Chapter Text
“I think Jaskier’s in trouble.”
Geralt looked up from where he had been polishing his armor to see Ciri standing in the doorway of Kaer Morhen’s armory. It was the crack of dawn and she looked pale as a ghost - one of her dreams, Geralt realized, judging by the cold sheen of sweat on her brow.
“Hm. Let me tell you something about Jaskier - he’s always in trouble.” Geralt replied, setting the armor down and making to leave the room. He hadn’t seen Jaskier since their fight but Ciri, quite proficient at protecting herself after nearly half a year of training in a den of Witchers and allowed to explore to her heart’s content, had apparently met him by chance on one of her little excursions.
The young girl stood stubbornly in his way, crossing her arms over her nightgown. “And you bail him out. That’s how it’s always been.”
Geralt gently nudged her out of the way, knowing from the soft footsteps padding behind him down the hallway that she was following him and would not give up that easily. Ciri was stubborn like that, he was starting to learn. Didn’t give up easily on anything. Yen was teaching her well.
“Ciri. No. If I rushed in every time he upset some lord for screw...” he trailed off, face contorting as he tried to search for a more delicate way to phrase it. “For touching things that aren’t his. If I did, there would be no time for anything else.”
Ciri quickened her pace until she was standing in front of him again, brow furrowed. “It’s not like that this time. I think he’s going to...” her tough facade faltered a bit, showing her age. “Die.”
The man sighed heavily, unsure how to feel about the twinge in his chest at her words. “Okay. I’ll check on him. Now go. You’ll be late for your lessons.”
Satisfied, the girl smiled sheepishly at him before hurrying off.
Geralt grunted, heading to the stables to get Roach ready for the trip. He hadn’t planned on spending his afternoon tracking down the traveling bard, and since their fight he had been actively avoiding Jaskier altogether. Easier that way. Less headaches, less time wasted trying to craft an apology when words weren’t necessarily his strong suit. But Jaskier...it wasn’t right, the way Geralt had spoken to him, and he knew that. He couldn’t live with himself if those were their final words to each other.
He mounted Roach swiftly and took off for the nearest village to ask around. If Jaskier was anything, it was easily traceable - the man had a habit of leaving behind a slew of angry nobles and irritated bar patrons wherever he went.
♜ ♖
After storming through countless villages and frightening all of their tavern keepers, Geralt finally found the little shit’s most recent haunt. It only took him two bloody days. Even when he was miles away, the bard somehow managed to remain the thorn in his side that he just couldn’t reach.
It was quite a large town and by the time Geralt threw open the door of its inn he was fuming and soaked to the bone from the rain. As he went to buy some ale at the bar he was interrupted by the sound of a light, familiar tune, strummed absentmindedly on a lute. Patrons watched the Witcher carefully as he approached his bard, seated at a corner table, legs kicked up on its wood surface. Blissfully unaware of the human embodiment of a dark cloud stalking towards him.
When Jaskier saw him he started, nearly knocking over a flagon of mead as he sat up straight, blue eyes unreadable in the dim lighting. The music stopped abruptly. “Bloody hell. Geralt?”
“Jaskier.” A brief silence. “Ciri sent me. Thinks you’re in danger.”
The bard placed his lute on the table as he stood, squinting at the hulking man standing before him. He rubbed absentmindedly at the back of his neck, perhaps a new tick he’d developed since their separation.
“Ah, Ciri! Sweetest little thing. Certainly doesn’t take after you in that regard. Tell me, did she take my advice and buy the powder blue dress? That tailor did not know what he was doing recommending navy. With her coloring. Navy, honestly.”
Geralt rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and fixing the bard with a withering look. “Of course you two met at the damn tailor. Did you not hear what I just said?”
The murmurs around them grew more agitated by the second - even with Jaskier’s positive influence and incredibly catchy tunes, the sight of Geralt still inspired fear in most. Until he helped them solve their monster problems, that is. Humans were very predictable.
“Ladies and gentlemen, there is nothing to fear! This is Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf in the flesh! Time for a celebratory ballad, if I do say so myself.” Jaskier grabbed his drink and held it up in a toast, which was met with halfhearted, nervous tittering.
Geralt watched in confusion as the bard glided gracefully past him, perching himself on a center table, lute in hand once more. The irritation he’d felt before was back with a vengeance and he stormed after the smaller man, roughly yanking the instrument out of his hands.
“Fucking hell, Jaskier, if you make me repeat myself once more I will snap you and this bloody thing in half. What did you do? Who did you piss off?”
Jaskier looked at him, really looked at him, for what felt like the first time since he’d blown into the tavern like a white-haired tornado. “I heard you, Geralt. I’ll keep an eye out for any, you know, major threats to my life and all that. Tell dear Ciri thank you from me. Is that all?”
This was all wrong. Geralt could smell anger, passive aggression, but Jaskier’s tone was pleasant. Why were humans so damn confusing? He growled as the bard reached for his lute once more and Jaskier had the good sense to pause. “You’re angry. Rightfully so. But you’re being a twat.”
The brunette barked a laugh. “Angry! What on earth gave you that idea? I was only told to fuck off by my best friend and blamed for all his worldly problems, which, let’s face it, I had a minor role in at best. At best, Geralt! And now, in lieu of apology, he’s come to accuse me of some new fuck up that I probably had nothing to do with and - “
As Jaskier ranted Geralt gradually became aware of a vibration, subtle at first but growing more persistent with each syllable the bard spoke. He glanced down at the Witcher medallion and saw it was pulling urgently at its chain. Returning his gaze to Jaskier he noticed he had gone from rubbing at the back of his neck to scratching it, too distracted to see his own odd behavior. His face was also turning a bit red, though Geralt knew that tended to happen when he forgot to breathe while speaking.
“Jaskier. Shut up.”
The scratching didn’t stop, spreading now to the front of his neck, and of course, neither did his blasted tirade. “Oh, and now you’re telling me to shut up! Priceless! Really, Geralt, you wound me, I - “ he was cut off suddenly by an involuntary choking noise that came from the back of his throat.
At the same time Geralt reached for him, grabbing his shoulders, trying to whirl him around but Jaskier’s knees were buckling suddenly, the bard crying out, both hands now flying to his throat, scratching, leaving long red lines. “Guh?” Large, panicked blue eyes searched Geralt’s face for an answer as they both crashed to the ground.
Geralt’s hands fluttered over Jaskier’s convulsing form as he choked and spluttered, not sure where to touch. The barkeep came up beside him with a mug of water, but Jaskier’s flailing legs kicked him back, sending the small offering flying.
“Jask - Jaskier.” Geralt was practically straddling the bard now, pinning his wrists to the floor. “Calm down, you need to calm - “
A wrist broke free and whacked him in the face on its way back to the neck of its owner, making Geralt growl. “Guh - Geralt, wh-what’s happening - ow,” Jaskier gurgled wetly.
Geralt smelled metal - blood - and saw it lining the inside of the bard’s lips, bright against his now deathly pale skin. He saw something else, too, when Jaskier had opened his mouth to speak, something in the back of his throat that certainly didn’t belong.
Ignoring Jaskier’s alarmed whining, Geralt grabbed his chin with one hand and went to open his mouth with the other. “Open. Don’t fucking bite me.”
Another gurgle in response, and a scowl that said ‘don’t you dare do whatever you’re about to do right now.’ Geralt grunted and pried his mouth open - Jaskier’s hands were batting at him, grabbing his arms but the stronger man’s grip was like iron, bruising - and stuck his fingers down the bard’s throat. They brushed against something sharp that pricked his finger, drawing out a string of curses from the Witcher’s lips. He could see that Jaskier’s eyes were starting to roll back in his head, his face tinged an odd shade of grey, and he knew he had to move quickly.
“Just a little - hold still, for once in your life, Jaskier!” Geralt growled, fingers scrabbling for purchase on what felt like a small, prickly ball. Surprisingly, it seemed to be trying to make its way out, moving slowly through the slim channel of Jaskier’s throat and within moments Geralt was able to yank it out, falling back and off the man beneath him, instinctively dropping the thing as it stabbed him again.
Both men were panting, Jaskier’s chest heaving with effort, the hacking subsiding to weak coughs. He made to sit up, ignoring the way his arms trembled dangerously beneath him, and gave Geralt a questioning look. His burbles and squeaks were surprisingly easy to understand and Geralt nodded, gingerly picking up the item he’d just gone deep diving in Jaskier’s tonsils for.
It looked similar to the spiny balls that often fell from trees in springtime, although nearly black in color and far more sinister. Geralt was squinting at it, the bit of blood at the tips of its spikes, the way it seemed to pulse with something as though it were alive, when it suddenly dawned on him that it might not be the best idea for Jaskier to see the monstrosity that had just crawled up and out of his windpipe.
Too late for that, however, as the smaller man’s horrified gaze was fixed on the object. Geralt tried his best to sound...comforting, or some equivalent. “Look, it’s fine, it’s just...uh...oh come on, don’t - ” with one very frantic, slightly pathetic squeak the bard pitched sideways, Geralt managing to break his fall just in time as he passed out.