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"There, there now."
Geralt grunted although Jaskier's arms lowered him rather gently on the bedroll and cursed through gritted teeth, feeling the elixirs battling over the poison across every inch of his body. It had been one bite. One bloody, venomous bite.
He should know better than to yell at Jaskier to stay back while the creature was lurking behind him ready to attack. But he didn't. He never fucking did.
"Geralt, are you–"
"Sure, yes, of course I am, it's not the first fucking time, Jaskier. Tomorrow I will be fine." He would be. He always was. The hours intervening though between now and tomorrow was another matter he didn't want to think about beforehand, although the pain had already almost paralysed him so that he could barely move his limbs.
Jaskier seemed to read his thoughts. "Yeah, but until then?" He folded a blanket to place under Geralt's head, but as he saw him struggling to even raise his head he put it on the bedroll himself, resting the witcher against it with a hand on his nape. Then he snorted. "Until then what, Geralt? Are you going to groan and whimper in sorrow and pretend everything is okay by swallowing half of the screams coming up your throat?" Geralt, although unable to hold back a pained moan, didn't fail to glare at the bard. He'd been well-trained at that. Still, Jaskier spread his arms exasperated. "It's not the first fucking time, Geralt!"
He met the witcher's darkened eyes and sat on the bedroll beside him, searching around in a helpless, almost resigned expression for a salvation that wouldn't come. And, really, he could expect nothing. Because it was not the first time. No, he'd heard Geralt breaking apart from pain quite a lot of times while they'd been travelling together, and that meant often in an almost-twenty-years period. He'd seen him convulsing and shaking and sweating while he stood beside him, always beside him, unable to come to his help, because there was nothing that could be done. And he knew that.
Still, it broke his heart.
"Is there not anything you can do?" He was not sure talking his way out of blinding worry would actually serve his or Geralt's relief, but anxiousness made his tongue run like a spinning wheel. "You've got so many potions, there must be something that relieves the pain."
"A potion that relieves the pain that another potion causes to dissolve poison?" Geralt surprised himself for being able to actually utter any words in his agony, yet his wit was stronger than his pain. He laughed sharply. "That would be splendid should it be a thing, really."
Jaskier shook his head. "Oh, for fuck's sake, not even any herbs? A broth? What about magic, are there not any spells–"
"Do I look like a bloody sorcerer to you?"
"No, but maybe–"
"Shut up, Jaskier. Just..." Geralt now almost howled from the wave of pain sent through his body and clenched his fists, pinning them on the ground. His eyes were burning with unshed tears. He swallowed. "Just shut up. It's better when it's silent."
It's shit all, that's what it is, thought Jaskier. Not better. Not in any way. Yet he didn't speak anymore. And, honestly, it couldn't be better for any of them, Geralt trying to control the trembling of his body and quivering of his cries and him listening idly and waiting for dawn to break to hear the suffering subside and maybe even sleep. It couldn't be better.
He knew no magic. That was a problem, he thought, the cases a magic spell was needed nowadays were not at all scarce. Nowadays meaning the days he was travelling with Geralt. Most of the days, that is. He was convinced no earthly or other human aid could now relieve the pain torturing the witcher. What else could it be then, except for magic?
He was capable of no magic, though. What he was capable of, aside from talking which had been a rejected solution, was singing. Ah, capable. He was exceptional at singing, thank you. And years of performances and courts and competitions and enchanted maids had left him with no doubt on the matter. Even Geralt liked his singing, though he wouldn't admit it. He knew Geralt like the back of his hand.
He looked down, saw Geralt huffing and trying to avoid his gaze. He bit his lip and shook his head. The man was unbelievable, really, but Jaskier knew better than to let him go through this alone. His fingers trailed slowly to reach the witcher's trembling hand and he squeezed it as Geralt sucked in a breath and finally, finally looked into his eyes.
He knew no magic.
But he knew how to sing.
So he did. He parted his lips and sang, at first a bit loudly and intensely, so that Geralt's attention would shift from the pain to his voice. Then his voice softened, and slowed, and sweetened to the point Geralt thought honey was dripping from his lips. And he sang, he sang ballads and lullabies and even songs still unwritten, still unsung, sang everything that came to his mind. And never released Geralt's hand.
Sing me awake
With songs of chivalry and lullabies of love
Sing me awake
To the coast where lies the nest of a milk-coloured dove
Sing me awake
I've known longing and heartbreak and seas have I wept
Sing me awake
By hands willing and tender my tears have been swept
And Geralt listened. And if the pain became unbearable and his eyes closed shut, it didn't matter. Because his hand was warm inside Jaskier's, and the bard's voice enchanted him like it never did before. Like no magic spell had ever done before. And if he groaned in times, if he remembered his suffering, Jaskier had him quickly leaving it behind again, as he fondled his hand and combed his hair spread on the ground.
And even if the pain actually receded and no poison or potion was running through him anymore, even if the first rays of the sun painted the horizon crimson, even if he saw the bard rubbing his eyes to keep them open, Jaskier still didn't stop singing. His voice was low now, and a bit weary, but came out with a sigh of relief when he saw Geralt ceasing his trembling and his eyelids getting heavy with exhaustion.
So he laid beside him and smiled as Geralt followed him with his gaze, closing his eyes when Jaskier gently cupped his cheek.
"I didn't know your voice is actually magical," the witcher smiled sleepily and let out a long sigh, feeling soft fingertips trailing his face.
Jaskier chuckled. "Oh, it's not. I just love you too much."
Geralt hummed and placed a kiss on the bard's palm resting on his face. Then as sleep started taking him away, Jaskier continued murmuring one last lullaby, and if he couldn't tell apart dreams from reality after some time, he didn't mind. He could still hear Jaskier's voice stroking his ears and soothing his mind as no magic could ever do, so that not even the memory of pain haunted his thoughts anymore. Thus he sank deeper into slumber.
But maybe, maybe he felt soft lips brushing on his after a while. Maybe he smiled in his sleep.
And maybe Jaskier smiled back. And then stopped singing.