If you're here for high literature and well crafted plot, I've got bad news for you.
If you're here for emotionally constipated Witchers and hurt bards, I have great news for you :)

It had been close to a month since a djinn nearly choked him to death and Jaskier was firmly sticking to his resolution of being more quiet. He hadn't realized, before, how obnoxious the sound of his own voice could make him seem, how it upset Geralt – Geralt who was used to his days of solitude and quietness – how his endless rambling and empty talk frustrated him, an unwanted disruption in his ordinarily peaceful existence.

Jaskier had made a point of trying then, and outside of his gentle humming to test out whatever lyrics he was currently writing or his performances in the taverns and inns they happened to halt in, he tried to bother him as little as possible. If he could make a little extra coin for them in the absence of the Witcher, well neither one of them could complain.

Actually, Geralt seemed rather content with the way things were going, maybe Jaskier was finally proving to be a worthy travel companion.

Or at least, he'd said nothing yet hinting at the contrary.

The last thing Geralt had told him, was to stay put, and Jaskier, of course, hadn't listened. The Witcher had reluctantly let him come along, probably thought he'd be rid of his incessant nagging sooner were he to do so – But Geralt, he'd said, How do you think I'm to write tales of your exploits and sing them to the Continent if you never let me witness them? – he'd thought, for sure, that he'd be shut down. Instead, Geralt had merely hummed, much to his surprise, and to Jaskier's ears, it certainly hadn't been an objection.

The two drowners the contract was for turned out to be a whole pack of them – quite the ugly little fuckers, if one were to ask Jaskier his opinion on them – and from where he was, hidden safely away behind the bushes, as per Geralt's stern command, he furiously took down as many notes as he could, occasionally worrying his bottom lip when one of the creatures came far too close to the White Wolf for his liking.

Geralt had vastly underestimated the beasts, of that there was little doubt now. He'd have very much liked to blame it on the poor people from the neighbouring town, whose terror probably accounted for their wrong information, but there was little to do for it now but to slay the lot of them. They were not the most intelligent of creatures, merely drawing them out of the river and a well-placed strike to the neck killing them before they'd do any harm, but the sheer number of them eventually got to him, trapping him, his heart beating loudly in his breast as he slashed the one that latched onto his shoulder, kicked the other one clawing at his boot, and still, the nasty fuckers kept coming at him, tireless. He was out of breath, cruelly in need of a moment of respite when he turned at the sound of yet another one, too late, to see it coming onto him, nothing left for him to do but-

But nothing, for as it's clawed appendage reached for him, it's face contorted in agony, an ugly scream pried from its throat as it breathed it's last and it's body twisted and coiled around before collapsing on the ground, dead, Jaskier standing behind it, breathing hard as he sheathed the small dagger Geralt had offered him in his belt. At the sound of their companion's demise, the other drowners seemed to see sense, retreating to the depths of the lake for now, and Geralt vowed to come back for them as soon as the sun rose tomorrow.

He lay there for a moment, limbs aching and breath coming in pants, then took Jaskier's outstretched hand when the bard offered it to him, blood beating too hard in both their temples as the Witcher lead them back to Roach, who they'd left grazing safely away. Jaskier felt no lighter for it, for beside him, he could sense Geralt's anger simmering, just waiting to be unleashed.

The door closed with a quiet click, and it was all Geralt had needed to unleash the storm. Fury clouded his golden eyes, usually so clear and gleaming, now a shadow of that, and the glare he smote him with from where he was across the room as he fumbled with the laces of his shirt was more than enough to keep Jaskier quiet. Usually, the bard would have jumped at the opportunity, help divest the Witcher of his gut-soaked clothes and helped him bathe, lavish him in oils and scents and everything Geralt deemed useless – but Jaskier knew, deep down, that while his friend might not say anything, that Geralt liked the stuff- but tonight… Tonight he didn't think it very prudent to upset him more than he already was.

Turning towards him, he could feel the heavy weight of his stare, golden eyes gleaming in the candlelight and held no small amount of judgment in them. Anger, frustration, a maelstrom of emotions brimming in his incandescent irises, and suddenly, Jaskier understood why people feared the Witcher so much.

"Did I not tell you to stay put, Jaskier?" He asked, eventually.

Some fools said that Witchers didn't have emotions, Jaskier would very much like to see them here, now, had little doubt that they would wither and shake in their knees were the great Geralt of Rivia to turn such a tempest of emotions upon them. The heavy disappointment and anger he could feel rolling off Geralt in waves, the Witcher not even bothering to restrain his outburst even a little, would put those fools' lies to shame.

He didn't even realize he'd huddled into himself slightly.

"You did." Was all he could manage, throat clogged up all of a sudden. And, really, what else was he to say?

"And you decided that you'd just come along anyway, did you?"

"That drowner would have snapped you neck clean off if I hadn't killed it." Jaskier argued, and yes, it may have been a rather weak excuse, but it was true. Geralt would have been hurt, pretty badly too, had he not taken care of the beast. Besides, he wasn't really up for arguing with the Witcher right now, he was frankly too exhausted to be angry in that moment, if Geralt wished to resume their disagreement about saving his lovely arse in combat in the morning, Jaskier would be all ears.

Geralt, for his part, was quiet for a moment, both of them understanding the implication behind Jaskier's words. For all of the Witcher's professed lack of communication skills, Jaskier had to admit that he was learning rather fast, and had become quite skilful when it came to understanding what was left unsaid. Maybe that's why, he thought, they made such a good team: Geralt did all the fighting, being covered in monster innards and heavy lifting, and Jaskier looked after the talking, the social and interactions, the things Geralt wasn't comfortable with. It worked, and Jaskier was, so far, satisfied with their arrangement.

He wouldn't have minded more, but Geralt had his limits, and Jaskier wasn't one to push them. Let the great White Wolf figure himself out in his own time. Being accepted as his travel companion was enough, for now.

Said White Wolf grunted, put a pin in their disagreement and turned away from him to the door. "Come on, let's grab a bite before turning in."

Jaskier felt his shoulders sag in relief, Geralt's anger seemed to have fizzled out, the Witcher looking more exhausted than anything else, and he kicked himself at having so obviously upset him. He'd done enough of that already, one more fuck up and Geralt was sure to leave him behind, wish him out of his life forever and threaten to cut his balls off were they to meet again. Jaskier knew a day would come where, inevitably, they would part ways, but preferred not to think about it most days, didn't think he'd be able to bare it when it eventually happened. He'd have to be sure to not be a nuisance to him from now on, and so, he obediently followed.

Geralt's hand on the small of his back, as they gingerly made their way down the stairs, was nice. Not that he would ever dare say that aloud.

"Are you hurt?" He even asked him, eventually, his voice quiet, devoid of his earlier anger, eyes stoically locked ahead.

"No, I'm fine." Jaskier said, seizing the olive branch as it was handed to him and relieved when he felt Geralt's earlier discomfort abate somewhat beside him, his shoulders slumping slightly as they settled at the table. The soup was nice, warmed his heart and their half-starved bellies, and as Jaskier sought to entertain him with one of Valdo Marx's unfortunate blunders, he did not fail to notice the curve of a smile at the edge of Geralt's lips, his mood much lighter after that.

Half way through dinner, it's the Witcher who decided to talk, and Jaskier was content to listen, feeling exhaustion gnaw at his bones and his arm grow rather heavy, and so he nodded along to Geralt's plans, about how, early tomorrow morning he would go back to the lake and deal with the last drowner, then they would set off, word of another contract three towns over for a werewolf having reached Geralt's ears. He wasn't particularly talkative tonight, was content with his friend outlining which passage they would be taking, while he thought about what song he'd be able to take away from this. Half-way through Geralt talking about how he wanted to stop along the way, find a second horse because Roach would not be able to bear the weight of both of their tack indefinitely, Jaskier yawned, sleep beckoning him and stretched.

Or he tried to, stopped himself rolling his shoulder half-way through as a dull ache there reared it's head, rather abruptly too, if one were to ask him. A little warning next time would be nice.

In his haste to placate Geralt and keep his head down, he'd almost forgotten that the beast's clawed appendage must have caught him in the fray, he'd have to see to it later. Preferably when he had some time alone, where Geralt wouldn't be barging in on him and subject him once again to his anger like he had earlier. No, this Jaskier could deal with, it probably wasn't much anyway, there was no need to tell Geralt, who was upset enough as it was already. He wasn't about to bother him with his endless prattle, Geralt had made his feelings on that matter quite clear already – I just want some damn peace!

Good thing his doublet hid the damage for now.

He'd been sure it was nothing to worry about, it wasn't the first time he'd caught his shoulder on something, Jaskier had hoped that sleeping it off would do the trick.

Yet a couple of hours later, after both he and Geralt had turned in for the night, when all was quiet and the warm meal still sat nicely in his stomach, when the adrenaline finally faded, Jaskier awoke to said shoulder throbbing in pain.

He immediately glanced to Geralt at the other side of the bed they were sharing, worried his sudden jolt back into consciousness might have rudely awoken him, but to his relief, he was fast asleep, eyes closed and breathing softly – good, the Witcher had been far too tired for his own good over the past few days, and Jaskier had been rather quick to catch onto the fact that this whole spiel about Witchers needing nothing was mostly bullshit anyway – and in a split-second decision, before he could bring himself to really think it through, he pulled himself up stiffly, thanking his stars that no mortifying whimper passed his lips, and fumbled his way to the adjacent bathroom, making sure to close the door behind him. He didn't particularly fancy an unexpected late-night visitor.

He couldn't see the wound through his shirt, the dark material practically turned black under the faint glow of the moon filtering in through the window, knew he was unfortunately going to have to pull it off to garner a look at it. And that would have been fine, really, if it weren't for the fact that his sleeve seemed to be stuck to the now dried blood underneath, dark grey tinted brown, and wasn't that just great? Jaskier was going to have to replace it next time Geralt and he would stop in a market. And his shirts did not come cheap, such sacrifices were necessary when one was a respected performer.

Deciding he ought not to push his luck, and very much not wanting to give the material a sharp tug, Jaskier eyed the bucket in the corner, the one with dubious-looking water in it. He didn't have any desire to have the stuff come anywhere near his skin, not unless he'd disinfected with his many soaps and salts beforehand, but he wasn't about to chance waking Geralt, and so, heaving a sigh, Jaskier hobbled over and knelt by the wooden container. With his good hand, he wet his damaged sleeve – and really, he was very upset he'd somehow managed to ruin the shirt, he'd paid good money for it – grit his teeth as it pried the soft material away from his wound painfully slowly – fuck, someone must have been having a good laugh at his expense somewhere, he thought cynically – and had to remind himself several times to breathe through it as he pulled his shirt off over his head, discarding it beside him on the floor.

Bare, he tried moving his arm, Jaskier letting out a sigh of relief when he saw that he could still feel it, though the pain was definitely more acute now than it had been earlier. When it became clear to him that he was in no danger of losing it, he gingerly crawled to the window, to the little patch where the faint moonlight bled in through the glass. It certainly didn't beat a candle, but with none to spare and none he could see in the bathroom, the moon would have to do. Then, with one deep breath for courage, he dared look down.

And… Fuck.

Fuck, the drowner had caused far more damage than he'd initially thought.

How did I not realise it was this bad?

He was positive that he would have remember it, had the beast wounded him this badly, but Jaskier didn't recall much of anything of the fight, supposed the thing must have nicked him in the arm while he'd had a moment of inattention, valiantly dashing to Geralt's rescue like one of those knight in shining armour he'd occasionally sing about.

Only Geralt wasn't some damsel in distress, Jaskier doubted very much his friend would appreciate him depicting him as such in his writing.

This… This was far worse than he'd pinned it down to be, far more than he would have liked to admit to himself, and as Jaskier looked back to the door, to their room, eyes boring through the wooden entrance to Geralt on their shared bed, he knew he wouldn't be given much privacy if he kept messing about like this, he knew Geralt could sense far more acutely than he let on.

Fuck, you can't tell Geralt. He's upset enough as it is, he'll be downright furious at this. He'll send you away for good this time.

And Jaskier just couldn't have that, he just couldn't. Geralt, through all of their adventures and misadventures together, had become somewhat of a constant for him, from a source of inspiration and a quick bit of coin here and there to the very finest of muses and, at least in Jaskier's mind, his closest friend. Perhaps more than that, even. No, telling Geralt wasn't an option, and he supposed a little discomfort on his part was worth it if it meant he'd still be the Witcher's traveling companion. Gods knew Jaskier had seen Geralt in enough pain to last him a lifetime, and Geralt, strong and level-headed, always endured it with little complaint. He supposed if Geralt could bare far worse pain than he with naught but a murmur, then Jaskier could damn well deal with a scratch in comparison.

Think Jaskier, use that thick head of yours.

So, telling Geralt was out of the question, yet the problem of what to do with his wounded arm remained. Jaskier may have prided himself in his vast expanse of knowledge, yet as a renowned bard and Oxenfurt graduate, he had little expertise in the field of medicine aside perhaps from the few times Geralt let him help patch him up, and that usually was nothing more than wrapping a couple of bandages around his – admittedly very fine, if Jaskier were being honest – torso. The only problem with that was, well, Geralt liked to keep his things close to him, meaning his supplies were in his pack, which was on the floor beside his person. It wouldn't be right, taking from him like that, especially when Jaskier had injured himself after deliberately disobeying him, and taking from his companion without said companion's knowledge of his theft did not sit right with the bard anyway, he'd sunken to some lows throughout his life, but he didn't think he'd ever sink so low as to steal from his very best friend in the whole wide world.

All in all, Jaskier was back at square one, what to do?

After an aborted attempt at cleaning the wound out, the blistering cry of pain only stopped as Jaskier bit down on his lip, hard, he once again eyed his ruined shirt on the floor. Granted, he would rather not have had to do such a thing to it, felt pain in his heart as he sealed it's fate nonetheless, and had to look away as he tore a strip from the bottom of it. It cost him a pretty penny, but he supposed shirts came and went, and if Geralt let him continue to travel with him, Jaskier would have ample opportunity to acquire another one someday, maybe even a nicer one. He tied the crude strip off as best he could – not easy with just one hand to spare, he was clumsy, had to try more than once, and by the time Jaskier managed something he deemed acceptable his teeth were clenched to stop his pathetic whimpering and he was pretty sure the tears of frustration had finally spilled over onto his cheeks.

Breathe, Jaskier, just breathe, no use passing out now. It's really not that bad, Geralt has had worse and lived to tell the tale.

He stayed there, hunched over on the bathroom's wooden floor, his good hand hovering over his injury until the insipid darkness at the edge of his vision cleared somewhat, and it was just him, his harsh breathing and the faint glow of the moon once again. When the pain abated somewhat, and Jaskier thought he might be able to stand again without keeling straight over, he unsteadily got back to his feet, thanked Melitele for not passing out right then and there, and, as gently as he could put his ruined shirt back on, careful to jostle his wound as little as possible.

Geralt was, thankfully, still asleep, when Jaskier closed the bathroom door behind him, his silver hair ruffled and unkempt, and he was on his side, features lax. He looked peaceful, as he dozed, no doubt in the thralls of a pleasant dream if the striking traits on his face were anything to go by, and Jaskier couldn't help but smile gently, as he hobbled over to their bed, relieved to see he had not disturbed him. If he took another moment to place one unruly strand of hair back where it belonged behind his ear, and lingered a few seconds longer to pull Geralt's blanket a little higher so as to not let him catch cold – and really try to not appreciate his rippled chest and his soft breathing – well the Witcher would be none the wiser about it.

He then gingerly settled down on the other side of the bed, as far away from Geralt as he could manage without threatening to fall on the floor. He had to restrain himself from facing him once he snuck under the covers of their shared bed, so used was he to this arrangement – Geralt said one room and one bed tended to save them a lot of money, and, well, Jaskier was not about to disagree- and settled himself on his left side, his left shoulder pressed deep into the old mattress. His left shoulder which he hardly ever slept on out of fear of it going numb the next day, he needed that shoulder in tip top condition if it were to bare the weight of the strap of his lute.

Jaskier shivered, wished perhaps that, were Geralt more amenable to the idea, he might huddle against him for warmth. He hoped a long-awaited sleep would come for him fast.