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brasskier · 3 years

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@badthingshappenbingo trope #3 (and this one was actually requested!)

Thank you to the incredible @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde for reading this one over for me!

Trope: Suicide attempt

Summary: Yennefer's just running a few errands, and doesn't expect to end up talking Geralt's bard down from a rooftop. Jaskier is ready to leap, and doesn't expect a certain mage to interrupt his grand finale. Both of them might just walk away with a better understanding of one another. (Or, a character study in borderline personality disorder.)

TW for suicidal ideation/threats/gestures and reference to self-harm. The descriptions aren’t graphic and he doesn’t actually jump, but this whole fic deals with suicide and mental illness. Be safe y’all <3

Read it on my ao3 or below the cut:

The trip to Tretogor wasn’t supposed to last long. Replenish her stock after the utter disaster that was the dragon hunt, some odds and ends as she came upon them, maybe get absolutely shitfaced and forget the whole thing happened. That was all. And it looked like, for a pleasant change of pace, there weren’t going to be any complications. Errands finished, Yennefer was enjoying a hearty roast at one of the better taverns in the city when she noticed the early warnings of a brewing commotion. First murmurs, then the voices grew louder and more persistent, and then people were pushing outside. She ignored them; a petty barfight was not something she particularly wanted or needed to get involved with. The bar was still stirring, and eventually when she finally shifted her focus off her roast, the tavern was near-empty, only the drunkest of patrons remaining. Even the barkeep was shuffling outside. Clearly, something was happening. Something big. With a beleaguered sigh, she pushed up from her chair and headed out the door.

A surprisingly large crowd greeted her outside, more expansive than the usual clamor around a simple drunken brawl. She approached the barkeep, standing on the outskirts of the mob, and she didn’t even have to speak before the barkeep jerked his head skyward. She traced his gaze to the roof of a towering building casting its shadow over them.

“Poor sod’s gonna jump, I reckon,” the barkeep ruminated, eyes still fixed upwards. In place of the massive beast she fully expected to be perched atop the building stood the figure of a man, trembling at the very edge of the roof. She squinted, an uncanny familiarity settling into her gut.

She mumbled her half-hearted thanks, already pushing through a portal to the rooftop. The man, still frozen in place on the opposite edge, didn’t seem to notice the sudden company, and her uneasiness grew into a sinking dread.

“Jaskier?” she called, tentatively, afraid to startle him. Any last shred of hope that she was mistaken (though the intricately embroidered doublet was hard to mistake) was gone when he jerked his head back to face her. His mouth was agape, an uncomfortable mixture of surprise and disappointment drawn across his features. “What are you doing?”

“The fuck does it look like?” He snapped back. There was more than his usual sarcasm or mock-incredulity in his voice, real and deep-felt anger coloring his tone.

“Don’t do it,” she urged, surprising herself with the tenderness in her own words. “Come on now. Just come down.” Why did she care? The question gnawed in the back of her mind, and she did her damndest to push it aside. She’s a good person, after all, right? She’d do it for anyone, surely. None of Geralt’s not-getting-involved nonsense.

“Fuck off, Yennefer.” He let out a barking laugh, thin and breathy, pitching forward ever so slightly with the force of it. She felt her whole body tense, hands reaching out reflexively.

“Where’s Geralt? What happened?” This was, apparently, the single worst line of conversation she could’ve settled on, because he dropped abruptly to a squat and for a split second she was certain she was about to witness the man’s death.

“I’m not his fucking keeper.” He was nearly at a roar now, a fever-pitch that sent a shiver down Yennefer’s spine. “Haven’t seen him in a week. Not since— not since—” Though she couldn’t see his face, his eyes fixed resolvedly on the ground below, she could hear the tears cut through his words, his breath hiccuping.

“Shh,” she hushed him. Clearly, something had happened after she stormed off. What, precisely, could wait until later, when he was back on solid ground. “I know. It’s not fair.”

“The fuck do you know about fair?” he scoffed, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around his abdomen against the biting wind.

“He fucked me over, too.” She should’ve been offended, and she would’ve been if she wasn’t far more concerned with making sure the bard didn’t fling himself into an early demise, which would be decidedly unfair. That sentiment did little to ease him, and withdrew no response. “Fuck Geralt,” she declared, trying again. “Damn brute thinks he can just take as he pleases.”

“And— and then discard you once he’s had his fill,” he mumbled, offering her the slightest glance back, tears glistening against the pink of his cheeks.

“You’re better than that,” she set forth like a thesis. “You’re — loathe as I am to admit it — talented, bard. People like you. You’ll find plenty of material to write about.” Perhaps an appeal to both logos and pathos would be sufficient, at least enough to get him off the ledge.

“It won’t be the same.” He frowned tragically over his shoulder at her. “I've lost it all, Yen. Look at me— I'm just a silhouette.”

“That's nonsense. He… you're more than him. He's not everything.” It felt ridiculous to her, throwing yourself off a roof over an argument with a friend. After all, Jaskier had always managed to exist in the spaces between Geralt before; teaching, or penning his next obnoxious ballad, or bedding married women, or whatever it is overgrown manchild bards do. But, then, she'd almost killed herself to restore something she knew she could never get back. So perhaps they were even.

“Look, this is awfully sweet of you, but—” he swept his arm, gesturing vaguely at nothing in particular. “Just let me go. I’m doing everyone a favor.” He turned his attention back to the ground, wind rippling through his hair. “Should’ve done this a long time ago.” She felt her heart skip — a long time ago? This wasn’t just a histrionic reaction to whatever might’ve occurred between him and Geralt; gods knew how long he’d felt like this.

“You know I can’t do that,” she retorted, drawing tentatively closer. “Don’t make me portal you down.” He huffed, waving her off with a trembling hand.

“Please, Yen.” Realistically, she knew it would be easy to oblige his request. Walk away, pretend not to hear the sickening thud, and carry on. He was only her ex-witcher’s ex-bard, after all. “I always knew it'd end like this. I’m just… I’m glad I even made it past thirty, really.”

“That’s— I’m not— no, Jaskier. I’m not letting you throw yourself off a roof, for the love of the gods. That’s insane.” She wasn’t sure what was more insane, letting him go, or standing here arguing with him. “You’re going to be real glad when you make it to forty, bard.”

“Am I though, really? This isn’t my first time, believe it or not. And every time I live, or I back out, or I let someone talk me out of it. And I always regret it in the end.” Her mind reeled again — every time? How many had there been? She pushed the thought back.

“You won’t find out unless you get down,” she argued, drawing closer still. He tensed, sensing her presence, hands balling and unfurling repetitively. “Come on. Go to the tavern with me, get something to eat, have a—” she was close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath now “—more drink. I’ll be out of your hair in the morning, and if you still regret it, well…”

“Fine,” he finally agreed on the tail end of a sigh, turning to fully face her. “I’ll do it tomorrow.” She didn’t like the resolve with which he said those words, but he was agreeing to come down, which at least was a small victory. She’d handle tomorrow when it came around. In the meantime she needed to get them both down. “Or eventually,” he tacked on as she held her hands out, forming a portal back to solid ground. “Inevitably.” The word rang in her mind as she looped an arm around him and led him through the portal. As an afterthought, she summoned a blanket with a flick of her fingers; it was one of those cheap, thin blankets they kept at the inn, but it would do. She tossed it over his shoulders and he dug his fingers into the fabric, drawing it closer around himself.

Once they were back in the tavern, that thin blanket still draped over Jaskier's shoulders and mug of ale held in shaking hands, it was time to talk.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, dragging his thumb up and down the cool tankard, avoiding meeting her eyes at all costs. “I’ve caused such a fuss. You must be anxious to get out of here.” He finally glanced in her direction when he felt a hand land on his forearm.

“It’s fine, really,” she insisted, and he couldn’t bear the pity in her eyes. “Now are you going to tell me what that was all about?” He huffed a laugh, looked away again.

“It’s just, you know. Me and my theatrics.” He shrugged, running a hand along his jaw.

“Bullshit.” When, exactly, Yennefer had gotten so good at seeing right through him, he wasn’t sure. But he did know he definitely didn’t like it.

“I’m sorry. I just, I… I get like that, I guess,” he muttered finally, dragging his thumb along the rim of his glass.

“Suicidal, you mean? You just get… suicidal?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow, moving her hand up to his shoulder.

“Yeah, I guess.” He reached blindly, dropped a hand over hers. “When something goes wrong. Someone leaves me again. I just, I fuck up a lot, and I’m no good at dealing with the concequences.”

“That’s— gods, I know you’re an idiot, but that’s really worth killing yourself over?” She tried to keep her tone light, clipped, maybe a little detached. He was uneasy with the attention, it was obvious, and she was also certainly not ready to admit that maybe, just a tiny bit, she sort of cared about him.

“Geralt, he ran me off,” he mumbled, sinking further into the blanket. “After the hunt, after your fight, he blamed me. For everything, the entire two decades of our, well. I guess it wasn’t friendship.” He chewed at his lip, a nervous habit, anger bubbling below the surface at the thought of that day. “Told me the greatest gift life could give him would be to take me off his hands.” Yennefer balked at him, finally hearing the context of his despair, and she was just about ready to portal right over to wherever Geralt had fucked off to and give him a piece of her mind.

“That’s terrible,” she told him, the best she could really offer. Nothing she could say would undo what’d happened, and nothing could change how much it hurt him. “He really is a bastard.” Jaskier nodded slowly, raised his tankard up in toast. “When’s the last time you ate? You must be starving.”

“Stew would be nice,” he replied quietly, meekly. She haled one of the barkeeps, ordered him a stew, and requested another round of drinks. “It’s not just the fight, though,” he added once the server was gone. “I don’t know how to explain it, Yen. Why I do the things I do, or feel the way I feel. It’s just, it’s all too much sometimes, you know?” She knew. All too well, she knew. She was only just beginning to understand herself, just beginning to feel some semblance of control. He was so young — perhaps not by human standards, but comparatively.

“I know. It’s hard.” They felt like empty platitudes, like she had no idea how to truly connect with him, and it was frustrating. She wanted to help him, but she wasn’t sure how, wasn’t sure he wanted it.

“Yeah.” He bobbed his head, picked at the wood of the table. They drifted into silence, neither sure how to fill it, neither sure this was a conversation either wanted to have. The stew arrived, and he picked at it rather than devouring it like he usually did his rations.

“You know I’m sterile, right?” she finally broke the silence once he’d finished his food and pushed the bowl aside, leaning closer, her voice pitched in a conspiratorial whisper. He nodded solemnly, averting his gaze, watching the light catch in his amber ale. “And you know I’ve gone to great lengths to rectify that, correct?” Another slow nod.

“I know, Yen. I’m sorry, I know you have far more right to be miserable than I do. And here I am, wallowing like a toddler—” She waved a hand to cut him off.

“No, listen, stupid bard. It’s really not about being able to have kids. It’s about the fact that I don’t have a choice, that I’ve never had a choice,” she elaborated, hiking the blanket further up his shoulders as it started to slip.

“I know. And here I am, I’ve gotten everything I wanted. I got to choose; running away, going to Oxenfurt, becoming a bard, traveling. Gods, I followed Geralt to the ends of the bloody Continent for two decades of my life I’ll never get back — but that was my choice.”

“Would you please let me finish my point, instead of interrupting me to wallow in guilt?” He gnawed at his lip, finally turning to face her. “It wasn’t about being a mother, it was about choice. So this—” she waved her arm dramatically, wondering for a moment when exactly she’d started picking up his mannerisms. “This isn’t about Geralt at all, is it?” After a moment of contemplation, he carefully shook his head. “Then what is it about?”

“I don’t know, to be honest,” he muttered at the tail end of a swig from his tankard. “I’ve just always been like this,” he said with a sweep of his hand, palm upturned, string-callused fingers twitching aimlessly. Her violet eyes bore into him expectantly, and he felt angry for a flicker of a moment — she was a witch, right? He should be able to just sit back while she delves into the darkest crevices of his psyche, let her root around and not have to struggle to put his life into context and language. “Can’t you just, y’know…” He tugged at his fingers, tilted his head.

“Read your mind?” she finished the question, scooting closer to him, and he felt the hair on his arms rise. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” He nodded, and she pressed her forehead against his, pulling him in close, enveloping him in the lilac and gooseberries he knew Geralt loved so much. He understood why; he felt inexplicably safe, even as the logical half of his brain urged him to pull back. This was all for show, and he knew that— she didn’t need to touch him to read him. Either way, he was grateful to not have to give language to the nameless, that she could just see.

See Jaskier at seventeen, screaming at Valdo from across the courtyard, "if you leave me I swear the fuck to melitile I'll kill myself," knowing he's made this exact threat verbatim so many times Valdo can't believe him, unable to recall what they were even arguing about anymore. When they break up, his mother tells him the first heartbreak always hurts the worst; it hurts all the same every time thereafter.

Jaskier at twenty, slicing thin lines into his thigh for what had to be the millionth time, running out of unmarred skin, witcher/tentative friend asleep somewhere beside him in the darkness. If asked, he’s not sure he’d have an excuse. Sometimes to feel something, sometimes to feel nothing. Either way, this uncertainty is what keeps his wrists clean.

Jaskier at twenty-three, wailing great, hiccuping sobs, shoulders rattling, blind beyond teary eyes. Geralt, gods bless him, doesn’t know what to do, stands arm’s-length away, regards him with uncertainty and pity. They’d fought about something that didn’t matter and he couldn’t remember, and that rage washed over him, red-hot, balled fists trembling at his side. “Get out! Gods, are you thick? Leave, Geralt; I fucking hate you.” But then Geralt listened, because Geralt didn’t play Jaskier’s games, and now there he was, sobbing, babbling, “don’t leave me, I’m sorry, I’ll be better, I can’t lose you, it’ll kill me, don’t go.” Geralt stays; they pretend nothing ever happened.

Jaskier at twenty-seven, at the ashes of his latest burnt bridge, just another failed relationship that feels altogether more like death than separation. Grieving it more like death, too; sobbing until he could do little more than stare at the ceiling and try to breathe, mourning a cemetery of mistakes and a lifetime of failure.

Jaskier at thirty-two, depression blanketing him with the fresh snow, the man he'd tangled up his entire identity in fucked off to the mountains for the winter while he sludged through classes, distracting himself from having to confront the fact that he doesn't recognize his own face in the mirror. Jaskier does exist in the spaces between Geralt, but, sometimes, that Jaskier is a husk.

Jaskier a few days ago, marching back to Oxenfurt because that's all he knows, doubtful Jaskier even exists anymore, the emptiness in his mind unbearable and somehow terminal, altogether certain he's been incompatible with life from the very moment he entered it and resolved to rectify nature's mistake himself.

Jaskier who, his entire life, has felt everything, too much, all at once. Who's always been led by his heart — and not in the beautiful, Romantic way, but messy, tragic, and uniquely Jaskier. A man so utterly at the mercy of his own mind, drowning in feelings he doesn't have the language to name, his entire being defined not by who he is but what he does and who he loves.

Jaskier, on a rooftop in Tretogor, itchy feet ready to fling him off the ledge. He'd told Valdo once, in the in-between hours not quite night or morning when everything seems strange and far away, that he knew how he was destined to die. Pressed on, even as Valdo chuckled and called him presumptive, “I'm going to kill myself.” Not today, or tomorrow, but inevitably. He said it not with the certainty of someone who's seen into the future but the cynical resignation of a man who knows no other escape. And Valdo punched his arm, told him not to talk like that, promised it would get easier one day. He hates Valdo now, not that he remembers why, and that day has yet to come.

She pulled back eventually— finally — and swept a shaky thumb over his cheek. He chewed on his lip, staring expectantly with hauntingly wide eyes.

“Jaskier.” It was barely a whisper, uttered at the end of a sharp exhale, and when violet eyes met his they shone with an uncanny recognition. He wasn't sure what, precisely, she'd seen, but he knew whatever it was had been enough. He'd invited her to the bleakest corners of his mind, and now she regarded him like a lame horse. He ducked his head, but she caught him with a hand on his chin. “You know that's not how destiny works.”

“Hmm?” He wracked his brain to figure what she might be referring to, coming up empty-handed. He didn't have a big, grand destiny like she or Geralt did. He was just Jaskier the bard, Jaskier the one-night stand, Jaskier the disappointment.

“It doesn't have to end like that. You have a choice,” she elaborated, still painfully vague, but he understood.

“This isn't the first time, Yen, I—”

“I know. I saw.” Right, she saw, probably everything, and he had the wherewithal to feel humiliated for it.

“I've cheated it enough times. I can't outrun it forever.” It felt nice, at least, to let his walls down a little, stop playing the perpetual naive optimist. Almost a relief, even, a weight off his shoulders.

“I know. But you're strong, Jask.” She moved her hand from his chin to the back of his head, guiding it to rest against her shoulder. “We have more in common than I thought, you know.” He laughed, thin and heady, but with a little more conviction this time, and pressed his face against her neck.

“Is that your way of telling me you're fucked up, too?” He asked, and, despite the levity in his tone, he truly was curious.

“Yes, bard,” she hummed, reaching out to sip at her tankard.

“You're not going to give me any more than that?” He fought off a yawn, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth. “I just told you everything.”

“Maybe someday,” she replied, setting the mug back on the table. “But right now I think you could use some rest. We both could.” She slipped out of the booth and he let his head tilt back against the wall, mourning the absence of her warmth.

She returned a few minutes later, room procured, and hiked the blanket back over his shoulders as he reached for his lute and followed after her. It was a nice enough room, two beds on opposite sides, a bath he had no intention of utilizing. Exhausted, he kicked off his boots, shrugged off his doublet, and dropped onto the bed. He let his mind wander, dozing as Yennefer readied herself for bed, eyelids heavy by the time she blew out the candles.

“You won't try again?” Yen asked from across the room after a while, barely a silhouette in the faint moonlight. Jaskier rolled over to face her, finding her staring distantly out the window.

“You, uh, you have to be more specific,” he muttered, tugging the blanket closer to his chin. It smelled of lilac and ale.

“How am I supposed to make that more specific?” It came out sharp, like her usual tone with him, but he could still feel an uneasy twinge to her words.

“I mean, I don't know.” He felt stupid for reasons beyond his grasp. “Not today, or tomorrow. But I can't promise never.” There was a long pause, and Jaskier barely breathed, wondering if he'd managed to upset her as sleep crept up on him.

“Not today is enough,” she said finally, sounding almost far away, and his breath hitched in his throat.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, voice thick with impending sleep. “When are you leaving?” The me he omitted at the tail end rang in his mind, unspoken but understood, heavy in the nighttime silence. She was supposed to leave in the morning, so he could either move on or finish what he’d set out to do; he wasn’t sure he wanted her to uphold that promise anymore.

“Not today.” He exhaled slowly. Not today is enough. And maybe, just maybe, enough not today's would add up to never.

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #the witcher fanfic #jaskier #dandelion #julian alfred pankratz #yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #tw suicide #jaskier whump #bad things happen bingo #brasskier does bthb

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brasskier · 3 years

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@badthingshappenbingo trope #4!

Trope: Concussion

Summary: Jaskier feels like a detective, albeit a clumsy, scrambled-eggs-for-brains kinda detective. He has two mysteries on his plate at the moment - why is Geralt in a bad mood, and why won't his brain cooperate? (Hint: perhaps it has something to do with hitting his head that morning.)

Read on my ao3 or below the cut:

Jaskier probably should've told Geralt when he slipped and smashed his head into a rock on the riverbank coming back up from his morning bath, or should've at least known it was bad when bright worms of light started squiggling in his peripheral and words suddenly got a lot harder to string together. And maybe he would've, if he wasn't so intent on figuring out why Geralt was in such a piss-poor mood that morning. He felt like a detective - albeit a clumsy, scrambled-eggs-for-brains kinda detective - stringing together clues and occasionally nudging the witcher along with leading questions, at least when he could get his brain, lips, and tongue to all cooperate.

Unfortunately, Jaskier was doing about as well at solving the mystery of Geralt the extra-grumpy witcher as he was figuring out what was going on in his own skull. It'd happened once when he was a boy, falling out of a twisty, too-tall tree. His father, may he rest in peace, didn't notice until Jaskier, uncharacteristically silent, stared vacantly past him— until that point he'd been more preoccupied scolding him for ruining yet another fine pair of trousers. (His parents paid good money for those things, but he was pretty sure maybe they should've learned by that point and stopped dressing him up in finery before releasing him into the world.)

Speaking of, he could use a new pair of pants. Maybe once they made it to the next town he could find a seamstress, maybe even invest in a nice new doublet as well. Geralt always pretended he found such purchases frivolous and vain, all huffy and monosyllabic, but Jaskier knew full well it put him in a good mood to have something to tease Jaskier for.

Good mood. Right. He was supposed to be figuring out why he was in a decidedly not good mood. He was supposed to… well, he really didn't know past that. His thoughts flitted about his head like a chicken desperate to escape its coop, and this thought made him giggle to himself, picturing his squishy brain with a beak and feathers squawking about.

"Jaskier?" He glanced up at the witcher that had reclaimed his attention, finding it distinctly difficult to track his movements as he bobbed along on his horse. "Did you listen to a thing I said?" Well, that was a silly question, Jaskier thought, because in order for him to listen, Geralt would've had to have said something. His mind trapped like a stuck cog on how to put this minor incongruence into words, and the witcher glared at him in the space of his tenuous silence.

"How could I?" He asked finally, head tilted to parallel the uncertainty etched in his tone.

"With your ears," Geralt deadpanned, and Jaskier grimaced under the frustration of his misunderstanding.

"No, that's not— I meant— you didn't—" he attempted to elaborate, but once again found his brain, flighty as a hummingbird, refused to put thoughts to language. Geralt slowed Roach to a halt, and only then did Jaskier realize he'd at some point stopped walking. He wasn't too sure when that happened, but he was sure he had to start again, because Geralt was already in a bad mood and the uneasy threat of abandonment always loomed thick.

This, in hindsight, might've been a mistake. The trees spun, ground tilting ominously like a ship caught in a storm, and Jaskier staggered with the rhythm of it. This, finally, mercifully, seemed to tip off Geralt and his fancy-schmancy witcher senses that something wasn't right.

"Jaskier?" He called, and he still sounded decidedly disgruntled. This wasn't good; Jaskier was supposed to be getting him in a better mood, not making things worse. He'd even been quiet for a change (moreso due to his tongue's uncooperativeness than any conscious choice on his part, not that Geralt needed to know this detail).

The witcher swung a leg off the saddle, dismounted with the grace of a cat. (Which was funny; wasn't Geralt supposed to be a wolf? Didn't Geralt's brother know a cat witcher? Maybe cat witchers were even more graceful, like ballerinas; Geralt would never do ballet.) This thought would've also made Jaskier giggle, but he was hesitant to unclamp his jaw at the moment, fearful that more than words might spill past it.

"Jaskier?" It was more urgent this time, which Jaskier vaguely recognized was not good, but couldn't quite recall why. When he managed to force his eyes to focus for a split second, Geralt was in front of him, before the forest swelled again and swallowed him with it. He pressed a hand over his eyes, in the vain hope blindness might put an end to the spinning; he had no such luck, and found himself drifting even in the darkness.

"Mmm?" He hummed, which was usually Geralt's line, but he was determined to keep up the tight-lipped defiance of his own body. He felt a hand scrape his forehead, shifting his carefully mussed hair, and then move down to cup his chin between two fingers. It was a gruff, economic movement; Jaskier, in his self-imposed darkness, pretended it was tender.

"What's wrong with you?" Even Geralt's voice seemed to be swimming, tilting forward and back with each strangely distorted syllable. What isn't, Jaskier wanted to joke in return, snicker a little at Geralt's frustration. But he couldn't, at least not without giving into opening his mouth, and besides, Geralt was already in a bad mood. Instead, he shrugged, a turn of phrase about tables that turned flitting through his thoughts, and he surely felt like he was on a turning table, not that any tables Jaskier had ever seen were exactly known for turning.

"Is it your throat?" It was a reasonable line of thought for Geralt to stroll down, to be fair, considering the whole thing with the djinn. Gods, how he wished he had a djinn right now, less-than-stellar experience aside. If he had one, there'd be none of that bloody Valdo Marx bullshit; no, instead the forest wouldn't spin anymore, his brain and tongue would cooperate, and Geralt would be in a good mood.

Jaskier really was doing a shit job of uplifting Geralt's spirits, wasn't he? At the very least, he'd managed to tease out the source of his foul temper; at present, it was Jaskier himself. He risked a peek out into the world again, found concerned amber eyes tucked under a tight scowl tilting like a leaf in the wind, and promptly squeezed them shut again. Oh, yeah. Geralt had asked him a question— what was it? Ah, it was gone now, too late. He shook his head, hoping he was actually answering. This was a mistake, because it sent stars erupting in the darkness and an unbidden groan worming its way past his lips.

"What, Jaskier?" Geralt sounded even more exasperated, if such a thing were possible, and Jaskier flung a hand up to press over his mouth, as if that might help whatsoever; it didn't.

"No— fuck, I'm—" In one clumsy motion he managed to tear himself back and away from Geralt, jerk to the side, and stumble over his own two feet and onto his knees just in time to escape vomiting on Geralt's boots. That was good; vomit on his boots would've really pissed him off. The weathered hand that had earlier cupped his chin (Jaskier could still feel the ghost of it on his skin) came to sit heavy between his shoulder blades. This touch not even Jaskier could make feel gentle.

"Okay," Geralt hummed, somewhere to his side. "Alright, okay." Was this Geralt's attempt at being soothing? How Jaskier wished he could tell him he appreciated it; maybe later, when his stomach wasn't still bucking uncooperatively like a spooked horse. This was funny, too; Roach in his stomach, kicking and snorting, but Jaskier was beginning to get tired of silly tangents.

Come to think of it, Jaskier was just tired, his limbs suddenly heavy, pounding in his skull coming into sharp focus. The hand migrated up to his collar, no doubt to tug him back upright, but he wrenched free and let himself drop to the dirt before Geralt had the chance. A nap sounded absolutely divine at the moment, and he was beginning to think he couldn't care less whether the witcher stuck around to wait it out or not. (This last detail was, patently, an absolute lie, and Jaskier knew it full well even as the thought first pattered into his consciousnesses.)

Geralt rolled him over, flipped him on his side, and this was both a small mercy (he hadn't been abandoned) and a horrendous blight (the sun glaring directly into his eyes, even as he pressed a clumsy hand to cover them again.) Another callused hand swiped across his forehead, his cheek, made its way down his neck and pried back his doublet. Jaskier wasn't sure what Geralt was looking for, and he also didn't particularly think he'd find it, whatever it was.

"There's no fever," Geralt announced, as if this were some grand discovery, a breakthrough in medical sciences. "Something you ate?" Ah, so now Geralt was playing detective, and Jaskier had all but given up on his case; another reversal of roles. Well, maybe at the very least Jaskier could give him better clues, or at least try.

"Head," he groaned, rolling back onto his side, cool dirt not unpleasant against his skin. This time, no hands tugged at him, but instead Geralt gave a soft hum, barely distinguishable from the ringing in his ears. "Hurts," he tacked on because, while it might've been implied, with Geralt it never hurt to be explicit.

"Now we're getting somewhere." That thrice-damned hand returned again, worked its way through his hair, dragging along every bump and curve until he scuffed against a half-healed scab and a sharp pain ricocheted through Jaskier's skull. He recoiled, writhing for a moment before curling even tighter into himself. "When did you hit your head?" That was a good question, because Jaskier wasn't all too sure anymore if he even had.

"Dunno," he mumbled. Now if only Geralt could put a pause to the interrogation so he might be afforded the small mercy of dying in peace. “River?”

"Helpful." Footsteps, echoing through the dirt and drilling through his head with each heavy footfall, further and further and further away until he could only feel, not hear, them. This was fine. Not the end he felt truly befit a heroic bard of his renown, but humble enough to satisfy him nonetheless. Just him and the trees as he returned to the earth from whence he was borne.

Then those blasted footsteps returned, those hands hoisted him, and he was face-first on the scratchy wool of his bedroll. He nuzzled against it, like a cat (he really needed to ask Geralt for the name of that cat witcher his brother knew).

"You have a concussion." A light flickered to life somewhere in his brain at this revelation. One of his grand mysteries, finally come to its disappointingly anticlimactic conclusion. He still didn't know why Geralt had been in such a piss-poor mood, but he decided that was a puzzle for another time, letting his breath even out with impending sleep.

"Jaskier, I need to know you understand me, okay?" As soft as his words were, Jaskier couldn't help but find it incredibly rude of him to interrupt his much-needed and well-deserved rest. If he kept pushing it, Jaskier thought, perhaps Geralt would be having to solve the mystery of why he was grumpy.

"Mmm, okay." This earned him another pat on the shoulder, as gentle a touch as anything Jaskier could ever hope for.

"I'll need to wake you periodically to make sure you don't lose what little wit you have," Geralt informed him, "but you can rest now." He felt like a sinking ship, overcome with warmth. Loose-limbed and giddy, he jutted out a clumsy hand and flailed blindly until it flopped against Geralt's arm, and he latched on. "Just tell me next time you hit your head."

"Thank you," he managed to get out on the tail end of a breath, slurred with exhaustion, disappointed when the witcher carefully extracted his wrist from his grip. A blanket settled on top of him, and he fumbled to tug it closer.

"Just sleep." Needing no convincing, Jaskier did as he was told. And in his dreams, Geralt was in a good mood, and he could still feel the ghost of his hand on that patch of skin on his chin.

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