Jaskier fainted, and Geralt picked him up like a sack of potatoes, put him on the horse, and made poor Roach run back to the nearest town. No, Geralt wasn't desperate to know if his bard was dying; he was just worried that the man who had been traveling with him was… Well, dying.

Fuck, he was worried. To say he felt ridiculous when the healer looked at Jaskier, then at Geralt, and said that the bard had the common flu was to say too little. Geralt, who had been sick like a - well, human - way too much time ago to remember how that was like, blinked slowly, confused, and the healer simply sighed.

"Look." She said, waving to Jaskier, who was sleeping, breathing heavily. "Get yourself a room at the inn down the road and make sure he recovers. There's a few monsters around, so I'm sure you won't be bored. He'll be fine. Rest, liquids, no adventuring. That's your job now, witcher."

There was a distinctive eye roll there, but Geralt pretended he didn't see it. He paid her fee, grabbed Jaskier once more like a sack of potatoes, and headed to the inn down the road.

The innkeeper traded the best room she had available for Geralt, in exchange killing the local cockatrice that had been eating her chickens, which Geralt agreed to. It was as easy as breathing, and really, why not: he may even get a good chicken roast out of this.

So Geralt does, goes and kills the cockatrice, bringing back the corpse as proof. The woman nodded, promised some soup, and pushed him to take a bath.

"Your friend is sick. Don't bring in the cockatrice fever, too." Geralt stopped, blinked. Was there such a thing? He cocked his head, and the innkeeper sighed. "Listen - your… Friend there got the flu. Cockatrice fever will only make it worse, and frankly, you stink. Take a bath, witcher."

Geralt doesn't know enough about it, but the innkeeper looked serious, so he headed to the bath before going back to the room with a bowl of soup.

Jaskier was awake, sitting on the bed, hand on his forehead as if taking his temperature, and let out a small yell when Geralt entered.

"Geralt!" He yelled, eyes foggy, face flushed. Geralt sat down by Jaskier's side, the bowl warm in his hands. "Where - where are we? Last thing I remember is…"

"You have the flu." Geralt said, offering Jaskier the bowl. He did not take it. "The healer suggested you rest. I brought you food."

"Wow, that's the most words I've ever heard you say unprompted." He smiled, paused, analyzed the situation with foggy, yet clinical, eyes. Then, a sheepish smile that did not look sheepish at all. Geralt waited for whatever fate was to fall on him.

That was the usual model of business with Jaskier.

"I don't think I can hold the bowl without burning myself." He said, showing his hands. "Actually, why don't you feed me?"

Geralt grumbled, but picked up the spoon nonetheless, and slowly making sure Jaskier, who was clearly glowing and it was not because of the fever, ate his fill. He even helped Jaskier take in the last dregs, one hand in the back of Jaskier's neck, forcibly looking into his eyes, as he helped the other man finish eating.

Jaskier seemed even more red after that, the fever having nothing to do with that, and Geralt was amused. He touched Jaskier's face, feeling the heat passing to him, together with a flimsy layer of sweat. He frowned.

"I guess I should get changed?" Jaskier said, and tried to rise up, failing to get on steady feet; Geralt rose before he could fall, grabbing him by his sweat-laden shirt. "Well, maybe not."

Geralt made him sit down, gesturing for him to stay seated. Jaskier disobeyed by setting the bowl aside as the witcher rummaged through Jaskier's bag, finding him a pair of clean clothes. He turned to eye Jaskier, who was positively fidgeting. Geralt hid his chuckle.

"Strip." He said, rising himself from the floor, and Jaskier made a whining sound.

"Is your plan to kill me? Is that it?" He asked, clumsily undoing the buttons of his shirt. Geralt sat down by his side again, watching as the flushed skin appeared from underneath the white, soaked linen. "I get the flu, and you plan on killing me? What have I done to you?"

Geralt hummed the tone for Toss a Coin to your Witcher. Jaskier gasped, offended.

"I made you famous! I made you able to stroll around in any town unbothered!" Geralt gave him a pointed look, and Jaskier huffed, slithering off the sweaty garment, revealing his skin. It probably tasted like salt. He wanted to lick it. "Okay, fine, you made your point."

Oh, fuck. Geralt would probably have to clean Jaskier. He looked at the other, who looked back, eyes half-lidded and confused, making a vague gesture.

Well, no problem. He grabbed the sheets, dropped them on top of Jaskier so he wouldn't be cold, and went to grab from the innkeeper a bowl of warm water and some fresh linens strips. He even brought back the bowl of soup.

The innkeeper gave him a look, sighed and gave what was needed. When Geralt was back in the room, Jaskier hissed.

"I swear to - Geralt! Next time you pick that up before making me strip. What if someone had entered the room?"

Geralt blinked, gesturing to himself as he sat in the bed again, creaking under his weight. He ripped the linens, making Jaskier whine loudly.

"Look, you don't count. I'm talking about my enemies. Any day now, someone is going to come and kill me."

"Stop fucking married women, then. Turn your back to me." Jaskier obeyed the command given, moving gingerly in the bed, and Geralt dipped the linen strip on the lukewarm water, gently taking away Jaskier's sweat, cleaning him.

Well, at least he was trying: there were a few spots were Jaskier had to bit back a moan, as if sensitive, trying to escape from Geralt's touch. Geralt pretended he didn't understand what it meant, making sure to touch Jaskier a few more times there before, with one hand, silently gesturing that the bard turned once more.

Jaskier was red to his ears, and Geralt smiled.

"Oh, you know the effect you have, do you?" Geralt hummed an answer, discarding the linen he had used thus far and grabbing another one, repeating the process gently.

Jaskier's skin felt too warm. When he reached for the hem of Jaskier's pants, which had not been taken off, the bard protested.

"No. No, we're not doing this, you horny dog. Maybe after I'm better." Jaskier huffed, and Geralt cocked his head, raising an eyebrow. "Listen - just pass the clean clothes, I can still dress myself, thank you very much."

Geralt set aside the linen scrap and passed the fresh clothes to Jaskier, who jumped out of bed, almost falling once more. Geralt held him by his arm, and, raising himself, held Jaskier by his waist as the other man dressed himself.

"This is a fever hallucination. This is a nightmare. This is not real." Jaskier mumbled, like a prayer, and Geralt leaned in.

"Are those the lyrics of your next song?" He asked, warm breath against Jaskier's ear, and he let out a muffled yell. Oh, Geralt was going to have so much fun with his bard.

"Geralt." Hissed Jaskier, pulling up his shirt in an almost careless manner, and then he turned, too fast - he got dizzy in the process. "You want to know what? Put me to bed."

He offered Jaskier a nod, sweeping him off his feet with a smooth movement, gaining a yelp from Jaskier as the bard wrapped his arms around Geralt's neck. He did his best to drop Jaskier gently onto the bed, and managed pretty much it - until Jaskier dragged Geralt to the bed, using his chest as a pillow.

"That's what you deserve." Jaskier yawned, and Geralt laid a protective hand on Jaskier's back. Geralt did not offer a retort: the bard was already asleep.