forest for three days, and were still half a day walk from the next town. This meant that Jaskier had been complaining for the past two days about how he couldn’t wait to get to the next inn and have a nice bath.
As usual, Geralt had kept quiet as the bard rambled, the words mixed in with a gentle string of notes and the odd melody as Jaskier worked on composing his next piece. Though he would never admit it, Geralt had grown quite fond of the noise that accompanied Jaskier on their travels, but when all he had heard was complaining even Geralt was at his limit. That’s why when he noticed Jaskier about to step into a puddle he failed to warn the other, instead choosing to take that moment to give Roach a scratch on the nose.
The sound of Jaskier’s lute hitting the forest floor had Geralt turning back though and he halted his steps at the sight. What had appeared to be a simple puddle, had been in fact a waist-deep pool, filled with winter-chilled water. Roach stopped her steps and Geralt let go of her reins in favour of offering a hand to the bard. Jaskier shot a glare at the Witcher, choosing to crawl out of the water himself.
“You knew that was about to happen, didn’t you?” His tone accusatory as he bent down to pick up his lute, checking it over. Geralt returned to his horse, patting her neck before picking up her reins once more.
“Maybe if you used your eyes more than your mouth Jaskier, you would’ve spotted it for yourself.” He answered before carrying on his walk. Even without turning around he could see the expression on Jaskier’s face, the mortified gasp being one that Geralt was familiar with. He did feel a slight tinge of guilt over Jaskier’s condition, if he had known how deep the pool was, he would’ve warned the other; but his statement did hold true. He glanced back towards his companion, and when he noticed that Jaskier was still following him he continued on. It wasn’t until a few minutes later, when the silence of the forest settled on Geralt’s shoulders that the slight guilt in the Witcher’s chest grew.
“You’re angry with me.” He said as he turned again to face the other. Jaskier looked miserable, his sick trousers, which served little purpose for keeping the bard warm were sticking to his legs, the moisture that had mostly avoided his doublet had now soaked in, meaning that it was mostly damp, and likely very uncomfortable.
“You don’t think?” Jaskier had simply replied, arms folded across his chest. Geralt could see the way that the other was shivering as they stood, and glanced up at the sky. They probably could’ve made it to the next town by just after nightfall if they had kept moving, but Geralt couldn’t force the bard to keep going in that state.
“We’ll make camp for tonight.” He stated simply, tossing Roach’s reins over a nearby tree and emptying the saddles bags of what they would need. They usually had a bit of a routine in place when it came to setting up camp, being that Jaskier would fetch firewood while Geralt did everything else. Jaskier didn’t seem to want to join in today though, setting himself on a log close to Roach and pulling his knees to his chest. Geralt could hardly blame him though, now that the Witcher took a better look, Jaskier’s lips had a slight blue tinge to them, and he was shivering a lot, more than usual for the mousy-haired bard. Geralt let out a quiet sigh, before tossing one of their furs over to him.
“I’ll fetch some firewood.” He informed the other, having already turned to collect some.
Jaskier watched Geralt go, as he gratefully wrapped the fur around himself, though he knew it wouldn’t do him much good while he still had his wet clothes on.
Geralt soon returned and set about making the fire, which Jaskier soon moved towards as soon as it was lit.
As Geralt retrieved the ingredients for the night’s meal he tossed Jaskier another fur, to which the bard muttered a small “Thanks.” He had removed his wet clothes and hung them close to the fire to dry. He wrapped himself tighter in the furs and laid down on his bedroll, despite this Geralt could see that the other was still shivering. With another sigh Geralt retrieved their final fur from Roach’s saddle bags and laid it over Jaskier before sitting back down next to the stew pot.
He knew that Jaskier was still angry with him by the way he turned over when they made eye contact.
As Geralt stirred the stew bubbling over the fire he found himself missing the singing that usually occurred during the task.
Geralt placed his bowl down on the floor next to his feet. “You should still eat.” He directed towards the lump, but when he still didn’t get any sort of reply he stood up, heading across the camp. The other surely couldn’t be asleep when he was putting on the show of shivering so violently.
“Jaskier.” He called, squatting down in front of the other. He wasn’t exactly an expert on humans, but he knew that something definitely wasn’t right. Jaskier was asleep, and still shivering, but his forehead was slick with sweat and his cheeks were rosy red.
“Jaskier?” He called again, pulling off a glove and reaching out to place the back of his fingers on his forehead. A frown formed across the Witcher’s face. He was hot, very hot, and yet the bard was still shivering as though he was neck-deep in an ice lake.
“Jaskier!” He tried again, and this time he got a response. A small groan came from the other and Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes met Geralt’s.
Geralt let out a small sigh of relief. “Jaskier, you’re hot.” He informed the bard, which pulled a very small smile to the other’s face.
“I appreciate the compliment Geralt, but I don’t think it’s very appropriate when I’m about to freeze to death.” So at least he was still able to think of a quick retort Geralt reassured himself.
“No Jaskier, you’re burning up.” Jaskier blinked, holding his eyes shut for several seconds before opening them again, there was a faint haze to his gaze, like he wasn’t quite there, stuck between a dream world and the real world.
“It’ll be fine once I’ve slept.” Jaskier reassured softly before closing his eyes again. Geralt watched as Jaskier was pulled back under into sleep. After the many years of travelling together, Geralt knew when to trust Jaskier’s words. This wasn’t one of those times. He let out a quiet “Fuck.” As he tried to think of the reason for Jaskier’s condition. He racked his brain, but he was more knowledgeable about monsters, than humans and their fragile bodies.
He removed the top-most fur and draped it over Roach’s back. Being that bundled up when he was so hot couldn’t be doing him many favours. Roach nuzzled her face under Geralt’s arm, causing him to pet her on the nose. He looked down at the shivering form of Jaskier. He sat down beside him, reaching for the waterskin that sat a few feet from them.
“Jaskier, wake up.” He lifted Jaskier’s upper body so that he was leaning against the Witcher’s side. He pulled the lid off and held the opening to Jaskier’s lips. The bard let out a small whine, before taking a drink. A small hum escaped his lips before he took another sip. Geralt watched, moving the vessel away once Jaskier seemed to have his fill. He noted how cold Jaskier’s hands feel as he shifted their weight into a more comfortable position.
He vaguely recalled a faint memory from when he was a child, his mother scolding him after he’d come in from playing, he’d not come in as soon as the cool spring shower had started, instead opting to splash around in the newly formed puddles. As soon as he had come in his mother had run him a hot bath to ‘get the chills from his bones’ and then ordered him into bed. He wondered if this was what was wrong with Jaskier and felt a stab of guilt. Was this his fault? For not warning Jaskier about the puddle, and then not immediately getting him dry. He gave his head a small shake, taking the blame for his ailment wouldn’t help Jaskier get better any quicker.
He whistled Roach over to them, smiling faintly as he felt her warm breath ruffle his hair. He gave her side a quick pat in praise before going into one of her bags and pulling out a cloth. He wet the cloth with some of the water from the waterskin and wiped away the sweat the was collecting across Jaskier’s brow. It was not a bath, but surely it couldn’t make things worse.
Geralt didn’t realise how long he had spent nursing Jaskier until he spotted the first hints of sunlight hitting the canopy above them.
When Jaskier felt the sun warming his face the next morning he blinked his eyes open. He felt as though Roach had finally decided she’d had enough of his singing and trampled him half to death. He shifted slightly, the bedroll underneath him feeling strange, hard, and yet a lot more comfortable. It wasn’t until his bedroll moved that he lifted his head enough to see that he hasn’t in fact laying on a bedroll but had his back against Geralt’s chest. His mouth was dry, and he could feel where the fur was uncomfortably sticking to his bare chest.
“Geralt?” He called, turning around slightly so that he could see the Witcher’s face better. The Witcher let out a “Hmm.” As he was stirred from his semi-meditative state.
“Jaskier, you’re okay.” The Witcher answered softly, reaching up to brush Jaskier’s hair from his forehead, at the same time checking that the bard’s temperature had dropped to a more normal temperature. He let his hand drop when he determined that the temperature was back to normal. Jaskier lifted a hand of his own to wipe the sleep out of his eyes but didn’t show any signs of moving away from Geralt. He was soaking up the gentle affection like a sunflower on a bright summer’s day. He opened his mouth, but Geralt interrupted him, which was a rare occurrence.
“I’m sorry.” The Witcher told the other, and though the Witcher’s golden eyes were averted Jaskier knew it was sincere, and it brought a soft smile to his face.
“Thanks Geralt.” He responded, planting a gentle pat on the centre of the Witcher’s chest. The Witcher took Jaskier by surprise yet again by wrapping an arm around the bard, holding him closer than they had been just seconds before. Maybe not in a physical sense, but Jaskier couldn’t help but feel warmth in his chest at the open affection Geralt was displaying. Geralt the Witcher, who wasn’t supposed to feel any emotions. Jaskier let his head rest back against his chest and he let out a soft sigh of contentment.
It wasn’t until they had packed up camp and were on their way to the next town that Jaskier’s brow furrowed slightly, and his fingers stilled on the strings of his lute.
“You did see the puddle, didn’t you?” Geralt averted his eyes, feigning that he was leading Roach over some particularly difficult part of the forest floor. Jaskier just let out a small huff as Geralt’s silence answered the question, though there was a soft smile on his face. Though Jaskier getting sick wasn’t exactly the greatest experience the bard had gone through, the affection that Geralt had been showering him in more than made up for the fact that he thought that he was going to die of hypothermia during the night.
The fact that Jaskier was currently sat upon Roach showed that the Witcher was being more open with his affections. Jaskier patted the side of the mare’s neck before going back to composing his latest song. Geralt also had a small smile on his face as he walked in front, reins in hand. He really did enjoy the ramblings and songs of his bard.