Here is part 2 :)

Jaskier awoke to a terrible headache pounding in his head, his eyes burning, and, were it possible, more exhausted than he'd been before he'd eventually fallen asleep last night, his entire body stiff and uncomfortable.

Next to him, the other side of the bed was already empty and his heart dropped, Geralt was gone.

Of course, he should have expected it. After the djinn, Geralt would not stand for his persistent nagging much longer, he just chose to leave in the dead of the night to make it easier for both of them.

Still, Jaskier was reminded all too much of his pain when he jolted upright at the realization, thought it almost fitting, a welcome distraction from the shattering of his glass heart. He ought really to be more careful of who he gave it to in the future, he mused, cynical.

Actually, it was probably for the best that Geralt not see him like this, because fuck were the shuddering breath and the tears in his eyes as he tied his doublet up quite humiliating, certainly unbefitting of a dignified traveling companion of the great White Wolf.

It was as Jaskier finished fiddling with the last button that the sun caught a shimmer in the corner of the room, Geralt's brilliant sword and well-groomed armour neatly set beside their bed, Geralt probably somewhere downstairs then, no doubt getting something to eat or tending gently to Roach before heading out. Jaskier felt he could breathe again, the crippling weight on his chest lifted at the sight of the Witcher's belongings, he hadn't left him behind, thank Melitele. Yet he knew that it still remained a very real possibility, were he to fuck up or annoy him again somehow, Geralt certainly wouldn't be so magnanimous.

The Witcher in question, entirely unaware of his premonition, came back shortly after Jaskier's heart had slowed down to a normal human's rate again, offered him a crust of bread and a bowl of porridge, with for only words, "You seem rather quiet lately."

So he had noticed.

"Well, I don't have anything to say yet, but don't worry, it'll come." Jaskier replied with false enthusiasm, knew it wouldn't. But that was alright, it would mean things would be easier for Geralt to manage, and he'd come to realize, eventually, that Jaskier could be accommodating to his needs after everything the Witcher had done for him, that he was worth keeping around for a little while longer at least.

Geralt didn't answer, merely gave him an odd look, one Jaskier couldn't quite read, and he did his best to smile around a mouthful of hot breakfast, even if his arm was on fire and his eyes were probably filled to the brim with unshed tears.

Geralt was out again, looking for the last elusive drowners he'd not managed to kill a couple of days ago, only difference was that, this time, Jaskier had been told to stay behind, the Witcher had said he'd rather he remain at the inn than trail after him. Jaskier wasn't an idiot, he was a poet, a master in the art of reading between the lines, deciphering the intentions laying behind one's choice of words, and Geralt's had been pretty clear: he'd be nothing but a nuisance, were he to accompany him. He'd distract Geralt, make him say something he did not mean, he would be clawing at his throat again and coughing up blood, and Geralt would once more bear misplaced guilt upon his shoulders. Jaskier did not want that for his friend, so he understood, obediently stayed at the inn.

It wasn't so bad, he mostly found ways to keep himself busy throughout the morning, thought up the most fantastical poems and imagined drafting hours of love and care to turn them into masterpieces. He might have written down a couple of notes too, were his arm not in such a state, but there was little he could do about that now, one word and Geralt would be certain to know about it. He thought, several times, that he might check his shoulder, just take a peek at it now that the sun was up and Geralt was nowhere to be found, but his apprehension always seemed to get the better of him, and when dinner rolled around, Jaskier gave up any pretence of caring for it.

It was just a scratch anyway, how bad could it possibly get?

Supper was a sorry affair, Jaskier spending the last of his coin on a dubious-looking bowl of stew, and sat alone in the darkest and dingiest corner he could find, of a mind he would rather not entertain anyone's urge for conversation today. He was barely holding himself up as it was, a prolonged interaction where he needed to think about what he'd say and come up with a witty sentence or two would certainly see him keel over, and Geralt would be told about it when he inevitably came back. No, best to keep to himself.

Maybe Geralt would even appreciate his newfound sense of introversion one day.

Still, he ate the stew half-heartedly, his trusted lute by his side, and a stack of papers resting by his elbow. He had no intention of writing anything, couldn't even if he wanted to, but supposed that pouring over the couple of songs he'd written already with a more critical eye could do little harm. And who knew, perhaps inspiration would strike while he sat down here, might as well have his tools at the ready than risk forgetting the feelings he was experiencing by the time he made it back to Geralt and his' shared room.

"Are you all right?"

Well, so much for peace, Jaskier thought wryly, when he eventually realized whoever it was seemed to be talking to him. The person, as it happened, turned out to be the old innkeeper, who was looking at him with a sceptical eyebrow and no small amount of curiosity brimming in his eyes. It was only then that Jaskier took note of the fact that he'd somehow been absentmindedly picking at his sleeve instead of his dinner – which had probably gone cold by now, more than half of it still in the bowl, untouched – and the innkeeper seemed none too pleased about it.

"Anything I ought to be worried about? You look tired, lad."

"No," He lied, smoothly, blessed his Oxenfurt oratory classes, "Not at all, I'm merely… Weary, setting aside my lute for the moment. I promise to use it later though," He said, as a means to placate the man. Which thankfully looked like it worked, "I'll give you a performance you've never seen before in your life!"

He tried to sound enthusiastic, but it fell flat, even to his ears.

"Oh, that's lovely!" The portly fellow said, seeming to have lit up at the prospect of some music, probably thought it good for business, that a little liveliness in his quaint establishment would be more likely to attract any late-night wanderers in need of rest. "May I see it? I've never seen a real one up close, we don't get that many bards around this place."

Fuck. Jaskier really should have thought this through before opening his stupid mouth, he scolded himself. He'd only meant to come down here for dinner, maybe pour over a song or two before turning in early for the night, sleep off the pain and pray it would be gone by morning. Except that, now that he looked at the man, he seemed to be cornered, there was nowhere for him to run, and Jaskier was not cruel enough to turn down someone who showed honest interest in his craft. Heaving a defeated sigh, he leaned back, tried to jostle his arm as little as possible as he carefully took his lute out of its case – it was in pristine condition, as always. Geralt oft said that Jaskier spent far too long pampering the thing, not that he understood the tender and loving care the lute need have to spread word of his exploits – and it took a mere fraction of a moment for the man's eyes to positively light up.

Oh no, Jaskier had a very bad feeling about this.

"Oh! Do go on, would you give me a few notes? Just to know what I can expect tonight?"

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. How the fuck was he supposed to say no?

He did not think his voice to be strong enough to sing an entire song without wavering somewhat, and he knew for certain he'd not be able to get through a piece without his arm giving out, holding his lute correctly would be a challenge, what with his fucked-up shoulder and all.

But, a bard lived to please the whims of those who appreciated their art, and so, reluctantly, Jaskier retrieved his instrument from its case, picked it up in a far tighter hold than he probably normally would have, and heaved the strap over his right shoulder. Yet as soon as his lute was set, his grip felt unsteady, his fingers trembling under the strain already, and he could do little else but let muscle memory from years of practice weave their magic as he brushed his fingers over the strings-

-and promptly bit down on his lip so hard that he was fairly certain he could taste the unpleasant tang of blood on his tongue. Fuck, his left shoulder could not even bare the weight of his strumming, it would seem.

Any other time the innkeeper might have asked a performance of him, Jaskier would have more than happily complied, sang him everything his heart desired and then some, for however long he was willing to listen to him. Here and now, however, with one of his arms out of action, was another story entirely.

The few notes he'd managed to string out still hung in the air between them, an unbefitting taste of his talent, Jaskier thought sadly, but did not think himself capable to produce much more than that, unfortunately. Not with the darkness seeping into the edges of his vision once again and an agonizing fire burning down the length of his arm.

"You sure you're all right, laddie? You look a little pale." The innkeeper chuckled, a hearty tankard of good ale in his hand, gently nudged the damned thing right into his injured arm and wasn't that just what he needed? Perhaps he thought Jaskier to be drunk.

Had he a choice in the matter, Jaskier thought he would much rather be drunk. At least, he knew hangovers to go away eventually, give them a few hours and they would leave of their own free will, they wouldn't be putting his entire career in potential jeopardy.

"N-No," He stuttered, hated how shaky his voice sounded to his ears, "I'm merely… A little weary from my travels. Traipsing after a Witcher and writing witty songs about him takes its toll on a man, you see." The lie came easily – too easily, perhaps- spoken through clenched teeth, it was quite a wonder he even had breath to spare to speak when he could feel his injury so cruelly robbing him of it. Jaskier had to look down again, nervous eyes darting to his limp shoulder and arm, just to make sure he'd not lost the thing, and become a cripple never able to play again.

What a bard he'd be when that happened, he thought, cynically, Valdo Marx would not even have to work very hard to have the next hit throughout the entire Continent with material like that. Quite a tragedy, really, that his rival's renown would come at the price of his own downfall, but Jaksier supposed he would die happy with the knowledge that, at least, the lesser troubadour would owe him his entire career.

Maybe, just maybe Jaskier thought, he should have said something to Geralt.

And then, just as quickly, he hastened to amend his silly thinking. No, he had been right to keep his mouth shut. Geralt was still upset, had told him in no uncertain terms that his voice was naught but a filling less pie and that he'd wished for some peace and quiet. Jaskier supposed he ought to give him that, at least, as payment for him fucking around with the djinn.

"But, it's nothing." He said, plastered a tense smile and really hoped it looked somewhat convincing. "I just… Happened to scratch my arm while following Geralt in an unfortunate encounter a couple of days ago, nothing to fret over I assure you. I was not expecting you to feel me up like that."

Were he in his right state of mind, Jaskier didn't think he would have minded all that much, perhaps he'd even have cheekily told him that the gentle touch of a lady (or a man, he really had little preference, when it came to fine company) would have been more than welcomed. The innkeeper, however, knew too much, and he did not particularly fancy him prying anything further out of him, lest he later happen to open his mouth and inadvertently let something slip to Geralt.

Deciding he'd rather cut their discussion short, Jaskier made to stand up, well intent to run and hide in their room like a coward and patiently await Geralt's return. Then they would share a hearty meal together, he'd sleep off the pain and they would be on their merry way again by morning and nobody would be none the wiser.

"Really, it's just a scratch. As I said, nothing to worry about, I promise." He hastily added for good measure, when he noticed the innkeeper still fixing him with that look. Geralt had already wasted enough hard earned supplies on his sorry self as it was, Jaskier was well aware of how much of a pain in the arse he'd been – captured by elves, had dragged Geralt to a celebration and needed his timely protection, and they had barely met up again and he'd made him release a djinn, needed his rescue once more.

No, Jaskier did not intend to burden him any further if he could help it.

The innkeeper held his hands up, thinly veiled scepticism still brimming in his eyes, and Jaskier puffed out of frustration, the man wasn't going to let him off that easily, was he? "I'm not letting you play tonight until you show me, I'll not be responsible for anyone fainting in my establishment."

Well that was just unfair, and, indignant, Jaskier could no longer contain himself. "As much as I appreciate your concern, good sir, I fear that this is none of your business." And perhaps there was too much force behind his words, perhaps the generous innkeeper deserved not for him to speak to him in such an uncouth manner, but, really, Jaskier wanted not for there to be anyone else involved in this. This was a mess of his making, and he would see to it that he cleaned it up, alone. "Really, it's just a scratch, I'm fine."

"Then you'll have no trouble letting me see it, will you? I'm not letting you play a single note on that lute of yours until you do."

He drove a very hard bargain, Jaskier could say as much, which was good for the innkeeper's business, no doubt, just slightly less so for him. He was almost half-tempted to go out there, find Geralt and drag him back so he could stare down the innkeeper with that fierce glare of his, make the man shake in his knees and relent. Geralt wasn't here, however, and not wanting to push his luck any further, lest the man decide to throw them out – and Geralt would definitely be furious, were Jaskier to mess things up even further than he already had. Jaskier needed to be useful, prove to the Witcher he was worth his salt, and having their host turn on them did not seem a smart move to make, Jaskier wasn't playing or about to make any extra coin until the man was satisfied. Sighing, a tad dramatically perhaps, he rolled his eyes and complied without any further arguing.

He tried playing it off like it didn't matter, like it did not bother him, yet the frown the innkeeper shot his way was anything but reassuring. His bushy eyebrows creased in concern, and he noticeably winced at the way Jaskier had bound the wound, rather crudely in his haste to cover it up no doubt. Yes, he knew he was no miracle worker, thank you very much.

"That's way more than "just a scratch", lad. Your arm is about to fall off." He deadpanned, not mincing his words in the slightest. At least he was honest, he had that much going for him if nothing else. "Your rag there is soaked through. How'd a bard have something like that happen to him?"

Always eager for a good story, Jaskier saw no harm in filling him in, the cat was out of the bag now anyway. "A cluster of terrible drowners Geralt and I had an unfortunate run in with, not pretty business I assure you. If you let me play tonight, I'll even sing all about it to you and your fine company." He pushed again, ever hopeful, and the innkeeper shot it down with one withering stare. "One of them must have nicked me in the arm while I wasn't looking, Geralt had to save my hide again. He wasn't exactly happy about it."

The poor Witcher always seemed to have to save his sorry arse somehow. For all his grand airs, Jaskier was not stupid, he knew he was no fighter, and that his lack of skills would weigh down on his friend eventually, that he was lucky he'd not been sent away yet. If word of this ever reached Geralt, however, he was pretty certain their companionship would come to a rather abrupt end, however, and call him selfish perhaps, but Jaskier was wanting for company – Geralt's company, were he to be precise. And wanting Geralt's company meant he could never know about this.

"Fine," The innkeeper sighed, reluctant at the prospects letting entertainment and good coin go to waste, "But don't pass out on me, lad, or that will be your fault."

Jaskier sighed in relief, and as soon as the man had turned away, he darted back upstairs in a flash, left his half-empty plate behind. He had little appetite anyways.

He prayed a short nap would help.

Geralt came back later that evening, covered in drowner guts and positively reeking. Jaskier would have gagged, but thought better of his stupid antics when he noticed Geralt seemed rather drained, a heavy slump in his shoulders and dark rings under his eyes betraying his exhaustion. He really wished he could appreciate it, when he later helped him bathe, helped wash the repugnant entrails off of him, tried cracking a joke here and there when he could to lighten the mood a little and asked the Witcher if he could perhaps consider either hunting nicer creatures like unicorns or something, or at the very least consider hunting them in more pleasant environments in the future.

Geralt, for his part, allowed himself to relax somewhat, glad to be back, and perhaps enjoying the attention.

"You know, pretty creatures fetch less of a price, Jaskier. They also make for duller songs." He said, wryly, the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and Jaskier would tell him he should try to smile more often, because it made him nicer and Geralt ought to allow himself to be soft sometimes, to feel happy and content, but he knew not, anymore, how much of his talk was welcome, so he didn't.

"I thought you didn't like my singing voice," He said instead, with no real heat behind his words, "Called it a filling less pie, if I recall correctly?" And yes, Jaskier had been quite hurt by such an indecorous remark, especially coming from his very best friend, but he supposed it was just Geralt telling the truth, that he really didn't like his singing. He'd just chosen to be blind to it, up until then.

"I might have spoken too soon, I've grown… rather fond of it." The Witcher said, a hint of remorse in his voice, as he looked at him, apologetic, all big golden eyes and furrowed brow and how exactly was Jaskier supposed to hold a grudge towards the man when he looked at him like that and sent his heart fluttering? He tried very hard to ignore his pounding chest and the heat he could feel tinting his cheeks an embarrassing shade of pink – definitely not due to the hot steam from the bath – and instead set about washing Geralt's hair, his fingers softly carding through the delicate silver tresses. If he happened to catch his shoulder again as he moved too suddenly, Jaskier just swallowed the cry, caring for Geralt seemed a tad more important right now.

"You all right?" The Witcher asked nonetheless, keen eyes having undoubtedly caught his movement, his voice quiet, brought on no doubt by the intimacy of what they were sharing in.

If Jaskier were being honest about his injury, he could have told him everything then, could have shown him his fucked up shoulder, and willingly subjected himself to his ire, watch with a broken heart as Geralt's friendly smile turned upside down, anger and frustration to soon cloud his lovely face, but Geralt was tired, he'd just spent an excruciating amount of time cleaning his skin of all remains of blood and guts, the last thing he needed right now was a reminder. And really, Jaskier knew his little cut was probably nothing, nothing at all compared to the injuries he'd seen Geralt sport in the past – he was positive a number of them might even have brought on a grey hair or two in his head far earlier than he'd have liked. Really, all Geralt would say was that he'd just have to suck it up, stop complaining or he'd leave him behind for good.

Better to not bother him with such a trite little thing, Jaskier thought.

Instead of chancing Fate and ending up saying something he'd later regret, he got back to his feet, thought Geralt man enough to finish bathing by himself, his hair was mostly clean by now anyway. He pat his shoulder gently before taking his leave, perhaps lingered a moment longer than he ought to, but Jaskier was weak, a slave to his emotions, was far too tired to fight temptation now. Plastering one of his usual and easy-going smiles, he felt the need to reassure him nonetheless, "I'm right as rain, my dear Witcher. But thank you for your valiant concern, I appreciate it, truly."

If, later that night, in the thralls of an uneasy sleep, Jaskier happened to reach out for the sleeve of Geralt's shirt, his hand gently seeking out his arm for comfort, the Witcher wasn't one to comment on it the next morning.