#wear a hat and drink lots of water kids heat stroke doesn't fuck around

[rebrandedbard]

3 for Jaskier×Geralt please

3. “Please, don’t leave.”

tw: heat stroke

wc: 1706

Rain Rain Go Away

Geralt takes on a contract to resolve tensions between an angry nymph and the farmers who insulted her. Jaskier doesn’t do well in the heatwave she sends in retribution. Light angst ensues as Geralt learns why Jaskier hid his struggle.

-

Above them, the sun blistered. Geralt had walked astride Jaskier, the sleeves of his shirt rolled above his elbows. Though he ran hotter than humans, his body adjusted well to heat, and a bit of sweat went a long way to keeping him cool. As usual, Jaskier had elected to accompany him. He carried with him only his notebook, tucked in the hem of his trousers. This contract required no fighting and Geralt had been happy enough to leave his armour behind at the inn. Despite his initial reservations, he knew it would have been more uncomfortable to wear it in this weather, and if things took a wrong turn, his signs would be enough for such a simple confrontation. The humans hadn’t angered anything particularly powerful.

“Can this heatwave really be the work of a nymph?” Jaskier quietly complained. He tugged at the front of his shirt, fanning air inside. The hair stuck to his forehead was almost black, being so saturated with sweat. The bottom of his shirt had long come untucked and hung loose around him. He was talking to himself, the words breathy. Even now he was beginning to lag behind.

“They complained of the rain,” Geralt replied. “She sent it as a blessing for their crops. Until I can make their apology formally known, this is how things will be.”

Jaskier grunted and said no more. His feet dragged on the dirt path. Now and then he took a deeper breath and paused, braced on his knees. He would then compensate by jogging up to Geralt, though in a matter of minutes he would fall behind again.

The third time, Geralt turned back and said, “You’re slowing me down.”

“Nonsense!” Jaskier said, perking up performatively. He straightened his back and fluttered a careless hand in the air. “You just keep pace and I’ll catch up when I catch up. In the past you’ve made your position perfectly clear on the subject—you don’t have to wait for me. Besides, it can’t be much farther. Then again, ah, how far is it to this nymph’s hideout exactly?”

“It’s there,” Geralt said. He pointed to a small grove beyond the last farmer’s field.

Jaskier slumped, following his finger. “That’s … not so very far. Except that it is. Quite far. I thought you said that was the last hill just now and here we are, about to climb another. I may walk everywhere we go but—phew!” He paused to pant. Talking only seemed to make his face redder with effort. He sighed and sat in the dirt, head lolling forward. “Fuck, Geralt. It’s bloody hot. I’ll get blisters in this heat.”

“Go back and wait it out.”

“It’ll be twice as long going back as going forward. Besides, I doubt the nymph is keeping her grove as hot as the village. My blood would boil in the deepest basement there, but the grove … it’s probably … very cool.” He groaned and lay back on the ground, one arm over his eyes. “Damn heat. Can barely—well, you know. The thing I do.”

He flapped a hand above his head like a little mouth, opening and closing.

“Talk?” Geralt surmised.

Jaskier pointed a finger at him. “That, yes, thank you.”

Geralt sighed and grabbed his hand, pulling him to his feet. “Come on. We’ll be there in ten minutes if you keep walking.”

“Right. I’m up. I’m—oh.” He wobbled on his feet, pitching forward. Geralt caught him with one arm, but found he needed two to keep Jaskier upright, taking the full weight of him. Jaskier groped at his shoulder, his eyes unfocused. “Stood too quickly,” he said. “Just give me a moment, I’ll … I’m alright.”

He pulled out of Geralt’s arms and marched deliberately forward, following the path downhill. He made it two steps before swaying once more and stumbling to his knees. The momentum carried him and he rolled sideways, sliding on his back in the dust.

“Jaskier!” Geralt rushed down the hill and held him upright. He could hear his heart racing unnaturally. “Jaskier, how long have you been pushing yourself?”

Jaskier looked at him, confused. He patted his ear, brow furrowed as he focused. “I can’t hear you,” he whispered. He looked at Geralt in alarm, patting his ear still. “I—I can’t … can’t hear … what … ” His eyes lost focus once more, then his eyes rolled back and he went slack.

“Jas—Jaskier? Hey!” Geralt snapped in front of his face, but Jaskier made no response. “Fuck,” he hissed. He ought to have been more concerned when Jaskier stopped talking before. He scooped Jaskier up, draped over his shoulders, and hurried along the road. They needed to get somewhere cool fast. He only hoped Jaskier would be right about the grove.

“Idiot complains about a pebble between his toes but never thinks to take off his boot,” Geralt grumbled. Jaskier wasn’t the most pragmatic when it came to problem solving, preferring vocalization to action. “Now he keeps his mouth shut. Still doesn’t take off the boot.”

It was a struggle to jog without jostling Jaskier. He made for an awkward bulk, tipping Geralt’s balance on a few steps. Geralt had carried him before, but it was always a surprise to him how much more Jaskier weighed than expected. He was no easy burden.

It troubled Geralt that Jaskier had not taken steps to keep himself cool, or even to give any hint of his condition. He’d never been one to suffer in silence. Surely he would have noticed that something was wrong; he could not be so blind to his own circumstances.

When he reached the grove, he was relieved to find it was cool. He carried Jaskier into the center and set him under the dark shadow of a tree to keep him out of the sun. Carefully, he stripped him of his shirt and trousers. To help him cool off, Geralt wet the hem of Jaskier’s shirt with his water-skin and dabbed it on his face and chest, letting the air do the rest. Tilting Jaskier’s head back, he poured water down his throat, then left the remainder with him, just beside his hand.

The nymph found Geralt not long after he started his search. It was just as well that Jaskier had fainted, for he likely would have fainted had he been awake to learn that the nymph recognized him. She had heard his songs from the men who passed through her grove, humming and singing on their way to work, and from the children who sat in its shade. It happened that she was quite the fan of his music, and she was horrified that he’d become a consequential victim of her ire.

As the hot winds died down, the clouds were once more permitted to gather. The sun was hidden away and a light drizzle rained down over them. She wove Jaskier a fan of grass and twig, tending to him until his skin returned to its usual color. Geralt sat with her and made the apology as promised, though she’d long forgotten her anger in her distress over the famed bard. She lingered until he had sufficiently cooled, then went to inspect the villagers’ fields.

By the end of the hour, Jaskier began to stir. Geralt helped him sit up against the tree and would not allow him to try his feet. He passed him the water-skin, made him drink, and folded the shirt behind his head to keep him off the bark. When he was sure Jaskier had recovered enough, it was time for his scolding.

“What did you think you were doing?” Geralt quietly demanded. He saw the way Jaskier started and adjusted his voice. He sighed and took to folding Jaskier’s trousers more neatly, keeping his eyes lowered, giving him space. “If you were struggling, you should have said.”

Jaskier twisted the cork of the water-skin nervously. “I … didn’t want to be left behind,” he replied. His voice was weak, no more than a huff of air with each word. “I thought if I just kept going, I would learn to adjust. I would just get used to it. And I did, up to a point.”

“Why would you think—” but Geralt stopped himself. Jaskier had every right to believe it. Geralt had threatened to leave him behind if he ever lagged behind when they first met. Jaskier had been slow at the start, and over the years he had adjusted well to life on the road. Until now, he’d kept up. But Geralt had never slowed down.

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” Jaskier concluded.

Geralt placed the trousers in Jaskier’s lap. The movement startled Jaskier and he seemed to notice for the first time where he was, and under what circumstances. While he struggled with mixed feelings toward his current state of modesty, Geralt switched the empty water-skin with a second. He picked up the fan and waved it between them.

“You’ll always be a burden,” Geralt said. He handed Jaskier the fan and leaned over to adjust the shirt behind his head before it could slip down. “You’re a burden,” he explained, “but I don’t mind carrying you. You’re not so heavy. And even if you were, I’d … if you were, I’d adjust.” Though it was not as eloquent as the feeling he meant, it was the best Geralt could do to say it.

Jaskier stared at him in astonishment, the water-skin limp in his hands. Geralt opened it for him, helped him to drink it, then made him lie down once more. The contract was complete, but Jaskier needed rest still.

Geralt retrieved the empty water-skin and turned. A river ran nearby, and Jaskier would need more water when he rose. But as he turned to stand, Jaskier caught his arm. He looked up at Geralt with uncertainty in his eyes.

“Please, don’t leave,” he whispered.

And Geralt sat down once more. He put a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll stay, Jaskier.” He would always stay, as long as Jaskier asked it of him.

-

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