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Chapter Text

It was well known to Geralt that Jaskier was not exactly the picture of perfect health.

Initially, of course, he’d thought that the bard’s constant need to stop and rest and complaints of headaches and body pains were just the result of a young, spoiled man doing far more exercise than he was used to. As the years marched on though, Geralt began to understand. Jaskier slowly opened up about the ‘why’ behind some of his more unusual needs once he grew to trust that Geralt wouldn’t leave him behind; the bard was a half-elf, and while that did lend some benefits, including (Geralt was relieved to know) a dramatically extended life expectancy, children of mixed elf and human heritage tended to have congenital differences which could make life difficult in an unaccommodating world. For Jaskier, this meant loose and painful joints which could dislocate without much effort, and a heart which tended to disagree with remaining vertical for long. 

Of course, Jaskier would stab anyone who tried to coddle him. Or, more likely, he’d write a scathing ballad about how shite the insulting party is in bed, but the fact remained that he hated to be treated as something fragile.

“I’m not made of glass, Geralt!” Jaskier had exclaimed on one occasion after the Witcher had tried to convince him not to perform one evening after a hard day of travel. “I’ve been dealing with this for most of my life! I know my own limits.”

The bard was right. He did know his limits. The issue he had was not admitting when he’d reached them.

In the fall of their eleventh year traveling together, Geralt invited Jaskier to winter with the Wolves at Kaer Morhen. The younger man positively beamed in response and flung his arms around his Witcher, kissing him enthusiastically. He hated to be parted from Geralt for so long each year, and honestly, he hated his traditional lectures at Oxenfurt nearly as much. Academics were all well and good, but they couldn’t compare with the adventure of traveling the Continent with his best friend and love. They set out north the next morning, hoping to make it up the Killer before the first big snow.

One evening, less than a week from the foot of the mountain trail that would take them to the Kaer Morhen Valley, the pair passed through a town large enough to have a fairly well-maintained inn. It was one of the last they’d see before the arduous climb, and Jaskier was tired.

“Geraaaaallllt,” whined the bard. “Please please pleaseeeeee can we stop here for the night? My feet are killing me and I want to play for a real audience one last time before locking myself up with four grumpy Witchers for an entire season.”

Geralt grunted, hiding a smile at Jaskier’s teasing tone even as he worried. What if Jaskier was regretting his decision to come with Geralt for the winter? Trying to keep the doubt from his voice, he teased back. “If you’re so worried about potential audiences, why did you agree to come with me? You could spend the winter holed up here in this oh-so-grand establishment.” He gestured at the wind-worn buildings that constituted the inn and its outbuildings.

“Oh, pshhh,” fussed Jaskier, flapping a hand in Geralt’s general direction. “If I wanted, I could spend the winter in any court in the Northern Lands. Even Cintra would have me, and that’s even after the fiasco at Pavetta’s betrothal. Of course I want to spend the winter with you. I simply meant that when it comes to appreciative audiences, you Witchers aren’t the most vocal.” With that, the bard pranced into the inn, leaving Geralt with the non-choice of either stabling Roach and heading inside, or continuing on without his companion. Sighing, he lead his horse to the stable in search of an hostler.

Jaskier wasn’t lying when he told Geralt he wanted to perform. He did. He always wanted to perform. But to say that was the only reason, or even the primary reason for his wanting to stop at this no-name inn for the night would not be entirely the truth. The truth was, Jaskier was tired. Geralt had been pushing them hard for the last couple weeks in order to make it up to the Witchers’ Keep by the first major snowfall, and the constant strain was finally making itself known. He didn’t think anything was particularly wrong beyond being exhausted on top of his usual aches and pains, but he didn’t want anything to flare up this close to their destination. He knew a flare was inevitable once he allowed himself to relax at the Keep, but hopefully he could hold it off until then.

He quickly acquired a room for the two of them (“No, no, just one bed is fine, thank you.”) and ordered supper and a bath as well. Hopefully a hearty meal and a warm soak would be just what he needed to get him back on his feet.

When Geralt finally reached the room the surprisingly amicable innkeeper had identified, he opened the door to see his bard sitting in a chair, eating a meal of stew and bread. It smelled excellent after weeks of bland game cooked without spices or herbs. He looked Jaskier over, enjoying the sight of him eating his fill. He was always too thin for Geralt’s comfort.

“Ah, Geralt!” the musician exclaimed. “This stew is truly a masterpiece. Come, sit and eat with me before I go down and perform. They’ll be bringing up a bath as well, so we’ll be able to get nice and clean before we get filthy again.”

Geralt tuned out Jaskier’s rambling in favor of listening to the melody of his voice. He loved to listen to Jaskier talk, even if he didn’t always care about the topic. When they’d first met, the bard’s rambling had been a source of annoyance, interrupting the peace of traveling alone. Slowly, so slowly he didn’t know when it had really changed, Jaskier’s voice had become something calming and comforting, a balm against the harshness of the Path.

After a moment, the Witcher realized Jaskier had stopped speaking. He looked up at his companion, who was still sitting in the same place as before, though he was now staring into his bowl of stew with unfocused eyes. Hm…

“Jask?” he prodded gently. “All right?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, sorry, must have gotten lost in thought there for a moment. Well! I’ll head down and play for a while, shall I?” The bard stood and picked up his lute case from where it sat beside his chair. “Joining me tonight?”

Geralt grunted in a vaguely affirmative way. He wanted to keep an eye on Jaskier; it wasn’t like him to zone out unless he was in the middle of composing. He hoped he hadn’t pushed the bard too far in his push to reach Kaer Morhen.

Several hours and many songs later, Jaskier relaxed into the warm water of the bath. Having a Witcher for a companion came in handy at times, like warming cooled bath water and saving his relatively scrawny bottom from scary monsters. Equally important instances, of course. He sighed in pleasure as the hot water soothed the aches he’d picked up over the course of the evening.

“You coming, Geralt? Tub’s big enough for us both.” He winked as he said this, aiming for suggestive, but missing the mark slightly. Gods he was tired.

The Witcher in question rolled his eyes as he undressed and slipped into the bath behind the bard. Jaskier settled back against Geralt’s chest, tucking his head into the crook of Geralt’s neck. Moments like this where the two of them could just be, existing in each other’s presence, were his favorite.

He must have fallen asleep like that, because the next thing the bard knew, Geralt was lifting him up and placing him gently on a chair. Jaskier blinked fully awake and smiled up at his Witcher.

“Well hello, darling. Did I fall asleep?”

Geralt grunted and passed Jaskier a bath sheet.

After he dried himself off and dressed for bed, the bard drank copiously from one of their water skins. Singing was thirsty work and that wasn’t aided by a hot soak, as pleasant as one may be. As he lay down to sleep, his belly began to cramp and his heart to pound. He groaned softly and turned onto his back.

“Jaskier?” came Geralt’s gruff voice. The bed dipped as the Witcher sat down beside him on the bed. “What’s wrong?”

The bard took a deep breath. “Nothing, dear Witcher. Just some stomach cramps. Drank the water too fast is all.” Jaskier hated when this happened. It didn’t always, but that almost made it worse: he never knew when something would set off a ‘flare’ as the healers called it.

“Hmm,” hummed Geralt. He laid down alongside Jaskier and gently began to rub the bard’s stomach. “Anything you need?”

Jaskier’s heart warmed. “Such a sweet man. No, thank you dear. A good night of sleep and I’ll be right as rain.”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s hum this time was harder to read. Jaskier hoped he wasn’t worrying too much. This did just happen sometimes. It didn’t necessarily mean anything more major was going to happen any time soon.

Once the nausea subsided, Jaskier curled up into his Witcher’s side and drifted off to sleep, hoping he was right and that he’d feel fine in the morning.

Jaskier was roused from sleep by… something. He wasn’t sure what. He opened his eyes, expecting to see at the very least the light of false dawn seeping through the cracks in the shutters, but instead saw the pitch darkness that only occurred in the very early hours of the morning. It couldn’t be more than three o’clock, three-thirty at the latest. He groaned softly, trying not to wake Geralt who was blessedly still asleep beside him, and turned over to his other side. He tried in vain to fall back to sleep, and eventually resigned himself to the lack of sleep and spent the rest of the night composing in his head.

As dawn approached, the bard noticed that the pounding of his heart, which had begun the previous night after his bath, hadn’t let up. If anything, it had gotten worse. Now, in addition to feeling each beat of his overeager heart, it felt like it was both skipping beats and beating double every few minutes. This had happened before, but not to this extent and not for this long. It was nerve-wracking.

For a few long minutes, he lay on his back, breathing deeply and trying to get his heart under control. Eventually, Geralt awoke beside him and, ignoring Jaskier, went on about his morning routine. The bard decided that he might as well get up too, since it was unlikely he’d be getting any more sleep. He groaned again and sat up, his heart rate immediately kicking up several notches as he did so. This did not feel good.

“You’re up early, bard,” rumbled Geralt, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Yeah. Woke up around three-thirty, I think. Couldn’t fall back to sleep.” He rubbed absently at his chest, willing his heart to calm down.

The Witcher looked him over critically. “You okay?” A simple question by all accounts, but it was their personal code for when Jaskier was having a flare.

Jaskier thought for a moment, then shook his head minutely, looking down at his lap. “No, I don’t think I am.”

Chapter Text

Geralt had a habit of tuning everything out on the mornings they were at inns, since he was more easily overwhelmed when he had just roused from sleep and they weren’t likely to be attacked while indoors. When he heard Jaskier’s answer, though, his senses snapped to attention, focusing on his bard. Jaskier’s heart was beating far too fast. Not only that, but it was erratic, occasionally missing beats or beating too many times to maintain the typical thum-thump pattern.

The Witcher was at the bard’s side in an instant, hands fluttering over him, unsure what to do. He always felt rather helpless at moments like this. There wasn’t much he could do to help, and even when there was, Jaskier was tetchy about being taken care of. A hypocrite if ever there was one.

“Your heart, it’s… not right,” murmured Geralt, his right hand finally landing over Jaskier’s which was currently placed on his chest.

“Yeah, I can tell, thanks,” the bard snapped back, then sighed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be short. But come on, Geralt. Don’t you think I know that already? It’s… never been this bad before.” Jaskier’s face was nervous and pale, with red spots high on his cheeks as though he was running a fever. Geralt placed his other hand on the bard’s forehead to check for a temperature, and was comforted to find it flushed, but not feverish.

“What do you want to do?” he asked. Jaskier valued his own agency in matters regarding his own health, even if he had an unfortunate tendency to ignore warning signs and push through flares when he should be resting.

The bard just shook his head and took a deep breath, rubbing at his chest. He coughed lightly as he exhaled, and frowned.

“You’re not getting sick, are you?” inquired the Witcher. When Jaskier got sick, even if it was just a small cold, he was down for the count for days on end.

“I don’t think so… It feels like I need to cough, but it also… doesn’t? I’m not sure. It’s never felt this way before.”

Geralt went and got a full waterskin and handed it over. Jaskier drank slowly, then coughed again, a little harder this time.

“Geralt,” started the bard, “I think maybe I need to see a healer.”

Jaskier was concerned. He’d never experienced this kind of heart issue this severely or for this long. He knew that people with his condition often had what the healers called ‘palpitations,’ times when one could feel their heart pounding in their chest sometimes with irregular rhythms, as well as the more standard overly-fast heart rate, but he’d never had to deal with it for more than an hour or two at most. It was verging on nine or ten hours since he’d first noticed the palpitations the night before, and that scared him.

“Fuck.” Geralt’s curse broke him out of his daze. He looked up into his Witcher’s face. Most people had difficulty reading the stoic man, but Jaskier had long since learned how to understand his subtle looks. Right now, he was worried. “Fuck,” he said again. “Okay, I’ll go see who’s available. This town ought to be big enough to have their own healer.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier stopped him as he turned for the door.

“Hmm?”

“Try not to worry too much. I’ll be okay.”

The Witcher just turned and rushed out the door.

Geralt was worried. He couldn’t help it. When Jaskier was sick, it was like when one of his brothers almost didn’t make it home for the winter because of an injury. They were family, and Geralt protected his family. The only trouble was, he couldn’t fight Jaskier’s own body. The only thing he could do was try to make sure his bard got enough food, water, and rest, and get him whatever he needed when he had a flare. This time, Jaskier has asked for a healer, and that’s what scared Geralt most. The bard almost never went to a healer, only doing so if Geralt forced him or if he felt truly awful.

He managed to be polite enough to the kind innkeeper, who directed him to the home of the local healer. Thankfully, she was well-liked and appreciated by the locals, and lived in a neat cottage near the center of town, not too far from the inn. Once he got to her home, though, his composure broke down a bit.

He banged on the door a bit harder than was perhaps necessary. “I need a healer!” He spoke loudly through the door, trying not to full-out yell. The longer he was away from Jaskier, the longer his bard was without supervision, the more time something had to go truly wrong.

“Calm down, I’m coming, I’m coming.” The door opened and a middle-aged woman with curly red hair and a no-nonsense expression appeared. “What can I do for you, young man?”

Geralt ignored the inaccuracies of her words in favor of answering the question. “My companion. He’s ill. Don’t know what’s going on but it’s getting worse and—”

The healer interrupted him. “Woah there, slow down. Now, come in and sit, and tell me what exactly is going on so I know what to bring with me.”

Geralt did not want to go in and sit. He wanted to drag this woman back to the inn to help Jaskier. But, he could see the logic in her words. It would just waste time if she had to run back to her home to get supplies. He followed her into a well-lit room which smelled heavily of herbs and the alcohol used to brew human-safe tinctures. She gestured to a chair and he sat.

“Now, tell me what’s wrong with your friend.”

Geralt took a deep, slightly shaky breath, and told her what he knew: Jaskier had chronic issues with his heart and joints, and right now his heart was completely out of control.

The healer, she said her name was Elin, asked a number of questions which Geralt answered as best he could. After her interrogation was apparently over, she stood, gathered a number of things into a large woven bag, and gestured for Geralt to lead the way.

Jaskier was laying down in bed, trying to get his heart to cooperate when Geralt returned. He had a kind-but-stern-looking woman in tow. Ah, she must be the healer. He couldn’t tell if the flush that rose in his cheeks was due to the rapid beating of his heart, or his embarrassment at calling a healer.

The bard didn’t like healers. Well, that wasn’t strictly true; he appreciated the work they did, and he knew Geralt would have been dead many times over if not for the services of some kind-hearted healer or another, but he didn’t like being the patient. The issue with having chronic health problems was that you never knew when it was just your body doing uncomfortable but ultimately normal things, or if it was something more serious. It made the decision to go to a healer more challenging. What if he made a fool of himself and it wasn’t anything to worry about? What if they couldn’t do anything to fix it? What if he was seriously ill?

As these thoughts ran circles around his mind, Geralt came over to the bed and sat on its edge as he had the night before. The Witcher stretched out a pale hand and stroked over Jaskier’s hair.

“How are you feeling?”

Jaskier smiled wanly at his love. “No worse than before. Thank you for going.”

Geralt grunted and gestured to the woman who was currently setting up shop at their small table. “This is Elin, the local healer. She has some magical skill as well.”

The woman in question turned to look at Jaskier with a considering expression. “Good, I’m glad to see you’re in bed. I would have been quite cross if I’d arrived to find you wandering about the room. Now, let’s see what we can see.” She came over to the bedside and placed her fingers against the pulse point in Jaskier’s neck. “Hm. Yes, that is much more rapid than is generally wanted. I’m going to take a look with magic, if you don’t mind.”

At Jaskier’s assent, she nodded and spoke again. “If you wouldn’t mind disrobing then, I’ll step away to give you some privacy. You may keep your braies on, but please remove everything else.”

Jaskier nodded and couldn’t help but grin slightly as his Witcher let a small growl escape. He could be so protective at times. He squeezed Geralt’s hand, and quickly shed his sleep shirt and hose in which he’d slept.

“All right,” he said. “I’m ready.”

Elin strode back over to the bed and placed her hands gently on Jaskier’s chest. “Master Witcher, if you would be so kind as to refrain from touching Jaskier here until I’m done examining him? Contact could throw off the readings.”

Geralt took his hand away from where it was holding Jaskier’s. The bard looked up at his Witcher, reading the worried look in his eyes and smiling in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion.

“Very good. You won’t feel a thing.”

The exam went smoothly and very quickly. As Elin had promised, Jaskier didn’t feel anything as she examined his heart, lungs, and circulatory system. When she had finished, she allowed Jaskier to put his clothes back on and get under the covers. He’d been quite warm when Elin had arrived, but now he was feeling rather chilly.

“All right. Well, the good news is that the electrical signals in your heart look normal. You’re in no danger of having a heart attack.”

Geralt sighed in relief from where he sat next to Jaskier. The bard turned to look at him and smiled, squeezing his hand, gently. His silly, worrywart Witcher.

“The bad news is, I don’t see anything particularly out of the ordinary which could explain the symptoms you’ve been having.”

It was Jaskier’s turn to sigh, this time in resignation. He’d been worried that might be the case. He’d been told he was fine by healers in the past, when he was so ill he could hardly get through a day without a migraine or a fainting episode.

“That being said, that doesn’t mean that something isn’t wrong.”

At that, Jaskier looked up.

Elin continued. “You know your body best, and just because I can’t find the cause, doesn’t mean that what you’re experiencing isn’t real. If you have a healer whom you see regularly and who knows your history, I’d suggest following up with them. If you don’t, I’d recommend finding one. This sort of problem usually requires more long-term testing and observation.”

Jaskier nearly gaped. Only over a decade of bardic experience and training allowed him to maintain his composure. “Thank you, Elin. I really appreciate your understanding.” He knew there were questions he should be asking, but his mind was still reeling from Elin’s belief that he wasn’t just making it up. Thankfully, Geralt once again came to the rescue.

“What about today? Our plans were to continue our travels,” asked the gruff Witcher.

The healer smiled a little wryly. “If you were worried enough to call a healer, do you really think he should be traveling today? No. If you can, take the rest of the day off. Don’t stand up, if you can help it, and drink plenty of fluids. For now, take it one day at a time. Do what you feel you can, and don’t push yourself.”

Geralt nodded, then asked another question. “Is there anything we can do to mitigate symptoms in the meantime? Other than staying horizontal, that is. We’re expected somewhere before the first snowfall.”

Elin thought for a moment before answering. “It has been posited by some at a medical university down south that increasing salt in the diet, along with increased water intake, can help to limit symptoms like those you’re experiencing.” She addressed Jaskier, not Geralt, even though it was the Witcher who’d asked the question. Again, Jaskier was grateful. “Try to get as much salt as you can for the next few days, and see how that helps. Just make sure to drink plenty at the same time.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier replied. “You’ve been very kind. Is there anything else we need to know?”

The woman shook her head. “No, that’s about all I can give you, unfortunately. I do hope you recover quickly. I’ve heard your songs. They’re quite good!” She stood and began to gather her things.

Geralt handed Jaskier the waterskin and went to discuss payment with the healer. Meanwhile, the bard pondered what he would do now. He couldn’t perform if he was to be essentially bedridden. Couldn’t travel, either. Geralt had gotten over his dislike of Jaskier touching Roach, so he could potentially ride, if Geralt was willing, but even that involved sitting up. Melitele’s tits, he was tired. Maybe he could take a nap once the healer left.

Just as he thought this, Geralt came back over to the bed, sitting down against the headboard. The bard shifted so that his head was in Geralt’s lap, and the Witcher huffed out a laugh and began to stroke Jaskier’s hair.

“Well, that went better than I expected,” the bard commented as his eyes slipped shut against the pleasure of Geralt playing with his hair. “Even if we didn’t find out what’s wrong, we know I’m not having a heart attack, and Elin believed me.”

The Witcher grunted and took a moment before speaking. “I was… worried. Am worried. This isn’t normal, even for you. I’m glad to know you’re not dying, but fuck, Jask.” At that, the normally unflappable man took a shuddering breath and pulled the bard up so the Witcher could bury his face in the crook of his neck.

Jaskier leaned back against Geralt, squeezing the large man’s hand in both of his. He knew Geralt worried about him, but sometimes it was easy to forget just how much Jaskier’s health affected the Witcher.

Inhaling deeply, Geralt spoke against Jaskier’s neck. “I can’t help but worry. And I know I need to be focusing on taking care of you right now and you shouldn’t have to worry about me, but… Gods, Lark. What if…” He trailed off, nuzzling deeper into the bard’s shoulder.

Oh that adorable man. Jaskier wasn’t sure what he’d done right to deserve such a companion, but it must have been something big. “Darling. I know exactly how you feel. I feel it every time you’re injured, or come back late from a hunt, or accidentally overdose on potions. I know you care, and I know you worry, and I’m grateful that you trust me enough to allow yourself to be vulnerable with me.” The bard reached up rather awkwardly to pet Geralt’s hair without dislodging him from his place at Jaskier’s neck. “You have every right to want comfort when you’re upset, no matter why that might be.”

The Witcher inhaled again, taking comfort in Jaskier’s scent as the bard knew he often did. “Okay. Thank you,” came the muttered reply.

They sat like that for another ten minutes or so until Jaskier’s heart made itself known again, pounding out of control. When Jaskier moaned in discomfort, Geralt sat up and gently encouraged Jaskier to lay back down, stacking the pillows behind his shoulders so he could remain slightly upright without effort.

Jaskier just closed his eyes and tried to ignore the awful feeling in his chest.

“Jask. Here.” Jaskier opened his eyes to see Geralt offering him the waterskin. Carefully, he took it and drank, hands shaking slightly. He was too warm again, sweat soaking into his shirt. The water felt wonderful going down his throat, but he forced himself not to drink it all. Too much would just make him nauseous.

“How’re you feeling?” Geralt asked as he took the waterskin.

“Eh. Been better. ’S notfun.” Fuck, his words were slurring now. That wouldn’t reassure his Wolf at all.

Sure enough, Geralt frowned and put the waterskin down, returning immediately to Jaskier’s side.

“You’re slurring. You sure you’re okay? Should I go call Elin back?” He felt Jaskier’s forehead for fever again.

Jaskier hummed in response. “Yeah, ‘m fine. Jus tired. Really tired.”

“You should sleep, Lark. I’ll pay the innkeeper for another night. You just rest.”

The bard was asleep before he could tell the Witcher about the money in his lute case saved for just this sort of occasion.

Chapter Text

Jaskier dozed on and off for an hour or so, though Geralt wasn’t sure if he was ever truly asleep or if he was just… not awake. He didn’t like to think of the bard being aware but not lucid enough to interact with his surroundings, but since the healer had said he was in no immediate danger, he supposed it was better than being aware and miserable.

The Witcher spent the time organizing a couple more nights at the inn for the two of them, sorting through his potions to see what he had left for the trek up the Killer, and writing to Vesemir, Eskel, and Lambert to inform them that they might be a little later than originally planned. Thankfully, they were already close to the mountains so they could still make it before the big snows.

When Jaskier finally roused, Geralt brought him the refilled waterskin and sat beside him again.

“Hey. How’re you feeling? Any better?” he asked after Jaskier had drunk his fill.

“Not really,” replied the bard. “Still feels like by heart is a drowner with a bone to pick.”

“Get any sleep?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Not sure if I was ever fully asleep.” He pushed himself up against the headboard, then pressed his hand to his chest, breathing heavily as though he’d run up a hill, not just sat up. “Whew. This sucks.”

Geralt almost laughed at that. “Well that was mild.”

Jaskier chuckled. “Yes, well, it is what it is, Witcher dear. And I’m not sure I have the energy for anything more vigorous.”

“Fair. Can I get you anything? Some food?” He hoped Jaskier would eat. It was nearing midday and Jaskier hadn’t had anything since their supper the night before.

“Ughhh I suppose I should, though I’m not at all hungry. Maybe some bread and broth?”

Geralt agreed and procured some very nice thin broth and a day old loaf from the kitchen. Once Jaskier had eaten, he settled back down against the pillows. Eating always made him feel worse in the short term when he was having a flare.

Sure enough, not five minutes after he laid back down, Jaskier started to breathe very intentionally. Geralt knew this to be one of his ‘techniques’ for keeping his heart rate under control, though how effective it was remained to be seen. Before he could offer any assistance, Jaskier spoke up.

“Water?”

Geralt brought it to Jaskier and stood awkwardly by as the bard attempted to drink from the waterskin while remaining as horizontal as possible. The effect was rather amusing, though he knew Jaskier would probably bite his head off if he said so.

“What’re you laughing at?” Jaskier’s eyes were dancing as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Fuck.

“Not laughing,” Geralt protested.

“Oh, come now, Witcher, you know I can read you better than that. You might not have laughed aloud, but you were thinking it. Come on, what’s so funny?”

Damn that bard. “Uh… it’s just that… You looked silly when you were trying to drink without spilling or sitting up.” Geralt smiled a little sheepishly. He hoped this wouldn’t get his Lark too worked up.

Instead of angry words though, a tired grin lit Jaskier’s face as he started giggling. Soon, he was laughing outright. “Ha! Thank you, Geralt,” he said through his laughter. “I needed that.”

The Witcher’s smile grew, along with his confusion. Thank the gods. “Hm?”

“Just glad to have something to laugh about, darling. Even if that something is me.” The bard yawned, then coughed. “Fuck, this feels weird.”

“Maybe you should try and sleep again?” suggested Geralt.

“Meh. I’m bored. Bring me my notebook, quill, and ink, would you? I want to compose.”

The rest of the day was spent with Jaskier intermittently composing, resting, and occasionally trying to play the lute while mostly horizontal, and Geralt mending his armor, patching any clothes that needed it, and fretting over the bard. By the time supper rolled around, Jaskier was finally hungry.

“Geralt, tell the cook that this pie is simply divine. Truly, one of the best I have ever had!”

Geralt glanced up from the table where he was eating to see Jaskier gesticulating with the pastie in one hand and a handkerchief in the other. It wasn’t as enthusiastic as his normal wild hand motions, but it was something. Maybe this flare was already passing. He certainly hoped so.

Jaskier was very pleased. He was hungry! It was strange how small things that often were more annoying than exciting could suddenly become cause for celebration. Well, who cared? He was hungry, so he was eating with gusto. Carefully, and not very much, but still. Gusto.

After their meal, and the inevitable worsening of symptoms that followed, the bard was ready to sleep. He was completely exhausted after a day of flaring and only two or three hours of sleep the night before, and really hoped that he’d be able to sleep better this time. Jaskier was still in his sleep clothes from the night before, not having bothered to put on his doublet or trousers. He looked over to where Geralt was disrobing and was surprised to see the Witcher laying blankets in front of the hearth.

“Uh Geralt, what, exactly, are you doing?”

The Witcher looked up. “Setting up a bed for myself.”

“I can see that. Perhaps the better question is why?”

Geralt just grunted and continued organizing the blankets.

“Well?” prompted the bard.

“I thought… maybe you’d sleep better if there wasn’t someone else in the bed with you.”

Seriously? Did Jaskier have to do everything around here? “Geralt. Darling. Light of my life. My muse. What have I ever done or said that would lead you to believe that I sleep better when you’re not in bed with me?”

Geralt, adorably, shuffled his feet and looked down before answering. “Uh, nothing.”

“Right. So get your big Witcher arse over here and cuddle me.”

Something in Geralt’s expression relaxed and his shoulders dropped from where they were residing up around his ears. He picked up his blankets and returned them to their supplies before climbing into bed and wrapping his arms around the bard.

“I always sleep better when you’re with me, my Wolf,” whispered Jaskier.

Geralt just nuzzled his face into Jaskier’s hair and sighed happily. Yes, Jaskier could tell he’d sleep well tonight.

Chapter Text

When Jaskier woke, the sun was streaming through the window and his Witcher was pressed up against his back, purring contentedly.

Wait, what?

The sun was up and Geralt was still in bed? Was the Witcher ill? Injured? Jaskier turned over in Geralt’s arms and immediately regretted it. His heart stuttered, missing several beats.

Golden eyes met blue as Jaskier tried to get his heart under control.

“Morning,” rumbled the Witcher. “Sleep well?”

“Well? Geralt, I don’t think you’ve ever allowed me to sleep this late. It must be nearly eleven!”

“It’s about ten-thirty. Thought you should sleep as much as possible.”

“And that’s why you’re still in bed with me?” needled the bard.

Geralt blushed as much as his slow-moving blood allowed. “You said last night that you slept better when I was in bed with you,” he mumbled. Cat-eyes flashed as he smiled teasingly. “And when I tried to get up this morning, you clung like a limpet.”

“Yes, well,” said Jaskier as regally as possible given the situation. “It’s only to be expected when my bedmate is such a lovely cuddle partner.”

Geralt grunted and carefully extracted himself from the bed, going over to their bags and digging for some clean clothes. Jaskier made a grumpy sound at the loss of his Witcher’s body heat and pushed himself up against the headboard. His head filled with static and his vision blacked out for a moment. “Ohhhhhh fuck,” he groaned.

Geralt returned to his side, apparently unsure what to do. “Jaskier? What’s wrong? Can I help?”

“I’m fine, Geralt, fine. You don’t have to hover every time I seem uncomfortable. Gods.” When his vision cleared, Jaskier saw that he’d made a mistake with his words. Despite eleven years of companionship and just over two of being romantically involved, Geralt was still convinced that Jaskier would leave him the moment he did anything even remotely wrong. The Witcher’s eyes were wide and he was shrinking in on himself like he did when he was trying not to scare someone.

The bard sighed. “I’m sorry, Geralt, I didn’t meant to snap at you. I know you just want to help. I’m just so, so tired, and I’m very angry with my body, and there isn’t really anything you can do, so when you hover like that it can get a little frustrating. Do you understand?” He extended his hand to his lover, hoping Geralt would take it as the peace offering it was.

Thankfully, the Witcher took the hint, grasping Jaskier’s hand in both of his larger ones.

“I do love you, Geralt. I’m sorry.”

“Hmm. It’s okay.” The reticent Witcher took a moment to collect his words. “I know you didn’t mean to be hurtful. And you weren’t really, just my brain fucking things up.” He looked slightly sheepish as he continued, “I know that patience is always the first thing to go when someone doesn’t feel their best. Melitele knows how you put up with me when my knee is acting up.”

At that, Jaskier chuckled. “The same way you put up with me when I’m like this, I imagine.” The bard drew Geralt to him and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “We really are a mess, aren’t we?”

Geralt just hummed in response and nuzzled Jaskier slightly before drawing back. “I should go look for a contract. Don’t want you pushing yourself to perform and we need to pay for this somehow.”

“Oh! Actually, there’s no need!” replied the bard. “I was going to mention it last night, but I must admit, my mind is not at peak efficiency. Go look in my lute case. There should be a pocket at the base that’s sealed shut.”

Geralt went to where the case sat at the foot of the bed and gently removed the instrument. When he found and opened the pocket of which Jaskier had spoken, his eyes widened a bit. “Jask, what’s all this?” He straightened, holding a handful of gold and silver coins.

“It’s money I save for moments like this. A sort of rainy-day fund, if you will, though I suppose this is more like an I-can’t-stand-up-day fund. I put aside part of everything I earn so I won’t be caught unawares when a flare hits. There were a few times early on in my career as a traveling bard when I didn’t have the— oof!” Jaskier’s rambling was cut off by a bulky Witcher barreling into the bard’s chest. Strong arms encircled the smaller man as Geralt buried his face in Jaskier’s chest.

“There now, what’s this?” asked Jaskier, wheezing slightly from the impact. He gently began stroking Geralt’s shimmering hair.

“Hmm. Hate that you have to do that. Hate that you feel like this. Love you so much.” Geralt’s voice was muffled against Jaskier’s chest, but Jaskier still understood him. It warmed and saddened his heart in equal measure to see Geralt this affected.

“Oh, my darling Witcher. I know; I hate it too, but I’m grateful I have enough good days to make this possible. I know not everyone with my conditions are as lucky. And besides. I have you to make my bad days as good as can be.” He held his love to his chest for long minutes as Geralt processed his emotions. Finally, the Wolf pulled back.

“All right. I won’t take a contract today. There’s enough in that lute case to pay for room and board for at least two weeks, this far north.” He grumbled his next words. “How the hells did you save up that much money?”

Jaskier laughed lightly, then coughed and pressed the heel of his palm to his sternum. After he caught his breath, he answered, “Well, I had several royal contracts myself this year! The dukes and princes of Aedirn have excellent taste and pay very well.”

Geralt grumbled again in response, a grumble which Jaskier chose to interpret as ‘You do such good work, my darling bard. You deserve every crown that comes your way,’ but which most likely actually meant something much less eloquent and probably a bit more envious.

The rest of the day was calm. Geralt continued the work of cataloging their supplies for the trek up the mountain, and Jaskier alternating between composing, rambling to Geralt, and sleeping. Once evening fell, the pair ate supper in their room and curled up in bed, twining around each other like puppies. Just as he was about to fall asleep, Geralt heard a whisper, too quiet for all but Witcher ears.

“Thank you, Geralt. I love you.”

“Hmm. Love you too, bard.”

He felt Jaskier smile.

Chapter Text

The next day dawned bright and clear and cold. To most, this meant the beginning of true winter. To Geralt, it meant he and Jaskier needed to get a move on; the snows wouldn’t be far behind. Even so, he let his bard sleep until ten.

Running a hand over Jaskier’s hair, Geralt woke him as gently as he could. “Jask. Time to wake up, Lark.”

Blue eyes blinked open and found yellow. “Morning, darling,” smiled Jaskier. “Everything okay?”

“How are you feeling?” grunted the Witcher.

Jaskier thought for a moment. “Well, I’ll need to be awake for longer than a few moments to really gauge how I feel, but at the moment, not awful. Not great, but not too bad, either. Why?”

“We should get going. The snows will be starting soon, and we’re still several days out.”

“Ah.” The bard grimaced slightly. “Yes, I suppose we should. You don’t suppose I could… ride Roach or something, do you?”

“You think that I would let you walk after the last couple days?” Geralt snorted. “No, I’m fucking tying you to Roach.”

“Well, if you must…” Jaskier replied as he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “You know, I’m not opposed to being tied down.”

Geralt did not justify that with a reply. He got up from the bed and went over to where he’d set aside clothes for Jaskier to wear when he packed their bags. Glancing at the bard as he slowly sat up, Geralt smirked and chucked the doublet, shirt, and hose at him, hitting Jaskier squarely in the face.

The bard spluttered and flailed, though not as vigorously as Geralt had come to expect over their years together. As he continued preparing for their journey, the Witcher watched Jaskier out of the corner of his eye. Once dressed, the younger man remained sitting on the edge of the bed, hand pressed to his chest as he breathed.

“All right?”

“Oh, fine dear Witcher. Just a quiver or two, I’ll be okay.”

“Hm,” Geralt replied. He wasn’t so sure that was true, but he had to trust his bard. It’s his body, after all.

Five hours later, Jaskier was questioning his assertion that he’d be fine. He was bone-tired already and it was only a couple hours past midday. He’d refused breakfast and had only a light lunch, worried that it might make everything worse as food tended to do during flares, but that choice was catching up with him now.

“Geralt?” Jaskier cleared his throat.

The Witcher didn’t answer but he did tilt his head towards the bard from his place at Roach’s head.

“Do you think we could, er, that is, I’m awfully tired and I really…” Fuck, he hated slowing his lover down.

Geralt slowed Roach to a stop and looked the bard over with a critical eye. “Think you can make it another hour? There’s a safe-house we use sometimes about that far away.”

Jaskier nodded and then coughed, pressing his hand into his chest as his heart skipped another beat or two. “Yes. I can do that.” He hoped he could.

Geralt nodded back and began to run, taking Roach up to a brisk trot. Jaskier was grateful Geralt had made good on his promise to tie him to the horse. Trotting was not conducive to a pain-free ride but he’d need all the help he could get to stay in the saddle if he fell asleep despite the movement.

Thankfully, or perhaps unfortunately, Jaskier did not fall asleep on the way to the safe-house. He was exhausted but the movement of the horse and Geralt’s occasional interjections kept him from dozing off, and by the time they reached their destination, the bard was getting truly hungry.

Geralt lead Roach off the road and after several minutes of bushwhacking, they reached a clearing next to a shallow stream.

“Um, Geralt,” began the bard. “I thought you said there was a safe-house around here?”

Geralt grunted. “Yeah? There is.” He gestured towards the north side of the clearing where a rickety old hut sat, partially dug out of the side of a hill.

“That, Geralt, is not a house of any sort. That is a hovel. Is there even enough room for the both of us in there?” Jaskier’s voice was thick with both amusement and dismay.

“It’ll have to do. There aren’t any more towns between here and Kaer Morhen.” With that, the Witcher untied Jaskier and began to unload their bags from Roach.

Grumbling about idiotic Witchers who wouldn’t know comfort if it smacked them in the face, Jaskier slithered down from his perch and collected their rations. Thankfully, Geralt had stocked up in the last village while Jaskier was resting: they were well rationed with dried venison, root vegetables, and even a few herbs to which the bard was partial. That last made him smile softly. Silly Witcher, going out of his way to make Jaskier happy. This more than made up for the false advertising of the ‘safe-house.’

Jaskier woke to the sound of birdcalls and the feeling of his heart attempting to beat its way out of his chest. Fuck. He’d overdone the day before. “Ughhhhh,” he groaned, flinging a hand over his eyes as dramatically as he could manage.

“Jask?” The concerned voice of his Witcher ricocheted around inside his head as it began to pound. This boded ill for the rest of the day.

“Ngghh…” moaned the bard. “Don’t feel good… Definitely worse today.”

“Shit.”

Jaskier could feel Geralt retreating out of the hut. What was he doing? Was he getting Roach ready? Was he going hunting? Getting some medicine or other? Was he going to leave? Would Geralt really do such a thing? Of course he would, who wouldn’t? Jaskier was just a messed-up hybrid who’s broken body was a burden to anyone and everyone around him.

Before the bard could spiral any further, Geralt returned and threaded a hand through Jaskier’s sweaty hair. “Lark, I… Remember that xenovox from Yenn?”

Jaskier groaned again, though this time it was in reference to the sorceress, rather than his discomfort. “You didn’t call that witch, did you Geralt?” He uncovered his eyes but kept them closed for the moment.

“Yes, he did,” came a regal voice from the entrance to the hovel. “He wants me to portal you both up the mountain. For some odd reason, the emotionally stunted ass cares about you.”

“He always did have better taste than you. Hello, Witch.” Jaskier wasn’t sure how he felt about Yennefer’s arrival. He didn’t mind her company in short doses, even enjoyed their verbal sparring at times, but he couldn’t ever quite forgive her for taking advantage of Geralt the first time they met, nor for her threats to his own life.

“Yes, well. Shall we? Don’t worry, bard. I won’t be joining you at Kaer Morhen. I have more important things to attend to than spending the Winter with a bunch of wild animals.”

Before Jaskier could get riled up about Yenn’s calling Geralt and his family ‘wild animals,’ Geralt gently picked him up and carried him towards a swirling portal. Wait, when did that get there?

“Geralt, wait, you hate portals,” protested Jaskier. “I can make it up the mountain, it’s okay, you don’t have to—”

The Witcher cut him off before he could ramble his way into an anxiety attack. “Jask, it’s okay. Your health is more important than my temporary discomfort. Besides. Snow’s coming early. It’d be a rough climb even if you were well.” Geralt paused a moment and gathered up the blanket from Jaskier’s bedroll, wrapping it around the bard in his arms. “It’ll be cold. Much colder than here. Just a warning.” With that, he took Roach’s reins and lead them through the sickening swirl of the portal.

Chapter Text

Geralt had to pause for a moment to get his bearings after he walked through Yenn’s portal into the forest just beyond Kaer Morhen’s walls. Ugh, he hated portals. Once the world stopped spinning and his stomach settled, he glanced down at Jaskier and started forwards towards the great iron gates of the keep. The bard in question didn’t look much worse than he had before (the ass was never very affected by portals) but that wasn’t saying much. He’d immediately started shivering once in the frigid mountain air and his heart was going a mile a minute. With a grateful glance back through the portal at Yenn, the Witcher started towards the looming stone castle that housed the remaining Wolves.

“Geralt!” Eskel’s voice sounded from the ramparts and Geralt grinned despite himself, a knot of tension coming undone. At least one of his brothers had made it back this winter.

The heavy wooden gates swung open to reveal Vesemir’s grim face and Lambert’s smirking one, Eskel’s heavy footfalls coming nearer as he came to greet them.

Geralt sighed in relief as his entire family gathered in the front courtyard. He’d not heard of any Witchers dying on the Path this year, but there was always that kernel of worry that didn’t truly go away until he and Eskel and Lambert and Vesemir were all safely tucked away for the Winter.

Vesemir was the first to reach them and his eyebrows rose as he took in the sight of the White Wolf carrying a rather frail-looking half-elf.

“Well, Pup, I see your plans changed again since your most recent letter.” Vesemir’s voice was gently inquiring and hard at the same time, brooking no argument as he reached to take Roach’s reins from Geralt. “What’s toward?”

Geralt gladly handed his horse over to Vesemir, and wrapped both arms securely around the shivering man in his arms. “Jaskier’s ill. Couldn’t make it up the Trail, so Yennefer portaled us in.”

At this, Jaskier shifted and looked towards the gathered Witchers, attempting a tired smile. “Hello, my friends. I’m sorry my first impression must be less than stellar. I promise I’ll make it up to you as soon as I’m back on my feet.” He coughed lightly and squeezed his eyes shut against a cold breeze that whisked its way through the courtyard.

“Nonsense,” said the oldest Witcher. “Eskel and Lambert have both met you out on the Path, and I’ve heard so much about you over the years that I feel I might as well have already met you. I’m sure you’ll be singing our ears off shortly. Now come on, Wolf. Let’s get your songbird inside and warm.”

Vesemir and Eskel unloaded their packs from Roach, and Lambert lead the mare to the stables. Geralt sighed, relieved. He knew Lambert loved horses, even if he never stopped griping about his own stallion. Roach would be well taken care of.

As he followed his mentor and brother into the keep, Geralt spoke quietly to Jaskier who was trying to stay awake in his arms. “We’ll get you up to our room. Vesemir always makes sure our rooms are clean and aired out for our return each winter. You can rest, sleep as much as you want. I’ll bring you some tea. Do you want anything to eat? I can get something from the kitchens if you’d like.” He would have kept going, but Jaskier interrupted.

“Dear heart, you’re rambling. Don’t worry so much. I know you’ll take good care of me.” The bard smiled up at the Witcher, blue eyes slightly unfocused.

Geralt grunted in reply, but did stop rambling. He was just… concerned. He wanted Jaskier to be comfortable. He didn’t want him to regret coming to Kaer Morhen.

Jaskier was having difficulty containing his excitement at finally being in Kaer Morhen. Then again, he was also having difficulty staying awake, so that effectively put a damper on the thrill of being in Geralt’s home. Gods, he was tired. He’d barely been awake for thirty minutes, but he was ready to pass out again already. His heart quivered in his chest, triggering a brief fit of coughing.

“Ughhhh…” he groaned after it had calmed down. “I don’t wanna feel like this anymore.”

Just as he said this, Geralt pushed open a door and revealed a modest room with a large bed. Jaskier was sure there was more to the room than that, but the bed was all he cared about at the moment.

Geralt carried the bard over to the bed and gently settled him under the blankets and furs stacked atop the mattress. “Go to sleep, Jaskier. I’ll be here when you wake.”

Jaskier was about to ask what happened to the offers of tea and snacks, but sleep caught up with him before he could form the words.

Chapter Text

When Jaskier woke from his impromptu nap, Geralt was indeed still there. The Witcher sat in an armchair which he’d apparently pulled to the side of the bed, and was reading from what looked like a book of children’s tales. Jaskier smiled softly at the picture he made: the big, scarred Witcher curled up at the bard’s bedside, reading fairytales was simply too sweet for words. Unfortunately, Geralt’s Witcher senses ruined the moment. He perked up as he heard Jaskier’s breathing and heart rate increase from the slowness of sleep.

“Sleep well, Songbird?” he murmured as he set his book on his knee.

“Yes, thank you,” replied the bard. “Now, the more important question is, are you reading fairytales?” He barely tried to keep the fond smirk from his lips.

Geralt, the darling, actually blushed a little. “Vesemir used to read them to us. When we were sick or upset. Before the trials. And… after. Sometimes.”

Jaskier shuffled himself up against the headboard and reached out to his Witcher, running his fingers through his hair. “Well, I think it’s sweet.”

They sat like that for several minutes, with Geralt leaning his head into Jaskier’s touch, until Jaskier’s rumbling stomach broke the companionable silence.

“Oh, dear. I suppose I am rather hungry. What time is it, anyway?”

“About noon. Almost time for the midday meal. Come down to the great hall with me? Vesemir is cooking.” Geralt stood as Jaskier nodded, and gathered up Jaskier’s cloak and some heavy wool-lined boots they had picked up earlier in the season.

Getting down to the great hall wasn’t terribly taxing. Jaskier felt a fair bit better after his nap, and he was only interrupted by coughing once as they made their way towards the growing smell of hot food.

The arrived to the sounds of bellowing laughter and quiet cursing. Geralt rolled his eyes as he opened the door for Jaskier, who looked past his Witcher in curiosity. He was greeted with a strange sight indeed: Eskel was wiping some sort of porridge from his eyes as Lambert doubled over in laughter, a still-dirty spoon clutched in one hand. Jaskier grinned at the sight. He’d met Geralt’s brothers a few times out on the path, though never together. It seemed that Geralt had not overstated the chaos which resulted from all the Wolves cohabitating.

Just as Lambert began to catch his breath and straighten, he doubled over for a different reason, finding Eskel’s cannon-sized fist firmly planted in his gut. He wheezed as Jaskier and Geralt made their way to the dinner table and sat down across from where a placid, though sticky, Eskel was seating himself.

“Already at it, then?” grunted the White Wolf.

Eskel grinned, the scars pulling at his upper lip. “We’ve been here for a week already. Came up the Trail together. He held it together remarkably well, all things considered.” He raised a tankard full of what Jaskier could only assume was ale to his lips and drank deeply.

“Boys, if you must brawl, please do it outside in the training yard where you are less likely to break my furniture.” The quietly exasperated voice was Vesemir, coming through a door holding what looked to be a kettle of stew. He glanced at the table and saw Geralt and Jaskier. “Or our guest, for that matter. My apologies for my wayward children, bardling. They’re not used to visitors.”

Jaskier ducked his head to hide a flush. The bard resented the implication that he was breakable. He just hoped that the other Witchers thought his blushing was from shyness rather than shame.

Vesemir set the pot down on a trivet and began to ladle out stew into the earthenware bowls that adorned the table. “So. Now you’re all here, we can get down to work.”

The oldest Witcher went on, assigning each of his sons a myriad of chores for the next week: Lambert was to prepare their stores for the Winter, canning and drying as much as possible, and putting the rest in the cold cellar; preparing the animals for the cold fell to Eskel, who would be weather-proofing the stables and other animal pens; Geralt’s job was to investigate the walls and roofs for any places that needed mending before the first storm. The following week, all four of them would work together to patch and repair the spots Geralt might find.

Jaskier hoped Vesemir would allow him to help once he was feeling a bit better.

Geralt watched Jaskier as the five inhabitants of the Keep finished their meal. As always, Vesemir’s stew was hearty and filling, as well as delicious, and though he didn’t eat as much as Geralt would have hoped, the bard did eat a fair bit. He was more concerned with how Jaskier seemed to deflate once Vesemir finished doling out chores. He smelled miserable, though he hadn’t smelled much better since he started feeling ill. His scent was cut through with something else, though, something Geralt couldn’t quite identify. Whatever it was, he didn’t often smell it coming from the bard.

Once everyone was finished and dishes had been dealt with, he helped Jaskier back up to his room. “How’re you doing?” he asked as Jaskier sank down onto the bed, eyes falling shut.

“Oh, you know. Food always makes this sort of thing worse. Just need to lay down for a bit.” Suiting actions to words, he shuffled back to lay down among the blankets before he was overtaken with a short fit of coughing.

As the poet coughed and pressed the heel of his palm to his sternum, Geralt gathered one of the larger furs and folded it. Gently, he lifted Jaskier’s feet and placed the fur under his ankles so his feet were resting above the level of his heart.

Jaskier opened his eyes and smiled tiredly up at the White Wolf. “Thank you, darling. I didn’t even want to consider manhandling a heavy fur like that right now.”

Geralt grunted an acknowledgement, and leaned down to kiss his bard’s forehead. “I need to go start on the roof. You’ll be okay on your own?”

Jaskier smiled, but this time it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yes dear. And if I need you, I’ll just shout. I’m sure you’ll hear me. Or one of the others will and will fetch you.”

The Witcher nodded and left, closing the door behind himself. He hoped Jask wasn’t regretting coming with him this Winter. If he was, it would be a long, long season.

Chapter Text

Jaskier lay in bed staring at the grey stone ceiling. It was ten stones by fifteen stones. He’d counted. Several times. He knew the notches and nicks in the masonry, the burn marks in the rafters, even the mouse’s nest in the far left corner, perched in the gap between ceiling beam and stone. Apparently, this was all he was good for.

Logically, he knew this wasn’t true. He was a famous bard, for Melitele’s sake. He’d sung in every court that mattered and many of those that didn’t, not even counting nearly any town or village one might care to mention. He’d single-handedly shifted the reputation of one of the most (unjustly) reviled men on the continent with nothing but his lute, his songs, and his winning personality.

Still, being laid up in bed while everyone else in the keep did important work didn’t do much for the bard’s self-esteem.

A tear traced its way down Jaskier’s temple as he stared. He wiped it angrily away, but it was followed by another, then another. Soon, the tears were coming hard and fast. Jaskier turned over and buried his face in the pillow as he cried as quietly as possible. He was just so exhausted, physically and emotionally. The world faded and only the miasma of grief and anger remained in the poet’s mind.

Thankfully, there isn't as much to fix as there was last year, thought Geralt as he strode back towards his and Jaskier’s room. An old oak tree had blown over in an unusually large Summer storm the year before, and had done some serious damage to parts of the roof and a section of wall. This year, all that needed doing was the typical patching up. Geralt hoped Jask would be well enough at least to come keep them company by the time they started the repairs in earnest. The Witcher knew the bard would be bored to the point of tears if he was bedridden for much longer. He’d seen Jaskier force himself through some awful flares, ultimately making them both longer and more severe, because he couldn’t stand to be inactive a single moment longer.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn’t notice anything was amiss until he had fully entered their room. The coppery scent of abject misery mixed with the sea salt of tears filled his senses, momentarily overwhelming him. Geralt blinked to clear his vision, then focused on the source of the suffering: Jaskier. Fuck. He had his face mashed into their pillows in a way that couldn’t possibly be granting him enough air, and was sobbing quietly as though trying to avoid attracting any attention.

The wolf was at his bard’s side before the door even finished swinging shut. He knelt on the bed next to his lark, hands outstretched, but hovering just before making contact with the quivering heap before him. Geralt had no idea what to do; the bard didn’t look or smell injured. Jaskier was the one who was good at dealing with emotions, not him! He took a breath and tried to center himself like Jaskier had taught him. Right. What would Jaskier do in this situation? He’d… ask for permission.

“Jask? Lark, can I touch you?” murmured Geralt.

Jaskier flinched like he hadn’t noticed Geralt was there and the smokey scent of fear mixed in with the other smells filling Geralt’s nose. Immediately, he withdrew, holding his hands in the air. Why was Jaskier scared? What had happened?

“What’s wrong, little lark?” The Witcher tried to make his voice soft and his body small. Jaskier was obviously trying to compose himself and failing as tears continued to leak from his eyes and his body continued to shake. The bard curled in on himself and wrapped his arms around his knees.

Geralt didn’t know what to do. “Talk to me. Please? I can’t read you like you can me. What’s going on? Are you hurt?”

Jaskier took a shuddering breath and, with what looked to me mammoth effort, turned his head to look in Geralt’s general direction. His face was red and swollen and tear tracks marked his cheeks. The bard’s words were so soft that even Geralt almost missed them.

“Why am I like this, Geralt?”

Oh fuck. Geralt had only seen Jaskier like this a handful of times, but it was never pretty.

“Jask…” The Witcher had no idea what to say. To him, Jaskier was perfect. Sure, he mad bad jokes, plucked at his lute all the time, and he talked a blue streak, but Geralt wouldn’t have him any other way. The fact that his body sometimes betrayed him was beside the point. It was just a part of who the bard was.

Hmm…

“Jaskier, you… hm.” Damn it. Saying it out loud was so much harder than thinking it. “You’re… good.” Fuck, that wasn’t it at all. Jaskier was good, but that wasn’t the half of it.

“I’m not.”

“You are. Please, lark—”

“I’m not!” interrupted Jaskier. “I’m broken, and miserable, and stupid, and useless, and I hate it!” The bard had worked himself up again. “I hate my father for sleeping with his elf servant and siring me, I hate the doctors who tell me nothing is wrong, I hate the world for telling me I’m useless, and I hate myself for being this way! I fucking hate myself! Why am I even here? I’m worthless and useless and defective!”

Geralt couldn’t help it. He reached for Jaskier and gathered him up into his arms, cradling the bard’s head to the crook of his neck. At first, Jaskier tensed but he quickly sagged and clutched at Geralt as sobs began to wrack his frame once again. The larger man simply held him as he cried and pressed kisses to Jaskier’s honeyed hair.

After a while, the bard sniffled and turned his head and rested his cheek against Geralt’s now tear-stained shoulder. “I really do hate myself, you know. I know I don’t show it, with all the singing and dancing about and fancy clothes and all. Sometimes I think maybe I don’t, that I’ve accepted it or some shit, but it always comes back.”

Geralt thought for a moment before replying. He’d had no idea Jaskier was in so much emotional pain. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him.

“Jask, am I broken when I can’t find my words or make myself make eye contact? Or when I get so overwhelmed I panic or lash out? Or what about when I can’t handle the texture of a blanket at an inn? Do those things make me worthless?”

Jaskier sat up, suddenly indignant. “No! Of course not! Have your brothers been saying things to you? Was it Vesemir? Ooohh, I don’t care if I faint half way through, I’m going to give them a piece of my mind! Of course those things don’t make you worthless!”

Geralt saw the moment Jaskier realized what the wolf was doing.

“Geralt… it’s not the same and you know it. Your differences are the result of the Trials. They were truly horrible, but they made you who you are. Being a Witcher is something to be proud of. I’m just…” He trailed off.

“You’re just a half-elf, and I’m just a Witcher. We are what we are, and the challenges we face because of our identity doesn’t make us any less worthy.”

Jaskier looked up into Geralt’s face (kindly looking at the tip of his nose rather than into his eyes) with his mouth twisted into a wry expression. “That may be so, but I still hate that my body is like this.”

“I know it’s hard for you. I know being ill has taken things from you. I know the world is cruel to people who are different. Even so, you are valuable. You are skilled. You’re useful. And even if you weren’t, you’d still be perfect to me.”

The bard was quiet as he wiped his eyes. “That was practically a speech, Geralt, I’m impressed.” He smiled softly. “I wish I believed you. I know you’re right, I’m aware of my accomplishments and value, but I can’t seem to get myself to believe you.”

Geralt nodded. “I know. And I’ll tell you every day if you need, until you believe it. Even when I can’t speak, I’ll write it down for you. You’re magnificent.”

A couple tears leaked from Jaskier’s eyes as he smiled. “You wonderful, adorable man. I love you.”

Geralt kissed him gently. “I love you too, Jask.”

Jaskier watched the Witchers train in the courtyard below from up on the battlements, a heavy fur wrapped around his shoulders and a mug of good hot cider in his hands. Recovery had taken a long while. Far too long, in Jaskier's opinion. Still, three weeks after arriving at Kaer Morhen, he was nearly back to normal. As he watched Lambert do something improbable with a dagger, a melody popped into his mind, along with a snatch of poetry. He smiled and began to hum. He was back to his usual self again, and he had his Witcher for when he inevitably stumbled again. Yes, everything would be all right.