Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jaskier watched Geralt closely throughout the day. Ever since he had gone up against the nest drowners in the frigid river that fed right of the mountains, and was just basically ice melt, Geralt hadn’t been himself. Jaskier was starting to suspect that the mighty Witcher’s mutant immune system was finally failing him.

Geralt looked like he was sick.

Common, run of the mill, miserable human, sick.

Oh, Geralt hid it well, like he did most things, but Jaskier had known him too long to be fooled into thinking his belligerent friend was anything but fine.

Jaskier watched Geralt swipe at his sweaty brow, a slight grimace creasing his face for a moment, before his dower grumpy face was firmly back in place. It was the tenth time he had seen him do that in what could not have been more than an hour passing. Jaskier wasn’t even breaking a sweat and he was walking beside him in the full sun, while Geralt rode Roach at a slow and plodding pace. No, something was definitely up with his mutant friend and he was going to get it out of him if he died trying. Which to be fair, was a real possibility with Geralt in an extra grumpy mood from not feeling well.

He suspected Geralt had a headache too as every time Jaskier started up a gentle strumming on his lute, Geralt would growl at him to shut up his infernal noise marker. Geralt only called it that when his hearing was over sensitive and it gave him a headache. Geralt hadn’t taken any potions in days and had been fine yesterday. No, Jaskier was sure he was coming down with an illness and he was determined to get Geralt to admit it and let him take care of him. The second goal he was pretty sure would end up being his last act on this earth, but given everything the great lug had done for his career, he figured he owed him that.

Jaskier carefully spent the next few hours huffing and sighing and gradually slowing his pace, until Geralt finally noticed and yelled at him to stop his whinging and hurry up. Jaskier deployed his best miserable puppy eyes and whined that his feet were sore and couldn’t they just take a break already.

Thankfully it worked, or Geralt felt crappy enough to give in without much of a fight and grumbled a grudging agreement to a half hour break. Jaskier had to work really hard not to skip off the road in glee at fooling his Witcher, pretty sure that he mostly failed and it was only because Geralt was feeling so poorly that he didn’t actually notice.

After Geralt tied Roach off near a nice patch of grass and gave her a drink, Jaskier patted the ground beside him, where he was stretched out, leaning against a fallen tree as a convenient resting spot. With a somewhat suspicious glare, that Jaskier wasn’t sure if it was from suspicion that Jaskier was up to something or just squinting in the glare of the afternoon sun that was flashing through the canopy above them, Geralt dropped down beside him. Jaskier didn’t miss the cut off groan as Geralt dropped to his side. With reflexes almost to rival Geralt’s, Jaskier risked life and limb and shot out his palm to rest against his friend's sweaty brow.

It was a testament to how rotten Geralt was feeling that he not only got his palm to his forehead, but also managed to have it there long enough to register that his usually cool running friend was burning up with fever.

“The fuck are you doing, Bard?” Geralt’s scratchier than normal voice grated out at him as he grabbed his wrist and yanked it away, making Jaskier wince as he felt the bones grate against each other at the harsh grip.

“Ow, gentle with the strumming hand Geralt,” Jaskier whined as he tried to tug his aching wrist back.

Geralt glared at him and reluctantly let go of his hand, before attempting to push himself to his feet, only to sway as he got to his knees and dropped heavily back onto his ass.

“Shit, Geralt!” Jaskier cried out as he grabbed at Geralt’s shoulders and guided him to lean back against the log.

Geralt tried to glare at him but grimaced instead and dropped his head onto the heels of his hands and groaned as Jaskier heard his belly grumble and gurgle in protest. Jaskier quickly grabbed for Geralt’s hair as he leaned to the side and emptied the pitiful amount in his stomach out on the grass beside him. Jaskier gagged slightly at the smell and pat his Witcher’s back as he spat out the leftover taste from his mouth.

“Fuck,” Geralt groaned as he leaned back against the log, his hand pressing into his temples as he grimaced in pain.

Jaskier continued to rub what he hoped was a soothing hand, between Geralt’s shoulders. The fact that Geralt hadn’t tried to stop him or yelled at him to stop gave him hope that it was at least marginally comforting.

“So, ummm, what happened to your phenomenal immune system, huh?” Jaskier teased, as Geralt glared at him through squinted eyes. He immediately felt guilty and quickly offered to set up camp and rustle up some ginger, spearmint and yarrow tea to help with his stomach and fever. Jaskier knew his stoic friend was really ill when rather than protesting and urging them to hit the road again, he nodded and gingerly shuffled down the log away from his mess and stretched out so just his head was resting on the log. Jaskier retrieved a cloth from his pack and soaked it from his water skin. Then with a quiet warning he draped over Geralt’s eyes and brow. He knew it was appreciated when Geralt let out a soft sigh and practically melted into the grass.

Jaskier shook his head as he went about collecting firewood and preparing the fire. His Witcher may not know how to look after himself, but at least he was letting Jaskier look after him this time. Maybe in the future he would listen to Jaskier when he told him he wasn’t doing well. Jaskier thought for a second, then shook his head. No, his stubborn and proud Witcher would never allow that.