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Jaskier is sure he's going to die.
"I'm going to die," he says, voicing the thought aloud. Geralt is turned away from him, concentrated on his bag and digging into it for gods know what, but he's sure the particular grunt he gives in kind is extremely judgmental. Well, fuck him. "This is the end of me, dear heart. My final moments, the finale, the fine . Remember me fondly as you continue your journey down the Path—"
"You're not going to die, Jaskier," Geralt interrupts him with exasperation. He puts down his bag and goes to the spare one he'd added to their traveling inventory. Roach had not been pleased that day and had nearly bitten him in retaliation, Jaskier is delighted to recall. "It's a fever, that's all."
Jaskier would point an accusing finger at him if it didn't hurt so bad simply to move. His head pounds, his joints ache, and his chest rattles as he breathes. He, quite honestly, feels like death warmed over. "Easy for you to say, witcher. You don't get sick. Unlike us mere mortals."
Geralt does turn around at that and gives him a look that is definitely judgmental. "You're not mortal, Jaskier."
"I feel mortal," Jaskier mutters petulantly. Part-fae he may be, but that part apparently isn't enough to keep the human part of him from coming down with illnesses.
Fever, how so very common. So normal.
Terribly novel, really. Jaskier has spent years upon years begging the higher powers to live a normal life. He supposes this is what he gets.
Geralt just rolls his eyes at his melodrama, and Jaskier tuts in offense but settles into the bed where he's curled up beneath an unfortunately thin blanket. Sweat is matting his hair to his forehead but he feels chilled, and the contradicting sensations further muddle him. He's clammy and exhausted and all he's done is lie here.
If this is the price of living a normal life he'd like to give it back, thanks.
He's on the verge of dozing off when Geralt finally turns around, and Jaskier eyes the vial in his hand as he comes over on quiet feet. He kneels beside the bed, holding out the vial. "Here, drink this."
Jaskier doesn't take it. "What is it?"
"You'll feel better," is what Geralt says, not really an answer. A smirk curls the corner of his mouth though and Jaskier isn't sure he trusts it despite how rarely he gets to see it. He really loves that smirk—it makes his stomach flutter pleasantly most days.
"How do I know it won't kill me quicker than the fever?" he asks suspiciously, but he takes the vial anyway. It's a murky brown color, and Jaskier makes a face. "Gods, is this even safe for me to consume?"
"I wouldn't give it to you if it weren't," Geralt says.
Jaskier opens the vial, and the waft of it he gets makes him gag, and his stomach rolls unpleasantly with nausea. "You wouldn't know what would and wouldn't kill a human if it was carved into a rock that I threw at your face."
Geralt doesn't say anything to that, and Jaskier counts that as a victory to himself.
"Just drink it," Geralt says instead, softly, pushing the hand holding the vial toward Jaskier's mouth. His fingers are cool on Jaskier's heated skin when he pushes them through Jaskier's sweat-damp hair, moving it out of his face. His gaze lingers on Jaskier's lips before he moves it up to meet his eyes. "It'll help."
It's tender and gentle, something Geralt very rarely lets people see he can be, and Jaskier looks at the vial because those gold eyes on him, full of concern and caring, are too much. "Well," he croaks, and clears his throat, which hurts, "bottoms up, I suppose."
It's just as rank as it smells. Jaskier gags again, but he dutifully—and bravely, he might add—swallows the gods-awful concoction, thick and sticky on his tongue as it slides down his throat. It coats the rawness from the cough, and soothes it with a coolness that poses a strange contrast to how hot he feels.
He hands the vial back to Geralt, who smiles. He pushes up from his crouch. "There. Wasn't so bad, was it?"
"If I die," Jaskier says, and then coughs just for good measure, lying down on his back as Geralt walks back to their things, "I'm coming back as a ghost to haunt your lovely bottom."
"Noted."