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Jaskier was very healthy; disturbingly so, some would, and have, said. Even as a child it was more likely he'd spontaneously become king of a faraway land due to some ancient prophecy than it was for him to get a simple case of the sniffles.
And now, well into his adulthood, the statement still proved to be fact. The plague could spit in his face and he'd bet all his coin—well, Geralt's coin, at least—that he'd still be fine.
And yet, despite his abnormally strong immune systems best efforts, he somehow managed to catch something while on a contract with the aforementioned Witcher. It wasn't anything serious. Just a minor cold of sorts, which weirdly upset Jaskier even more.
Normally it was an entire ordeal when he got sick. It would hit out of nowhere and all at once. Bedridden and delirious for days, looking—and very much feeling—a breath away from Death's door. Just as it was a miracle how rarely he fell ill, it was equally astonishing how he managed to survive.
The silver lining, however, was the fever-dream-inspiration he'd get after bouncing back. He'd take a day or two to fully be better, then spend the next week in a writing haze. Some of his best songs came from his intense battles with sickness.
Which is why he was so peeved now. Jaskier wasn't fighting for his life. He was just… seriously inconvenienced. A pounding in his skull just loud enough to keep his thoughts halted; a barely-there dizziness tethering him to his bottom instead of his feet; a sore throat that wouldn't even allow him the pleasure of humming, let alone singing. Even his fingers were too tired to pluck at his lute, which laid begrudgingly abandoned in its case.
And none of that was even the worst part, in Jaskier's opinion. No, the worst part was he had to suffer it all alone.
Geralt was off finishing the contract and slaying some beastie—Jaskier's head hurt too much to try and remember exactly which one—and was very firm about Jaskier staying put, as he always was. He didn't believe Jaskier's tales of a high constitution and fighting hellish fevers, but he did recognize the current state the bard was in. And for once the bard was forced to agree. He was in no shape to be trudging through the woods. And if anything were to go wrong during the fight, Jaskier wouldn't have the energy needed to flee to safety.
So he listened to Geralt and stayed, alone in the little clearing they claimed as camp. Well, Roach was there with him, but she wasn't exactly the best companion for a riveting conversation. Though that never stopped him from complaining to any ear willing to listen, even one belonging to a horse.
"Is it bad I'd rather be out of my mind with fever?" he asked, glancing at Roach. "That's bad, right?"
Roach chomped at a dandelion. The irony was not lost on him.
"At least time would move faster. But like this—" he gestured to himself, "—I'm just… ugh, I can't even think of the right words to complain with." Jaskier thudded the back of his head against the tree he was leaning against. He groaned and immediately regretted that action.
Roach huffed in what was almost certainly laughter.
"Yes, yes, laugh at the sad sickly bard. See if I give you any apples next time we're in town." He sighed and slumped further against the tree, looking at the sky. "If we manage to get to one this century, that is. What the hell is taking him so long?"
Geralt left for the hunt at dawn and said it wouldn't take more than a couple hours. It was well past midday now, far past the allotted "couple hours". Jaskier had half a mind to go fetch the Witcher himself if it meant they could get to town faster. If he was doomed to be ill in an unspectacular fashion, he'd rather have the option to sulk in a bed rather than a bedroll.
A small part of him was worried, but he'd long since learned to ignore that worry. Some contracts were shorter than planned, some much longer. It also wasn't unheard of for them to have misleading information, bringing Geralt to fight a hoard of monsters instead of one. But he always made it out alive, if not entirely okay.
And sure enough, Geralt's huffs and footsteps alerted his return. He always did have impeccable timing.
"Well it's about time!" Jaskier called, glad to finally have someone to complain to that could actually listen. Or pretend to listen. He wasn't picky. "You know, stress can make sickness worse. And it is terribly rude to worry the ill. And yet here I am, ill and worrying." Of course he wasn't that worried, but Geralt didn't need to know that.
"What happened to 'just a couple hours'?" he added when he didn't receive a response.
But still, there was no answer. Just more heavy breathing and crunching leaves, steps uneven and far heavier than normal.
Jaskier sat up straighter, brow furrowed as his not-too-worried worrying turned to actually-worried worrying. "Geralt?"
More rustling, more grunting, then a swear as Geralt finally made it past the foliage surrounding their camp. Though, "made it" was a bit of a stretch. No, the Witcher got one foot past the brush, then crumpled the rest of the way in, landing heavy on his side.
The sharp scent of blood welcomed him.
"Geralt!" Jaskier was on his feet in an instant, fighting past the sudden vertigo it gave him. He stumbled to his side, cringing at the shape Geralt found himself in. A large gash down the back of his left calf, claw marks all up and down his arms, a shallow but horribly dirty slash across his chest, and a nasty hit above his eye.
"Shit—oh wow, that's bad. Geralt?" Jaskier shook his shoulder, praying he was still lucid. "Geralt, hey, stay awake. Sleepy-time is for Witchers that aren't bleeding out. And I can't carry you by myself."
Geralt’s eyes fluttered, then squeezed shut. He caught his breath a moment longer, then pushed himself up to his knees, nearly falling again as soon as his back straightened.
Jaskier quickly pulled his arm around his neck and held firm. "Good man. Alright, ready? Three, two, one—oh Melitele's tits," he wheezed as he pulled Geralt to his feet, "you Witchers have too much bloody muscle."
It was a struggle for them both to make it the five feet to the center of the clearing, but they managed it. Jaskier all but dropped Geralt onto his bedroll, earning a well deserved snarl. Jaskier mumbled a quick apology before working on undoing his armor.
A familiar and practiced stoicism slowly took hold of the bard. He'd done this numerous times before after a bad hunt. In all honesty, this wasn't the worst Jaskier had seen Geralt. Far from it. And even though it sucked each and every time he found himself patching up a wounded wolf, especially in such a state, he learned quickly what to do and how to focus on his actions instead of his emotions.
"Kiss," Geralt gasped as Jaskier pulled the chest piece over his head, barreling right through Jaskier's stoic persona.
His face flushed with more than fever. "Pardon?"
"Potion," Geralt said, wincing as he laid back down.
"Potion," Jaskier repeated, kicking himself. "Right, that makes a lot more sense." He pulled Geralt's bag over and rifled through the different vials. "I'm hoping you'll tell me this will magically heal all your injuries?" He knew this wasn't the case, but hoped the question would keep Geralt talking.
"It'll stop… the bleeding."
"Ah, good. Still wish it'd magically heal you, but that works too. Ah ha!" Jaskier found the ridiculously named potion in question and popped the cork, easing it to Geralt's lips. He swallowed it with a cringe and coughed at the end, shifting uncomfortably.
Jaskier tossed the empty vial to the side and took a breath, planning his next move. "Okay. Leg, arms, chest, head." He pulled some bandages and herbs out of their bags. "Is there anywhere else you're hurt?"
"Don't… think so." Geralt's eyes opened and closed sporadically, staying shut longer each time. "Fuck. I might pass out again."
Jaskier wet some cloth with a water-skin and began the painstaking task of clean up the worst of the wounds as best he could. "I'd ask you not to, but would be more surprised if you didn't."
"Your fever."
Jaskier paused, glancing at Geralt's tired but concerned eyes. Of course he'd be worried about that while bleeding out, the big softy. His fever was still on the rise, he could tell, but still low enough to not be a problem. The pain was still there too, but focusing on Geralt helped him ignore it.
He offered a smile and continued cleaning away blood. "I'm fine. Even if I wasn't, I have done this enough times to patch you up in my sleep, I'm sure. And the potion is already doing its job. Bleeding's all but stopped."
Geralt didn't seem convinced, still fighting to keep his eyes open. Jaskier laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, squeezing in reassurance. "Rest, Geralt."
Whether the Witcher was relenting or the exhaustion had just won out, Jaskier couldn't be sure, but Geralt's head lolled with seconds, breathing evening out.
Jaskier sat back and stared at the sky for a moment, praying to Gods he didn't fully believe in that if his fever were to worsen then it would do so after he tended to Geralt.
Once the moment was up, he got back to work.
---
Someone somewhere was listening and granted Jaskier his wish. The sun was gone now, and he almost burned himself trying to start a fire, but Geralt's wounds were cleaned and bandaged. The color had returned to his skin and his breathing was no longer heavy. He would probably be up and about by the following evening.
The same couldn't be said for Jaskier.
Though the fever stayed under enough for him to take care of Geralt, it rose still. Now he could hardly think straight, if at all. His head was hammering something horrible, his body shivering and aching, his hands shaking so bad he had a hard time finishing the last of the bandages. He lost time for a while too, the sky going orange to dark in a blink.
"Guess this 's what I ge' for c'mplaining," he muttered to no one, words slurring. "Death wan's a rematch af'er all…"
A particularly painful twinge behind his eyes had him doubling over, pressing the heel of his hands to either temple in a wishful attempt at easing the pain.
Shit, he needed to get his fever down. As tempting as it was to just keel over right then and there, the thought of Geralt waking to find the bard's life sucked out from a fever of all things wasn't as appealing.
He reached around blindly for one of their water skins, a whine breaking through when he lifted it.
It was empty.
He vaguely remembered using the last of it to wash the rest of the blood off Geralt instead of drinking it.
"Never bein' nice t'you again," he lied.
He needed to get more. He didn't want to get more, but he needed it if he wanted to make it to the morning. But the stream they saw before making camp was so far. Well, not really. One could hear it if listening close enough, but with Jaskier's current state it might as well have been on the other side of the Continent.
He glanced in the direction of his salvation. The thought of letting the fever take him whispered in his ear.
He shooed it away with a groan.
"Jus' wa'er," Jaskier said, slowly moving to kneel on one leg, "Jus'... a lil' stroll. Tha's all." He grabbed both water skins and rose shakily to his feet, vision blurring at the edges.
He took a careful step. Then a second, and a third.
Everything went dark on the fourth.
---
"Hnn…"
"…"
"How long was I out?"
"…"
"Jaskier?"
"…"
"…Fuck—Jaskier!"
---
A haze of confusion settled thick over Jaskier, a feeling he never fully forgot but also could never quite remember. A constant ache stabbed at him from every direction. Sound hurt, light hurt, touch hurt. None of it made sense except for the register of pain, pain, pain.
There was a voice, he thought, saying what could be words but also could be something else. Maybe his name? Could very well just be nonsensical noise. It slipped away before he could process any of it.
He had dreams and nightmares alike, making just as little sense as reality. Both centered around a man with eyes of gold and hair of silver. One was helping him, holding him, caring for him. The other was shunning him, leaving him behind.
He longed for the former to be reality. He longed for soft touches and safety and warmth and—
The thought was swept away before Jaskier could dwell on it.
There was a taste in his mouth that cleared the fog just a little, if only for him to hurl whatever was left in his stomach.
Strong hands turned him over, rubbing his back, murmuring apologies. He was rolled on his back again, the rim of a cup pressing to his lips. Luckily Jaskier had enough awareness this time to shut his mouth.
"Jaskier, I need to get your fever down."
The voice was familiar, but Jaskier couldn't place it. It filled him with assurance, but that didn't make sense. They were trying to poison him.
"It's not poison, it's medicine."
Same difference when coming from strangers, surely. Especially strangers that could read minds.
"I'm not reading your mind, and I'm not a stranger." The voice sounded frustrated, but also worried. "It's Geralt. I'm a… friend. You know me."
Flashes of gold and grunts filled his head, spurring him to open his eyes. Everything was blurry, but he could make out a figure above him, the sheen of silver. "Ger'lt?"
The cup was pressed to his lips again. "Drink."
It was Geralt. Jaskier could trust Geralt. Geralt wouldn't hurt him.
The taste was back and just as horrible, but the fever pulled him under before his body had a chance to revolt again.
---
Awareness came to Jaskier slowly, exhaustion clinging to his bones in a way he recognized as a battle hard won against Death. His head was spinning and there was an ache he could feel down to toes, but it was better than he had been. There was the weight of a blanket over top of him that smelled like horse.
When he managed to open his eyes it was to fading starlight, the sun brightening the sky without peeking over the horizon just yet. Turning his head showed he was still in the clearing he and Geralt set up camp, the Witcher huddled around a fire and preparing some kind of meal. He still had some bandages, but less than Jaskier had patched him up with.
"Told you my fevers were hellish," Jaskier rasped, wincing at how dry his throat was.
Geralt quickly turned to look at him, something like relief passing over him before he schooled his expression. He paused his cooking and grabbed a water-skin, moving closer to the bard. "You're awake."
"Surprise, surprise." He gratefully took the water from Geralt as the Witcher helped him sit up. He whined when Geralt stopped him from downing the whole thing.
"You'll make yourself sick."
Jaskier pouted, but let the skin be taken from him. He looked over Geralt carefully, seeing if any of his current bandages were bloody, but they all seemed clean. "How are you feeling?"
"Hm. I think that's meant to be my line."
"You passed out first, so I get to ask first."
That was definitely a hint of a smile Jaskier saw before Geralt went back to the fire. "I'm fine. Woke up to you passed out, near dead with fever, and soaking wet."
"Soaking wet?" Jaskier glanced down at himself, only now noting that he was wearing some of Geralt's spare clothes.
He decidedly ignored how hot that made his face feel. Surely that was just the remnants of his sickness.
"You stupidly decided to use all the water on me and somehow managed to refill the skins while your brain was melting."
Jaskier vaguely remembered planning to get more water, but everything after was blurry at best. "Well, I live to amaze and impress. And that stupid decision is why you woke up nice and clean, so I'll just pretend that was an odd way of saying 'Thank you, Jaskier.'"
Geralt hummed. "How are you feeling?"
"Like shit," Jaskier said honestly, "but less so than previously."
Geralt hummed again. He poured what he made into two bowls and moved back next to Jaskier, handing him one. It looked to be a rabbit stew, though Jaskier's bowl was more broth than anything else. Jaskier was too hungry to complain.
They ate in silence as the sky brightened further, the forest slowly waking up around them. Jaskier took careful mouthfuls, not wanting to upset his shriveled stomach. The meal was bland, as was normally the case with Geralt's cooking, but this time was probably on purpose, the Witcher careful to not overwhelm Jaskier's still-recovering body.
And still recovering he very much was. He was swaying with the last few bites, the bone-deep exhaustion pulling at him incessantly. He couldn't even keep his eyes open anymore. Geralt was quick to take the empty bowl from his hands and ease him down on the bedroll, pulling the blanket back over him.
"Jaskier?"
Jaskier took a page out of Geralt's book and hummed.
"…Thank you."
Jaskier opened his eyes, smiling at the sincerity on his Witcher face. "You're welcome. And thank you for not letting my brain spill out from my ears."
Geralt snorted, the sound warming Jaskier far more than the stew did. He patted his chest and stood. "Rest. We'll head back to town tomorrow."
Jaskier closed his eyes again and let sleep welcome him easily.
The smile never left his face.