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The fact that it’s Jaskier isn’t really what bothers him, the bard a type of person who honestly knows how to push another’s buttons in just the right way to receive retaliation. It’s not the fact that it’s a specifically cruel act that bothers him either--as it isn’t. It’s just a punch. Just a set of knuckles that have probably participated in more bar-fights than can be counted, flung without forethought or finesse.
No, it isn’t any one of those things, but rather all of them together, along with something else--something that turns Geralt’s stomach and sets his blood aflame when he replays the scene in his head now, at night, when the incident has long passed.
The small whimper next to him upon the sheets only fuels his ire further.
It has been a long month for the both of them, battling bad weather and worse work, Geralt being denied his rightful pay from one too many contracts. He knows Aldermen and Lords value the linings of their own pockets far more than keeping their own word, but the evidence doesn’t hurt any less from the knowledge. These weeks have almost solely turned Geralt to demanding entire payments up front, his desperation growing with every hunger pang in his stomach as the needs of his party have not been met.
But then it all took a turn for the worse when Jaskier came down with a truly rotten cold.
Geralt had chosen to ignore when the other man would feed his meagre rations to Roach, Geralt guilty of doing the same on occasion when he could justify the energy loss--after all, ‘a slow witcher shall be a dead witcher’ and all that. But humans are fragile, and it seems to Geralt that every time he has forgotten this, life deems it time to teach him the lesson again.
It seemed that lack of regular, decent meals and harried sleep taken between storm clouds had finally caught up to Jaskier.
Nights turned long and restless for them both as sleep began to come fitfully for the bard, his throat red and inflamed, nose not allowing him to breathe in any way that would be useful. During the day, Jaskier was slow and clumsy, as if his own feet were two sizes too big and much too heavy, Geralt catching too many near-falls from the corner of his eye. Eventually Geralt’s conscience had given in, prompting him to lift the bard up into the saddle amidst half-hearted protests that he swiftly shut down with a threatening look. Geralt could walk just fine; he wasn’t the one seeing double.
And then one night, Jaskier did sleep.
And slept. And slept.
Morning came and the thin light of it woke Geralt like clockwork, and as he rose he jostled Jaskier awake beside him as is their routine.
Jaskier didn’t wake.
Geralt went about his usual business, kicking out the fire and tending to Roach, putting away any odds and ends that make up their camp on any given morning; but never did his eye leave Jaskier, who didn’t so much as sigh in his sleep. With each passing minute a feeling in Geralt’s stomach persisted, tightening into an uncomfortable coil that he ignored.
When he couldn’t occupy himself with needful tasks any longer, Geralt walked resolutely to Jaskier’s side and kneeled, hands hovering over the bard’s back where it was turned to him, rising and falling with rapid breaths. He lowered his palm, ready to shove Jaskier harshly, his slight worry overcome with stronger annoyance at the man’s laziness, though most of him knew it was unlike his companion to shirk all responsibility. The man may be a pain in his arse most days, but laziness has never been his cross to bear.
Right before his hand made contact, he realized his mistake; how did he not recognize the blazing heat rolling off of Jaskier’s skin earlier?
Thus began a mad dash to town--any town--made slow by Jaskier’s limp body hardly staying in the saddle as sweat poured from his skin. The rain and intermittent drizzle cut his scent of fever with miserable chills, his teeth chattering together so hard that the din had to be purposely ignored by Geralt’s enhanced hearing.
Hours later, bathed, clothed, and in a warm bed they could not afford (he doesn’t tell Jaskier about his use of axii) the bard finally woke. The wet rag Geralt held in his hands to wipe at a damp brow slipped from his fingers as clouded blue eyes met gold before sliding away somewhere over his shoulder.
“Jaskier.”
The other man only managed a small hum in his delirium, a wan smile that pulled at Geralt’s heart uncomfortably appearing before it dropped, Jaskier’s heavy eyes closing shortly after.
And just like that he slept for another day.
Geralt fretted and lied, spinning tales of his injured companion rather than sick, too afraid they would be shown the door with all of their belongings in tow if anyone heard word of the fever; Geralt felt he could not be too careful. With a possibly reckless use of signs, Geralt procured broths and blankets for Jaskier, clear water for drinking and warm for baths, and like this, time passed as he nursed the bard back to health.
It was four days more before Geralt would consider them out of the woods.
When blue eyes finally looked on the witcher without confusion reigning heavily over them, Geralt thought he would faint with the burden of Jaskier’s life sliding off of his shoulders.
Jaskier’s smile this time stayed right where it should be.
Now, it’s another two days later, and as the moon rises over the little hamlet Geralt is honestly sick to death of, he thinks of the bard that lies to his left with toes curling in discomfort in his half-sleep. This evening did not go as it should have.
Though it began as any other.
a few hours earlier
“Time to go down for dinner, bard,” Geralt says, eyes raking over Jaskier who, though looking better than he had, still looks pale in the flickering firelight of evening. Jaskier sits at the small table beside the hearth that is only outfitted with one chair, shoulders bowed with his eyes staring resolutely at his own fingers which fidget and fuss upon the wood. Geralt says it again when Jaskier makes no move to rise.
“I heard you, witcher…” Jaskier answers. He sounds quiet, resigned. Geralt knows his energy hasn’t returned to normal and is just about to suggest he bring something upstairs for them both when Jaskier turns, eyes steely and bright, flames dancing merrily in his irises.
“Just how have you been paying for all of this, Geralt? Last I knew, we were hardly better off than the street rats that huddle in the alley,” Jaskier asks curiously, his tone light and deceptively charming while still holding a quiet threat that should Geralt lie, he will know.
Geralt doesn’t intend to lie.
“You were sick, Jaskier. I did what needed done.” If Jaskier’s wrath is what he must suffer, then he will take it on. What’s done is done, in his eyes.
Jaskier stares at him for a moment longer, and Geralt for the first time in a while has to remind himself not to blink. The icy blue tones of Jaskier’s eyes seem to almost look through him, piercing Geralt, in a way. He hasn’t allowed himself to think of the moral implications of what he has been doing, too caught up in the idea that he won’t call fear of Jaskier dying. Each day that Jaskier was sick, Geralt wasn’t sure what he would find when the sun rose for another day. There were moments when Jaskier’s breath would come short or his coughing run long, and the bard’s skin would take on a grey color that had Geralt convinced that this was it. If he’s honest, he still doesn’t feel bad for taking advantage of the owners of the inn.
“Geralt…” Jaskier begins, rising on stable legs that no longer shake, the wooden feet of the chair as they’re pushed back echoing out across the room. He takes a few steps forward until he’s only a few inches away from Geralt, close enough for him to see how long Jaskier’s lashes are. This isn’t the first time he’s noticed this.
Jaskier sighs, bowing his head and shaking it in clear exasperation. “You silly, stupid witcher. I don’t particularly like the means--and let me be clear,” he says, with a hand raised to silence Geralt who had opened his mouth, “it’s certainly not due to my ever-faithful moral compass. No...I just don’t want it for you, my witcher. I don’t want to give them reason to speak against you...not when they find so many reasons already on their own.”
And oh this is what bothered Jaskier.
Geralt’s reputation.
“You needn’t worry so, bard. You know it’s a hopeless cause,” Geralt smirks as he looks fondly at the man in front of him. He’ll never get used to how carefully Jaskier guards his own image of Geralt. He will never be used to Jaskier’s need to shape the way Geralt is viewed by others, either.
“Yes, well,” Jaskier steps even closer, eyelashes fluttering as his fingertips come to rest on Geralt’s arm. It sends shivers all through him. “I don’t want you to do all that, anymore. I’m fine, and I am determined to pull my weight once again, so--,” he proclaims, stepping around Geralt now to stand at the door, whisking up his lute in one hand as he goes, “--I will play and make us some coin. No more questionable uses of your powers, witcher. I won’t hear of it!”
He points at the ceiling, pivoting on his heel and swinging his body through the door in one smooth movement. For a moment all Geralt can do is smile, before reality comes crashing back down.
“Jaskier!”
The man doesn’t stop and Geralt jogs to catch up with him. They stand at the top of the staircase which leads down into the tavern, jovial voices already making their way up to their location. It sounds to be a lively crowd tonight, and Geralt looks over Jaskier’s face. His expression is still drawn, skin more pale than his usual, and tired lines drag down at the corners of his mouth and eyes. He may be better, but he is by no means healed, and Geralt knows his voice isn’t at one hundred percent yet, either. Geralt squares his shoulders.
“You can’t play tonight, Jaskier. Look at you.”
Of course, Jaskier looks affronted. “I look perfectly fine, thank you! And I feel even better, so that will be enough of that, if you please. You are not my mother, Geralt. I will make my own decisions.” This is punctuated by a sniffle, Jaskier’s voice still thick with lingering illness and Geralt can’t help but roll his eyes.
There is no controlling one Julian Alfred Pankratz, short of tying him with rope to the bed frame, and while that does have its appeal, Geralt can’t make himself do it. He sighs.
“As you wish, bard.”
They go down the stairs.
It had all been fine until the hour turned late and Jaskier started to tire. His voice had been affected from the beginning, though no one but Geralt was likely to notice given his knowledge of the sound--the fact that the patrons were already full up on drink helped matters some, as well. But the hour has grown late and men’s tempers with it, and Geralt watches warily as an older man, fat in his age and red in the face approaches Jaskier. Geralt is already rising to his feet when the man opens his mouth.
“What is it with you pretty things and your--hic--teasing?” the man slurs, stumbling up to stand in Jaskier’s face. The bard looks surprised, stopping mid-song, a voiceless plucking of strings that only proves to Geralt how tired he is. His face is a bit flushed and his eyes look bleary as he blinks at the man, clearly unsure of what is occurring.
“Sorry?”
“You! You pretty, young things don’ put out anymore-- Look at you, like a piece of cake, iced pretty and sweet and tempting but then you don’ let anyone have a taste!” The man has progressed to yelling now, his pudgy finger pointing into Jaskier’s face who is looking progressively more upset. Something inside of Geralt tears just a little bit at the sight. Usually Jaskier would rally at this, stand up and fight for himself and get just as much back into the man’s face, calling him a pig, a fucking prick, anything really.
But not now. Jaskier looks confused and sad, his eyes glistening with tears and his posture small, leaning as far away from the loud noise as possible, and Geralt knows he really must not be feeling well for this to happen. He’s making his way across the room in earnest now.
But he isn’t quick enough.
“You’re supposed to speak when spoken to, you whore!” Jaskier’s hands shake.
And then the man punches Jaskier square in the face.
Blood spurts from his nose, mixed with mucus, and Jaskier cries out in pain, falling off of the stool he was sitting on peacefully not two minutes ago.
Geralt can see nothing but red.
His fists are soon buried in the fat man’s tunic and he throws him to the floor, uncaring of how the bully’s head bounces against the floorboards and his eyes roll into his skull. Geralt is livid as he says very quietly, nose butted up against the man’s own, “I should kill you. You would deserve it.”
There’s a shuffle of clothing behind him; Jaskier, trying to get up. He’s breathing heavily through his mouth and his voice is thick and muffled when he says, “Leave him alone Geralt and come here and help me.”
Geralt doesn’t have to be told twice.
He shoves the man away, his eyes wild with fear as Geralt stands above him and gives him a heavy kick to the ribs for good measure before turning to help Jaskier from the floor. His legs are curling in pain and his eyes water steadily, Jaskier trying to blink the tears away but unable to do much.
Overall it is a pitiful sight, and Geralt feels sick to have to see it.
The bar patrons around them gape like fish out of water but none stop to help, and soon enough they are returning to their drinks and food, uncaring of the damage done to a fellow man. Geralt hates them for it.
“Geralt, I feel dizzy…” Jaskier whispers before his knees give out and Geralt takes all of his weight, lifting him up from the floor on his own and shuffling him onto his back. He knows blood is now pouring from Jaskier’s nose onto his clothed shoulder, but finds he doesn’t care. He only has eyes for the staircase which will lead them to safety, but before that…
He stops behind the bar, standing a head taller than the inn owner, a bald man of middling age, and forms his fingers into a familiar sign. “Don’t ever allow that man into this establishment again.”
The innkeeper walks away with a planted goal in his mind, and Geralt washes his hands of it all, making his way upstairs to tend to his ill, hurt bard.
Geralt runs his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, a habit he had picked up in the throes of Jaskier’s sickness. He finds that it calms him as well as the bard, or it did when lines of fever-induced pain were etched into Jaskier’s brow. It seems to be doing the trick now as well.
Geralt set the nose as soon as they reached their room, washing blood and other things from Jaskier’s face with gentle hands as the bard whimpered and whined. Jaskier feels a bit warm lying here in their bed, his eyes roaming the ceiling without pause, bruises already forming at the inner creases of his sockets, and Geralt hopes the fever isn’t returning. Almost as if Jaskier can hear his thoughts, he turns to look at Geralt, a small, apologetic smile on his face.
“Thank you for taking care of me, my witcher,” Jaskier whispers, the sound barely heard above the crackling of the fire. Geralt hums. “I mean it. You’ve done so much for me in the last week and I can tell it has taken its toll on you…” Jaskier reaches up to cradle Geralt’s face, the small calluses on his fingertips catching in Geralt’s beard. Geralt leans into it immediately, the touch soothing a frisson of panic that still hasn’t bled from him, a thread that began unraveling the moment he knew Jaskier was sick and hasn’t stopped twisting around his lungs even now. “I should have listened to you.”
“Yes. You should.” Jaskier smirks.
“Oh, don’t pout. It’s not like I know when I’m going to bring in a rough crowd. That man was a cut above the rest, though,” Jaskier sighs, no doubt thinking over just what was said to him, and Geralt finds his mind wandering there, too.
Men look at Jaskier with hungry eyes and they talk to him with unrestrained tongues, and Geralt doesn’t understand how by simply being a bard, Jaskier is subject to the incorrect notion that he is for public consumption. Men touch him in ways they would never another, fingers tracing lines over his shoulders as he sings, palms grabbing handfuls of his arse as he walks by, and Geralt has never not wanted to rip them all to shreds as it happens. Jaskier has always seemed resigned to it.
By his reaction tonight, Geralt wonders if that has ever been true, or if rather Jaskier is just a very, very good liar. He’s not sure he’ll ever know the answer.
“You know I’ll protect you, don’t you?” Geralt asks earnestly. He knows they aren’t always together, but if they are, Geralt will tear the world to bits if it means his bard is happy and safe. Jaskier’s eyes twinkle in the dim light, a soft smile that turns into a wince lifting his face.
“I know, dear heart, I know.”
Jaskier closes his eyes and presses his body close to Geralt’s, entangling their legs as his lips come to rest at Geralt’s throat, his breaths tickling at Geralt’s skin.
He whispers, “I know.”
Geralt will make sure he does.