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They’ve been traipsing this marshland for hours now and Jaskier’s constantly being reminded of why he hates Velen.
There’s mud splattered up to his knees (thankfully he wore his most unflattering trousers today), bugs buzzing around his hair like the worst kind of halo, and he’s exhausted. The air is heavy and damp despite the sun beating down on their backs and the smells of the soggy outdoors are foul enough to make him gag.
“Why, pray tell, are we out here instead of that lovely room in that sweet, better-smelling-than-here village?” Jaskier whines, yanking his foot out of a sinking divot of scum and scrunching his nose in disgust. He’s so glad he left his lute behind, a thought he’d never thought he’d think. Who knows what this humidity would do to her.
Geralt grunts with what sounds like amusement, much to Jaskier’s annoyance. “I don’t believe that room is truly ours until I’ve killed the rotfiends and drowners lurking the surrounding swamps. We’re lucky they even let us keep our things there for the time being,” he says lightly, as though unbothered by the retched conditions they’re marching through at the moment.
Jaskier huffs, resisting the urge to cross his arms petulantly. “I’m sure the sun will smoke them out before we will,” he mutters, hand at his brow and looking up at the sky. Where are the clouds when one truly needs them?
He hears Geralt snort, which irritates him even further. “We?”
“Yes, we. You’ve pulled me out here, so I suppose I must assist you so we can make this go faster and we can go back to clean water, a clean room, and semi-clean civilization-“ He’s cut off as a stray tree root finds the toe of his boot and yelps as he falls forward, putting his hands up to catch himself and consequently covering them and the rest of himself with muck as he finds himself on the ground.
Oh, that is it. He feels his eyes heat with tears of frustration. He’s hot, he’s tired, and now he’s gone and ruined not just his pants and boots but his shirt, too, and he can taste that disgusting mud on his tongue and he is done. He takes a shaky breath, feeling a tear slide down his cheek. He wants to be done traveling for just a night and wants to sleep in a bed, for gods’ sake, and-
“Jaskier?”
Jaskier purses his lips, still glaring down at the ground. He wants nothing more than for Geralt to pick him up and carry him back to their room and coddle him with kisses and soft hugs and he wants his damn blanket-
“Oh, little bird.” He hears Geralt sigh softly, now kneeling in front of him with a sad look in his eyes. Jaskier whimpers, aggravated that he can’t wipe at the tears now rolling down his face with his dirty hands.
“I don’t want to be out here anymore, Daddy,” he whispers, sniffling and instantly regretting it when the smells of the swamp fill his nose.
He feels Geralt’s hand on his cheek, the heat of it making him feel too warm in the sun, but he still closes his eyes and pushes his face into it. It’s been so long since he’s been down, nearly two weeks now, and he knows that this hunt is important, but all he can think about is Geralt rocking him to sleep after a cool bath. He whines pitifully at the thought, hiccuping on a sob.
Geralt’s hand slides from his face and he feels himself being picked up from underneath his arms and set up on his feet. He wavers, exhaustion hitting him. He opens his eyes as the feeling of a cool cloth touches his hands, watching as Geralt cleans away the mud with some of the water from his waterskin and a rag. He sniffs, rubbing his face on his shoulder as Geralt finishes, his hands gentle as he dabs at the flecks of mud Jaskier can feel speckling his cheeks.
“I know you’re tired,” Geralt starts quietly, wiping at Jaskier’s cheek, “But I need you to be patient for just a while longer. Then I’m yours. Can you do that for me?” He asks, giving Jaskier a small kiss to his forehead that makes Jaskier’s eyes flutter closed.
He knows what Geralt’s asking of him, and of course he can wait. What a terrible place to slip, he thinks, agitated. He just can't help it. He’s overtired and overheated and over this entire day.
But he knows it will do him no good-in fact, it would probably do him harm-to drop right now. Geralt can’t carry a sobbing Youngling while fighting off monsters. They need the coin and monster heads for a room tonight. He knows Geralt will make quick work of whatever it is they find and it’s only just past noon. Geralt won’t want to be out past sundown. He can wait that long, he supposes.
Jaskier sighs and nods, rubbing roughly at his wet eyes with a fist. Geralt gives him a soft smile and a gentle hand to his hair, cradling his head with an apologetic and proud smile. “It’ll be quick, I promise.” He says. With a quick look over Jaskier he turns, starting to walk forward again.
Jaskier straightens and pushes at the fog creeping along the corners of his mind. He can wait that long, can’t he?
~~~
What they had been told were only a few monsters prowling around the edges of a marsh turns out to be a grisly pack of rotfiends and ghouls feasting on the remains of a battlefield. They had been surrounded before Geralt even had the time to tell Jaskier to run and hide, their backs to each other. Jaskier has to pinch his nose closed at the foul stench of decay wafting off of the foul creatures, lest he pass out from the gruesomeness of it all.
“Stay behind me,” Geralt mutters quietly, Jaskier barely hearing him over the hissing and growling surrounding them. Jaskier mumbles an affirmative, pulling the silver dagger he keeps from where it sits at his side. It looks pathetic against the horde of monsters surrounding them, but it’s better than nothing. As much as he loathes the fear that fills him as he looks around them, he can’t help but think about how fucked they are.
One ghoul seems to grow tired of this standoff because it lunges towards Geralt, snarling, and all hell breaks loose.
Geralt is slashing around them, silver flashing as he hacks away at their atrophied bodies. Jaskier swings his dagger at whatever tries to get at Geralt’s back, cutting at claws and maws as he tries his best to help. The sounds and smells are nearly overwhelming, his heart jackrabbiting against his chest as he dodges swipes and the snap of jaws.
He’s not sure what happens, maybe something jumps on Geralt and pushes him back against Jaskier, but he finds himself sprawled once again in the mud, just barely keeping his face out of the muck. He gasps as the air is knocked out of him and quickly rolls onto his back just as a clawed hand strikes the earth where his head just was. He has no time to think before a ghoul is on top of him, growling, stinking saliva dripping onto his cheeks.
“Geralt!” He shouts, dropping his dagger and holding back the ghoul’s arms, just barely strong enough to keep them at bay. The stench is horrific, old blood and viscera and death filling his senses as he desperately tries to push the monster off of him. He gets no answer from Geralt, can hear him grunting as he fights somewhere to his right. “Geralt, help!”
He loses his focus for just a second, risking a look to find Geralt, and feels three razor sharp claws slice at his chest.
The pain is instant, the cut deep enough to instantly start bubbling up with blood and he nearly stutters again in his hold. It’s like fire has spread down his torso and he gasps at the sudden agony of it.
It hurts so much, and he’s dizzy from the smell of death. He feels his arms wanting to give and that panicked fog he’s been putting off for the past hour engulfs him.
“Daddy!” He screams, sobbing as the ghoul’s mouth gets closer and closer to his neck, that rancid breath hitting the skin of his throat.
Just as he feels as though his arms are going to be torn from him, the weight of the ghoul is suddenly gone and the gurgling sounds of something choking on its own blood fills the air.
He’s sobbing now, shaking hands coming up to his chest and coming away red. It’s definitely not the first time he’s been hurt during a hunt, but his panic only heightens at the sight of his own blood. He feels his stomach roll and just barely has the strength to roll over onto his side and vomit into the sparse grass, his heaving pulling at the injury in his chest.
He can feel himself babbling though his cries, eyes blinded by tears as he looks around for his daddy, where is he, oh gods, it hurts so much-
“Shh, shh, Jaskier,” comes a panicked voice, Daddy’s voice, and Jaskier blearily makes out his bloodstained and concerned face. With a desperate whine Jaskier goes to reach for him until the pain in his chest blossoms anew at his movements. He flinches back, dropping his arms with a pained whimper. He’s starting to feel fuzzy now and it’s harder to move his fingers. He’s dizzy.
He chokes on another sob. “Daddy, hurts,” he whispers, lip trembling. Jaskier feels a soft touch to his wound and hisses, lacking the energy to wail. “Please,” he slurs, tongue heavy in his mouth.
“It’ll be alright, little lark.” Geralt says quietly. Through squinted eyes Jaskier can see him doing a sign with his fingers, a white glow surrounding them. “Sleep, now. I’ll take care of you, I promise.”
The pain instantly recedes and is replaced by fatigue overtaking him. As darkness clouds his vision he grasps desperately at his daddy’s sleeve, Geralt’s troubled yellow eyes the last thing he sees before falling asleep
~~~
The first thing he registers is something soft under his cheek, grasped between his fingers.
He notices it smells clean, the stench of the swamp no longer assaulting his nose. Even better than clean, it smells familiar. His blanket.
He opens his eyes, blearily taking in his surroundings. He’s back in their room at the inn, some of their bags open and unpacked beside the bed he’s lying on. The room is cool, a welcome feeling against his hot skin and there’s still some light creeping in from the window, the orange hue signifying the end of the day.
He tiredly slides his eyes over to the figure standing at the washbasin on the chest of drawers by the door and involuntarily whines at the sight of Geralt, moving to get up and go to him. He stops as pain ripples across his chest. He chokes at it, falling back and curling into himself. Gods, that hurt.
He sees Geralt whip around, drop the towel he must have been using to dry his face, and take quick strides to the bed. “Daddy,” Jaskier gasps, eyes already filling with tears again.
“You gave me quite a fright out there,” Geralt mumbles, kneeling down by the bed and stroking Jaskier’s hair from his sweaty forehead. Jaskier pushes his face into it, whimpering. Geralt’s face is pinched in worry, his mouth pulled into a frown.
Jaskier bites his lip, slowly reaching up and rubbing at his eyes. Now that he isn’t moving too much his chest feels numb and he looks down to see it wrapped in bandages, the smell of some sort of medicinal salve wafting off of them.
His mind goes back to the fight and he winces. Gods, he’s an idiot. He could’ve been killed. He knows better than to drop his weapon in a fight. And Geralt had told him not to regress, knew it would put them both in danger and it did and now he’s lying in bed wrapped up like an invalid and he knows Daddy has to be mad at him. His throat tightens and he looks up at the ceiling, not wanting to see the disappointment in Geralt’s face. What a burden he is.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers wetly, taking the hand wrapped up in his blanket and bringing it to his mouth, sucking on the soft blue fabric. Not even that brings the comfort he wants and he whines.
“Why are you apologizing?” Geralt asks incredulously, which makes Jaskier turn to look at him. Instead of disappointment there’s guilt lining Geralt’s features. “I couldn’t keep you safe. I asked something very difficult of you and you did it so well. I should’ve given you the chance to go down much sooner than today.” Geralt purses his lips, brows furrowed as he looks down at the sheets on the bed.
“I shouldn’t have brought you out there in the first place, and I should have anticipated that horde.” Geralt finally looks him in the eyes, determined. “You held off a ghoul even after being unarmed. That takes a lot of strength. I’m very proud of you. You were very brave.”
Jaskier sniffles at his words and swallows at the pressure in his throat. He whimpers once again around the blanket in his mouth. “Not your fault, either,” he mumbles.
His daddy’s lips quirk in just the barest smile as he leans forward, giving Jaskier a tender kiss to his forehead just as he had earlier in the swamp. Tears slip down Jaskier’s cheeks and he slowly lifts his arm, opening and closing his hand in Geralt’s direction.
Geralt’s face does something strange. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Jaskier. We don’t want to pull at your stitches-“
“Please, Daddy,” Jaskier whispers, eyelids already heavy again. Geralt had promised him a cuddle and he’s holding him to it, wounded or not. Besides, there’s no better medicine than his daddy’s arms holding him tight.
Geralt’s resolve crumbles quickly once he gives Jaskier’s face a once-over and he grunts, sitting on the bed next to Jaskier, pulling him up until he’s gently being cradled in Geralt’s arms.
It’s warm but not too much so, Jaskier muses as he snuggles into Geralt, mindful of his chest. He can faintly hear the sounds of people puttering around underneath their floor and the slow staccato of Geralt’s heart. It’s soothing and he feels himself slipping back to sleep, feeling oh, so safe.
“I was brave?” He can’t help but ask in a small voice, fingers sans blanket finding themselves back to his mouth to soothe. Geralt tightens his arms around him in a gentle hug and begins to rock him slowly.
“The bravest little bard I’ve ever seen,” Geralt mumbles into his hair, following it with a kiss to his crown.
Jaskier sighs happily, the cicadas outside buzzing at a low thrum and harmonizing with the soft melody Geralt’s started to hum. He falls asleep, head on his Daddy’s chest and a fond “get some rest, bardling,” being whispered into his ear.