bakerstreet | ( nursed back to health shipping meme. )

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?"

"They doooo," he crows quietly, proudly, and his smile stretches so far he actually winces at it. He tries to tamp it down but he is too far gone to try consistently. Her hands are on his face and she is near and he revels in the tenderness, in the affection.

"My aunts and uncles hate it," he adds, conspiratorially, as though it is the funniest thing that ever was. To him? It truly is. For all the stuffy and terrible parties he'd had to attend, for all the judgment of his relatives and the negligence of his parents, for each and every reprimand and silent afternoon, he delights in the fact that they know no peace. His trade (and that was a scandal wasn't it) is something they cannot escape. Their children sing his songs with more eager glee than the drunkest bar patrons.

"I visit them sometimes, when I have treats and can stand being at home," he explains. "They all sing and dance and knock over expensive things. I have never seen manors more harried, not even that debacle in Cintra--" he sighs proudly. "Wonderful, all of them."

If he could give her one of them, oh he would. They lived in luxury, the lot of them, but their parents were a different sort of horrible to his own. They would end up desperate and sad adults, he could see it in their faces. Oh, but the memory of that makes him frown again.

"I miss them." He sighs. "Do you have cousins?"

"How could anyone hate your body of work?" And that particularly devious remark makes it impossible to not smile right along with him. Ah, he is a wild and flighty thing without aid most days. Here she sees him spread his wings and flap his jaw in a way she had not yet before. "More than half of The Continent sing your songs." Yennefer is bias to him, she makes that known now. The statement is not exaggeration. Her thumb traces his cheek.

"I'm sure any time you stay it's a delight." Judging by how he speaks, they must be small cousins. Or young enough to not yet be swayed so strongly by adult concepts or admonishments.

She laughs softly, not a merry noise. She wishes there was another way to answer his question. "Yes, dearheart. They are almost strangers to me." They did not want her. And by the time she returned to Aedirn and Vengerberg, they only begged that she not destroy them. They could have asked for forgiveness, for a new start. Her youngest siblings were still small and confused. They asked what happened to Yenna and did not recognize the sorceress in white and black.

The wind rustles through the trees. Yennefer reaches and finds the apple again.

She looks sad as well and he sighs in commiseration with her. His hand reaches out clumsily and takes hers. It still lingers by his face, so it is short work to pull it over and kiss it--uncoordinated, yes, but still short. He nods and the motion seems like more than it ought.

"You may borrow mine," he says, as though that were a thing people did. As though his noble house would tolerate such things--well, actually, for her they might. There is some renown in Sorcery that musical endeavors do not share. All he can think of is how delighted the littlest girls or the braver boys might be.

He starts to say something else, but sleep has crept up on him and, before he can manage another word he is sleeping. His hand wrapped around hers, resting at an odd angle between his head and shoulder. Both of them covered in his blood, sitting at a picnic in the middle of nowhere.

What a sight they are.

Does she? The weariness of spending so much chaos with talking of one wrenching topic to another has whiddled her composure. Her hand stays still and he can hold it however he sees fit. She won't leave him be, not in this state. The kiss still touches her the way he intended. Her thoughts can stay here with him, on the blanket beneath the tree aside the road.

"How shall I do such a thing? Take them for a garden walk? Show them flowers and what they mean?" Would that even be something children would listen to? Jaskier would know. She notes his breathing has changed. He sleeps.

Yennefer lets her back rest against the three too. She will not move from this spot until absolutely necessary. Yes, they are a sight. A lady of rank and breeding and a gentleman clearly in a bad way. It gets the attention of a traveling merchant passing through a good hour or so into their nap in the sun. The eldest son comes down on behalf of his father to check their well-being.

More luck this day. Before she can completely unfold the story, they are scooped into the back of the cart. He is so happily out that it should not trouble him any even if he were to wake. Back to the heart of Redania.

Jaskier sleeps for longer than he ought, comfortable enough in the back of the cart that the swaying, the shifting light and smell of horse, doesn't stir him. He only wakes when they come to a jarring halt and his eyes blink open--the light is slanted and orange. Sunset? Something rattles near his head and a stranger leans in over him--he would recoil but all he can do in that moment is yawn.

"Awake at last!" the young man announces and Jaskier grimaces at the tender bits of his own face.

"That depends," Jaskier says diplomatically and tries to push himself up. Honestly, if he was going to dream of anything, dreaming of being spared the long walk through the woods would have been his first choice. He catches sight of the town they are in and his brows arch sharply. The whole expression tugs on his bruises too much for comfort.

This is Redania--had he not just left?

It doesn't take much searching to spy Yennefer at his side and, despite his confusion, he manages a sore sort of smile.

"Not dreaming, then?"

Great sacks of rice, flour, coffee and tea are the cushions. Yennefer was able to pull what manners she could muster in the state of her fatigue. It took no effort at all to charm the merchant and his son. The wee one was none to certain of the pair. Blood does that. For most of the trip she catnaps. The bobbing and swaying of the cart eventually feels like being in a rocking cradle that smells of horse and goods.

"Gently, love." Her dreamer wakes. She pushes herself to sit up. The dirt and straw path of the lesser streets will give way to cobblestone. "Not too fast." What is fast is his changing expression. The potion has been spent in this time.

"Not dreaming." His one bare, bandaged foot faces the horse tail and carriage, swishing. The old merchant takes a glance back and gives a rotted tooth smile. The eldest son's smile has more charm. The wee one dips below the seat and out of sight. "How do you feel? You slept so soundly." As she already knew he was a deep sleeper, this was unprecedented. No song, no murmurs, no idle pawing.

"Surprised?" Jaskier hazards and, despite himself, his eyes dart across the buildings. He tries to gauge distance, then, but it is a fool's errand. He is less familiar with this part of the town than he is the manor on the south end. He sighs and hopes no one spots him--he has only just been through.

"But well, well, all things considered," he adds a moment later and smiles back at the man at the reins. He doesn't recognize either of them, which is fortunate. And his face is...plainly put: a mess. He doubts his own mother would know him on sight.

This is fine.

He leans back down with a wince and looks over at her.

"Where are we going?"

Panic is very easy to read on him. Yennefer eases herself to slide closer to him. The cart bounces. "We couldn't stay by the roadside." He had already proven that it was not a safe place to be. "The Family Bogg were heading this way, it was as good a choice as any." Else they be robbed again. She wasn't sure how much more rest would be required before she could use a portal again. This is such a crude way to travel. It's a lament she keeps to herself.

"An inn. At first they wanted to take you to a surgeon because you were not waking."

"S-s-sorry, my lady. I didn't mean to doubt you," the young man cuts in. Clearly the one with the surgeon idea. "He was in such a bad way. I'd hate to have you deal with such a thing on your own"

Yennefer's expression is fit as a smile for the youth. Though it does not reach her eyes and she clutches his hand almost painfully tight a moment. "We shall stop at the first inn we come to. I would not want to impede anymore on Bogg the elder, the younger or the tiny."

Bogg? Oh, bollocks.

He hadn't thought to look at the littlest boy and, as he takes in the sliver of face he can see, the wide eyes and mop of hair, he recognizes him. Jaskier manages not to swear as he looks back up at Yennefer. His laugh if humorless and resigned.

"Bogg the tiny?" he repeats and the little boy leans up to peer at him. He's heard descriptions and this cart smells of coffee--there are precious few places they could be delivering to. "I don't suppose you are the fabled, Aaron Bogg, are you?"

The way the child's eyes light up answers that question. Bogg the elder and the middling look confused but Jaskier simply clucks his tongue. He squeezes Yennefer's hand and looks up at her instead of the boy.

"I believe I just left a gift for you with Isolde," he says and, oh, sweet lamb. Aaron shoots up in his seat so quickly that the younger of the two Bogg men has to catch him before he tumbles into the back of the cart. His high pitched yelp of delight--his call of 'really!?' gives Jaskier nearly as much joy as his name had given him dread. He cannot help but smile.

"Oh yes," Jaskier agrees, placates the boy with his smile. "A whole stack of Gwent cards, won in the Imperial court of Cintra."

It was five, but he'd taken them off King Eist so he felt it counted. He was bad at Gwent but the king was worse.

Tiny Aaron Bogg who had committed himself to being silent and invisible for almost the whole of this ride now was tugging at his brother and Papa's clothes. How did such energy get corked? Little children are such strange creatures. He behaves as if Jaskier had the special incantation to truly bring him to life. "Did you hear? Did you hear!? Right from Cintra and all for me!" There is nothing like the pride of small one.

Yennefer's smile is now genuine but confused, confused as if exposed to a new dialect of the Common Tongue, well and truly. Perhaps she would have not been so prickling to patronizing if she considered that Middling Bogg was a child with a man's face. What is going on here? "I was not aware that you were such an accomplished Gwent player." She was not aware that he even had a roundabout connection to this little merchant family.

Elder Bogg cackles. "Settle down a tick, won't you. That's a good lad. Now then, Aaron. That's not how it's done. What do you say to a gift as fine as that?" Aaron has to be prompted again because he's broken into giggles.

"The King is terrible and given to gambling," he explains quietly just in time to interrupt Aaron Bogg's attempt at thanks. The child, having overheard who they had belonged to, let out a shriek of delight and his brother had to scoop him up as he babbled about it.

"Did you hear, they're the King's! I have the King's cards!" Aaron cried, all delight and wonder. "Oh-oh-Izzy has them? Is it true, can we go now, Papa? Can we?"

Aaron Bogg had no worries for Jaskier's health and, to be fair, Jaskier didn't either. He couldn't hold his eagerness against him. The littlest Bogg was a good friend of his youngest cousin, here. Isolde Pankratz was a girl his age and one of the few cousins who wrote him regularly. Well, she drew to him. He wasn't certain she'd mastered all her letters yet.

She'd asked for a gift for Arnn's birthday, in so many letters, and Jaskier had obliged her.

"Thank you!" Aaron remembers, mid-way through his exuberant questions. His brother has a tight hold on him or else Jaskier is certain he would have tried to dive over and kiss his cheek. He seemed like the sort of chap who'd been taught to give gratitude like that.

That is such an outpouring of love in two words. Aaron does wriggle and his fingers lace together as though in desperate, pious prayer, lips puckered. A small, sweet boy would give thanks with kisses. Yennefer's heart crackles at the display. Yes, Middling Bogg's misstep (and steady gaze at her tits) has been forgiven.

"Steady on, m'boy." Elder Bogg frees a hand from the reins to try and settle Aaron back. His older brother has to hold him as he would a large fish

"Papa! Please! Can we go to Izzy right now?"

The cart slows and old Bogg with his rotted teeth turns as much as he's able. "Your ladyship and good sir be minding?"

Yennefer had many littler siblings. Older too that worked the field and slaughtered the pigs. The small ones lived in the house. She lived in the house for a time. None of the small ones had Aaron's hair or eyes. Though in that instant this young boy is all of them and herself. They deserved so very, very much. "I don't mind. Jaskier?"

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