"Please?" wheedled the bard for the umpteenth time, his voice only getting higher as the sun sank towards the horizon.

Geralt ground his teeth and focused on brushing down Roach at the edge of their camp for tonight. "No."

Jaskier was persistent, he'd give him that. And annoying. He had said 'no' at least fifteen times today and cursed himself twice as many times for telling Jaskier the name of the town they would pass tomorrow.

"It's on the way, Geralt, it's not as if we'd have to make a detour! And it's a free meal for us both- why, this is exactly the same as any other tavern we spend the night in, just... it'll be a mansion." Roach snorted just loud enough for a Witcher's hearing and Geralt hummed in agreement. "Are you two ... judging me?" Jaskier's voice rose another note with incredulousness. "Honestly I, a humble bard, am merely trying to secure us both a meal and contribute to my friend's reputation and here that said friend is- with his horse!- judging me!"

Geralt sighed as he heard the tell-tale crunch of leaves that meant he had thrown himself dramatically into his bed roll, "Fine."

"What?!"

"I said 'fine'."

"Really?" In a flash, he was upright and striding to stand on the other side of Roach, his eyes bright and the air tasting heavy with his excitement. "You mean it?"

"...Yes," he said reluctantly. "I'll body guard you at Lady Karen's feast."

"Geralt!" The joy tasted strange in his mouth, but it suited Jaskier's face perfectly. "I swear, Geralt, you won't have to do anything except stand there and look menacing- you might even enjoy yourself!"

He and Roach snorted at the same time. Jaskier only smiled wider.

There was, Geralt was convinced, a special sort of hell that involved finery and court events, one to which he had condemned himself with nothing to blame but his own stupidity. Jaskier had, somehow, found him new clothes to wear for the feast tomorrow night and was forcing him to try them on.

Geralt watched as his mouth turned down in distaste in the mirror, "People enjoy wearing this?"

"Yep!"

"Why?"

He appeared to genuinely consider the question, "Because they're there to be political and look their best. Wearing things like this makes them feel good whilst they do. People like to look good."

"Hmmm." The collar was tight round his neck and the fabric pulled under his arms; the trousers were loose all over and highly impractical if he needed to kick something- the drape of the excess fabric didn't even let him conceal a knife at his ankle or in the top of his boot and he said as much to the bard.

"It's called fashion, Geralt, honestly."

"Witchers don't have fashion."

Jaskier snorted, eyeing his abandoned clothes at the end of the bed, "Clearly. Now-" he produced from seemingly nowhere a jacket to complete the ensemble, all frills and silk. Geralt did his best to hold back a snarl- Jaskier had at least gone to the effort of getting it in as dark a grey as possible, but the thing was still as hideous as it was impractical and loose-fitting.

"See?" he prompted, picking lint off the cuffs and turning him back round to face the looking glass again. "You look good!"

"If you say so." He was disappointed to find he looked himself, just in ridiculous clothes; his long white hair tangling with the various ruffles and trims. "Can I wear my boots?"

A dramatic sigh, "I suppose so. It's not as if you've any other shoes, and this town has no cobbler."

Good. He had no desire to gain multiple blisters for one night of mediocre indulgence. The outfit was bad enough as it was. Not that he couldn't kill a monster wearing it, but that wasn't the point.

"What're you wearing?"

Jaskier's face split into a huge grin, delighted and excited all at once. "You shall just have to wait and see, my friend, though rest assured my own outfit will be spectacular."

"If you say so." The concept of fashion was a mystery and he had no desire to learn about any of it or take part in it. Let the humans have their silks and dresses if they wanted. Unless he was forced into it like he was now doing, he had no wish to see any of that world.

He didn't force you, you offered. Well, shit.

Jaskier was still talking, he realised, trying to catch the rest of the conversation that had gone on without him. "...Karen always insists on a traditional gathering for drinks the night before. I wouldn't, normally, being as they're the most boring thing on the Continent, but it could be a way to ask if I can perform tomorrow night."

The words rushed through his ears in a torrent and rendered him dizzy. "What?" he settled on eventually. It seemed a safe enough thing to say.

"Do you want to come with me?" Jaskier repeated, pulling his things into his bag and swinging it over his shoulder. "Or shall I pick you up tomorrow, give you some peace until the feast starts?"

"I..." no one had ever, to his recollection, asked what he wanted before."Don't you need guarding tonight, too?"

He edged out of the way to allow him to fix his hair in the mirror. "No, the only people who really go tonight are the women. It should be fine."

Geralt snorted, "You get into trouble with lots of women."

A huge grin lit up the room, "Why Geralt that almost sounded like teasing. I'm impressed. But I'm late enough as it is- tell me, do you want to come tonight or not?"

Geralt still had no idea how to answer that question, though a whole twenty four hours of peace to prepare for an evening of hell was tempting indeed. He had no idea what a traditional night of drinks consisted of and at this point he as afraid to ask. "No."

"Alright- be ready tomorrow, I'll come just before sundown."

"Hmmm." he non-responded as Jaskier weaved his way to the door of the room they had booked for the next two nights at the town's smallest inn. The minute the door slammed behind him, he threw himself onto the bed, still fully dressed in fine silks and his dirty boots. "Fuck."

Geralt came back to the land of the awake with a groan, quickly followed by a retch. Swearing, the words turning to foul-tasting bubbles in his mouth, he rolled to the side of the bed and vomited into the chamber pot. Without even time to think fuck, he drew in a breath and began to retch again.

It was a long time before it was over, and then the nausea receding seemingly only to allow him to feel the aches and pains in the rest of his body. Now he could finally say "Fuck." Now it made sense why he'd felt so tired the night before. Now what was he going to do? The only thing he felt like doing was sleeping with interruptions only for puking; Jaskier's stupid feast was tonight. I could cancel, he pondered, pulling the blanket over his head and turning away from the morning light peeking through the window. No he couldn't. Jaskier had made it very clear he wouldn't be safe without him there. And... He had promised to go

He had promised Jaskier he would accompany him tonight after Jaskier had called them friends. Well, shit. He was going then.

The ripening of the day did nothing to improve its outlook. By the time Jaskier knocked again at the door, Geralt had lost count of the times he had thrown up or had to steady himself against unforgiving waves of dizziness. Even sitting down everything was slightly off, still objects crawling an inch to the side and jumping back again whenever he tried to focus.

Jaskier's entrance sent ripples of pain through is head and he could barely grunt in acknowledgement, though he couldn't hold back a groan when the bard was followed by a pair of strong-armed maids, faces pulled into scowls by the weight of the water pails in their hands.

"Geralt!" his crowing physically hurt. He tuned it out whilst he directed (and flirted) with the maids, though once they were gone had no choice but to listen and grit his teeth whilst his clothes were plucked away piece by piece.

Once in the bath, the heat of the water made him reconsider. This was a good idea- it was soothing, so much so he even closed his eyes whilst Jaskier washed his hair, though keeping is grunts down to the bare minimum in an attempt to keep hold of what little remained of last night's supper.

The hands on his scalp paused, "Are you alright?"

"Fine." It sounded more like 'hmmm'.

"I'm..." A pause. Clinks of bottles of oil. He swallowed hard at the heavy smells. "I'm not here to- just to make sure you're all 'acceptable' for high company, if that's what you're thinking."

Geralt opened his eyes, staring at the dark ceiling and the reflection of candlelight off Jaskier's hair. "I wasn't thinking that." Although he was ow and it was nice, to know that that's not why he was here, even if that would be a perfectly reasonable thing to do. Witchers don't fit into fancy company, or any company at all. Most days, Jaskier had to badger him to wash monster guts out of his air.

"You weren't? Wat's wrong, then?"

"Nothing."

"But... you're quiet- quiet for you, I mean. And you keep swallowing, the way you always do when I've said something stupid."

Surprisingly, his first thought isn't anything along the lines of 'You always say something stupid' or 'Fuck off, bard'. He closes his eyes again, waiting for Jaskier to rinse the soap from his hair, then says without meaning to, "Throat's sore." Which it is, prolonged vomiting will do that to you.

"Really?" he's surprised at the admission. "Are you sure you really want to-"

"Yes." A promise is a promise, after all. And Jaskier won't be safe by himself. A promise is a promise.

"Okay." Then, "I thought witchers didn't get sick."

"We don't." He heaves himself out of the water and almost trembles with the cold, clamping his mouth shut before his teeth can chatter and betray him. "Side effect of potions." Not that he used a potion against yesterday's Bruxa, but...

...Did he use a potion against yesterday's Bruxa? Was yesterday's Bruxa yesterday?

This was not good. A promise is a promise. Geralt yanked his breeches and boots on and let Jaskier concern himself with the rest and let his complaints of 'not sharing any details with me' wash over his head.

Roach, when he went to check on her (No, I am not saying 'goodbye' to my horse, he growled at Jaskier's sceptical accusations) before leaving, immediately detected that something was the matter and whickered nervously, nosing at his head and chewing the ends of his hair.

"Don't slobber on these clothes," Geralt warned her sternly. She huffed and neighed a little, her eyes big in her head with fear. Geralt buried his face in her mane and let his shoulders sag. "I'm alright. I'm alright."

Huffing, she stomped her left hoof and turned her head abruptly away, locks of chestnut hair hitting is face. That meant 'You're a liar' in horse speak and 'I'm so done with you'. Smiling, Geralt left the stables and caught up with Jaskier, idling at the blacksmith's, ignoring his pithy "I don't know who has the separation anxiety- Roach or you."

Everything ached and he wasn't even hungover. The sun was dipping below the horizon quickly and Geralt only hope the rest of the night went by just as fast.

On arrival Geralt could fee his every muscle trembling and felt no compunctions about giving his hardest, meanest glare at the doorman who didn't seem overly-inclined to consider a witcher a party guest. They passed by without another word.

Well, he was no party guest, certainly, only Jaskier's protection for an evening.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Jaskier hissed as they passed under an archway and out into a courtyard flocked y fine guests standing in carefully arranged spirals.

He grunted in return, "Thought there'd be more music."

As he'd hoped would happen, Jaskier seized the opportunity to expand a witcher's knowledge of court intricacies, yammering excitedly between bites of hot spiced-apple pastries. He proffered one Geralt's way and he turned it down, trying to ignore the churning hot feeling in his gut in favour of glaring at any nobleman who glanced their way. Gods damn Jaskier- if he'd only learn to keep it in his breeches or at least check who he was cuckolding before falling into bed, none of this would be happening and Geralt could be wallowing in self-pity in peace.

"Hmmm." He waited for the pause to take another bite and quickly interjected, "When do we get to sit down?" It was taking all he had not to close his eyes as the room spun lazily; first one direction, then the other, accompanied by a soft chirping that seemed to ome from nowhere.

"Uh, after this initial meeting we have to go though there-" discreetly he pointed to another door, ornately decorated with gilded stars "-to mingle and eat the starters. That takes at least an hour."

An hour? Geralt's head swum at the thought and he ground his teeth as his body sung its betrayal. Jaskier leaned closer, on the pretence of handing him a goblet of honey wine. "Seriously, Geralt, are you alright?"

"Hmmm."

"Do you want to go?"

Jaskier snorted.

"Yes," he conceded, speaking lowly in the hopes the nauseous feeling wouldn't rise any higher. "But I won't leave until you do. Which one of these lords wants to kill you, again?"

"Um- that one… and that one and those two- maybe him- Oh! And definitely him, there- see? With the gold brocade?"

By some miracle, he made it through the talking and then all the courses without embarrassing himself or letting any vengeful pillock get too close to Jaskier. Not easily, but he made it.

"Almost," Jaskier promised the umpteenth time he asked if the whole ordeal was nearly over. "Try the pie- quite delectable!"

Geralt was sure it was, but not in his current state. Despite sticking to watered-down ale all night, his head was hot and heavy, the world spinning lazily on its side and his vision trying to catch up whenever he turned his head. Every limb ached enough that picking up his knife and fork physically hurt, not the mention the sickly disgust in the back of his throat whenever he so much as glanced down at his plate or made the mistake of inhaling through his nose. Tonight qualified as one of the worst nights of his life, and just when he was thinking perhaps he had managed it, the fucking Countess of… Somewhere herself had tapped her spoon against her glass, stood up and announced the evening's entertainment for everyone was waiting in the courtyard. Call it a night Geralt told himself as he stood up and his vision went black.

Still blinded momentarily, he followed Jaskier's scent and lingered with him at the tail end of the guests filing out another set of doors. Green lanterns had been strung up around the outskirts and Geralt looked away, biting down on the sick feeling that only rose higher as all the scents of the other guests mixed headily in the air. His legs were made of glass yet his feet were as heavy as boulders and if not for Jaskier's presence at his side he would have teetered unsteadily. Fuck, he was going to throw up.

Lady Whoever stepped down from a podium, concluding a speech he hadn't realised was ongoing, presenting the night sky with a flourish of her long sleeves as if she owned it. And that's when the explosions started. Geralt flinched at first, though his weakness went unnoticed just this once as many of the other guests startled too. He turned to Jaskier, eyes squinted half-shut in pain, watching the fireworks by the colours flowering across the bard's face and his expressions of awe.

A bang bigger than the last sent nausea ricocheting round his head.

"'M going back to the inn," he grunted, scarcely loud enough to be heard above the lightshow, taking the next explosion as his cue and opportunity to slip through an unwatched gate and start making his way round the huge mansion back to the road.

"Geralt!"

Fuck.

"Geralt, get back here! You can't just run off like that, there's till the –ouch- oh, Melitele's tits."

Looking back, he saw he'd run into a rose bush without looking. "Go back to the feast, if it pleases you."

"Well it doesn't please me now, you great oaf! I've ripped my favourite doublet chasing after you!" His list of complaints lasted them round to the front of the house, to the boundary of the estate and onto the track back to the village. Every step slocked and jostled his insides like churning butter and he didn't even deign to reply with a noise, too focused on keeping his mouth shut.

"Well, what have you got to say for yourself?"

Geralt bent over and vomited onto the grass.

Swearing and curses bounced round his head and then blessed silence, interrupted only by a gentle hand on his shoulder. When he looked up again, Jaskier had gotten a lot closer. "Are you alright?"

He retched again, hair falling in his eyes and legs trembling.

"Sorry. Stupid question, I suppose."

Geralt tried to snap back a retort, yet to his utter humiliation the only sound to come out of his mouth was a pained groan. Immediately, Jaskier's hands were on his shoulders again, a babble of soft words streaming from his mouth.

"Let's get you back to the inn, hmm?" he asked sweetly, then waited for Geralt to stand upright before continuing down the path. Each step sent a knife through a new part of his body and he was aware of his loud, harried, shallow breaths as he struggled to keep up without toppling over; there was a new angry flame sparking to life in his ribcage though he couldn't tell if that was the sickness or pure embarrassment for every time Jaskier would slow down and pretend he wasn't doing it for his benefit.

He didn't throw up again on the way back, but only barely. As soon as the door to their room was bolted, the winning streak evaporated and he fell on his knees beside the bed, long empty of purging anything except his dignity.

To his surprise, Jaskier didn't leave, only hung his doublet on the back of a chair and proceeded to remove Geralt's own clothes and help him into bed with a tenderness that burned his skin somehow worse than the sickness. "Piss off, bard," he growled, knees pulled up to his chest and bedclothes pulled up to his chin and watching as Jaskier set a basin close and dragged the chair to sit next to the bed. "Why are you doing this?"

Jaskier frowned, confusion rolling off him in waves, "What, sitting here?"

"Yes." An emotion stirred in his belly and he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to ride it out.

"Okay, seriously, do you not want a healer or-"

"No." Speaking was a perilous idea and he clamped his mouth shut and ground his teeth, waiting for the feeling of being stared at to stop.

A sigh blew over his skin like a gust of wind. "Stubborn witcher. I'm here because I care about your health. What, d'you think I hadn't realised you've been unwell the whole day?"

Geralt would have sneered, had he the energy. He loathed charity.

"It's not!" Jaskier exclaimed- muddled in his head, he hadn't said that last part outloud, had he? "If you'd have told me this morning you were unwell, I'd have looked after you then, too!"

This was all too much and his head was hurting as it was; huddling deeper in his blankets, he searched the darkened room for sleep. "Geralt…" he began, voice dangerously low. "Look at me."

He groaned as the covers were pulled away and the candlelight hit his eyes and set his head on fire. "Let me sleep."

"Why didn't you tell me before we went there? I wouldn't have made you go."

"Sleep."

"Geralt."

His sigh rumbled in his chest and he shifted onto his side, catching side of the basin Jaskier had placed in easy retching distance. "You asked me to go."

"Yes, but I would never have-"

The look on Jaskier's face made his stomach roil and hurt even more. "I promised to go with you. I-"he forced down the desire to retch again. He was a witcher; he had more self-control than this. "Never promised anything before, only to other witchers. Never to a- to a friend before." That was it, that was all he could say, he couldn't- to explain the truth in its entirety would take away every piece of control, dignity and armour he had in him and he couldn't.

Jaskier sat back, a smile on his face, "Okay. You want to try drinking something again?"

Geralt caught his wrist when he offered the mug, "You understand…?"

"I do," he replied, bringing the mug to his lips because he as too shaky to do it himself. "Try drinking some more."

He took one sip and then lay back down, back to the bard whose eyes were shining softly in the lamp glow. I've never had a friend before, let alone a friend to make promises with, who invites me to royal events and knows me so well as you do. You are my first friend and I do not want any of this. I do not want to ruin any of this. I tried not to ruin tonight. He didn't need to say any of it: Jaskier knew.

A warm hand pressed between his shoulder blades, "Go to sleep, Geralt." He fell asleep between one heartbeat and the next.