#and muttered something that might have been 'dense mother fucker' under his breathe

[thebibliosphere]

Still not over the head of cardiology, who said she wouldn't formally diagnose me with dysautonomia because she didn't want me to think of myself as disabled.

As if good vibes and a can-do attitude can stabalize autonomic dysfunction.

[agoodgoddamnshot]

Glamour - Geralt/Jaskier

[Gif isn’t mine]

Originally posted on my AO3 account.

Geralt is observant. His job calls for it, Jaskier supposes. He’d be a pretty shit Witcher if he was killed by a monster who managed to sneak up behind him in the thickets.

It was probably something ingrained into him during the trails and mutations. Travelling around the Continent together only gave Jaskier an insight into how sharp the Witcher’s instincts really were. He heard things that Jaskier didn’t. In taverns, he would be able to tell what people were talking about at each table: even those who would give them side-eyes and keep their whispers to themselves. The noise always got to him. Jaskier noticed how Geralt could only be in one place for a certain amount of time before the noise grew deafening.

And on most nights, he doesn’t even think that Geralt sleeps. He has every ability to sleep. After a particularly long trek in between towns and cities, or even after a round of lovemaking, Geralt sleeps. But sometimes, noise keeps him awake: the creaking of a floorboard, crows cawing outside, or even the distant hum of conversation floating up to the upstairs rooms of inns.

So Geralt could be one of the most observant people that he’s ever met.

But, gods divine, could he be dense.

Emotional constipation and an incredibly short temper aside, it’s the little things that manage to slip by.

Though, in Geralt’s defence, Jaskier has been wearing a glamour for most of his life. In fact, the more he thinks about it, he isn’t entirely sure when the glamour was placed in the first place. He can remember the first time he saw a mage in his mother’s drawing-room, pouring over some old, leather tome on his lap. He remembers his mother beckoning him over, explaining that the mage was a friend. That Jaskier was ill, apparently. And the mage was very good at making sure that Jaskier would always be healthy and safe.

It wasn’t until he got a bit older, when the glamours started to flicker and fail, did he realise what his mother meant by all of that.

He imagines how the whole thing would have sounded: the Viscountess de Lettenhove had, at some point, fallen into an elf’s bed. The union produced a halfbred bastard – something entirely concealed at Jaskier’s birth, when the Viscountess demanded that the mage be in the room with her, when an army of midwives requested that he stay well out of the business of ladies.

But he understands now.

She just wanted to keep him healthy. And safe. For all that his father knew, Jaskier was his, and that was that. How could he have thought any differently? Especially with the help of the mage who, for all he knew, was only there to monitor the health of his son.

It’s only for his ears. That was the only thing abnormal – though, Jaskier never really liked that word. But he could never find a word that did match how he felt about the entire thing. The faintest arch of the top of his ears: too faint to be belonging to an elf, but enough of an arch to set him apart from human men. Enough of an arch to earn looks.

And he definitely wasn’t the only one who wore glamours. If people actually paid attention and looked, they would be able to see them everywhere.

And it’s not like Geralt hasn’t seen him bare. If anything, he knows the plains of Jaskier’s body better than most. People he had only spent nights with, he didn’t care much for them. They only saw what they were interested in seeing and that was it. Lovers he kept for longer started to scout, but Jaskier never kept them around for long enough to actually map.

Geralt is the only one that holds that kind of information.

And not once did he ever think, or give the inkling of a thought, that Jaskier might have been something else than human.

His ears stayed covered, glamoured to have a rounded arch – a human arch – for most of his life. That was one thing he could hide. Other things were more complicated.

Then Jaskier arrived at the conclusion that Geralt of Rivia was either very bad at acknowledging the passing of time, or he knew what Jaskier was, and made no mention of it.

And Jaskier, knowing Geralt for as long as he has, he’s absolutely convinced that it’s the former.

He met the Witcher when he was starting to claw his way out of his teens. And ageing had kept up well with him; he might have looked like a young eighteen-year-old, but he was eighteen years old nonetheless. And his half-elven blood allowed him to trudge through the years, gaining small little tokens with each year that passes. His skin does start to dull, after a time, and albeit not too noticeably. The faintest of lines scratch at the corners of his eyes and lips. But his blood kept him just out of the reach of whatever claimed other people his age. Or other people that should have been his age. He watched as other people gained white hairs and their muscles starting to slink away. He’s not going to lie and say he didn’t feel a modicum of joy at seeing Valdo Marx squinting at a tome in the middle of Oxenfurt library, adjusting his spectacles, and then huffing when he couldn’t make out anything no matter how close he pulled the book to his face.

Hiding what he was only became complicated when he found himself injured.

Something he can’t hide is how well his body can knit itself back together again. Elf blood is good at extending a life – either through shooing away the effects of time, or making sure that the body it inhabits doesn’t do anything too stupid to kill itself.

He’s never sustained an injury for something like that to be shown. If anything, it’s a very good testament to how well Geralt protects him. The most he’s ever gotten while out on the Path are collections of cuts and bruises – all of them disappearing within a couple of days.

This, though. Jaskier grunts as Geralt lifts him up the last couple of stairs. This could be more difficult.

Then again, it’s the last fucking thing on his mind at the moment.

“Thank you for your help, Witcher!” their contractor calls up the staircase. He’s still covered in rainwater, dripping it on to the floorboards at his feet. Rubbing some manticore blood off of his brow, he offers them both a grateful smile. “I’ll be sure to tell the town about how your deeds here tonight!”

Geralt grunts and takes Jaskier further down the landing, towards their own rented room for the night. As soon as he drags the bard inside, he ushers them both over to the bed. Geralt pulls at the blankets, tossing them down towards the foot of the bed. On the dry mattress, he sets Jaskier down. “Stay here,” he says firmly before wandering over to his bags.

If his lungs didn’t feel like they were caved in, Jaskier would muster up enough air to shout at his Witcher. Where the fuck would I be going? A manticore corpse fell on me. Because of you and your hunting partner not looking where you’re going. Do you know how disgusting that is: a corpse falling on you? Do you know how heavy those fuckers are?

He can’t verbalise it: so staring at the man across the room will have to do. It could have been worse. He’ll give the Witcher that. He could have been pierced by teeth or claws. But gods divine, his right side feels like Roach kicked it. There’s a hefty and deep bruise. He’s sure of it. And possibly a cracked or broken rib.

Or a punctured lung.

Geralt gathers what he needs; a collection of salves and ointments all encased in glass vials and bottles. He sets them at the edge of the bed. As soon as one of the vials is uncapped, Jaskier nose wrinkles. A pungent scent of tea tree coats the roof of his mouth. He turns his head away, staring at the wall at the other side of the room.

Geralt gathers some of the salve in his palm, warming it up a bit, before smearing it along the worst of the bruise. A sharp hiss leaves Jaskier. It might be nothing, but he’s sure that he hears Geralt mutter a soft sorry under his breath.

His blood will knit himself back together again. But it never dulls pain. A design flaw if ever he saw one: living with Geralt is a hazard to his health and wellbeing.

Night fell quickly. Though, winter has long since settled over the Continent, shielding the land from the sun for the past couple of weeks. Any light that does manage to fight its way through the thick, grey, heavy clouds doesn’t last long. The days have grown shorter and the nights stretch out longer. The hunt started when a sun still sat high in the sky. But rainclouds tumbled in, and soon night fell and in all, it has just been a wholly unpleasant day.

With their room only lit by the hearth’s fire and candles sitting on tables, Geralt works mostly in darkness. His eyes aren’t back to their normal gold just yet. Some small trace of black still clings on. Jaskier stares at the wall, holding his breath when Geralt’s hand drifts over a spot that took most of the hit.

Time drifts by. Jaskier blinks when the lip of a glass vial is suddenly set at his lips. “Drink this,” Geralt says gruffly. Jaskier can smell it. Poppy’s milk. It’ll dull the pain, and possibly put him in a coma for the next few days if he takes too much. He lets Geralt tip the vial, judging how much of the potion the bard needs.

Jaskier only tastes a drop of it on his tongue before the vial is gone. He makes a sound in the back of his throat. “This stuff is addictive,” Geralt frowns, putting the vial away completely.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I know that,” he sighs, wincing slightly when Geralt prods at the bruise at his side. “Bards are rarely sober. Especially when they’re in college.”

At that, Geralt lifts an eyebrow. “Did you raid your professors’ opium gardens yourself, or?”

A light laugh leaves Jaskier, though he quells it when his lungs start to tighten. “Gods, no. We would have been found out. They had those gardens on lockdown. We...just became very friendly with passing traders.”

Geralt snorts. He works silently, offering the occasional apology whenever Jaskier’s face screws up in pain. It’s been ebbed with the potion, but it still hurts when Geralt presses his fucking fingers into his ribs—

“It’s not broken,” he says after a time. “But it could be cracked.”

“Then stop poking it.”

“Are you like this with physicians?”

“I never see physicians so I wouldn’t know.”

A small frown creases Geralt’s brow. “You don’t see physicians?”

Jaskier’s tongue swells in his mouth. “...No?”

“I can’t say I’ve met a human with such a strong immunity then,” Geralt goes back to his work. There’s a new ointment now; crushed arnica petals, with a strong scent of pine wafting off of it.

You love the Witcher, something in his brain whispers to him. In an otherwise quiet room, he flinches. The thought seems loud enough that it could be heard within the room. But Geralt offers another apology, before smoothing out the last of the salve. You love him. And he loves you. Shouldn’t you tell him?

And it occurs to him, just then, that outside of his mother, a long-since passed away mage, and himself, that no one knows. He’s never told anyone.

Swallowing a lump clawing up his throat, Jaskier rasps. “Maybe it’s because I’m not human.”

Geralt’s hands still over Jaskier’s skin.

He rushes to amend. “Well. I’m half-human. My mother is human.” Jaskier chews the inside of his cheek. “My father...I don’t know who he is. By all accounts, I suppose, Father is my father. He didn’t suspect anything else. But in a biological sense,” why is Geralt staring at him, “Mother told me that he was an elf. But...I don’t know who he is.”

And if the room wasn’t quiet before, it’s certainly quiet now.

“Say something,” Jaskier breathes. “Please. Stop staring at me and say something. Anything.”

And he swears he can see pieces fitting together in Geralt’s brain. It’s a long time before anything resembling a word leaves Geralt’s mouth. “We’ve known each other for so long. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

Jaskier lifts a shoulder – as much as he’s able without his ribs hurting. “It never came up, I guess.”

“It never-” Geralt’s mouth opens, but no more words manage to come out of it. The Witcher catches the bridge of his nose between his fingers before sighing heavily. When he’s finally composed himself, he looks back to Jaskier’s body. “So you’ll heal?”

“Quicker than most,” Jaskier nods, “but not as quick as your lot, I imagine.” He hasn’t dashed out the room yet, or jumped out of the window. That’s good.

Geralt hums. His eyes still run over every stretch of exposed skin lain out before him. The bruise really only takes up one side, spreading from the peak of his hip bone to the foot of his ribs. It’s been almost an hour and it’s already beginning to change colour. What was once red and blue is now turning yellow around the edge. His body is starting to knit himself back together again. And with whatever salves Geralt smeared on him, he’s sure that the worst of it will be gone in a few hours.

Jaskier lifts a hand to Geralt’s jaw, skimming his fingers along the ridge of the Witcher’s jawline. “I’ll be fine,” he assures him. “When the sun rises tomorrow, I’ll be right as rain.”

Geralt stares at him blankly for a moment before nodding. “Alright, then.”

It’s not the nicest inn they’ve stayed the night in. But he didn’t expect much for a small trading town on the axis of a crossroads. But the pillows and mattress are soft, and the sheets are clean. And these days, that’s all he ever asks for.

Geralt has every capacity to be gentle with him. He lifts Jaskier just enough to fluff the pillows behind him, and sets him back down again. He gathers the sheets from the foot of the bed, bringing them up to Jaskier’s shoulders. “Do you want the furs too?” he asks, nodding to a collection of pelts.

Jaskier smiles. “If you wouldn’t mind. The nights are getting darker and colder.” So Geralt gathers them, spreading them out across the whole bed, but making sure that they cover Jaskier from chest to toe.

Jaskier stifles a yawn. The poppy’s milk loosens his muscles. If the bed was any softer, he thinks it might sink deeper and drown. Eyelids become heavy, making them difficult to stay awake. He does though, because Geralt is still padding around the room doing menial tasks. He stokes the fire, placing a spark-guard against it. He strips down to his underclothes and sets his armour, shirt, and breeches over the backs of two chairs.

Jaskier must mumble something that resembles a Geralt. Suddenly the scent of the Witcher is all around him. The bed dips by his side and warmth follows. “I’m here,” gentle words mumble against the shell of his ear. When they’ve settled, a peaceful sort of silence blankets over them. Geralt lies on his side, an arm folded underneath his head. His other hand sits in between them both, twitching to reach out but unsure.

“I have a cracked rib,” Jaskier mumbles, rolling his head to look down at Geralt’s hand. “I don’t have the pox.”

And the Witcher reaches out, fingers gentling along the crest of Jaskier’s collarbone. He shuffles closer, and Jaskier only hums with how warm his Witcher is. The last of the winter chill is chased away.

He’s almost asleep when he hears it. “You know what I am,” Geralt’s voice rumbles out of his chest. “And yet you still stay with me. You love me, despite all of that. Why do you think I would be any different with you?”

Jaskier sighs. “I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “I guess even those who are prejudiced against by others can hold prejudices of their own against something else.” He hears Geralt click his tongue, shushing him. Sleep tugs at him. His body is lax and warm, and Geralt knows where to skim fingertips so sleep can creep up on him more quickly.

“Sleep now,” Geralt gentles, his thumb smoothing over Jaskier’s cheek. He drifts off to sleep like that; a chest suddenly, despite being crushed by a beast, lighter than before.