bakerstreet | ( nursed back to health shipping meme. )

Jaskier must be so very careful with his exploits. Yennefer knows of his exploits from the grapevine. So far it is only torrid and whirlwind affairs. No orphans or women left to care of a child without the father. With his dark hair, it would be easy to say that any wayward seed would belong to another. Though knowing the sensitive, poetic heart that beats beneath silks and crushed velvet, Yennefer knows he would not stand for such a ruse.

"I will obtain a proper thanks when you are well." For whatever that means, this was not because she was seeking a prize. Watching him lift his hand, she meets him half way. There was such a restlessness, such a panic. She could feel herself start to boil from the inside. Now stillness, quiet.

Her dear, dear friend. Yennefer clutches him more tightly and lifts their joined fingers to her cheek. "Don't fall asleep in the road, Jaskier. We will find grass and shade. Settle for--for a picnic." The kind where medical attention is administered. She has a full tea set and at least two sandwiches in her satchel. "After the picnic we'll rest and head back to town." No portals. On foot. Unless there is a fellow traveler with a wagon or carriage passing through. The weather is kind this day. Maybe they both can be even more lucky.

"A picnic, how sweet a suggestion--I am famished," Jaskier tells her and his hand tenses in hers as he draws a deep, tentative breath and forces himself up. He is braced for pain--but none comes. He is barely even sore, save for a sensitivity in his chest. His eyes fly open as he rises and they shift to Yennefer, wide with wonder.

"Holy shit," he declares, eloquently, and then seems to stutter as his thoughts catch up. His hand squeezes hers tightly and he laughs. He is still so tired--oh he might swoon with it--but his delight is too great to resist leaning toward her and drawing her in a sloppy, poorly angled hug.

He is certain he is smearing blood and mud on her dress and face. He will have to apologize later.

"You are a wonder!" He tells her earnestly. "I could dance," he declares and, as he shifts his legs, knows that is a lie. His gasp has him letting go of her and bending toward his leg--the bolt of pain has cleared his thoughts.He can feel blood pooling in his boot. Damn.

"Oh, perhaps not."

The brigands had stolen his bread. Of course he'd be hungry. Just as she was thinking of telling him that it would be best to not move so much Jaskier is showing that his health is for the most part restored by moving and talking more.

"Would you--wait--Jaskier, Jaskier." Yen would have been more authoritative if she hadn't give him a portion of her own strength. Still she cannot find a flicker of true anger in her. That messy, dress staining hug restores more hope and faith. He will be well again. This is not a tragedy. Hopefully they will be laughing about it before the sun sets the next day.

That tell-tale change means that she needs to see his leg. "Are you finished for now?" Because she has it in her to help him stand. "Please be very careful." The dress is not going to make it through the day. So much Lyrian finery. Alas. "Both hands." So she can pull him up.

He nods in answer to her question, an emphatic thing to accompany a grimace and grit teeth. She rises and holds her hands out to him and he takes what she offers. His hands wrap around hers and, Melitele he does try, but she is forced to lever her weight against his own and he nearly stumbles as he gets his good leg beneath him.

He cannot comprehend how he had walked on the other--the pain that shoots through it is excruciating--a thousand glittering, digging cuts and he cannot flinch away from them, trapped in his boot as they are. They grind against him, driving deeper and cutting along with the movements, and he hisses as he leans on her too keep his balance.

Fuck--he had put his flask in his boot. Distantly, he is livid. The man who had sold it to him had assured him it was shatter-proof. It had been such a lovely trinket, rainbowed glass with a thousand facets, curved to fit along a leg. Now each faceted shard was trying to carve out part of his calf.

"Lead the way, oh savior mine," Jaskier requests and gestures with his hand to the space before them. He is already out of breath--this will not be a quick trip.

If he can hobble, Yennefer can be his crutch. The collar, the front, the hem, all of her dress is just not going to make it. Though she can say that she was able to keep a friend. That is a priceless victory. Not that she would gloat openly. No, just a prized thing kept under lock and key in her chest. "Those cowards did not have to be so rough," is her off handed thought as she leads them from the main road. Thankfully the side of the road closest to them has the trees and a small ditch. Hardly a foot.

Wobbling together that hardly a foot almost takes them both out. "Take care, I've got you." Mostly. Okay. Success is theirs for the taking! Yennefer eases Jaskier to sit. She pulls the black leather satchel from her shoulder and pulls from it a blanket to sit on. Another blanket she can keep bundled as a pillow. A small box of bandages, potions and salves.

Magic assured that with all of the other objects squirreled away, the sandwiches were not crushed. One for Jaskier, the other for herself. They can share the apple.

Jaskier has no idea how she conjures so much from so small a satchel. He watches with awe as she assembles a picnic, as she sets out blankets and hands him a sandwich of all things. He takes it and stares at it in amazement. It's got fresh lettuce and sliced tomato.

There's a surreal moment, sitting there beneath the tree, in the gentle breeze...next to him is a dear friend, a paramour in anything other than name, who has saved his life, and wearied herself to knit him back together. She's brought a fine picnic--soft blankets and shade and her Lyrian gown is smudged all over in his own blood.

She has handed him a sandwich. A sandwich with fresh greens and tomato.

Not twenty minutes ago he had resigned himself to a painful, ignominious death on the road, bleached out by the sun and breathing only dirt and dust before he passed. He had reached such heights of pain he had all but welcomed death.

Now he had a sandwich.

A sandwich with lettuce...tomato...was that bacon?

His first laugh is sudden and sharp, barked out. The ones that follow are bubbling and rise from somewhere deep in his chest. It's almost manic, his laughter, his relief, and his smile threatens to split the gruesome mess that's been made of his face. Gods' how had he survived this long without a friend like Yennefer of Vengerberg?

The way the spell works it is the bag itself has been enchanted to hold anything she puts in it. It all hangs together like toys inside until she needs them and pulling them free makes them regular sized once more. This was extremely useful in travel for obvious reasons. It was part of how she was able to get a four post bed, a table, two kettle lanterns and a full length mirror to the mountain in Kovir. Why travel any other way?

There must be another few dresses inside that will save her from being a walking mess. Best to wait until after all of the first aid is done. Chaos could fix Lyrian craftsmanship, right now her energy is precious. That will have to wait.

She is half way to a bite, pausing to chew. The outburst startles birds and Yennefer to a degree. There is nothing and no one else around them.

"Are you well?"

As well as he can be, whatever happened in his boot is serious. She can and will attend to it. Something in her belly will help. Chewing a full mouthful and swallowing and he is still having such a laugh.

"I am not dead," Jaskier assures her, delightedly, and manages to calm his laughter for a moment. "In fact, I even have half of your sandwich."

He gestures to her with his half and smiles wider. His cheeks actually hurt with the strain of it. He chuckles again and takes a bite. It is the best thing he's ever had and, oh, he moans shamelessly around it. He chews and sags back against the tree and hums once his moan has trailed off around the food in his mouth.

"Today is such a ride, lovely, precarious, and lovely once more," he muses and takes another bite. "And now...now I have a delicious sandwich."

It's funny, yes? He looks sidelong at her, smiling as he chews, and there is a sparkle in his exhausted eyes. This amuses him too greatly to restrain himself. However tragic his losses, the loss of his lute, his songbook, his money? This is funny.

"Yes," oh wait, not yet done chewing. Give her a few more seconds. Ah. Yennefer dabs at her lips. "You are alive." And woe to any that try and take action otherwise. Given the setting, the circumstances, she is catching on and indulges in a slow spreading smile.

"I'll have you know that every ride with me is lovely," she is confident in her jest enough to grin just a little. The day is not finished. His safety is almost completely assured. "More bloodless, I suppose."

Her sandwich is gone and she opens the little kit. "Did someone stomp on your boot?" As though she didn't just see his attackers hours ago. "I'm going to take it of. You'll have something for the pain." Which will grant him that nap he so wanted lying in the middle of the road.

"I can't recall," he admits as he finishes his lunch, mirth still shining on his face. "I was, admittedly, a little distracted at the time."

They must have done--if they broke that flask clean apart. He shifts his leg, tests it, but has to stop as he turns his leg. The pain the movement causes is mind -ending and has him letting out a sharp, heavy hiss. Shifting it a little as made a path, apparently, and blood starts to trickle out the length of it.

"I think they broke my unbreakable flask," he admits and grimaces a bit sadly. All of his things are ruined or missing. What a sorry state of affairs this is. At least he has his friend and a delicious lunch.

Her lips curl in distaste as she pulls the boot from his foot. The glass clinks and rattles and she sets it on the grass before turning it over. "Oh," whatever was in the flask had sanitized to a small degree before being over wrought with blood. Since her dress is already a mess, she shields the blanket and uses it as a working station. It will be slow work but each and every shard of glass will be removed.

"I can fashion you a true unbreakable flask. To be cautious, I would still not put it in a boot." His knee gets a little tap. She can't remove his stocking just yet. Glass first. Crude and not wonderful to behold, the stocking is a sort of bandage. Yennefer's fingers are careful and steady. This would be faster with the aid of magic. Her energy is not up for it.

He is going to twitch and yelp. She sets a small vial close to his knee. "This is for you, I recommend taking it all in one go. It won't immediately bring sleep."

He grits his teeth as she pulls his boot free and begins picking the remains of his flask from his leg. It is gradual work and his leg is positively drenched in his own blood. He cannot quite stand to look at it, but he cannot quite bring himself to look away either. He settles for staring at the road somewhere past her shoulder, eyes fixed hard and grimace secure on his face.

He takes the vial without even looking down, unstoppers it, and drinks with no hesitation. Yennefer would not give him something suspect, of that he is absolutely certain--it tastes truly vile, as all strong medicine does, but he has drank worse for less pressing reasons. Only once he has consumed it whole does he look back at her face.

"What does it do? Apart from eventual sleep?"

Whatever kind of glass that the flask was made of, it came apart in large pieces. Still not what any glassblower would call salvageable. Progress is made a lot sooner than Yennefer imaged at first sight. Hand work is still so much slower than magic. Before she forgets, she shakes out the overturned boot. More glass fragments. A trickle of blood. A cobbler would not want to touch it now.

She underestimated his pain tolerance. No wiggling. There is no way it can feel pleasant, the poor dear. "You will feel numb where it aches. That is your foot and nose still, right? Colors become more brilliant." Her head tilts and lifts from his foot thoughtfully. "I don't believe this will make you hallucinate, you've had food." Half a sandwich, that's still something in the tummy. "...if you can stomach more, eat the apple."

Now, finally, she can remove his stocking. The fine embroidered florets and swirls grow more and more crimson the further down his foot.

His stocking, like his flask and boot, is entirely a lost cause. Fortunately, as she pulls it free, the myriad of small shards, little glittering splinters, pull free from where they'd tried to cut through and failed. He grimaces but, before long, the potion she'd given him takes its effect.

His head goes fuzzy and his grimace settles into a small, dazed sort of smile as he watches.

He floats a bit and glances aside at the apple--it is a lovely shade of red, flecked all through with yellow. It seems a shame to eat it and so he turns it over in his hands, a distraction from the wound she works at.

"I would agree," he muses as his leg bleeds messily over her dress. "But that was the only thing that wasn't taken, so clearly I must find a way to store everything in my boots."

Blood clears from white so much easier than one would think. It takes time and patience, yes. Seeing so much of it and knowing that it could have been so very much worse---well, the ruffians got what they deserved without any question. Cleaning the now barefoot, ankle and calf keeps her focused on a task that is not stewing.

"All is not lost, darling. Take heart." Her hands are colored in the red of his blood. It does not stand out on black near so well as the pale of her hands. She has a damp cloth to clean them with because she needs them to be sterile. Blast, he may need at few stitches. Only because the blood is distressingly flowing still. Jaskier will have what things she could recover. His injuries are more urgent.

Yennefer looks up to him again. Seeing his blue eyes enraptured with the apple now, at least no hurts to be had. "You would have to have incredibly large boots to hold all the valuables." And she will show them to him, yes. Just threading an impossibly fine needle and thread. In the numbed state he might feel her stitching like a scratch. Now he will have a wound with a story. Funny how his life on the road has not had proof on his skin. A dappled marking of sunlight does not count, nor how it keeps him trim. "I do think it would be even more damaging." Silly topic as any.

"To my pride, if nothing else," he agrees and lets out a long, forlorn sigh. "Do you know who I miss terribly?"

It's a firm question, one that puts a serious, sad look on his face. He glances down at her and, at once, is enthralled by the sight of her stitching up his leg. It is an activity that merits some staring--inserting the needle, and through, tying off the impossibly fine thread, pulling him back together like a mended pair of trousers. It is a moment before he remembers he had asked a questions.

"Roach," he says, quite firmly, and nods. The sorceress hadn't had much contact with the horse, had she? While she dallied with its owner? Dallies, perhaps? He doesn't pry, even if he wishes to. ~~Of the two of them, Geralt wanted her.~~

"Such a lovely lady and fine steed, and so affectionate--did you know she once chewed through my pocket, she was so eager to get at an apple I had? Having her to carry my things was so very nice."

Her answer is not an answer to the question. More a hum tilted upward questioningly. Finally working into a rhythm she stays focused as she would casting a spell. Her ears are still open. Yennefer almost pricks herself as the question registers. White hair, golden eyes that see right through her. While her hands are steady she almost pricks herself.

Damn him. Damn Geralt of Rivia. Were he here right now, this would not have happened. Jaskier would travel on foot, yes. Though not a brigand or band of thieves for miles would dare come upon them. Two swords aren't needed. A kick or punch. Casting blame over the witcher is probably as easy as breathing. Before she can truly start to feel her temper rise, the bard's voice breaks her thoughts.

"Roach?" No. It has been perhaps at least a year and a half since she saw him last. And in that time she was not formally introduced to the horse. Though Geralt talks of her fondly. A brave, smart, gentle creature if not prone to a fright. "Roach." She repeats again, unsure if that was actually what he had said now. Has weariness tipped her all the way into her own skull?

That...is exactly what he had said yes. Yennefer allows herself a laugh. Right from the belly. It peaks and goes and she has to hold a hand to his leg to be sure she doesn't disrupt it. Tears prick in her eyes. "You--ahem. The apple makes you think of Roach now, poppet?"

She is reduced to a peal of bright laughter as she leans over his leg--she sounds nearly as amused as he had been to eat half her sandwich. She curls over him and he watches, fond and amazed by how the colors catch in her dark hair and how the dappled light falls on the road. Everything about today seems colorful--oh, right, that was the potion wasn't it?

"Of course," Jaskier agrees easily, seeing no shame in it, whatsoever. He holds the apple up, as if preparing a soliloquy, and sighs. "She would nip my fingers clean off were I not careful, just to eat so lovely an apple as this."

He is more than a touch loopy, then, and wonders if that potion has not hit him harder than she imagined it would. The concern, that bloodloss might've amplified its effects, slides from his mind like water off of a duck's back and he leans forward, apple still perched atop his fingers. He is deft as he tosses it up and snatches it from the air, but his fingers don't hold it well and it slips free and tumbles across the blanket. And what a lovely blanket it is--

"Well, she might nip me in retribution now, you see," Jaskier tells her in a quiet aside, almost conspiratorial as much as it is sad. "Cad that I am, I've gone better than a year without writing! Not a single inquiry into her health and happiness. One would think I'd forgotten her entirely--light of my life, constant and lovely lady she is."

Then the idea of Geralt's face--the sour look he might wear if he actually received a letter addressed to his horse, from Jaskier of all fucking people--makes the bard grin and chuckle and relax back bonelessly against the tree.

There is a lot of Valerian in the potion. The tiniest bit of snake venom for the numbing. That's what causes the numbness and dizzying. The colors? Well perhaps it is the kind of poppy used. Her recreational use of herbs and potions is few and far between. She has been trying a new method of fertility. No results yet. And chances are they would not be there at all if she allowed herself to get intoxicated.

Yen sniffles and can only touch her wrist to her eye and nothing more to dab at tears of laughter. The pinched, anxious feeling in her ribs has released. "I'm--I'm sure she will forgive you somehow. I'm sure that as a working girl--she," her voice wavers with another unexpected bubbling. Roach a sweet maid, pining for the bard while her stern master is none-the-wiser. It's fitting. "Ahem. She would understand."

Well, his foot and leg look a might patchwork. She can start to bandage him with the needlework finished. Her hands are cleaned again, unwinding the cotton and tucking the roll beneath his toes to start from there. "Nearly done with your foot. I shall see what can be done of your handsome face." Swollen, bloodied, though still as it was for the most part. He chuckles and smiles merrily like a pastoral god only not from wine and debauchery, just potion and pain.

"Courage, Jaskier." A little tease. The sun will set on him and rise again tomorrow hardly worse for the wear.

"Ah my thanks," Jaskier declares and settles his empty hand over his heart. His doublet still has a bootmark or two on it. "If my face is marred, my lovely Roach might not deign to greet me. A handsome face is certainly required."

His opining is distracted and loopy and he chuckles a few times before settling down. He cannot feel the weight of her work on his foot and, by Melitele, that is a massive improvement. He sighs comfortably and, on a whim, reaches out and catches some of the fabric of her dress between his fingers. It is horribly stained, but still feels fine. He tugs it, as one might tug their mother's skirt--well, not his mother, but someone's hypothetical mother, certainly--and offers her an earnest if slightly lopsided smile.

"You...are a treasure," he says and his thoughts rattle as he nears being drowsy. "If I had a child, I would happily entrust them to you--they would be a duchess? Countess? Oh, I don't know actually--Lady? Why are titles so strange? I can never keep them straight."

His babbling drops in timbre and speed as it goes and, by the end of it, he has let his eyes droop shut.

"Darling," it's a sigh and a humored one at that. He bandaging job about finished and she carefully tests to be sure she has not cut off any blood that is supposed to flow. Enough mobility. Though she worries he will spread the glass over the blanket. The tugging persists. A careful shake over the grass. More bits fall from the fabric before she returns, coming closer over the expanse of the blanket.

She will have spent her whole traveling mass of cotton and cloth on him. A worthy cause. One more to clean his face and examine his poor nose. Her motions slow. The start of his babble has her smile. It's not unusual for him to call her sweet things. In fact she expects it now. They're conditioning one another to the habits. Though this is not a topic they've discussed sober or in a stupor as a possibility between them. Early on in the face of accusation he denied fathering any children for all his conquests.

"Oh is that so--?" A child. His child. She kneels close to his head. Perhaps it is intended as if he had something so fragile as a child he would entrust her. That still doesn't make the flutter in her less. "I don't know, Jaskier. Countess, I suppose if it was a girl child. Would you want a daughter?" It's like pulling open her gown and aiming a sword to her heart. This information is not for her. She should not ask.

He doesn't even seem to realize he's chosen all feminine titles and her question surprises him enough that his eyes part just a touch and he peers, blearily, at her face beyond his bruised nose. He stares a moment and huffs--the swelling makes the subtle shift of emotion on his face less easy to parse, his tone doesn't help much either.

"Oh gods yes," he says on an exhale. "I can't imagine I'd be able to raise anyone to be a proper man."

It echoes a bit of someone else's tone when he says it, a distant thought or memory, and he draws a deep breath before letting his eyes close again.

"You probably could," he amends sleepily after a bit of thought. "You're strong willed, steadfast, that sort of thing. Do you know sword-fighting? That would help, wouldn't it?"

Cleaning his face is a pleasant distraction. The haze of the potion will carry on for hours. She privately laments that for her sake. For Jasker? The blood loss and rapid healing is so much for his body. He needed a cushion to fall upon or else fall into a worse state. There are reasons why people warn resorting to healing by chaos alone. It is not perfect. The surge was fortifying, her will was focused. Her concerns now feel so selfish. Ill-aimed words have been around her since she was born. And is this truly the worst? No.

"With tempering and patience I think you could." His nose is going to need her touch. Since he is awash in the potion now would be the time. Jaskier cannot have a swollen, crooked nose. "Boys and girls...they're not so difference when they're small. They both should be strong, smart and polite. The manners change and that requires more work after." Drat, she's babbling now.

Would it ever come to Jaskier siring children? Would they be like him? Talented, spry with easy smiles and heart-breakingly beautiful blue eyes.

Yennefer breathes in and frames his nose with her fingers to reset. "Don't move. It will be just a moment."

Oh, she has her hands on his face and he smiles, even though his eyes are closed. He enjoys listening to her talk, about magic or courts or anything, and will do it until he falls asleep. Which, if the sudden and sharp pain in his face is anything to go by, will not be right now--he jerks as she resets his nose into place but, as soon as his eyes fly open, the potion does its work and the sensation falls away into a wash of calm numbness.

He sags and huffs--the whistle in his nose is gone. That's nice.

"Ow," he announces almost dreamily and stares at her where she idles in front of him. Their previous topic of conversation is lost to him, then--only the shadow of it remains. "I like children--" he muses. "They've always liked me too...but I'm never firm enough."

His face shifts with that last caveat, to a mock frown, an imitation of someone she's never met. He rolls his eyes as he says it and huffs again.

"Like to borrow them, though, when I can. I have so many cousins."

"Sweet thing, that's all I've finished. You did so very, very well." That would not have been nearly as easy if he had not been drugged. The pain for one, and without any medicinal aid, he would have been swollen up more. Another obstacle they did not need. In this drugged state she can see it was a challenge to him. Yennefer openly traces his brow and cheek, as if in apology. It had to be done or else he would not have looked the same.

That dazed, dreamy expression makes her smile. Though here we are once more. "That is why they say children need two parents to raise them. One to be firm and one to be tender." All fine and good in theory. When it comes to practice, it never plays out that way. His frown is such a mask of an expression, it pulls lines on his face and she traces them. They disappear as he talks.

"Do they all still live in Redenia?" A family around him, what a thought. "Do they enjoy your song?"

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