The problem starts when Jaskier turns to him one night as they're setting up camp on the way to the next town and tells him the fish has rotted in their packs.

"Perhaps it was the sun," the bard suggests with one tentatively raised eyebrow.

"Hmm."

Today was abnormally hot for encroaching autumn, but Geralt suspects it has less to do with that and more with the poorly-concealed disgust of the fishwife at the market stall. Roach wickers gently behind him, nibbling at the grass. He considers his options as he makes a fire, ignoring Jaskier's wide eyes waiting on him for an answer; he knows he's thinking about which one of them will go hungry tonight and if Geralt will consider human limits when he makes them set off again tomorrow morning. He could join Roach and eat the grass, which wouldn't be the first time and would certainly take the edge of the hunger off and would certainly have his companion looking at him like he's some sort of animal. (The latter point, granted, was only a matter of time, but so far Jaskier has treated him like a human and that's been... nice.) Hunting is perhaps the most sensible option, but this section of woods has claimed many lives with no explanation, witcher and human and animal lives and he can't hunt without Jaskier and taking Jaskier on a hunt is a guarantee he won't catch anything. The bard just can't shut up to save his life. Which leaves...

"Give it to me," grunts Geralt, reaching out his hand. "Take the berries and nuts my pack and have that. I'll have this."

"What?!" Jaskier doesn't follow the plan (what else is new?) and yanks the fish away instead, aghast and disgusted all at once. "Gods, Geralt, no, there's no way I'm allowing you to eat this!"

He frowns.

"I don't care if you're a witcher, that doesn't mean you can eat anything!"

"...Is that a challenge?"

"No!" his face is turning redder and redder and Geralt wonders what he has done wrong (this time.) Jaskier sputters some more, leaning back far enough to make sure the food is out of reach until he's finally able to string a sentence together again. "Why don't we just share your food, Geralt?"

"There's rations for one man and I shall not listen to your complaining in the morning." All this talking is giving him a fucking headache. "Just give it to me, Jaskier. I've eaten worse before."

A strange look falls over his face. "When?" Then, "Not- not so I could-?"

"No. Before." Which isn't a lie- he's never eaten spoiled food so Jaskier didn't have to go hungry. He has had less than his fill so Jaskier wouldn't go hungry, but that's not the question he asked.

He's weakening, Geralt can tell. The day's journey has been long and tomorrow's will be longer and Geralt is offering him a solution where they both eat. A twig falls from a branch at the same moment he gives in, "You're sure you'll be alright if you eat this?"

It's the care that leaves him lost and, in all honesty, a little helpless; the feeling is not dissimilar to when Vesemir led them as children to the forest near Kaer Morhen, blindfolded them and told them to find their way. It begets the same anticipating fear, the wariness of each step, worried your foot will plunge into an abyss and that'll be the last thing you know. This is how care feels like.

All Geralt says is, "Hmmm."

For some reason, Jaskier just won't let it go, "But you swear you'll be fine, right? You promise?"

"I promise." Jaskier's hand feels cool on his fingers as he takes the fish. "Witchers don't get sick."

You cannot fall asleep. Some part of his mind reminds him. Geralt snorts, the sound turns into moan as another wave of pain washes over him. Fat chance of that. So, witchers can get sick.

An hour after Jaskier fell asleep, heat had begun to prickle up his spine and made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Geralt has sharpened his swords until three hours after Jaskier fell asleep, the pain got so bad he was clenching his teeth hard enough to worry he might break a tooth. Now, four hours since his companion slipped into the land of dreams, he is curled on his own bedroll, forehead to the ground, knees to his chest, arms round his waist; this facsimile is probably the closest he's ever gotten to praying and the irony is not lost on him.

He hisses and tucks his chin into his chest a little lower, swallowing down hard on the desire to throw up. Thankfully, his hair is still tied back from where Jaskier washed it the night before- the few strands that have escaped the leather tie are damp like he's fallen into a river and smell even worse. Imagining how it'd feel to have his hair loose and wafting on his face and neck and shoulders- oh fuck and he retches but refuses to open his mouth, which just hurts even more.

It's dark, the night all encompassing, the fire gone out and... No, it's not dark. His eyes snap open, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Jaskier is there, fine, asleep on his own bedroll, scarcely five feet away. Stay awake. Keep your eyes open. Geralt shifts onto his side so his back is to his bard, ducking under the haze of fever clouding his eyes to survey the forest and the little clearing where they've made camp. If he falls asleep in this state, there is very little chance he will be able to detect approaching danger.

A corner of his blanket brushes up against his face and he seizes it in his teeth and bites down hard, curling up into as tight a ball as possible and refusing to make a sound. Broadcasting his weakness to a den of monsters is bad idea and he will not endanger Jaskier.

Just- oh fuck. He bites down harder, feeling the fabric tear a little. How much longer until morning?

Geralt of Rivia refuses to close his eyes again and doesn't, protecting the bard at his back with the blanket wedged into his mouth and breathing harshly through his nose to make his stomach stay at the bottom of his ribcage as he charts the night slowly erode into the dull grey that signals upcoming daen.

Light enough for human eyes to see by?

As good as.

"Jaskier," he grunts, not daring to move. The syllables scrape out of his throat and across his tongue like a growl.

To his credit, he does not make him repeat himself, stirring and sitting up and blinking the sleep out of his eyes almost immediately, spine curved over in an elegant 'c', longing to be asleep again. "Mmmm- what- oh, shit, oh fuck!" the rest of his cursing is lost in the commotion as he scrambles to Geralt's side and kneels by his head. "I told you- didn't I fucking tell you not the eat it?"

To his utmost horror a whine escapes his mouth. He curls a little tighter. Jaskier's voice drops to a tone impossibly soft, a hand pressing against his forehead and stroking his hair back, "It's alright. No fever, at least. You'll probably be fine by tomorrow with your witcher constitution, but I bet you didn't sleep a wink, did you?"

Nausea roars up his ribcage and he barely manages to grunt in response without ending up with his last meal down his front. The fish... fuck he buries his head into his bedroll and presses his knees into the burning cramps in his gut. It really fucking hurts and it's really his own stupid fault and it's there, whenever he breathes in or swallows it's there at the bottom of his throat, tasting worse and worse with every passing second. Everything hurts.

"Shush," his bard murmurs, then his head is being lifted and there's shifting, then, then he's lying on something soft and he realises his head is cushioned on Jaskier's knees which is... Oh, who's he fooling? This is nice.

"Aw, Geralt," his voice is soothing. A perfectly clear expanse of blue sky; one of his hands stays on the back of his neck deliciously cool, but the other inches lower and tries to ease between the mess of limbs he's got tangled round his stomach. He mumbles a warning, and then quickly cuts if short when it makes the green-grey feeling in his throat feel like its bubbling. Ugh.

"You haven't thrown up, have you?" Is that... accusation?

He shakes his head the barest inch to the side, world beginning to spin slowly. Jaskier sighs, "You should really let yourself, love, your body wants rid- it'll settle your stomach enough you might be able to sleep."

Nothing is more tempting than the prospect of slipping into unconsciousness now and waking up only when this is all over, but Jaskier's wrong: it won't stop, it'll just open the flood gates. And the smell would be- he gags and quickly shuts his mouth, teeth clacking together as he bites and swallows down on the foul thick taste of fish on his tongue, the rest of his body jack-knifing in Jaskier's grip as it tries to rebel. Everything hurts and he's convinced he's going to split down the middle like a rotten tree struck by lightning. He's fairly sure he hasn't thrown up in close to five years, at least certainly the last time was before he acquired a bard and a ballad and his body feels like a foreign object, controlled by a thing not himself, aching and whining and keening pathetically as he squirms on his bedroll like a target for a predator.

If this were a monster he were facing her might say he was scared, only even if it was a beast witchers don't feel scared. "Stop it," he growls as hard as he dares. Jaskier keeps tugging at his arms and if he pulls any harder he'll fly apart. Answer comes in the form of water, the rim of a mug at his lips held by a steady hand decidedly not his own.

Geralt snarls.

Jaskier merely hums and the mug remains. "Just a little sip, Geralt, for me? You'll get dehydrated and feel worse."

True to the bargain, he takes one sip. Hardly enough water to wet the tip of his tongue, certainly not enough to rid the taste from his mouth. He feels shaky and empty and full, somehow, and the water is cold and sharp on his teeth like an arrow wound.

Over his head, Jaskier has started talking again and he lets the words flow over him as he squeezes his eyes shut to ward off the vertigo prickling up his body up until the point where, lulled into a state of false security, the bard seizes his chance and yanks him to lie on his back instead. Geralt hisses, every sense returning to him white-hot and sharp as a knife, his stomach cramping in time with his racing heart beat.

"Sorry." He doesn't sound very sorry. "But just try, will you, please? It'll help, I promise." The pure honesty in his voice smells the same as when a high-pitched note strikes the air and he complies, feeling too sickly to do anything else. Good thing Jaskier treats him as if he is made of glass, because he feels twice as breakable, too pained to feel embarrassed even.

The lark makes him lie on his back but pull his knees up so his feet are flat on the ground. The last time Geralt was in this position, he thinks a kikimora had just gotten in a lucky hit, yet it helps, loosening the horrible ache in his guts. Or perhaps that's all Jaskier, whose hand slides beneath his shirt and starts rubbing slow circles on his belly and Geralt thinks if he can just spend the next few hours like this, maybe he will survive and wake up tomorrow fine.

"There now, is that better?"

Yes, thank you Jaskier. In lieu of the actual words, he hums instead and dutifully sips at the mug when it's brought to his lips again. The hand on his stomach is making him dizzy and the feel of his hair heavy with sweat and stench is worse than just about any potion he's ever taken, but it hurts less than it did.

The water has gone from cold to tepid and he tries not to think about it as he swallows. He lies back again, swallows again, then feels his stomach lurch and the water change direction, thick bile rising hot and painful in his chest. Absently, he's aware of Jaskier scrambling away from his side and his hand digging into his stomach by accident as he does. Geralt grabs a nearby tree stump and drags himself as far away from their bedroll as he can before he throws up. It's horrible to taste and worse to watch; he closes his eyes as the chunks of liquid catch in his mouth and make him cough and spit. Some of it ends up on his shirt and the wetness starts to seep through the old fabric, onto his skin, his hair wet and clammy on his neck and making him shiver with cold, the smell of sweat invades his nose and he retches and continues to gag long after the last of the fish has left his body. There's a path burnt from his mouth to his throat to his stomach, on fire and the smell of fish makes Jaskier gag behind him too. The muscles in his stomach clench and refuse to relax, trapping a last bit of nausea there and refusing to relinquish it. Fuck Geralt thinks, blinking away the tears the exertion had brought to his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something and his stomach curdles harder and he hunches over instead, hands layered protectively over his middle. Sitting up for so long is making his ears ring; at an undetermined point Jaskier's crept up behind him and started to rub his back instead.

Seasick, Geralt lists to the side, heaving again as his right arm accidentally lands in the puddle of his own vomit. Inexplicably, he's not empty and he vomits even more, until he's convinced his chest is on fire and Jaskier has to take on the task of keeping him upright.

He expects horror, disgust, any sort of reminder that this is entirely his own fault and probably punishment for his hubris. He's ruined his favourite shirt too. Did Jaskier at least escape being caught in the crossfire? He turns to ask and groans at the ache in his neck.

"Jaskier," he slurs, the syllables all running together.

"It's alright," his voice is shaking, so clearly there is nothing that is alright. He hasn't got the energy to pick him up on it. "I think you're done for now, it's okay. Come here." Hands are under his arms and pull him to his feet. Geralt doesn't try to stand upright, content t waver on his feet and sway in the breeze whilst Jaskier leads him back to his bedroll and carefully pulls his soiled shirt over his head.

That damned mug of water appears again. "Rinse your mouth out whilst you're up."

He does, spitting it as far away from their camp as he possibly can. Didn't they have a spitting contest once, back in Kaer Morhen? Jaskier cajoles him into having another mouthful, then helps him lie back down again. "Don't worry about the mess, I'll clean it up," he promises, hands back on Geralt's stomach again and rubbing steadily even as it twists beneath his palm. "Your shirt may be salvageable yet."

He doesn't even mumble in response, too afraid of the sickness bubbling away at the base of his throat and biding its time. Jaskier picks up the conversation anyway and Geralt lets his eyes close and tries to forget how shit he feels. Stupid fucking fish. Stupid fucking fishwife. Stupid fucking witcher.

"Hush," soothes Jaskier. "Go to sleep."

Impossible Geralt wants to say, but he's half asleep already.