It was deep into the night when Jaskier finished--his eyes were sore and his focus was shot and everything looked the same. There was a thrill of satisfaction in a job completed, in stitching the very last of the gaping wounds that could be stitched, but it was a hollow thing. Geralt did not move, hadn't moved, in so many hours that as his task came to a close, the only thing that filled the void of adrenaline and panic was unadulterated dread.
He busied himself, cleaned the stitches gently with an alcohol soaked rag, applied some of the salves he had in his own pack--those ran out rather fast, though. They were not made for this and he didn't carry enough to treat even a third of Geralt's wounds. He would have to learn to make more, he couldn't be left wanting like this again.
Fuck.
If there was an again--and he hoped yes, so desperately: yes, but at the same time no. His heart couldn't take it.
He emptied the tins of salve and packed the puncture in Geralt's side. If something was severed in there, he lacked the skill to do anything about it. Fuck, he was useless. In the end he found himself just sitting, staring at everything but the Witcher, pallid and still on the table, soaked in sweat and a thin sheen of blood and stinking of alcohol and death.
This was a fucking kitchen.
A table for preparing meals, with hanging pots and pans and herbs drying over the fire. There were cleavers and knives on the far wall. What a shit place to bring him. To leave him splayed out on a table here, like a slab of meat to be trussed up and prepared. Jaskier rested his fingers against Geralt's chest and left them here until he felt the staggering slow beat of his heart--he hated checking. It took so long he was always sure, absolutely sure, it wouldn't come.
But it did.
He sighed and sagged with relief. His head landed in his hand, kept him propped up against the table, sat delicately and nervously on a stool. The room was quiet but for the crackling of the hearth. He was sweating but he felt very, very cold.
He drifted, then, exhausted from better than a day without sleep, and somehow his head remained on his hand. His fingers rested on Geralt's arm, right against his elbow, where even a clumsy fool like Jaskier's could track the beating of the Witcher's heart. The townsfolk had all but abandoned him--at his behest--and he dreamed of them coming back, of them cutting Geralt up and cooking him and tossing him into that horrible swamp. He dreamed he was doing the cutting--that he watched on helpless--that he had to sew Geralt back together from butchered steaks and flanks.
It was an unhappy dream but not really a nightmare, not by the standards he'd picked up traveling with Geralt.
Then something wonderful and painful happened all at once.
He was yanked from sleep unceremoniously, his hand went out from under his head and his head, suddenly freed, hit the table and startled him painfully awake. He scrambled up but his wrist was caught in a severe, crushing grip.
Fuck off.
Jaskier's heart leapt--he thought he'd imagined the gravel of Geralt's voice. But he hadn't. Geralt yanked him in and Jaskier went with him, bent toward him like a flower stretching toward the sun. His eyes were open--he was talking--his grip flexed painfully and Jaskier whimpered while Geralt stared.
He said his name and Jaskier had never, not once in all his life, felt happier.
Then Geralt passed clean out.
Jaskier laughed.
He broke into manic laughter, so full of relief that he found himself weeping with it. He had to pry that hand from his wrist and he was almost loathe to do so. But Geralt was alright! He was alive and cantankerous and that meant he would be alright.
The first thing he did was run to tell Roach. It was stupid but he hugged her long face with both arms, kissed her again and again, and told her the news. The second thing he did was find a way to move Geralt off that awful table...and thirdly: he apologized for his absolutely appalling lack of decorum. He'd pay every crown in his purse and his weight again in gold for all they'd helped him--he was so happy.
no subject
He busied himself, cleaned the stitches gently with an alcohol soaked rag, applied some of the salves he had in his own pack--those ran out rather fast, though. They were not made for this and he didn't carry enough to treat even a third of Geralt's wounds. He would have to learn to make more, he couldn't be left wanting like this again.
Fuck.
If there was an again--and he hoped yes, so desperately: yes, but at the same time no. His heart couldn't take it.
He emptied the tins of salve and packed the puncture in Geralt's side. If something was severed in there, he lacked the skill to do anything about it. Fuck, he was useless. In the end he found himself just sitting, staring at everything but the Witcher, pallid and still on the table, soaked in sweat and a thin sheen of blood and stinking of alcohol and death.
This was a fucking kitchen.
A table for preparing meals, with hanging pots and pans and herbs drying over the fire. There were cleavers and knives on the far wall. What a shit place to bring him. To leave him splayed out on a table here, like a slab of meat to be trussed up and prepared. Jaskier rested his fingers against Geralt's chest and left them here until he felt the staggering slow beat of his heart--he hated checking. It took so long he was always sure, absolutely sure, it wouldn't come.
But it did.
He sighed and sagged with relief. His head landed in his hand, kept him propped up against the table, sat delicately and nervously on a stool. The room was quiet but for the crackling of the hearth. He was sweating but he felt very, very cold.
He drifted, then, exhausted from better than a day without sleep, and somehow his head remained on his hand. His fingers rested on Geralt's arm, right against his elbow, where even a clumsy fool like Jaskier's could track the beating of the Witcher's heart. The townsfolk had all but abandoned him--at his behest--and he dreamed of them coming back, of them cutting Geralt up and cooking him and tossing him into that horrible swamp. He dreamed he was doing the cutting--that he watched on helpless--that he had to sew Geralt back together from butchered steaks and flanks.
It was an unhappy dream but not really a nightmare, not by the standards he'd picked up traveling with Geralt.
Then something wonderful and painful happened all at once.
He was yanked from sleep unceremoniously, his hand went out from under his head and his head, suddenly freed, hit the table and startled him painfully awake. He scrambled up but his wrist was caught in a severe, crushing grip.
Fuck off.
Jaskier's heart leapt--he thought he'd imagined the gravel of Geralt's voice. But he hadn't. Geralt yanked him in and Jaskier went with him, bent toward him like a flower stretching toward the sun. His eyes were open--he was talking--his grip flexed painfully and Jaskier whimpered while Geralt stared.
He said his name and Jaskier had never, not once in all his life, felt happier.
Then Geralt passed clean out.
Jaskier laughed.
He broke into manic laughter, so full of relief that he found himself weeping with it. He had to pry that hand from his wrist and he was almost loathe to do so. But Geralt was alright! He was alive and cantankerous and that meant he would be alright.
The first thing he did was run to tell Roach. It was stupid but he hugged her long face with both arms, kissed her again and again, and told her the news. The second thing he did was find a way to move Geralt off that awful table...and thirdly: he apologized for his absolutely appalling lack of decorum. He'd pay every crown in his purse and his weight again in gold for all they'd helped him--he was so happy.
Geralt was alive.