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They’ve been on the road for a week, and this is the first time Geralt has found some work. Which is about time because Jaskier really needed a bath. They’ve checked into an inn, and Jaskier has nothing to do except get that bath and earn a few coins in the well-attended bar downstairs.
Jaskier has been trying to convince Geralt that they could stay in an inn every time they pass through a town, and that Jaskier could easily earn enough for them both to be comfortable even when monsters are scarce. But when he suggested it Geralt just looked at him as if he’d floated the idea of attending the coronation of the new king of Redania in the buff.
“No slaughtered monsters, no bed to sleep in. That’s the rule.”
What Jaskier really wanted was point out to Geralt that they could change that rule. They’ve changed a lot of rules since they found each other again, not least of all that when they lie down to sleep, whether on the ground or in a bed, they share all of the blankets. But he decides that it’s too early in this new shared life to start fighting. They’ll be spending a lot of time in very close company, and they’ll need to be able to rely on each other. And anyway, when Jaskier had set out to find Geralt he’d sworn to himself that this time, things would be different. He would keep his mouth in check. Geralt confided in him that he’d made his own resolution to always tell Jaskier the truth. So they were both turning over a new leaf, compromising, even if it was hard.
Jaskier doesn’t know how long he can keep his troublesome mouth in check. It has a mind of its own, so there really are no guarantees. The fact that curling up with Geralt in the tent has been quite comfortable helps. By the time they’ve set up camp and are done fucking, Jaskier sleeps like a stone. And today they’ve come across this area where cattle are being killed in the field, and the farmers are desperate to hire a Witcher to save the rest of their herds.
So here they are. Geralt paid for the room – without comment from Jaskier - told the bard he would be back soon, and departed to deal with whatever has developed a taste for beef. When Geralt was gone, Jaskier paid the difference for a better room, then got the bath he’d been craving.
The inn is nothing special, just your bog standard backwater doss house where you’re lucky if nothing alive crawls around in the pillows. But Jaskier’s coin has paid for a bigger room and sheets that look reasonably clean. Geralt will undoubtedly disapprove, but Jaskier’s nature of asking forgiveness rather than permission can only be suppressed so long. He’ll be sleeping on the ground again only too soon; he’ll be damned if he doesn’t take full advantage of this temporary roof over their heads. He’s in their attic room now. It’s quite late, but he’s not worried yet. Monsters rarely own clocks and Geralt will keep going with the task until the threat is eliminated, no matter the hour.
There comes a knock on the door.
“Finally,” Jaskier mutters, and gets up to answer.
It’s Geralt leaning against the doorframe. At first glance he looks quite normal, no monster guts on his armour or dragon blood in his hair, but instantly, Jaskier knows something is wrong. The Witcher’s face is ashen, the veins standing out black and tarry around his temples. His eyes are pits of liquid coal, with dark tears leaving smudges on his face.
“Geralt?” In the two decades they’ve known each other, Jaskier has seen Geralt under the influence of his elixirs many times. But that doesn’t make it any less disconcerting. But something is off this time. Jaskier is pretty sure that in the time it’s taken Geralt to walk back into town, the effects should’ve worn off.
Geralt doesn’t speak. He just straightens up and walks past the bard, swaying as he crosses the room. He steadies himself on the back of a chair, head down and breathing hard, then makes for the bed where he sits down heavily.
Jaskier shuts the door. He’s getting worried now. “What’s the matter?”
“Shrike,” is all Geralt says.
“Uh. Okay.” Jaskier doesn’t know what that means. Geralt starts tugging on his armour, and Jaskier bites back a request for a clearer answer. Geralt needs his help, that’s all he can think about. “Do you want a hand with that?”
Geralt grunts, but closes his eyes and nods. He drops his hands, which are shaking, and lets Jaskier undo the straps that hold his breastplate in place. It’s a fiddly job at the best of times and the faster Jaskier wants to go, the longer it’s taking.
As soon as he’s got the armour off the Witcher, Geralt groans and sinks back on the bed. Jaskier is left holding the armour, his brain too sluggish to immediately figure out what to do with it. In the end, he drapes it over the back of a chair. “Wolf, what’s wrong?”
“Potion,” Geralt mumbles indistinctly. “Makes me dizzy.” His eyes are already closed, but he groans and puts his hand over them.
That makes sense. These elixirs are pure poison, and Jaskier’s always wondered how Geralt can stand the effects.
The bard is torn. On the one hand, his heart aches for Geralt, and he wants to help him feel better. On the other, Jaskier still finds Geralt intimidating when he’s in monster slaying mode and isn’t sure how to offer help.
But this is his lover now, and he’s in pain. The least Jaskier can do is get over himself and do what he can.
“Boots,” he murmurs. That’s a good place to start. Get Geralt comfortable. Jaskier bends over the foot end of the bed, and when Geralt doesn’t protest he begins unlacing the heavy boots. It’s a heavy task pulling these things off, and he’s panting by the end of it.
“Thanks.” Geralt’s voice is raw, exhausted. His face is still covered in those black veins. His eyes are closed, but there’s a tightness to his jaw that tells Jaskier he’s not about to drift off to sleep.
“Is there anything you need? Or should I just leave you alone to get some rest?”
Geralt doesn’t answer for a few moments. “Lights,” he finally croaks.
“Ah.” That makes sense too. There are only two oil lamps on the table and one burning on the mantlepiece. The fire hasn’t been lit. Jaskier extinguishes two of the lamps and positions the third so that it’s behind Geralt.
“Thank you.” Geralt seems to brace himself, then cracks one eye open. The whole eyeball is still tarry black. “Much better.”
Jaskier sits on the bed, careful not to jolt the mattress. “This elixir…”
“Shrike. Very potent, hard to make. Causes pain to your assailant.”
“Not just them, I’m surmising.” Jaskier’s insides clench in sympathy. “Does it give you migraines?”
Geralt nods. “Worst headaches of my life.”
“Uh…are you…gonna hurl?”
“Not if I concentrate.”
“Well, just let me know, okay? I, uh…” Jaskier looks around for something to use in the event but can’t spot anything useful. “I’ll think of something.”
There’s a faint smile on Geralt’s cracked lips. “I’m not going to puke, Jask. I just need to wait for this to pass.” Then his features darken again, and he groans. His hands ball to fists by his side. Jaskier hesitates, then takes one of them in his hands. He smoothes out Geralt’s fingers. Geralt makes a strangled noise. But he doesn’t pull away, so Jaskier continues with the caress.
“You hold on to me if you need to, okay?”
Geralt hums. It’s a low noise, less than his usual growl. Shaky somehow, and his brow creases with pain, beads with sweat. Jaskier’s heart aches. He wishes there was something…
He looks around again and his eyes fall on the wash basin and jug. Gently, he places Geralt’s hand on his chest. Geralt shifts and makes a noise in protest. “Just one second, Wolf,” Jaskier calms him. “I’ll just…here we go.”
He places the basin on the floor by the bed and fills it with water. The he rummages in their pack until he finds a reasonably clean cloth. He soaks it in the water, then places it gently over Geralt’s forehead and eyes.
Geralt’s sigh comes from deep inside his chest. He blindly scrabbles for Jaskier, and the bard takes his hand again. “Is that okay?”
“’s great,” Geralt murmurs. “Thank you.”
They’re silent for a moment. Jaskier thinks that maybe Geralt has fallen asleep. His breathing is less forced, and his hand lies quietly in Jaskier’s. But then he shifts and seems to rally. “Jask?”
The bard removes the cloth from Geralt’s brow. “Hm?”
Geralt’s eyes open. They’re still a cloudy grey, but some of the pallor has receded from his face. “I’m glad you came with me.”
Jaskier rinses the cloth. “Me too.” He folds it neatly and raises it for Geralt to see. When he nods he places it back over the Witcher’s eyes. “Try to sleep now.”
“Yeah.” Geralt exhales shakily. “You too.” He seems to want to say more, but after a moment, his fingers go slack in Jaskier’s.
The bard lets out a breath. He wasn’t prepared for this. The pain on Geralt’s face, the way he tried to hold it together even as the elixir was coursing through his veins, poisoning him, was awful to witness. Jaskier has to admit to himself that he’s not prepared for this at all.
He’s known what dangers lie out here for Witchers, and that there’s a real chance that one day, one of the beasts they hunt will get the better of Geralt. But seeing it from this perspective, being more than just Geralt’s travel companion, is a shock, nevertheless.
But there’s no point wallowing in it. His focus needs to be on Geralt. His lover needs him; at the very least Jaskier can be strong for him. He’s chosen this place, and gladly. He wants to be with this man who has made him happier than he’s ever been, and if the price is that he needs to get his act together and be brave, then so be it.
The terrible blackness slowly fades from Geralt’s veins. The sweat on his brow dries. His breathing steadies and slows, and soon, he’s simply asleep, quietly, as if this was any other night.
Jaskier spreads their blankets over him, then slides beneath them. He’s sure he’ll lie awake and worry all night. How could he sleep after this? But the road has tired him, and it only takes a few minutes before he too falls asleep.
*
Geralt wakes slowly, which is unusual for him. It takes him a while to find the strength to swim back to the surface of reality, and then another few minutes to convince his eyes to open.
They must be at an inn. He wracks his brain for some detail of the previous day, and only when he spots Jaskier quietly moving about the room the memories begin to trickle back. “Jask,” he croaks, his throat dry like the scales of a geriatric dragon.
The bard looks up. “Hey, good morning!” There’s something guarded behind the cheerfulness, something fearful. Another piece of memory slots into place. The Shrike. Jaskier must’ve been terrified by the sight of him. But before Geralt can say anything, Jaskier asks, “How are you feeling?”
Geralt proceeds to prop himself on his elbows while he considers the question. “Better,” he manages after a moment. He scans his body for signs of distress. There’s still a slight queasiness deep in his gut, and some pressure behind his eyes, but other than that, he feels like himself. The searing pain in his head, the roiling sensation of the poison swirling through his vein, are gone. “Sorry about last night.”
He attempts to swing his legs out of bed. Jaskier puts down the sheet music he’s been flicking through. “Nothing to be sorry for. You’d do the same for me, and more.”
Geralt finally manages to get upright. With a grimace, he sits on the side of the bed, waiting to see if the room will stop spinning. “Sure would.”
“See?” Jaskier comes over and sits next to him. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. You were quite the sight.” And after a moment he adds, “We don’t have to leave right away, you know? We could stay another night, and you can get some more sleep. Not to be offensive or anything, but you still look like shit.”
The bard’s words make Geralt laugh. But then he frowns, remembering something else. “If we stay here, who is paying for the room?” He looks around. He hadn’t noticed the size of the room, or how comfortable the bed is. “There aren’t enough monsters left in the world for a Witcher to live on this scale.”
Jaskier sighs. “I’ve been trying to have this conversation with you, but you blew me off. There’s no need for you to pay for everything.” He jerks his head to where his lute is leaning against the wall in a corner. “If you hadn’t noticed, I’m quite good at taking care of my own needs.”
That gives Geralt pause. Something in him is resistant to the idea. “But what if I don’t want you to have to?” That makes Jaskier roll his eyes skywards.
“All right. I get it, you’re the knight in shining armour, and I might, just might, have given the impression that I need saving, on occasion. And that is absolutely correct. I mean, most of the time I have no idea what the next words will be that are coming out of my mouth, and that tends to get me in trouble.” He turns to Geralt. “But you know what’s also true? That same mouth? It makes sure I don’t starve, too.”
Geralt considers Jaskier’s words. He’s right, of course. And he’s just made Geralt’s mind wander off into an entirely different direction. He smirks. “You know what else that mouth is good for?”
For a moment, Jaskier looks annoyed with the lack of gravitas Geralt is bringing to the conversation. But then he seems to cotton on, and his lips twitch into a smile. “You mean this?” He leans in and kisses Geralt.
Geralt tries to pull Jaskier down onto the bed, but the bard resists. “Are we staying then?” he asks.
“I thought that was obvious,” Geralt growls.
“And will you let me pay my share for our room and board?”
With a deep sigh, Geralt nods. “If it means that much to you.”
Jaskier grins, and pushes Geralt down onto the bed. “It does,” he says as he swings one leg over Geralt to straddle him. “We’re a team now, and a team shares everything. Especially this.” He brings their mouths together again, and they forget everything outside of the attic room for quite some time.