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The inn had been quiet for a while now as its patrons spent the dark, late hours sleeping. Even their room— normally filled with lute-strumming, sword sharpening, or even his own chatter— was mostly soundless. The only noises to pierce the overbearing silence were the bard’s somewhat irritated huffs, the scratching of his quill, and Geralt’s too-loud breathing or nonsensical, fevered mutterings. Well that, and whatever he himself said. “The Selkiemore swam/ helter-skelter, scared of/ the Witcher— damn it all... that’s shit,” Jaskier murmured.
Irritated, he picked up the quill and blotted the lines from existence, then glanced up.
The fire had burnt low, bathing the room in a soft orange light, with long shadows. His lute lay in the corner, abandoned since their arrival. The witcher’s armor was folded, and took up the empty seat across from the bard. It too had been disused as of late. Jaskier continued to look around, and his eyes, naturally, were drawn to the room’s other occupant; but then again, when weren’t they drawn to the witcher?
Geralt’s sleeping form was more-or-less completely obscured by blankets, and was, for once, blessedly still. The bard sighed, partly in relief, partly in exhaustion. He had been trying to write while Geralt slept— figuring he might as well put the idle time to good use— but he wasn’t having much luck with any of his compositions. It was actually rather difficult to focus on the musicality of one’s lyrics when their muse, and dearest friend in the world, was tossing and turning in bed, muscled body slick with sweat—
No. Don’t go there, Jaskier reprimanded himself, closing his eyes, and sighing.
He exhaled slowly, and pinched the bridge of his nose. In these liminal hours, it was far too easy to allow one’s mind to wander in dangerous directions. “Oh, Melitele.” Rather forcefully, he picked up the notebook again, attempting to direct his thoughts onto a more productive path. Though Jaskier knew that his infatuation with the witcher was doomed from the start, he had not been able to kick it, even years later. He had tried distance, tried nearness— starved and gorged himself on Geralt’s sometimes-fickle attention. Neither method had worked. Neither cured his love-sickness. How’s that saying go: feed a cold, starve a fever?
But thinking of fevers, and illness, inevitably allowed concern for his witcher to creep back into Jaskier’s mind. He grimaced.
The seeds of Geralt’s current illness had been sown about a week ago, when he took a contract on several Drowners. The witcher had been stuck in the swamps for a whole day and most of the night, only returning to the inn at dawn. It had been immediately clear that Geralt was in a foul mood when he reached their room, and why— he was covered in an even fouler combination of Drowner innards, swamp water, mud, sweat, and other unidentifiable bits of filth. Worse still, the witcher had run out of potions mid-fight, leaving his various scrapes and gashes to marinate in the swamp’s putrid waters.
“Are you alright? What took so long?” Jaskier demanded.
Geralt had sighed, set his— still dripping— swords against the wall, and let his shoulder pauldrons slide to the floor with a wet squelching sound. “I’m fine. There were more than I was expecting, that’s all, bard.” But the witcher’s lips had pursed as he tied up his wet hair so as to remove his (also wet) armor more easily. And still, after a hot bath and warm meal, he had had trouble sleeping.
But he had seemed fine come morning, so they carried on as normal— a mistake.
As soon as they left that inn, the weather fouled; the following days had been filled with bitter cold and biting rain. Really, it had been inevitable that the witcher would become ill. Even his strong constitution could only take so much abuse. Hence their sojourn here— which had lasted three days so far— to allow Geralt time to rest and recover.
“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice was somewhat slurred, and uncertain. “What time’s it?”
He startled slightly, and shook off his exhaustion. “Late. How do you feel, my friend?”
It had been a while since the witcher had awoken last. Perhaps his fever has finally broken. The bard looked up from his notebook, and felt a warm rush of relief when he met Geralt’s eyes. The witcher seemed more aware than he’d been for a while. Geralt’s hair was a mess, hanging in stringy, sweaty, and tangled strands around his face. Normally pale skin was slightly ashen, and covered in a sheen of sweat; Geralt’s cheeks were also tinged pink. The usually smooth material of his sleep shirt was wrinkled, and its collar hung low across the witcher’s throat, revealing a tantalizing expanse of skin.
“I feel— hmm.” Geralt’s brow furrowed, and his gaze became distant as he seemed to be looking inward, to gauge exactly how he felt.
Jaskier snorted. “For all that it is relieving to hear you being your normal terse-self, that is not an answer, witcher.” Geralt smiled faintly at his gently-mocking tone, but said nothing more. Typical of him, the bard thought with some irritation. A sigh escaped his lips as he shut the notebook, bottled his ink, and set aside the quill. He stood. “Are you thirsty, hungry? I need a little help here, Geralt.”
The witcher’s scorching yellow eyes met his again, and they were startlingly soft, warm, and open with their affection as they reflected the firelight. Jaskier swallowed, feeling a sharp pang of alarm, and a softer, far deadlier, pang of longing. He ignored the second. Maybe not as cognizant as I’d thought. It seemed that Geralt’s fever was not quite finished with him yet.
The bard nearly groaned at that— he did not want to deal with another bout of fever-induced night terrors. They hadn’t been so bad at first, but as the witcher’s body fought off the fever, his overall condition had worsened. There hadn’t been much he could do to comfort Geralt either, as in his unaware or delirious state, the witcher was likely to accidentally hurt Jaskier. So he had been relegated to giving his companion sips of water, dabbing a fevered brow with a cool cloth, and murmuring soothing nothings. Both of them were exhausted as a result.
“Water would be welcome.” The words, once again, broke him out of his reverie.
Jaskier nodded, scrambling for the waterskin. “Of course, my dear. You shall receive it momentarily.” He brought it over to the bed, perching on its edge. This close to Geralt, he could smell the musky, slightly-salty scent of sweat as it mingled with the mattress’s hay-smell, the smoke from their fire, and his own floral perfume. It was neither unpleasant nor pleasant. Though it was, perhaps, rather tantalizing.
Jaskier’s sleep-deprived imagination could easily picture other scenarios in which his and Geralt’s scents, and sweat, might be exchanged more pleasantly. He swallowed as Geralt’s sleep shirt, which had come untied sometime earlier, slipped lower, revealing more of his frankly unfairly-chiseled body. But his illicit imaginings were interrupted as Geralt took the waterskin, and began frantically gulping down water.
“Slowly, my friend! Slowly. We wouldn’t want you to upset your stomach,” Jaskier warned. He placed a steadying hand on Geralt’s wrist. The skin there still radiated an unhealthy warmth, but it did seem slightly cooler than it had been earlier. That was good.
At his interference, Geralt growled, baring his teeth in a harsh snarl. “I can manage, bard.”
Jaskier frowned as he felt his already-frayed temper flare up. “Geralt of Rivia, don’t you snap at me! If you make yourself sick, it certainly won’t be my fault.” He stood. But just as the bard was about to walk away, Geralt reached out and gently closed a hand around his wrist. He looked down, and was surprised by the urgency he found in the witcher’s eyes.
“I’m sorry, Jaskier. This fever—”
He swallowed, briefly closing his eyes. Gods above, this man will be the death of me. “Thank you, my friend. I know how miserable you must be feeling. If you let me go, I can get you some more medicine so you can rest, and work on feeling better.” Geralt nodded slowly, so Jaskier freed himself from the witcher’s grip, and retrieved the small bottle of medicine he’d purchased from the local healer. It smelled pungently of basil and ginger.
He uncorked the bottle as he sat at the edge of the bed again, noting that the waterskin had been replaced on the bedside table. The witcher’s nose wrinkled at the strong smell, yet he still shifted to give Jaskier more room. “Come now, witcher. Surely this is less foul than most of those potions of yours.”
Geralt huffed. “Still foul,” he replied grumpily.
Jaskier laughed, even as he ached inside. His heart felt overtender and bruised from his companion’s uncharacteristic— and adorable— petulance. “I’ll take your word for it. Now open up.” Surprisingly, the witcher did. He had to work to keep his hand steady as he spoon-fed Geralt three spoonfuls of the liquid, per the healer’s exact instructions.
When he was done, Geralt sighed, and sank against the pillows. Jaskier set aside the spoon, and carefully placed the small bottle on the bedside table next to the waterskin. He felt the weight of his Wolf’s lax attention as if it had been strapped to his chest. “Ahem,” the bard cleared his throat, and stood. “Should probably let you get back to resting now, I suppose.”
As before, Geralt’s hand shot out, gently capturing his wrist once more. But this time, when he gave a warning shake, the witcher did not let go. Jaskier looked down, and met his Wolf’s smoldering, half-lidded gaze. He swallowed, suddenly feeling flushed himself. How am I supposed to resist when he looks at me so? The self-posed question was half-irritated, half-not. “Geralt.”
“C’mere.”
Jaskier blinked, heart giving one off-beat thump. “Do you think th-that’s… really a good idea, what with you being all hot— feverish— and s-sweaty?”
“You won’t catch it. ’m not contagious,” Geralt drawled.
He frowned. This is a bad idea, said a small voice inside his head. A very bad idea. Geralt’s tempting gaze was not for him. Not really. This was simply the fever speaking, making the witcher soft and open and wanting. It’s not you he wants. Jaskier sighed. But he was tired—exhausted, really— and the bed looked oh so soft, and he had an invitation. “Very well, witcher. Give me a moment to undress.”
Geralt nodded once, and released him. The warmth of his touch lingered.
As Jaskier removed his doublet and pants under the weight of the witcher’s impatient stare, his hands wanted to shake. The bard did not let them. After his folded clothing was set on the table, he walked around to the other side of the bed. Geralt had already thrown back the covers, releasing even more of his scent, and looked up at him expectantly. “That was very thoughtful of you, dear,” he commented absently, sliding into bed.
“Hmm,” Geralt replied.
Jaskier nearly yelped as one firm, too-warm arm suddenly wrapped around his waist, and pulled him closer. The witcher’s breath ghosted over the back of his neck, and his body heat was nearly stifling. He was about to reprimand the witcher for his man-handling when Geralt pressed his face into Jaskier’s hair. The bard sighed, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart—
“Somethin’ wrong?”
“Nothing, dear witcher… Absolutely nothing.”
“Then be still,” Geralt mumbled, pulling Jaskier even closer so that their bodies were almost completely pressed together.
Like I’m his favorite toy bear, he thought somewhat hysterically. Every one of the witcher’s slowing breaths pressed his chest further against Jaskier’s back. Between the other man’s heat, the blankets, and his own shirt, the bard was beginning to feel overheated. I’ll stay just until he falls asleep. He could do that for the witcher. He could. “Sleep well, Geralt.”
Weak, said that same, small voice.
After the witcher’s ironclad grip slackened, Jaskier carefully shimmied away, attempting to escape the sweltering confines of the bed. But again, he was thwarted. Geralt grumbled unconsciously at his movement, and pulled the bard back to his side. Making this bastard of a night even more torturous, one of the witcher’s legs fell over his own. Then Geralt’s head settled into the dip between the bard’s neck and shoulder.
I really must possess the patience of the gods, Jaskier thought, squeezing his eyes shut. He pressed his lips together to keep from sighing. The bard then did his best to focus on the soft, warm feeling he got from being held rather than the sharp, lingering ache which reminded him that this affection was not, truly, his.
< ~ * ~ >
“Mmm,” he grumbled, brow furrowing. It’s fucking hot.
Jaskier slowly blinked open his eyes. They widened as he gained awareness. Geralt was still dead asleep, but now most of his unconscious weight had fallen on Jaskier; clearly, they had shifted in the night. He was on his back, and the witcher’s front was pressed against him, one arm tossed carelessly across the bard’s chest. Their legs were intertwined as well. Geralt’s breathing was loud— and also hot— in his ear.
Other things became apparent, when he woke more fully.
As a result of his proximity to the feverish witcher, Jaskier’s skin had become hot, and coated in sweat. This left him feeling sticky, and a low-but-steady thrum of arousal flowed through his body. It would soon be a pressing issue if he did not distance himself from the source. Jaskier was mildly horrified with both himself and the situation. He lay there, attempting to regain some control, until the unbearable heat, and Geralt’s heaviness, became too much.
“Ugh. Geralt, you brute, wake up. You’re crushing me!” Jaskier freed one hand, and shook the witcher’s shoulder.
He made an adorable whining noise, then stirred. Gods above, Jaskier thought faintly, as Geralt’s muscles rippled while he stretched. This is surely how I die. Fortunately, before he could expire, the witcher shifted off of him, and sat up. “Jaskier?”
The bard scrambled away, pushed off the covers, and gasped dramatically as he was hit by a wave of fresh, cool air. “Oh, thank goodness!” Geralt had the audacity to chuckle. Jaskier glared murderously. “I nearly suffocated and overheated last night because of you, witcher. Do you have any idea of how hot you are?” As soon the words left his lips, the bard recognized his accidental double-entendre. “Er, you know, because of the fever and such,” he amended half-heartedly.
Geralt’s eyes were unsettlingly inquisitive as he studied Jaskier. “I see.”
A heavy silence fell over the room.
Abruptly, Jaskier realized how much more alert his friend was compared to the past few days; it seemed his fever had finally broken. Of course the bastard would get better right now. But though mortified, and angry, the bard could not fault Geralt for his timing. Or for picking up on his… eccentricities. No, you only have yourself to blame for this. Jaskier felt his face heat again, and he quickly looked away. The sheets rustled, and mattress dipped as the witcher sat up.
“Last night, you seemed… nervous? I— Is there something you want to tell me, Jaskier?” Geralt asked carefully.
Jaskier swallowed, feeling both dry-mouthed and nearly nauseous from his stomach’s swooping. In that moment, more than anything else, he wished he were capable of standing up, and walking away. But he was not. However, neither could he endure another night like the last. I have to tell him. After gathering his courage, Jaskier met the witcher’s patient yellow stare.
“Actually, Geralt, there is.”