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Jaskier was useless.
No, not quite useless. He did help set up camp, and played to earn coin in inns. He carried Ciri when she didn’t feel good, and talked to Geralt when he was upset, and traded barbs with Yenn when she needed a distraction. Words were everything to Jaskier, so he knew useless wasn’t quite correct.
Insignificant fit much better.
Because he wasn’t truly needed. Geralt’s contracts earned coin, his muscle carried Ciri, his experience set up camp- all more capable than Jaskier. Yenn talked to Geralt so much more than Jaskier had ever expected. And Geralt-
Geralt watched the two girls sometimes, smiling like he never wanted to be anywhere else. Actually smiling, too, not the fake one he practiced occasionally. A real, honest to gods smile. It was a look Jaskier only drew out occasionally in his twenty years of companionship. Never as much as Ciri had in a month.
Jaskier contributed what he could, obviously, but he was also a liability. An extra mouth to feed, an extra person to watch for in a fight, an extra set of boots to wear out Roach. He was a cost, a drain, more than a resource.
Maybe the others knew it, too. At least Yenn and Geralt did. They did the math on inns, on their ability to hide, on the coin needed for dinner. Jaskier was only half kidding when he suggested he could find another bed somewhere to sleep in, if it came to it. Yenn wrinkled her nose and set a hand on his shoulder, Geralt growled and threatened to barricade the door.
They all shared a room, in the end. Yenn and Ciri took the bed, while the men would settle for furs on the floor.
Except Jaskier had stayed in the lobby for hours, afterward, playing until his fingers actually bled and he couldn’t speak. He went upstairs with a case full of coins that night, though, feeling triumphant for the first time since the damn mountain. He curled near Geralt - warmth, always the excuse - and slept well.
Maybe he wasn’t insignificant.
———-
A heavy hand landed on Jaskier’s shoulder.
His sleep-addled brain barely registered it, mind thick with sleep. Besides, he knew those callouses anywhere. Hands designed to hold a sword, to pet Roach, to kill monsters and comfort his family-
“Jaskier, wake up,” came Geralt’s worried voice.
Immediately he blinked himself back to awareness, clumsily scrambling upwards. Geralt caught his wrist carefully, golden eyes locked onto Jaskier’s, and suddenly the bard couldn’t remember what was so urgent.
“Jask, you’re bleeding,” Geralt growled, his free hand starting to pat for injuries, and-
Jaskier relaxed a bit, slumping in relief. “Good morning to you too,” he greeted brightly, ignoring how raspy his voice was. “Damn witchers and their sense of smell. I’m fine, don’t worry, just my hands.”
The room froze.
There was a half a beat where Jaskier attempted to wake up fully. It took Yennefer’s soft whisper of “Silver, Geralt” to realize that the white wolf was still as a statue.
In a flurry of movement, Geralt had his medallion pressed against Jaskier’s forehead. The texture was smoother than he’d expected, though it would likely leave some sort of imprint from just how hard Geralt was shoving it against his skin.
“What the fuck..?” Jaskier said, blinking. Maybe he was drunk or something. But he knew for a fact he hadn’t spent any of that coin last night on ale, no matter how tempting it had been.
Geralt pulled back - ye gods, still so close - with a frown, settling the medallion back against his chest. “Not a changeling,” he confirmed, glancing back to Yenn. She wore a bemused, if not outright concerned, expression.
“Obviously not,” Jaskier responded, wincing as his voice grated out. He could ask Yenn for some sort of healing, but that would require energy, and he was fine, anyway. “What are you two on about?”
“Just your hands, Jaskier?” Geralt demanded. With the wrist he still held, he turned it so the palm faced upwards. Shallow cuts and scratches littered along his fingertips. Though they hadn’t been tended all the way, they weren’t deep or life threatening or whatever had him worked up so badly.
“You spent all your coin on a healing balm when you scratched your ring finger once,” Geralt said, low and serious. “When you sprained your wrist, you smelled like fear until the healer said it wasn’t permanent. You protect your hands faster than you protect your neck.”
“And your voice is shot,” Yennefer finally cut in, stepping away from the bed. Jaskier spotted Ciri’s wild mane resting against the pillows, right up until the view was blocked by an angry witch. “Gods know you worry constantly about that. Any time you even start to get sick, you drink every remedy you get your hands on, half of them I haven’t even heard of.”
That was…well, that was certainly a lot of information to parse through. It was all entirely accurate, of course, but the fact that they knew, that they cared enough about his habits to know them, made Jaskier’s head spin.
“It’s fine, honestly,” he said dizzily, eyes darting between the two of them. “Really. Crack open the lute case, you’ll see what I mean.”
Yenn eyed him warily before turning, dress flowing majestically, and raising the lid. She paused at the sight.
Jaskier couldn’t help a grin when Geralt rose to look at it as well, falling still beside her.
“That’ll take care of our money troubles, I’d wager,” Jaskier said, just a bit too eager. He was fairly confident they wouldn’t notice. “And if I rest my voice, I can perform tonight as well. I know we don’t want to risk using too much of your magic, my dear scary witch, but if you could just do a bit of patchwork-“
Geralt slammed the case shut.
The noise echoed in the small room, startling Jaskier into silence. Ciri made a soft noise before her breathing evened out again. When Geralt turned to face Jaskier again, his expression put storm clouds to shame.
“Do not hurt yourself for us, Jaskier,” Geralt growled, flickers of anger in his voice. Which was entirely the opposite reaction that he’d expected, Jaskier could admit, so his dumbfounded answer took a moment too long to create.
“This is what I do, Geralt,” he finally said, more than a little lost. “I’m a bard, remember? So if I can do this for us, I’ll do it willingly.”
Nothing met that remark. Even from Yenn, who never had a lack of sharp things to say about their resident bard.
He stretched his fingers subtly, shooting a smile towards Yenn. “Besides, I’ll barely be able to talk today,” he said conspiratorially. “I thought you’d prefer me that way.”
Something complicated crossed Yenn’s face. Akin to grief and guilt, a far cry from the laugh Jaskier expected.
Geralt growled again, standing abruptly. “I’m getting breakfast,” he told the room, and then he was gone.
Jaskier wanted to make another quip, but he had missed two for two already, and well. His throat did ache something awful. So he didn’t comment, scraping the coins into a few different bags for safe keeping. He needed his case for the lute. He even had enough to slip a few crowns to Ciri, when she woke up. It would delight her.
He was serving a purpose. And it might hurt a bit now, but in the long run, he was helping them all. Pulling his weight, contributing. Not just a drain.
The door swung open, and Jaskier glanced up to see Geralt, hands full of a mug and bandages.
“Where’s breakfast?” Jaskier said with just a bit of teasing in his voice, doing his level best to tread lightly.
The Witcher didn’t rise to the bait. Crossing the room in three strides, he neatly shoved Jaskier onto the bed, plopping down beside him. Jaskier didn’t even have time to react before Geralt wrapped his fingers with the precision he normally saved for his swords. Strips of cloth quickly cleaned and covered the shallow nicks and cuts, and then the steaming cup was in Jaskier’s hands again.
“Tea,” Geralt said gruffly. “Lady downstairs said it would help with sore throats.”
There was quite a bit to unpack there, too, given that Geralt would have had to go specifically out of his way to find something like that. Not to mention the cost of the drink itself.
“I can pay you back-“ Jaskier started.
“Stop talking,” Geralt answered. “Drink the damn tea.”
Yennefer remained silent on the other side of the room, hand on Ciri’s sleeping head. Jaskier wondered how bizarre of a domestic scene this made for outsiders. The first sip of his remedy tasted like lemon and honey, nearly enough to draw tears.
“Yennefer can heal you, after she gathers enough energy for it,” Geralt said to the room, though his eyes locked on Jaskier’s. “If you want to play again tonight, you will do half a set and then rest.”
The fact that Geralt wouldn’t have ever known what a set was, what any bardic terms or medicines were, was gut wrenching. Because that meant he knew just for Jaskier, because it mattered to his friend.
The bandaged hands holding the mug were trembling, just a bit. Geralt reached out to steady them.
“Don’t ever hurt yourself for us, Jaskier,” he commanded, honest and raw pain in his voice. “You don’t have to bleed to be of value. You’re enough as is, worth more than anything in that case.” That could mean the money or the lute. Either option sent Jaskier’s heart into his throat.
“We need you,” Yenn confirmed. “All of us.”
And Jaskier had to admit, as Geralt pulled him close and Yenn began casting a healing spell, it was hard to feel insignificant with his family around him.