Work Text:
Jaskier lurches into consciousness rather than rising to greet it. It feels like it’s going to be the worst day before he even lifts his head off the pillow. Why is it so damn hot ?
His mouth tastes like sand, he feels gross and sticky . . . and he wasn’t even doing anything FUN the night before! He's slept, but badly in the oppressive atmosphere - restless with discomfort but not quite enough to actually wake up and do something about it. Nothing takes the momentum out of his morning routine quite like having to peel his sweat-sticky body from the sheets for no good reason.
A quick trip to the maintenance closet in the basement uncovers why his townhouse is a swamp of stagnant air despite his thermostat being set to a perfectly reasonable temperature. There is a growing puddle beneath the AC unit and a troubling clicking sound from somewhere inside the box. It’s still stifling back upstairs even after he opens all the windows, enough that Jaskier puts himself through an actual cold shower, horrid that it is, just to make himself feel less like a melted ice-cream cone before getting dressed.
Between mopping up the maintenance room, an atypical morning shower, trying to air the house out, adjusting his outfit for the weather, and having to call his landlord about the whole affair Jaskier gets out of the house a solid ten minutes late and without any breakfast. He’s been up for an hour but still feels bleary even as he locks the door. It’s not quite as hot outside on the ground as it was in his second-floor bedroom, but it’s already noticeably humid at not even 7:30 AM.
It’s not until he is on the train (which he had to run to catch) that Jaskier realizes that not only is he holding the wrong instrument - his violin case picked up out of muscle memory instead of his much more weather appropriate ukelele - but he didn't even put ON the hat he had so carefully selected to cover the disaster of his hair in this humidity.
“Well shit,” he sighs, as he peers up at his unadorned curls in the curved ceiling mirror. Ugh. At least the train has air conditioning.
There probably won't be much foot traffic on a day this scorching. If his place were livable he might even have stayed home and eaten ice cream sandwiches for lunch . . . .
But he doesn’t want to miss a day at the bookshop, truthfully, even a crap day.
Even if he doesn’t get a dime in his case and has to hide inside all afternoon, the Witcher Brothers’ crew will be there to play to and keep entertained, and their audience is generally enough on its own to make a day of busking worthwhile.
Triss will bring him upstairs in the afternoon to sing to her flowers, Eskel will text him song requests from his studio all morning, and come lunchtime Geralt will appear in the doorway. He will lean on the jamb, the sun glinting off that silver hair, strong arms crossed over his chest. He’ll give him that gentle look that Jaskier has come to recognize as fondness, the one that makes his heart leap in his chest every time, and remind him to come in for a break from the heat.
That part Jaskier is very much looking forward to.
*****
He doesn't even make it to lunchtime before the day goes properly tits up.
Forgetting his hat was the first critical mistake - Jaskier’s hair is a curled up mop and the sun beating down on his head makes him feel like he is baking. His second fault was having brought the violin, which requires considerably more physicality to play than a ukulele. And, like always, he spends more time standing than sitting, because music always makes him want to MOVE and he really can’t breathe properly from a chair either. But, of course, moving makes him even warmer. (As does taking requests for fucking irish jigs from bloody Lambert.)
He’s thrown on a loose button-up shirt over his tank to keep the sun off his back and body but it only does so much. The sun streams down the avenue to bathe his little spot of street with uninterrupted light; it will be a boon in the winter perhaps but not today. At least the few people out and about to see him sweating for his craft have been appreciative with their tips. He mops his wet brow with a shirt sleeve between sets. Maybe he should invest in an umbrella or something . . . .
Jaskier has pushed himself through performances while uncomfortable before - such sacrifices are the heart, nay, the soul of performing, after all - but the longer he plays the more that discomfort magnifies. He’s flushed and feels half-melted like he did before his shower, finds himself picking slower songs so he doesn’t have to move too quickly, nursing his water bottle at each pause even though it's gotten hot and tastes tepid and unsatisfying.
He’s not sure why he doesn’t just go inside early. Stubbornness, maybe, or a lack of sleep leading to a lack of self-preservation, or maybe it’s just the sun cooking his brain and evaporating common sense. Either way, he keeps checking the time ( How is it only ten fucking thirty? ), keeps egging himself on (Oh just do one more, don't give up so easy) instead of packing it in, like a numbskull.
Then, finally, he hits his limit; or, perhaps more accurately, he slams into it at about a hundred miles an hour.
The whole thing happens in the space of seconds. Jaskier checks the time, puts his phone back into his pocket, lifts his violin and bow into position, and plays a single clumsy shrieking note as his knees buckle under him.
The next thing he knows he is lying on his back on the baking pavement, feeling like hot garbage and surely looking like it too. Oh fucking hell, he knew he was hot but did he actually faint ? Some saint of a person - Triss, he realizes - is holding a shade over him, and, oh... Oh .
That is Geralt’s strong hand at the nape of his neck, levering him up from the sidewalk. Geralt’s amber eyes peering down at him with such naked concern that Jaskier barely knows what to do with it. Geralt’s gruff voice, tinged with panic, commanding him to drink from the cup that Eskel has come rushing out of the shop with.
The water is blessedly cold as it sloshes up to his lips and Jaskier obediently sucks down a mouthful, feeling too overwhelmed for the moment to do anything but lay there and follow the orders given him. Once half the cup is gone and he doesn’t feel quite so utterly parched, he begins to take in more of the situation.
He still feels hot and breathless, suddenly aware that his head is throbbing when Geralt tries to ease him up to a sitting position. At least that strong arm around Jaskier’s back, the low voice murmuring 'easy now' in his ear, makes everything else a little bit less horrible. If he had to pass out he could do worse than coming around to Geralt fawning over him with concern. He just wishes he didn't feel so terrible so he could enjoy it more!
"I know I said just don't block the door, but maybe don't collapse and scare the piss out of all of us either, huh?" Geralt says, scolding him in a worried tone that he normally uses on Ciri. If he wasn't already as flushed as he was capable of getting, Jaskier might have blushed.
"I didn't"--he begins to protest, sheepish, but then the reality of what has just happened fully snaps into place and his sentence devolves into--"Oh no no no , oh my god, did I drop my violin !?!"
The adrenaline provided by instrument-related panic is enough to get him sitting bolt upright, but not enough to keep him there. He crumples swiftly back into Geralt’s arms as his head throbs so painfully it makes him yelp and his vision swim.
"Stay still , Jaskier, you haven't even been conscious for two minutes," Geralt says in a tone that brooks no argument, but Jaskier can't actually relax until Triss cuts in, her soothing cool hand patting his forehead.
"You went backwards and the violin landed on top of you. It's okay, I promise. I put it in your case for you," she assures him, and Jaskier sags against Geralt's chest with a weak 'oh thank god', feeling shaky with relief as much as the probable heatstroke.
"But, uh . . . it looks like the bow got snapped, sorry," Lambert adds apologetically, looking askance at the broken wood and string lying near their collective feet.
Jaskier gives an undignified wail at that, but Geralt’s firm grasp on his shoulders keeps him from sitting up again so he settles for turning his face into the other man's chest.
"Noooo, my bow!"
"Your bow? What about your damn head?" Geralt grouses sternly, reaching up to press his free hand to Jaskier’s scalp and feel for any wounds.
There's a tender swollen lump at the back of his skull, his hair is a mess and all sweaty, but Jaskier still chokes on a plaintive little sound of appreciation as Geralt’s strong fingers run through his locks, combing them back from his damp face with a thoughtless intimacy that Jaskier barely knows what to do with.
This is the best worst day of his life.
"The bow can be replaced dear, you can't," Triss says seriously, straightening up to adjust her sun umbrella over them. "We're all just glad you aren't badly hurt! Let's get you inside."
"No more performing for today," Geralt adds firmly, easing Jaskier into a straighter sitting position. "You're going to sit inside, drink your body weight in iced tea, and we're getting you a cab home later."
"You drive a hard bargain, sir, but I believe I will accept," Jaskier says weakly, feeling bereft when Geralt shifts back to help him to his feet.
He gets there, to his credit. He plants his bright blue converse on the pavement and Geralt pulls on his hands (those strong hands wrapped around his, steady and safe…) and for a moment Jaskier is standing under his own power.
But then he tries to take an actual step.
It feels like pushing through molasses. His ankle rolls, his knees fold, the world tilts...
"I've got you."
Just like that Geralt's strong arm is back around his shoulders, the other sweeping beneath his useless knees and plucking him up off of his feet completely. The older man hefts him up against that strong chest like he weighs nothing and Jaskier feels his pulse pounding in his ears, dizziness giving way to a guilty sort of delight.
But when he looks up those amber eyes are peering down at him with real pain and worry in their depths and Jaskier just swallows, overwhelmed, letting himself lean in to Geralt’s embrace as he is carried across the threshold into the shade of the shop.
Geralt takes him to the back office, where it’s relatively dark and wonderfully cool. He is deposited carefully in the reclining desk chair, his over-shirt stripped off by Geralt’s sure hands in a laughably less pleasant mirror of some of his fantasies. At least when he is tipped backwards in the chair his head pounds less.
Lambert is sent to fetch painkillers and another glass of water, Triss darts off up to her greenhouse for something to put on his sunburn, and when Eskel goes to see what he might be able to do to put the broken bow back together, Jaskier finds himself abruptly alone with Geralt, who still looks painfully worried.
He seats himself on the edge of the desk and reaches out to grasp Jaskier’s forearm, squeezing it reassuringly, but in a way that makes him think Geralt might be subtly trying to check his pulse at the same time. He lays his own hand over Geralt’s larger one, pressing back gently, trying to give a little reassurance.
“Hey, I’m alright,” he says quietly, though his breathing still labours a little. “I just stayed out for one song too many.”
“You still look awfully flushed,” Geralt murmurs, his face knit into a frown as he presses the back of his free hand to Jaskier’s forehead. “How do you feel?” he asks.
“Embarrassed,” Jaskier groans, his eyes flinching closed for a moment. “Sore, hot. S’better in here. The water helped.” He gives the best smile he can muster even though it makes his headache spike.
“Good,” Geralt says with a sigh, his tense shoulders dropping just a bit.
There’s a beat of silence between them as Jaskier sags into the chair a little more and Geralt just watches, letting him rest, keeping his eye out for the others. Jaskier realizes after a moment that Geralt’s strong fingers are still on his arm, calloused thumb moving in idle comforting circles just below Jaskier’s wrist. Geralt doesn’t seem to even be thinking about it, judging from the distracted concern still writ on his face when Jaskier meets his eyes. He likes the attention and the fawning touches, he truly does, but oh he hates that worried look.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he says softly, and Geralt almost startles at the words.
Abruptly that worried face melts into soft surprise, then turns vaguely scarlet. Silver brows pop upward for just a second before Geralt slams a lid onto whatever realization has just snapped into place behind those sharp eyes. Jaskier feels abruptly uneasy, as if he’s just witnessed something he wasn’t supposed to...
Geralt ducks his gaze with an awkward mumble, tripping over any attempt to respond, but Jaskier holds his hand fast where it is, squeezing reassuringly. “Don’t fret, alright,” he says, ignoring the dry rasp of his voice. “I’ll be fine.” But the words do nothing to take away Geralt’s strange look of lidded panic.
“Of course you will be.” Triss’ voice cuts in as she shoulders the door aside, arms laden with an enormous planter of aloe that brushes the door top, a bowl full of ice water, and a towel. “We’ll get you patched up don’t you worry,” she says as she puts it all down on the desk pad with a dull clatter.
Geralt takes the out, clearly a bit rattled by whatever has crossed his mind, and Jaskier doesn’t know what else to do but let him go when he pulls his hand away. Still, he squeezes Jaskier’s fingers one last time as their hands slip apart and that is something.
“I should get back to the counter,” Geralt says, his long-ingrained gruffness bubbling to the surface under stress. “Just sit still and let Triss take care of you, okay? If I see you on your feet I’ll put you right back in that chair, Jaskier. I mean it.”
“Duly noted,” Jaskier tells him, offering a weak smile and a floppy armed salute as Geralt nods and then ducks out the door, still pink-faced.
Triss watches him go and then looks back at Jaskier as she lays a cold wet towel over his whole head, horrid hair and all.
“Did something happen?” she asks, with a gentle tone but a curiously raised brow.
“I just.” Jaskier swallows, not sure how to explain. “All I said was sorry for worrying him.”
“Geralt is always a little brisk when he’s upset,” Triss says, laying another towel on his burned collarbones. Jaskier groans as she presses it down on his hot chest, icy water soaking through his tank. “You gave him a good scare, I’m sure,” she says as she wraps another towel around the back of his neck.
“You scared all of us, you stubborn bastard,” Lambert agrees as he comes back through the door carrying something labelled extra strength and a tall bottle of juice, both of which Triss takes from him to sort out a dose.
“Break me a leaf off of that aloe would you, dear?” she says to Lambert, then reaches down to pat Jaskier’s cheek. Her hand doesn’t feel so startlingly cool now. “There, your temperature is coming down already.”
Thankfully he has the wherewithal and arm coordination to take some pills and drink some juice, but staying awake while Triss layers cold towels on his body and aloe on his burnt neck and face is considerably harder. His eyes drift closed and time stretches out like taffy as the painkillers knock his aches down to a background fuzz. He is not sure how long he lays there quietly, just soaking in the cool and relief.
But he IS sure that it is Geralt’s voice he hears again - a quiet ‘ Just rest, Jaskier ’, those strong fingers in his damp hair - before he drifts completely into dreams.
****
Geralt is not there when he wakes up, but he makes occasional appearances over the rest of the afternoon, along with Eskel and Lambert, the three brothers popping in and out of the office bearing gifts and necessities as Triss fusses over Jaskier like a mother bird.
They deliver him a delicious sandwich from the forbidden Madam Nenneke’s for lunch, along with several bottles of sweet tea and water that Triss practically pours into him.
Clearly Geralt isn’t the only person he’s shaken with his little tumble. Triss isn’t satisfied to let him go anywhere besides the bathroom for hours, and even that with her arm slung around him all the way to the door, despite the fact that he is, by now, quite capable of walking...
“Miss Merigold you are so kind,” he tells her, grabbing the doorknob before she can do it for him. “But I am feeling much better now so I must insist on aiming without your help.” Thankfully that makes her laugh and seems to bring her anxiousness down a peg.
Jaskier admits he looks... bad in the bathroom mirror. To be charitable about it. He’s sunburnt and bag-eyed, he’s lost an earring somewhere, he’s going to have a horrible tan line from his tank collar… His hair actually looks a bit better all wet and slicked down though, so that’s something.
Late in the day as the shop is closing up and Triss is heading off to meet Yennefer, she sits down and writes out a list of what he should do for himself at home later, beginning with ‘Take Advil’ aggressively underlined, followed by ‘CALL TRISS AND YEN IF MY AC IS STILL BROKEN’ and her phone number underlined twice.
Geralt appears again as she departs, hovering in the door almost sheepishly while Triss urges Jaskier one last time to get some rest. On spying him she scampers out, patting Geralt encouragingly on the arm and all but shooing him into the office where he and Jaskier are once again alone.
“How are you feeling?” Geralt looks… well, less worried at least, but still strangely unsure as he steps into the room and around the desk to Jaskier’s side. Jaskier offers him a warm and hopefully disarming smile, a strange guilt knotting his insides. He swivels the office chair a little so he can gesture more expansively to the aloe cutting sitting in a pot on the desk pad.
“Not so bad now, thank you. And look at what Triss gave me! You break the leaves open and they’re full of this clear squish that’s, eugh , honestly it’s kind of gross, but if you mix it up well it’s aloe gel! Like the kind in the pump bottle in my bathroom! The one that I didn’t bring because I thought out my day so well today!”
He’s rambling, he knows, but that’s what he does to fill silence and Geralt is just standing there, quiet, looking at him with his brow slightly raised. “Did you know aloe can be a hair gel, Geralt? I mean, it’s far from perfect of course, my whole head is really terribly crunchy right now, but as long as I don’t touch it or stand in the wind it looks great!”
Jaskier finds himself interrupted by a soft laugh and his tone skips like a record scratch into something more self conscious. He pats the stubborn spot above his ear testingly. “What, does it not look great?”
But Geralt is leaning on the desk again, at last looking at him with that fond little smile that Jaskier had been looking forward to back on the train that morning. (His heart does a double flip for good measure.)
“I’ve hardly gotten a word in since I came back here,” Geralt says, a smirking smile cracking his face. “Now I know you’re okay.”
“Wha”--Jaskier puts a dramatic hand to his chest, relief bubbling up from the pit of him at that smile--“Are you saying that I’m a chatterbox?”
Geralt actually laughs at that, and the sound is like a ray of sunshine bursting from behind a cloud. “You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t,” he says.
Jaskier’s heart does a triple flip, but Geralt’s gentle hand settling on his shoulder (as well as still feeling kind of like a wrung out dish rag with a violin) keeps him from doing anything rash.
“I called you a cab home,” Geralt says and Jaskier nods in appreciation, grateful not to have to navigate public transit with an obvious sunburn and crunchy hair.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” Geralt draws a heavy breath, his brow knitting again. “Just… be more careful from now on okay? We’ll have to get you a tent or something for the hot days.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Jaskier protests but Geralt silences him with a stern look.
“Yeah, I do,” he says, his hand dropping to the armrest to gather Jaskier’s slender hand in his own. “If you’re gonna be a part of this place we’re going to look after you properly, alright?” He swallows, amber eyes flicking down to their fingers that have somehow so easily entwined. “And if I ever see you go down like a ton of bricks like that again it’ll be too fucking soon...”
“Geralt…” Jaskier feels a lump forming in his throat, his emotions a mad fizzing mess in the pit of his chest. He tries for reassurance first. “You-”
“You were right, is all,” Geralt cuts him off in a rush, trying to completely articulate his thoughts before he loses his nerve. “You DID scare me. More than I realized, until you said it to my face like that anyway. I should have called you inside earlier...”
Oh bloody hell… Sometimes Jaskier doesn’t know if he wants to kiss this idiot man or smack him.
“Geralt Rivia,” he says severely, taking Geralt’s weathered hand tightly in both of his own. “If you try to blame yourself for my idiocy somehow so help me I will… I will call Triss and sic Yennefer on you.” Geralt’s ex wife is the weightiest threat he’s confident he can make good on at the moment, but thankfully it seems to stick because Geralt’s shoulders sag with a breath of a laugh, and those beautiful eyes find their way up to meet his again.
Oh, and a smile , that’s much better...
Jaskier smiles back, squeezes Geralt’s hand tighter. “Come on now, can’t you just make fun of me for not remembering that the sun is hot, like your brothers did?”
“Oh, I think you’ve been given enough grief. Let’s just not let it happen again.”
“I’ll do my best,” Jaskier insists, raising one hand to his heart. “Musician’s honor.”
The honk of a horn filters in from outside and Geralt stands from where he has been leaning on the desk, offering his free hand palm up to Jaskier.
“Come on, I think that’s your ride.”
Jaskier accepts the help up from his chair, but once he is standing he doesn’t let go, gripping Geralt’s hand with what he hopes is reassuring firmness. That Geralt holds on right back, doesn’t even hesitantly tug away once during the slow walk to the front, makes Jaskier feel like he could burst from joy.
The cab driver waits patiently as Jaskier gathers his violin and new potted plant, and Geralt helps him pile into the back of the car, that steady hand in his, again and still.
“Sure you’ve got everything?”
Jaskier beams. He feels like he’s got everything in the world just now.
“Definitely.”
“Alright. Get home safe, get some sleep. I’ll see you soon.”
Geralt shuts the door, then reaches out to grasp Jaskier's hand through the open window one last time, gives it a lingering squeeze. Without thinking nearly hard enough about it, Jaskier pulls Geralt’s hand to his mouth and plants an answering kiss on his knuckles.
It’s just a peck, really, the kind of affection he’s given jokingly to Ciri and Triss, and even Yen when in performance mode… But this is not quite the same as that, and Geralt knows it, for those bright amber eyes get round with surprise and his face flushes all over again. This time Jaskier finds it less concerning and far more unbearably attractive.
“Thanks for looking after me today,” he says softly, with a smile that says everything he can’t find the words for in the moment.
Geralt just nods, throat working soundlessly for a second before he finally musters a quiet, “You’re welcome.”
Jaskier lets their hands slip apart, smiling like an idiot as the car window rolls up. Geralt stands on the sidewalk outside, still pink up to his ears, and they wave at one another until the car turns the corner - at which point Jaskier feels free to sink down in his seat and shout into his hands in glee.
“Good day, buddy?” the driver asks over his shoulder and Jaskier laughs.
“The best!”