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A decade ago, Jaskier never would have gotten such a reception at a worn and drafty tavern like this one. They were several days’ ride from the nearest city of substantial size, but apparently The Grim Shelf served as a meeting point and melting pot for all sorts of cultural phenomena. One of the barmaids had bragged to him that in the last month alone they’d had two other troubadours and a caravan of jugglers come through.
Of course, all it had taken was a tilt of his plumed hat and a couple of chords and Jaskier had the crowd eating out of the palm of his hand, all past entertainers forgotten. He had been roving the tavern for ten or so minutes now, winking at the prettiest of patrons and pitching his voice to every corner of this dank place, and the atmosphere had shifted dramatically. He truly was an exceptional performer, he reflected as he stopped for a brief break and mug of ale. Only the best could take a place like this, where every face was heavily-marked with grime and strife, and turn it into a jovial concert hall where even the rats stopped beneath the tables to listen to Jaskier’s stirring minstralling.
He lifted his mug in a silent toast to himself, flicked a smile to a set of moon-eyed lasses seated on the other side of the bar, and turned on his stool to eye the room again. He hated to bring out classics like “Her Sweet Kiss” and “Toss a Coin” so early on in the night, but the masses craved his greatest hits, and who was he to deny them?
Also, he would be lying if he didn’t admit he found some difficulty in playing those pieces some days. “Her Sweet Kiss” called to mind the silver ruff of Yennefer’s coat and the searing heat of her purple gaze, and “Toss a Coin”...well, it was hard to think about Geralt without feeling a little like someone had stuck a knife in his gut.
And like his idle musings had flown straight to the ears of a god, his gaze lit on a newcomer, a hooded figure nursing a mug at a corner table. The person was heavily cloaked, but something about the set of their shoulders…
Jaskier shook his head as if to rattle the thoughts from his mind. Geralt would have no reason to be here in this backwater village, particularly with his star on the rise as it was (thanks entirely to Jaskier’s publicity). Not every muscled stranger in a bar was a self-hating Witcher with layers of buried emotional complexity, a ballad just waiting to be penned.
Right, time to get back to it. Jaskier left his tankard on the bar, hoisted his lute across his chest, and cleared his throat with a winning smile as he began his work again. First “The Fishmonger’s Daughter” to raise the energy in the room. Then “King,” a newer song in his repertoire whose clever lyrical machinations always seemed to pull a crowd to him, even once they’d drifted back to their drinks.
I’ll smile as I climb the stairs
to the light that you keep burning there,
and our muscles that are waltzing and our shadows that are bold, sing,
come rip up the flesh of my fears!
Even as the crowd rallied with him, his attention continued to drift to the figure in the corner. The odd person immune to his performances was usually not worth pursuing, but something was tickling in the back of his mind like a thistle in his boot, and Jaskier hadn’t gotten to where he was today by ignoring those instincts. As he made another pass towards that side of the tavern, the figure shifted, and Jaskier caught a flash of white-hair-gold-eyes that sent a rush of blood straight to his head.
I know your fingernails are the colour of rust
and your veins are empty of dust,
but our voices collide with each howl of the tide
singing all hell and its fire waits for us!
It was Geralt, the sneaky bastard! Where did he get off, skulking in the corner like a common brute when Jaskier was up here singing his praises to an adoring crowd? Jaskier drew “King” to a hasty close and paused, drawing himself up with a forlorn expression while the crowd applauded and prepared for his next piece.
“I’m sure all of you are familiar with this next song -- no, I’ve just done Fishmonger, shove off -- but if you’re not…” He paused and sighed, drawing out the breath until his lungs began to protest. “For all of you chaps out there who’ve met a woman who’s just a real witch...well, you’ll know what I’m talking about.” His bawdy wink was met with cheers and a handful of howls, and Jaskier settled into the first chords of the crowd favorite “Her Sweet Kiss.”
The fairer sex, they often call it,
but her love’s as unfair as a crook.
It steals all my reason, commits every treason of logic
with naught but a look...
--
At the other end of the tavern, Geralt leaned into his fist with a hoarse cough. Could he not go anywhere in this godsforsaken land without hearing one of Jaskier’s songs? All he wanted was to drown his headache in cheap ale, and here was that idiotic piece that he’d been treated to for the entirety of their last adventure together.
His eyes felt hot and prickly, and he glared down at the rough grain of the table in front of him as his vision pitched, then settled again. It was impossible to rest comfortably when his side felt like someone was in the process of sliding a hot knife between his ribs, but at least this bench was more stable than Roach’s rocking gait. He just needed to drink enough to dull the pain in his head, in his throat and lungs and torso, and then he could be back on the road.
He wasn’t even quite sure where he was. The nest of necrophages he had dispatched near Novigrad couldn’t have been more than two days ago, so he had to still be somewhere in Velen. But the flow of his thoughts was halting and edged with pain pain pain, and it had been all he could do to attempt a minimum of anonymity and slide coin across the bar to the innkeep.
I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting.
If this is the path I must trudge,
I welcome my sentence,
give to you my penance:
garrotter, jury, and judge!
Who included “garrotter” in a love song anyway? Geralt’s head throbbed. At least the song was nearly over.
Jaskier’s songs were all over the Northern Kingdoms and had only gotten more prevalent since the bard and witcher had parted ways eight months ago. It was nearly impossible to walk through a tavern in Novigrad or Oxenfurt without hearing the warble of “O Valley of Plentyyyy” from drunken patrons or up-and-coming bards attempting to boost their status with a set of surefire hits. Geralt had become largely numb to them at this point, but in moments like this when his body and mind were swamped with pain and sickness he found himself more vulnerable to the familiar refrains.
This performer was better than most he had heard, though Geralt’s vision was too fuzzy to focus on the man’s face from this distance. He managed to hit both the technical and emotional notes of a ballad that Geralt highly suspected had been written with Geralt and Yennefer in mind, and it stirred something in the witcher’s chest that he had been trying to force down since that cold morning on the side of the gold dragon’s mountain.
He had fucked up irreparably with both Yennefer and Jaskier. But he could not admit it to anyone beyond Roach, even when his skin burned with fever and his lungs were heavy with cold. Instead, Geralt blinked down into his watery ale for a few seconds before taking another swig.
Time must have passed, because when he next looked up from his tankard, “Her Sweet Kiss” had transitioned into a series of Skelligan sea shanties that had the crowd swinging their mugs of ale back and forth like waves in the sea. It was nauseating. After he finished this drink he would take his leave.
--
It was time to bring his set to an end with a rousing chorus of “Toss a Coin,” but Jaskier’s heart was not truly in it. Geralt had not moved from his position in the corner, hardly even sipping his ale as he glared down at the table before him like it had tried to shiv him in an alley. Part of Jaskier wanted to wrap the show and withdraw to his suite, where he could perch on the edge of the bed and pick out melodies on his lute in the dark until his fingers grew too tired to carry on. Geralt hadn’t given him attention once in the last twenty minutes he had been playing, which seemed to mean that the witcher still harbored ill will towards Jaskier. It was an intimidating thought, even though Jaskier knew that Geralt was not one to pursue grudges and would likely just storm from the inn and ride off into the night like a historic antihero.
But...a pettier part of Jaskier wanted to confront the man who he had not seen in months, and as he took a swig of ale to wet his lips for his final number, the alcohol compounded his courage. So he took his stage once more and drew the edge of his thumb down the strings of his lute in a disassembled A minor. The tavern attendants fell to a hush, and the corner of Jaskier’s mouth quirked up into a smile.
“Well, my friends, I’m afraid to say that our time together tonight has come to an end. But what kind of bard would I be if I left you without a satisfying conclusion to our story?” The next chord, a D major, brought a scattering of cheers from the crowd, particularly as Jaskier followed it with a D minor. Even those who did not know Jaskier knew this song, and the barmaids quickly began their rounds to refill mugs.
“Shut up and play it already!” A red-faced man bellowed from near the tavern entrance, and Jaskier shot him a rueful glance before returning his attention to the rest of the crowd.
“As I was saying.” E minor. “This song, while it is indeed an epic tale of bravery, is also a tale celebrating the gripping bonds of unlikely friendship, the desire to press forth despite all odds, and,” D suspended 2nd, “and the importance of supporting your local artisans.” A theatrical wink.
Jaskier was very proud of this song. It had a narrative, plenty of emotional weight, and most importantly a chorus that even the slowest of crowds could learn and belt along with him. Even now, when anxiety was heavy in his stomach and he could not keep from glancing over towards the hooded witcher, he couldn’t help but beam as the the off-key voices of the patrons swelled into “O Valley of Plentyyyyyy!”
In fact, just because he was having so much fun - and not because he had yet to get a rise out of Geralt - he even threw in another verse he had been workshopping, then spun back around to the chorus for a couple of reprises. Jaskier ended the song with one boot propped up on a bar stool and a wide grin on his face, and the ensuing applause that washed over him was wondrous.
So was the coin that was pressed into his palm or chucked at him in a most unfortunate interpretation of the song. Jaskier shoved a handful of silver and copper into his pockets, rescued his mug of lukewarm ale from the bar, and set his head high as he crossed the room towards his old friend’s figure. Geralt still stared broodily down into his own ale, his stark features tucked deep into the hood of his cloak. It was a new cloak since they’d last met, but as Jaskier drew closer he could see the burn marks and acidic blotches from Geralt’s latest adventures.
Adventures Jaskier could have been writing songs about.
It was easier to bury the months of hurt and betrayal under a flash of ego, so Jaskier leaned into it and cleared his throat as he approached the table.
“I knew the latest verses in ‘Toss a Coin’ paint you as a bit of a prick, but people do say to write what you know.” He took a choreographed swig from his mug just as the witcher looked up at him, blinking blearily. Maybe he was further into his cups than Jaskier had thought. Jaskier finished his drink with a sigh and flicked his hair from his face. “Hullo, Geralt.”
At first, Geralt just stared at him. His gaze was heavy with a depth of exhaustion that Jaskier hadn’t seen in a long time, and he felt his own chest constrict with the beginnings of concern. Then Geralt blinked again, comprehension slowly blooming across his expression. “Jaskier?”
As if he was surprised to see him. Jaskier tilted his head.
“That’s me, old chap, the man who’s been singing at you for the last half hour.” It was hard to tell much with his hood raised, but Geralt’s eyes weren’t the jet-black that followed his potion consumption. “What are you doing here?” In this inn, in this part of the country, in the same room as Jaskier after he’d screamed at him to leave him alone?
Another thick, slow blink, like Jaskier had asked the question in another language. “Wanted a drink.”
Jaskier furrowed his brow. “Are you all right? You’re all…” he waved his hand vaguely across Geralt’s general demeanor: the hunch of his shoulders, the glacial pace of his movements. Jaskier couldn’t see any outwards signs of injury, no blades jutting from between his shoulders or missing limbs, but he’d traveled with the witcher for long enough that he knew it was the hidden wounds that were the most insidious.
When Geralt didn’t respond, only continued to squint at him, Jaskier made an executive decision. He moved to Geralt’s side and hoisted the other man’s arm over his shoulder, then dragged him to his feet. Geralt was far warmer to the touch than Jaskier remembered as normal, and he gave a soft, pained inhale as Jaskier’s movements aggravated an injury beneath his armor. But he also didn’t protest, and he even leaned slightly into Jaskier’s smaller frame with a weary exhaustion that sent Jaskier’s anxiety through the roof.
“Right, right then, careful. I’ve got a room here and you can sleep off this...whatever it is.” He gave Geralt what he hoped was a reassuring pat on the shoulder and began to haul him towards the rooms at the back of the inn. One of the barmaids flicked Jaskier a teasing wink as he passed by with a staggering stranger on his arm, and Jaskier was so busy rolling his eyes he almost missed Geralt’s murmur.
“What was that?”
Geralt coughed, a gravely sound that Jaskier could feel in his own bones. “Roach,” he finally rasped in a rough and broken voice. “Make sure she’s...all right.”
Oh, his heart.
--
Geralt had never been so pliant, and it was making Jaskier incredibly nervous.
Other than his request that his trusted horse be stabled and taken care of, Geralt had fallen silent, even when Jaskier sat him on the edge of his bed and fussed around him like a bee at a flower. His hood had fallen back, and his skin was pale but for harsh fever spots burning high on his cheekbones. He was clearly not well, most obviously so as he let Jaskier coax him out of his armor in complete silence.
Jaskier paused by his side, hands knotting together. “Are you injured? Ill?”
Geralt gave a soft grunt, his gaze floating somewhere in the mid-distance. Jaskier fought the urge to snap fingers in front of his face and went for Plan B: Ultimate Firepower.
“Should I send for Yennefer?”
That got Geralt’s attention, and his eyes slid to focus long enough for a half-hearted glare at Jaskier. “No. I’m all right.”
Which he clearly wasn’t, but Jaskier was pleased nonetheless to nudge some lucidity out of him. Geralt did seem to be favoring his right side. Jaskier settled on the bed beside him and held out a hand, palm up, then gestured towards Geralt’s worn and grimy undershirt. “May I?”
If this were a different time and a different place, if it were eight months ago, Jaskier may have made an untowards joke just to prod a reaction from Geralt. Instead, his hands were gentle as he grasped the hem of Geralt’s shirt and began to slowly ruck it up. But after several inches, Geralt flinched away from Jaskier and gave a feral growl, flashing the tips of his canines. Jaskier retreated.
“Easy, sorry.” His hands were up and visible, his heart racing. “I’ve got to see the wound though.” Because there certainly was a wound with the way Geralt was acting. Even now the witcher was posturing like a wounded animal, curled around his point of vulnerability as he bared fang to the world. But as Jaskier spoke, his voice soft and coaxing, Geralt slowly began to unwind.
What was the old folk tale about the mouse and the lion? Geralt did not have a thorn in his paw, but Jaskier knew that the long, jagged gash across his ribs should not be that color.
“Which beastie did this number on you?” Did Jaskier have any bandages or liniments in his pack? Of course he didn’t, the most dangerous thing Jaskier dealt with these days was a belligerent audience. Geralt probably had some in his saddlebags, but Jaskier couldn’t tell his potions apart and didn’t want to risk administering the wrong item.
He wasn’t expecting a response, but after a moment Geralt rumbled, “Necrophages. Got sloppy.”
Jaskier pursed his lips in a low whistle. He didn’t know much about necrophages, but what he had picked up during his time with Geralt was that you didn’t want to let them bite you. “Nasty things. Right then.” He popped up from the bed and brushed his hands together. “I’ll go check on your horse and will be back with some, uh, bandages and the sort I guess. Don’t go anywhere.”
Not like he even could at this point...but it was good to cover one’s bases.
--
It only took Jaskier about twenty minutes to get Roach settled at the stables, retrieve Geralt’s packs, and beg some supplies from the innkeep, but by the time he returned to the room, Geralt was asleep on the bed. The big lunk looked to have slumped sideways onto the mattress and just passed right out. Jaskier’s mouth was twitching into a fond smile before he realized it (and by that point it was too late to change course, the smile was here to stay). He set the witcher’s gear down by the door.
“Hey Geralt? Wakey wakey, I’ve got to take a look at that nasty gash.”
No response. The witcher slept on. He was asleep, right - he hadn’t expired in the last half an hour? Jaskier tiptoed across the room and froze a few feet from his shirtless friend, holding his own breath until he could hear the telltale whuff of Geralt exhaling.
Well that was a relief. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms, but Jaskier didn’t want to have to contend with his friend’s dead body. Also, that would be horrific to explain to the cleaning staff.
Geralt had slumped over to the left, baring the pale and sickly-looking tear across his ribcage. He would likely come to when Jaskier began to clean it, if it was as painful as it looked. Jaskier began to unspool the cloth and soak it in the basin of hot water that the innkeep had provided, whistling softly to himself. Once he had prepared his supplies, he scooted a stool beside the bed and took a deep, bracing breath.
All right, Julian. If he takes a swing at you, you’re going to have to launch yourself backwards off of this stool and do your best to keep your delicate hands clear of the fallout.
The area around the wound was coated in blood, sweat, and traces of a viscous black fluid that made Jaskier nauseous. Several swipes of the warm cloth revealed Geralt’s pale skin beneath. In the places where it was not laced with scars, his skin was really quite lovely. Bards wrote songs about skin like this.
But not this bard, because he was currently dabbing a steaming cloth hesitantly around an infected gash on a man that could kill him with a twitch of his fingers. When Geralt’s chest moved beneath Jaskier’s touch, he flinched backwards, but the man was only coughing. It was a horrid sound, all rough and thick like he was trying to choke up seawater, and Jaskier had the sudden thought to check and see if Geralt was feverish.
His hand crept to the back of Geralt’s neck, then his cheek. He hadn’t spent much time skin-to-skin with the other man and couldn’t quite say what his temperature normally was, but he did think that he was far too warm at the moment. Should he be using cool cloths instead of warm? Jaskier was hopeless at caring for people.
Geralt stirred again, and a single golden eye slid open. His gaze was so rheumy and uncharacteristically distant that Jaskier hesitated.
“Move,” Geralt grunted. Even his voice lacked its normal strength and intensity, and again, Jaskier hesitated. His hand still lay on the edge of Geralt’s jawline, fingertips pricking several-day-old stubble.
“hh--Move.” Geralt gave a shuddering breath, and as his eyes slid closed, the break in the golden gaze was enough to shake Jaskier from his strange hypnosis. He recoiled obediently. And not a moment too soon, he realized, as Geralt’s lip twitched into a familiar frustrated snarl that always foretold a sneeze.
Even muffled into the mattress, Geralt’s sneezes were forceful enough to require the involvement of his entire body, from the tight clench of his hands in the sheets to the spasm of his broad shoulders, and Jaskier was about to make a joke or pithy comment when he heard Geralt’s breathless, agonized moan.
Oh, fuck, his ribs.
Jaskier gave a low whistle. “Ouch. Hang on, see if this helps.”
Geralt’s eyes were still screwed shut as Jaskier laid the hot cloth across his injured side again, but the whipcord-tight muscles along his shoulders seemed to ease just a fraction. That was good.
“Can I get anything from your pack? Potion or salve or...gryphon liver or anything?”
“No.” Geralt’s voice was markedly congested now. “Have to ride it out.”
Jaskier arched an eyebrow. “I knew you lot were uncivilized, but truly? You don’t have a potion to draw necrophage spit out of your bloodstream?”
Geralt was quiet for long enough that Jaskier thought he might not answer him. But then the witcher gave a thick sniffle and shoved his face more thoroughly into the sheets. His words were muffled.
“Might have some Golden Oriole left. Little vial, front pocket.”
Jaskier obediently sprung from the stool. “What color is it?”
Geralt just huffed at him.
“Oh. Right.”
It was where he said it would be, a thin vial the length of Jaskier’s palm. But the vial was half empty, and there were no more to be found. Jaskier returned to the bedside. “Do you think this will be enough?”
Geralt didn’t even look. “Have to be.” With another sniffle and a low, pained groan, he began to slowly shift himself up to a seated position. Jaskier twisted his hands, feeling awkward and not at all useful, but when the witcher turned his watery golden eyes on him he presented the little vial with a flourish. Geralt uncorked it with his teeth and drained the liquid.
Jaskier watched through narrowed eyes, trying to identify any sign that this potion was doing its job. But Geralt’s eyes didn’t darken, and after a moment, Jaskier asked, “Well?”
A slow, dazed blink in his direction. Well what?
“Did it work?”
Both Geralt and Jaskier looked to his ribs. The sickly gray gash remained unchanged. But as Jaskier watched, the edges of the burned-looking wound crispened and disintegrated, leaving the horrible smell of dead flesh in their wake. His hand flew to his nose.
“Oh gods, did I get the wrong one?”
But Geralt drew his hand across the wound, brushing the flaking skin away like ash. The gash across his ribs still looked painful, but the edges were beginning to pinken into a healthy shade. Geralt sighed.
“No. You did well.” He drew the back of his wrist beneath his nose, brows furrowed in annoyance.
“But -- you’re still --”
Geralt sniffed. “It removes poison.” Another sniff, and the slight pinch to his brows deepened with what Jaskier recognized as a harbinger to an oncoming sneeze. He scooted his stool back again.
His first sneeze had obviously been quite painful, because Geralt was trying to fight its successor, twitching and scrubbing at his nose with increasing frustration. Jaskier wasn’t quite as observant as Geralt with his witcher senses, but he knew his travel companion well enough to recognize the moment it was a lost cause.
Geralt gave his nose a final, irritated itch, then wrapped his arm around his injured side with a resigned sigh before his features crumpled together, his lip snarling up for a feral outburst that flashed the tips of his canines like a warning sign. Because there was one more to come: a final, resounding sneeze crushed into his shoulder. On its heels came a low growl of pain. Geralt curled into himself, soft tremors wracking through him like aftershocks. But after several tense breaths he unwound, his face tight in a grimace.
“Fuck.”
It was a familiar low rumble that almost made Jaskier smile, and he took a deep breath of his own. “I’ll say. You picked a hell of a time to catch cold.”
Geralt scrubbed a palm over his face with a sigh. “If you let me sleep on the floor, I’ll cover your board and be out of here at first light. I’d sleep in the stables, but,” he gestured to his congested, watery-eyed visage with a pointed sniff, “probably wouldn’t go so well.”
“Oh! Oh of course!” Jaskier popped to his feet. “And I’ll be the one sleeping on the floor, you’re injured and ill and I am a gentleman.” He sketched a half-bow to cover the sudden racing of his pulse. He hadn’t seen Geralt in nearly a year and now they’d be sharing chambers again. “I’ll see if I can fetch some more blankets from the staff.”
Geralt was quiet for a moment beyond the low, constant sniffle that seemed to have settled in to stay. “It’s a large bed,” he said finally. “And you’ll complain all through tomorrow about your back if you sleep on the floor.”
Oh sweet Melitele and all her saints. Jaskier was going to expire, here in a cheap inn in the middle of nowhere. “That’s fine! Of course!”
If his voice was a little breathier than usual, Geralt did not deign to comment. Instead he gave a low grunt that Jaskier recognized as one of approval, then slumped to lay across the bed again. Jaskier took the opportunity to find the innkeep and fetch some bandages, and once again when he returned, the White Wolf was asleep in his bed with a light, congested snoring filling the room.
Jaskier smiled. Maybe he’d have to rewrite those last few stanzas of “Toss a Coin” after all.