whatupbuttercup | PSL Injuries and Patching up with Monsterbytrade

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PSL Injuries and Patching up with Monsterbytrade

Jaskier was not font of this particular hamlet, he decided. The lands were bleak, the people were bleaker, and there was a pervasive stench of bog that crept into everything. The sheets (the beds were fairly nice, he would give them that, but the feather mattresses all stank of bog water), the curtains, the wood, the people--everything smelled of still water and mold. It was enough to drive him to distraction.

He suspected it annoyed Geralt as well, but the Witcher had only given him a cursory grunt when prompted about it.

The town, apparently, had need of a Witcher to clear some terrible beast from the marshes nearby. Jaskier couldn't hope to pronounce the name of it so, until Geralt felt like describing the thing, he was out on a limb about whether to make a song of it or not. Apparently, it was dangerous enough that Geralt had actually deigned to request he stay behind, instead of just ordering it, and Jaskier had agreed without hesitation.

It was an unspoken agreement. Anything truly cataclysmic or terrible, Geralt would grit his teeth and be cordial about what he required and Jaskier would agree without argument. It was a nicety they both extended...unfortunately, that meant that Jaskier was left standing in the road, staring off into the night, pacing as he waited for Geralt to appear out of the darkness like a spectre of death.

He did not.

The night crawled on and Jaskier's pacing got a little antsier, a little less controlled, he started talking--to himself and to Roach, who waited patiently by the roadside. He bitched about Witchers, about whatever this thing was, about the town, about the smell, praised Roach for being a good girl, damned Roach for not being psychically connected to Geralt (that he could prove), and then sighed and just leaned his head against her neck as he waited.

It was just before dawn that the Witcher appeared on the road. He moved very, very slowly and Jaskier stared in horror as he watched him approach.

He didn't want to pry, to be more of a nuisance than he was wont, but Geralt didn't--that wasn't how he walked. He had brushed Jaskier off before, knocked aside hands and insisted he was fine when he was not...but the bard had never seen him move like that. Had never seen the way his legs seemed to drag, to move ahead only to catch himself. He was falling forward, repeatedly, more than he was walking.

"Damn it all," Jaskier cursed and abandoned Roach to run to the Witcher's side.

The stench of blood was--truly remarkable. It took him aback and that, alone, said something. His armor was destroyed, cut apart and gnawed free, and the dark splotches on his clothing--it was impossible to tell where Geralt's blood started and where the gore of the creature ended. He had one of his swords in hand, held in a tight immobile grip and in the other he held a grotesque severed head of something that resembled a mummified woman made of corn-husks and a layer of teeth stolen from children's heads. He nearly vomited at the sight of it.

Geralt kept walking, almost like he hadn't seen the bard come up, and Jaskier's hands fluttered as he considered how to--what to do.

"Geralt? My friend? Are you--oh you're looking a bit unwell--" His voice was very high all of a sudden. Was that a solid chunk taken out of him? Melitele's tits he could see through that hole in Geralt's side. Could see clear through him. That was very bad. There was a huge gash across his back, across his legs, he was a mess of holes and bites and Jaskier's heart felt very near to stopping.

He made a decision then and snuck himself under Geralt's sword arm. He drew the tense limb over his shoulders and lifted, took some of the Witcher's weight, and tried to lead him to Roach.

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Jaskier was so happy, so delighted that the Witcher was aware, was awake--he sounded dreadful, parched and dried, his gravelly voice changed to a husky rasp. Jaskier was suddenly full of energy, he wanted to fetch water--fuck he'd dropped the soup. Geralt was surely hungry, it had been days--he didn't rise to the bait, to the taunt about his lack of medical skill--his voice would have broken if he tried and, frankly, thinking on it still made Jaskier a bit ill.

He didn't dash away, couldn't once Geralt grabbed him by the open breast of his doublet. He hauled him down, more with the weight of his limb than any muscles, and Jaskier went willingly, almost eagerly, eyes wide and attentive. Geralt was breathing hard and looked ready to faint again--

"White honey."

Jaskier stared and, as his hand fell away, the bard's hands hovered another moment. Geralt passed into sleep, lighter and less unnerving than before, and the sight of his head shifting, as if he were merely feverish, was enough to snap Jaskier from his stillness.

"Right! White honey," he repeated and stood back up, he turned and...at once, realized he had no idea what Geralt was demanding. He froze and his eyes darted to the door--he couldn't mean actual honey, could he? No, he'd have just said honey. Was there a special kind of honey? Some magical sort of nonsense that was white?

Jaskier paled and combed his memory. Had Geralt ever mentioned honey?

If there was a thing called white honey, if it could be found anywhere, surely it was something Geralt had gathered before. The Witcher was nothing if not well prepared--Geralt stopped and picked every herb and flower that struck his alchemical fancy. Jaskier scrambled to his bag, to the ingredients and potions he kept aside--he threw it open and was greeted by a myriad of bottles.

"White...honey?" Jaskier repeated and felt his stomach drop.

To his eyes, they all looked the same. Dark liquid in dark glass, bottles of varied size and shape, corked or sealed with wax. He plucked them up, shuffled through them, and felt his panic mount the more of them he drew out. Eventually, however, his hand found a light, cloudy bottle with a cork and a green mark upon it.

Somehow, impossibly, that bottle was familiar. The contents were white and translucent, though they didn't look like honey to him. Maybe it was a nickname--he had seen Geralt take it once, after a fight where he'd been come back abyssal eyed and shaking. He'd nearly crushed it in his hurry to drink it, had seized and groaned, and had seemed terribly sick.

The next day he'd been right as rain.

This was the one he wanted, Jaskier knew it had to be--he clutched the tiny bottle and returned to Geralt's side. It took him a moment of clumsy fumbling to get it open and then a considerably greater amount of fumbling to get the Witcher propped up, to rest his upper body against Jaskier's chest and tilt his head back over his shoulder. He was careful as he poured the vial into the Witcher's mouth and held it aloft to make sure every single drop emptied down his throat.

Jaskier was luckier than he was dim, then-- had he poured the wrong potion down the throat of a witcher who was suffering from an overdose, it would have almost surely killed the man on the spot in a most painful and gruesome manner. As it stood, however, that would not be the case today. After the contents of the bottle were swallowed (aside from the first choke of a dried throat that sent just a little dribble from the side of his mouth), Geralt's body stiffened and his eyes opened, those yellow orbs directly on Jaskier before they rolled back onto his head.

Then he was groaning, a base, terrible sound and pulling himself into something more like a ball despite the fact that the position was threatening to rip skin from stitches. He slid to the pillows and one of his hand fists into sheets with enough force to rip them. The honey was doing it's job as a purgative; if he had been able to have a sense of anything other the new, intense discomfort compounding his already destroyed body, perhaps he would have been thankful. Or at least relieved.

As it stood, however, he was back to wishing for death.

Unlucky for Geralt the pain was not enough to hand him back to unconsciousness. He tried not to move as much as possible but his body shook as the honey worked and his veins crawled, dark and strangely large. His skin glistened with fresh sweat and the red of his scars stood out in stark contrast to how pale and wan he had suddenly become; a man accustomed to pain and yet Geralt was hard-pressed to manage this in any way. There was simply too much for him to do anything but gasp as he rode the waves of cramps and nausea and the low, sickly burn of the antidote trying to scour his blood clean while muscles tensed and stitches popped. The wound at his side where he'd been thrown onto a wide, jagged piece of broken tree, seeped through the bandages. He knew it had to end soon, this, and yet he found that logic was a scant comfort in the moment.

Jaskier stared on in abject horror as Geralt's eyes snapped open, as he twisted and curled and shivered. The bard could see how his skin crawled, watches as redness and gooseflesh spread and faded in patches. He had no idea if he had given him the right potion--that could have been sugar water just as easily as cyanide and Jaskier wouldn't have had the faintest which was which.

Unfortunately, there was naught to be done about it now. All he could do was watch as Geralt suffered, as he tore his stitches and the smell of blood seeped into the air. Jaskier reached out as the Witcher curled tighter but froze before he touched him again.

What could he do, now? Tell him it would be fine? Offer him a jaunty tune or some mediocre salve? He didnt even have any strong liquor left, he'd dumped the whole of what he had on Geralt's open wounds already.

So, anxious and terrified, Jaskier watched and waited. He was antsy and his focus was locked on the Witcher...but still he waited. If Geralt passed out, he could bandage that wound again. If he didn't, he might've needed something else and, by the gods, Jaskier hadn't spent days in a frantic tizzy just to fuck off before the end.

He knew he would definitely need water, between the blood lost, the sweat that streamed off him, and a few days of deep unconsciousness, Geralt would need a pitcher or two to feel human again.

He would wait. At least until the pain passed...if it did. Gods he hoped it would.

It felt like forever.

In reality it was about twenty minutes before the worst of the pain receded enough to let him breathe. After the jagged tenseness of his body until that moment, the contrast that was made as his chest actually rose and fell with something other than a shallow breath seemed pronounced and almost wrong. But Geralt's lungs kept working like bellows being tended by an overzealous forge apprentice and breath by breath the color was seeping back into his skin-- at least, to the eyes of someone who had seen how much whiter the normally pale witcher could become through blood loss and pain. The deep blue of his veins didn't go, nor did the color of his scars, but they didn't seem to be growing worse.

His eyes refocused slowly. Geralt lay on his side, breathing, staring at one particularly feather quill poking up through the mattress and sheet near his face. It seemed enough to be able just to do that. There was nothing in his head, probably by virtue of the fact that pain was still very much an agonizing constant even though having gotten past the worst of it a part of him reasoned that he was certainly better off in comparison. Reason would not pull a thought together, however.

Eventually he noticed the silk that backgrounded that rogue feather, a color and print that only an idiot would wear, though it was dirtied with too muddied a stain to distinguish the source or sources. There was a small hole and two threads of exposed silk crossed the skin showing beneath and Geralt stared at them as pain chased pain and he shivered and sweat. The hand that was his-- the one between his face and that dirty, ripped trouser knee-- slowly, slowly opened. The dirt and hells-knew-what else caked under his fingernails matched the color of the stained silk next to it. Geralt relaxed his hand palm downward onto the bed.

Only an idiot would wear that color silk, anyway.

The bellows of his lungs slowed with that thought, just enough to let his eyes close and sleep to come.

Jaskier hadn't realized how still he'd gone, how perfectly statuesque he'd become while Geralt shivered and spasmed. He hadn't held his breath (and thank the gods for that) but he'd definitely waited, primed and and eager and perfectly static. Eventually, Geralt calmed, his whole body devoted itself to just breathing, and eventually that, too, slowed. The bard listened as he passed out again but now? Now Jaskier actually recognized the sounds he made.

Geralt had finally fallen back into the realm of Jaskier's memory.

"Oh...thank you," he said, breathless, and finally released the tension holding him up. He swayed a bit, considered just letting his weak legs drop him to the floor in relief--but that would probably be a hideous noise and--oh, fuck, he'd dropped the soup and bread.

There was nothing for the soup, the pitcher had overturned and spilled it everywhere, but the bread was fine. He set that aside, at least, and carefully left to get a mop and bucket. And more soup.

Jaskier's mind was calmer as the next few hours passed which was, actually, on whole, rather inconvenient for him. He didn't have adrenaline to keep himself upright and working and that had been the lynchpin of his efforts so far. Still, he cleaned the soup, gathered new linens and new bandages, mixed some more of that half-assed salve (Though after making so much, he felt he was getting pretty good at it. He had definitely grown rather skilled at crushing and combining everything into homogeneity.), and fretted over whether it was wise to maneuver a slumbering Geralt (not passed out) to remove and change those bandages.

He'd split stitches--Jaskier had heard them pop. He wouldn't be bleeding like this if it hadn't been a goodly number of them.

Jaskier put it off, fetched water, supplies, niceties, and even attempted a short nap--but it kept him up. It was just after dawn (again, was this the fifth day? Sixth? He'd lost count) when he finally gave in to the nagging in his skull and tried to tend to the Witcher once more.

Jaskier had been, in a sense, right to wait. In a way, too, he'd been wrong. Honestly-- there was no best answer, no lesser evil. Geralt had healed better with sleep but his body had weakened without food or water and the wounds had leaked, unchecked, against the linens. But it didn't take long for Geralt's eyes to open from what had been a real-- if particularly deep-- slumber as hands pried here and there and the sheets that were now sticking, dried, to myriad wounds. Instinct tried, and failed, to bring a curse to his lips for the sharp, bright, waking pain as his throat refused his call. Instead there was a nasty, wary grumble that was the best he could manage.

He felt disgusting.

Pain, dirt, seepage-- every bit of it was present and accounted for and the worst was for as fucking awful as he felt, Geralt could smell the wreckage of his body. He didn't know how long it had been but he could guess by the smell. He groped across the sheets for any bit of Jaskier that he could find because--

Jaskier. He'd dreamed of Jaskier. Of Jaskier, being close. The bright patterns of his silks, the tenor of his voice-- though in the dream he'd been singing The Ballad of Two Tits, which he'd never written in real life but threatened Yennefer with when they'd met the golden dragon Villentretenmerth years ago.

But Jaskier was here, now. Geralt grabbed what he could, his fingers sliding over silk. "That... fucking... hurts," he croaked. He didn't want fabric torn from his wounds, thank you, he'd rather just keep sleeping. Or maybe he wanted a beer. He tried to wet his lips but there was no saliva in his mouth to work with. In the last twelve or so hours since the soup had been spilt his veins and scars had lightened, at least. There was that.

Geralt awoke as Jaskier started trying to peel away the bandages around his ribs. It was slow work and Jaskier had to cut them more than a few times with the fine little shears he kept in his sewing kit. The Witcher grabbed him around the elbow, grip as firm as he could make it (Jaskier assumed) and found it not nearly as strong or punishing as the grip that first night--oh, oh that was unfortunate.

But Geralt didn't let go, or lurch, or even release his elbow. His hand shifted and Jaskier couldn't help but smile. Geralt wasn't just present--he was awake!

"Here, hang on--I'll stop just, here--"

He had gotten the man a cup and pitcher, but curled as he was, it would be very hard to move him to drink. Instead he snatched up the waterskin he'd set aside to clean off the wound beneath the bandages. It was newly refilled, it would be fine--he pressed that to Geralt's mouth and gave him a moment before he tilted it.

"You sound awful, my friend," Jaskier told him and oh, he sounded far too fond and misty eyed. He cleared his own throat and that corrected his tone, somewhat. "Barely terrifying at all."

The waterskin was Geralt's best friend and worst, he had taken in a mouthful before he realized that he simply could not and coughed it all over the side of the bed. But the liquid that had hit his teeth, his tongue, the back of his throat-- it awakened a thirst that was as likely to kill him as soothe him and Geralt was fumbling for the leather pouch to make sure that Jaskier didn't try to pull it away, that sappy tone of his be damned. He coughed out two more mouthfuls before his throat was soaked by-proxy enough to release and then, with the bard's help, he chugged the rest of the skin.

Which he promptly brought up, in it's entirety. Not quite off the bed. Maybe it was an answer for the bard's words or maybe just an honest reaction but Geralt was sated and no one was pulling anything off his wounds anymore so he slid back toward the darkness, easy enough in his contentment.

Geralt struggled, grabbed and chugged and desperately tried to crush liquid from the waterskin. It was a sight that gave Jaskier a bit of hope--made him glad he'd brought up that pitcher--he was about to offer it when the Witcher promptly coughed, sputtered, and vomitted the lot of it over the edge of the bed and, consequently, all over Jaskier's trousers.

They were ruined already, he reminded himself, but the sudden mess of it was still enough to have the bard freeze in place and just...stare. He let out a strained huff and looked up as Geralt dropped back into sleep--

He made another strained sort of sound and, once a few moments had passed, Jaskier reached and picked up the waterskin.

Right.

Well. Then.

He looked at Geralt's side--where he'd started to peel away the ruined bandages...and then looked at the state of the bedding and himself. He had no idea if the Witcher was aware enough that alcohol would sear him back awake...so, perhaps it was best if he...cleaned. A bit.

Perhaps.

The pub owner was more than happy to lend him use of a tub, to let him wash and clean his own clothing and the top-sheet. He had tried to extract the bottom sheet but the Witcher was not a small man and, without lifting him bodily, there would be no changing that. Jaskier settled for wiping up the thin watery mess and changing out the pillow, at least.

Geralt had complained, however briefly, about the pain of changing out those bandages. Jaskier supposed he could leave it, now that he was on the mend, but the thought of those wounds opening made him terribly anxious. He could recall just how awful they'd looked when he closed them the first time and, frankly, picturing that put him off every other activity he could have done.

So, whilst Geralt slept, Jaskier decided to soak the matted bandages off of his side. It would make the Witcher bleed again but the top-sheet was a lost cause, regardless. At least if he soaked off the clotted blood and mess, he could cut the fabric away and deal with the wounds. So, he did. With a bucket of very warm water and a rag, and more patience than sense, he set to task.

Unfortunately, Jaskier was dead on his feet as he started again. He barely even noticed that he was falling asleep until he finally succumbed, draped over Geralt's hip with a wet and bloodied rag still in hand.

The next time Geralt swam to the surface of consciousness, he wasn't sure what had brought him up. He was very thirsty, yes. And still in a good amount of pain, true. But there was nothing acute... except for the weight across his hip that was slowly causing the entire area to throb. He rolled his head to the side and found Jaskier sprawled half-across him, lips parted and hair having dried, apparently, in a very interesting position. There was a blush to his cheeks that spoke to deep sleep. For a long moment, Geralt just looked at him. Watched the way his back moved with the sure rise-and-drop of the exhausted and how the sun crawled across the soft lines of his face.

Idiot bard, running himself ragged.

Geralt sighed and blamed his current lack of motion to impact the current scene on physical weakness; it was obvious to him, after all, just how bad it was. And then, ironically, wondered if the actual reasons for him not immediately poking the other man awake were simply a different sort of weakness entirely. He closed his eyes, uninterested in having a scathing moral debate with himself if he could instead just go back to sleep. But thirst was drawing his stomach into empty cramps and his tired muscles didn't seem far from seizing-- something that the pressure of Jaskier's head and arm was only drawing to the forefront of his mind with each long second that ticked by. Finally, teeth clenched, Geralt slid his arm across the mattress in order to poke Jaskier in the side. It was not meant to be a gentle poke but it lacked any real strength behind it. The motion was accompanied by a grunt because there was no trusting his throat anymore; it felt like a rust-filled desert. Geralt did it again when Jaskier didn't immediately stir but didn't know how many times he could repeat the motion and the next way the bard would be waking would be to the dulcet sounds of Geralt's broken yells as his arm and chest muscles bound up. Dehydration was a bitch, after all. He sighed.

"Wake up, Jaskier." The devastated croak of the words made Geralt grimace at himself.

Jaskier was not an anxious or light sleeper, not usually. He could slumber through all manner of loud, sudden sound or even most nearby or casual movements. This last week, however, had him so very, very on edge that the sound of his name had him starting awake with a terrified, sharp gasp.

Jaskier's eyes danced, shot around the room in a panic as he sat up, very abruptly. They fell back on Geralt before long and, upon seeing his eyes open, the bard's sudden panic calmed. He stared a second, expression soft and unbearably fond, and when he realized neither of them was asleep, he jumped with surprise.

"Oh, Fuck, right--" he said and the cold, soaking wet rag in his hands fell onto the bed. "--you threw all that back up. Are you thirstier? Hungrier? Let me--"

He stood from where he'd lighted on the bed and swayed a bit as his legs woke back up. He was going to have a terrible series of cricks tomorrow. Idiot. The waterskin was near the tray with the pitcher and cup. He snatched it up and darted back, holding it out for Geralt's approval and use. He looked ready to run across the room or downstairs the very instant the Witcher grunted and gave a one word demand for something else.

Geralt only wanted Jaskier to get that look off his face until he started yammering, and then he wished for it back if only to have silence again. His eyes closed for a moment against the mercifully short onslaught that fell away as the man turned to activity instead of talk. Geralt breathed out slowly and tried to assess his body but with as weak as his body felt and as scattered as his mind was it was impossible.

The smell of the water when it was held near was sharp, even over the stink of the room that crowded Geralt's nose. There was no saliva to be had or his mouth would have watered at that clean, vaguely metallic smell that water takes on when it had been boiled in a cast iron pot. Yellow eyes opened and sharpened as well as they could; a hand made to raise and then settled back on the sheets. Fuck. There was no shame for his position, only frustration-- and half of that was for knowing his body well enough to know that holding that skin full of water would not only result in him spilling it, but triggering the cramps that threatened. His face contorted.

"You--" It did gall. "Please." It really couldn't be a surprise that Geralt neither looked nor sounded happy about asking for the help.

Jaskier, once again, seemed startled by the reality of things. It was foolish, he'd been helping Geralt for nearly a week and the man had hardly eaten, had hardly drank--why he'd thought Geralt could take the skin and toss it back, himself, he had no idea. (He knew. He'd never seen the Witcher endure an injury this severe, had never been around to help him--he still had a notion that Geralt would wake up and shake it right off.)

"Right, of course," Jaskier agreed quickly and knelt by the side of the bed with the skin. He fluttered a bit, debated lifting up the man's head, maybe trying to prop him higher--but Geralt was awake and, frankly, Jaskier wasn't sure he'd tolerate that much henning while conscious.

The bard lifted the opening of the skin to his mouth and then lifted the skin itself, tilting and pouring the water at a bare trickle. He felt a vague flicker of worry--he'd only just donned clean clothing. He didn't have another set, not until his ruined clothes dried. (Ah, but that was a selfish thought. Geralt didn't want to vomit it up any more than Jaskier wanted to be soaked in it.) He tilted the bag a bit higher and let the stream intensify to a reasonable amount--come whatever may.

"Drink what you can, I can fetch more," Jaskier tells him.

Edited (well fine typos, be that way) 2020-03-22 15:11 (UTC)

Had Jaskier tried to pick up Geralt's head like he was an invalid, Geralt surely would have found the strength to disabuse him of that notion even had it meant every muscle in his body going into spasmodic paroxysms.

The trickle was good, now, his throat wet just enough from the last terrible attempt to be able to take the small amount of water with only a small, repressed cough that was not enough to stop the hungry swallows. When the bag was tilted higher Geralt gave it a few large mouthfuls before pushing his fingers into Jaskier's leg and then gulping for air when the bag was pulled away. When he lifted his arm carefully to wipe the corner of his mouth, it trembled and was returned to his chest instead of the bed. "Enough." More would only see him vomit it all up again. As it stood his stomach was lightly cramping with the liquid, but he was sure that it would pass.

His veins were almost normal in color again and his scars were white, as was normal. The dark circles under Geralt's eyes were nothing but natural. "How long?" he asked, his eyes on the window and then Jaskier. He knew that whatever the answer was, it wasn't good.

Jaskier withdrew the skin when Geralt pushed it aside and, for some reason, drew it back to his chest like it was armor. He had no idea why he adopted that pose, barely even noticed he'd done it--he didn't offer Geralt a smile, then, his look still too closely bordered to worry for anything else to dash across his face.

The question was a good one, though, and Jaskier had to think for a long time--had to glance aback at the window behind him.

"Uh...six days, I think," he told him and gradually forced himself to lower that skin. To seem more casual than he felt.

"I'm not terribly sure, actually," Jaskier admitted a moment later and forced a small (somewhat wooden) smile across his face. "I've barely been paying attention."

Oh! But that did beg additional questions.

"How do you feel?"

It was a stupid question, given everything, but Jaskier asked it on reflex. Did he feel like he was going to die? It was preferrable to dying, he supposed. He didn't look nearly as bad--Melitele's mercy he looked so much improved. Except for his side--fuck, he'd fallen asleep trying to soak those bandages off. He'd have to deal with it...but: later.

Not, in fact, later.

Geralt tried to push back against the pillows in order to raise himself up and failed, managed not to gasp, and then lifted his hand off his chest just enough to see the seeping, wet, ruined bandages. Also the back of his thighs were angry. Felt like popped stitches... it was only a shame that he knew the feeling so precisely. He closed his eyes for a moment. Getting even that much water into him had his brain finally clicking over and his body feeling immediately better-- and though he knew it for the ultimate ruse that it was, he let himself wallow in it just a little. Just for a moment or two. Finally he blew out a breath and opened his eyes on Jaskier. Actually, watching the man there he wished he felt just a little worse, actually, so that he could not read the awkward worry of someone both out of his depth and sick with relief.

"I'll live," he said, quiet. Probably thanks to the mother hen currently swaying slightly as his bedside. Geralt wanted to tell him to lay down, for fuck'sake, and sleep-- if only because looking at Jaskier made him feel tired-- but he didn't. Instead he let his hand fall back to the bed. Neither of them would be getting rest for the next little bit. "These bandages. Need to be cleaned." And his thighs at least looked at. He wished that he could risk an elixir but only six days, considering what he'd taken in the marshes--

"Did you give me white honey?"

"I did!" Jaskier chirped eagerly, glad that he'd been able to follow that direction, that it had worked. Just as quickly, though, he realized his juvenile the pride in his tone was. He used the energy of his response to push himself up from his kneel and hide the sudden flush up across his face.

"We will have to have a talk about how you label those bottles, by the way," Jaskier scolds idly and, while he was ginger in setting down the water skin, leaving it where Geralt could reach it, he was less precious about snapping up that cold wet cloth.

He could fetch more water but that would be terribly slow. It had been tolerable because Geralt had been out cold and immovable...but now, now he could actually tend to him, could actually clean.

"I can have a bath readied if you think you can tolerate one?"

He had only bled through in a few places, the rest of Jaskier's work had remained in tact.

The war between the ignominy of letting Jaskier haul him into the bathtub and the smell of himself was a quick but ruthless mental battle. "Give me a little more water," he said-- but he was going to get into the tub. He knew he was. The level of the water would have to be kept under the largest wound where the tree had more or less skewered him, but it would be worth it to sit there with his cock hanging out if it meant he could even have water squeezed over him. Geralt was sure at this point that his body might even try to draw the liquid in through his pores were it possible. Perhaps even if it weren't.

As Jaskier got the bath ready, Geralt sat with the water skin and sipped. He wasn't dead and he owed that to the bard for sure. He couldn't remember leaving the marshes, nor anything really between taking the Skin-Eater's head off his shoulders and the last time he'd woken up. And for as much as he loved Roach and trusted her instincts about certain things, he was sure that the mare would not have been able to drag him back to the inn alone. Did this ass end bog town even have a healer? Geralt couldn't remember one. "How did you know it was the right elixir?" he asked as Jaskier moved around the room. How he labeled the bottles was by not doing it, in most cases. He knew his bottles and he knew what each concoction looked, smelled, and moved like.

A small, tired voice at the back of his head asked himself if it was time to start teaching Jaskier some things. He shoved it away; there were other things to deal with.

Edited (and i even reread) 2020-03-22 18:50 (UTC)

The tub was a trick to maneuver into the room, had taken him a bit of shuffling to get it set up, and he'd dashed eagerly, to and fro, bringing up steaming water by the pitcher. He'd just managed the last pitcher he planned on sparing for the tub, itself, when Geralt asked him about the bottles.

"Truthfully?" Jaskier asked and though he sounded rather conversational. Nevermind the faint sensation of fear that clung to his airy tone. "I recalled you drinking it once--after that...bruxa was it? In the mountains?" Jaskier explained.

It had been better than a year ago. Geralt, he'd realized as he thought on it, was generally very sparing with his use of potions. The bottle shape had been different, and it hadn't been a grand and showy thing, and Geralt hadn't told him what it was or what it did, and...frankly, Jaskier was just lucky it had been the same thing. Fortunately, he was too tired to let that guilt and fear over what might've happened, had he guessed wrong, consume him. Instead he reached and dipped his hand in the bath and found it acceptably hot.

"It was practically the same and the only thing I spotted that looked remotely like it could be White Honey."

He stood and moved to the bed, offered his arm and shoulder as a crutch. Geralt could have been able to stand, Jaskier had no idea--what he did know was the exact number of stitches he'd put in the Witcher. Nobody with that many sutures could walk well on their own, not even a few feet. (Most people with that many sutures would have died before a much more skilled healer had finished applying them, but that was neither here nor there.)

Geralt thought that if it hadn't already smelled so dire in the room, he might have been able to pick up the emotion that curled around Jaskier's thin explanation. It had been utterly stupid to pull a potion at random and give it to a sick man-- but it had also been, in this case, the right thing to do. Fortunately vaving to pat Jaskier on the head was waylaid by the more immediate pain of getting off the bed.

He couldn't manage it. Not alone, not in the slightest.

Only with Jaskier taking more than his fair share of his (diminished) weight was Geralt able to stand and he was so glad that the water he'd drank had managed to ease his chapped throat some because he growled almost continuously at the pain of pulling his wounds away from the linens they'd dried to. He was too broken down to be able to lock his reactions away; in fact it was only the outlet of complaint that let him get through the exercise at all. His fingers gripped Jaskier's shoulder as hard as he could and felt humiliated at how badly he was injured. His legs stumbled as they tried to support him. His arms shook from holding on. By the time he was lowered into the tub he was sweating again and wondering if any of this was worth it. There was no pride left to even stop him from putting his head down on his raised knees. He was quiet for a long set of moments but his back moved up and down so he wasn't dead.

"Jaskier." Geralt said it without raising his head. "If you'd given me the wrong elixir there was a good chance of it killing me, but..." But. He didn't remember much but the pain of the purgative was clear enough. It was a very distinct pain. "If you'd giving me nothing I certainly would have died. You made the right call."

Jaskier, unlike Geralt, was not a superhuman warrior monk dead-set on fighting the world into submission. He had been injured before, in life, and knew just how terribly humiliating such care could be. He cast his eyes about the room as he helped Geralt up, helped him hobble, and felt the soft growling as each movement pulled terribly at his stitches. He let Geralt settle and fetched a slew of bath supplies from his bag.

Then Geralt had to...congratulate him? It was a mixed message--a reminder of what Jaskier was doing his level best not to think about and a thanks for doing it anyway. He went still as he thought on it and decided, as with most great and stressful traumas, that it was best put off for when he could get very, very drunk.

He stood and it was as if a switch had been flipped behind his tired eyes. He was too exhausted to hide that, but at once he was all cheer and casual ease, as though he hadn't just lowered his--his best friend into a half filled bath so he could scrape the blood and stench from him. Jaskier returned to the side of the tub with an assortment of scented cremes and powders--a half dozen things the Witcher would have been loathe to let him use on himself, let alone on him.

"Nonsense," Jaskier announced and set out his tools along the floor by the bath. He drew up the one stool this room had and plunked himself down along the side. "You may smell like something died, but I had every confidence in you."

It was a lie told as smoothly as the slide of silk. Jaskier rolled up his sleeves, smiled, and broke into one of his nicer and gentler bathing cremes. It was meant for his face--to moisturize and cleanse without so much as stinging the eyes. It smelled of lavender and rosewater and cost ten crowns a container. He used it without hesitation to start washing Geralt's back, skating the rows upon rows of stitches as he gently cleaned the sweat off him.

Just like always.

"You were a bit rough around the edges, of course, but not so poorly as all that. You perked right up after we washed the bog off, and then slept like a newborn babe when you'd had that potion," Jaskier babbled, idly, as he washed. Geralt healed bruises quickly, almost alarmingly so, but even a Witcher's abilities couldn't wipe away the delicate yellows and greens and dark splotches around some of these wounds. This would take time.

"I do think I shall leave the stench out of the final ballad--you sweat like a horse, Geralt--I'm sorry to say. And the vomiting, also, for that matter. That never goes over well with a room of drunks--tempting the hand of fate, as it were."

Fine. It had been said, it was hard for both of them to talk about it like normal people, so it would suffice. Geralt actually found himself blowing out a breath and being grateful for it. He turned his head to the side at least so that this face were not pressed down against his knees and let his eyes close halfway as Jaskier began to carefully clean his back. It was easy to fall into the comfortable place of listening to Jaskier's words, letting them roll off of him like the occasional bathwater that was brought up for a rinse. Easier than considering what he must have put the man through to make him sidestep a compliment rather than crow about it.

"Good to hear that you haven't need to reconsider your occupation, then," Geralt said, voice slow but present. "Considering the state of things, I'd feared that perhaps you'd decided to leave your lute behind and become a tailor." A long-winded joke, but worth it if it contributed to the ease of tensions. He had to lapse into silence afterward, however, and catch his breath.

Jaskier's fingers stilled as they moved across Geralt's skin. He drew them away, just slightly, before he did something stupid like letting them tense on one of those rows of sutures. He covered the gesture by reaching for the cleanser for Geralt's hair, this was old hat--this was familiar and not at all risky. The laugh he let out as he did was only slightly forced.

Oh, he did not...have the energy to keep this up. He wanted to be a good friend, to help Geralt feel better about how terrible the situation was...but if the Witcher was going to keep complimenting him, joking about these things, he could not keep up deflecting much longer. He maintained his smile but it was a wan attempt.

"I do have deft fingers, I will admit," Jaskier joked with some humor in his tone as he cleaned the sweat and thin layers of dried blood, of alcohol and salve, from Geralt's hair. This was not how he normally indulged, there was far less combing and scrubbing to be had, here. Jaskier was jittery already.

"I could have been a brilliant tailor...but alas, music calls to me," he prattled and scooped up water between his hands, to rinse the Witcher's hair and the span of his back. Fuck--he was going to have to move where Geralt could see him, next.

He took a moment to touch and examine the bandages in his side--they still had to soak free, but that could be done with focus after bathing. The water was already tinged pink, no need to make it more blood than not.

"I will definitely have to invent an appearance for that gods' awful creature, though," Jaskier continued, only half minding what he said as he drew his stool around to face Geralt's side and take one of his arms in hand. "An eyeless face filled with children's teeth, while memorable, is more haunting than my usual fare."

Geralt didn't understand the continued treble in Jaskier's voice, the lack of normal, tripping cadence. When the man came over to take his arm, Geralt managed to hold his head up just enough to study his companion's face. His hair was still sticking up in front from where he'd been asleep, the normal fringe nothing so much now as a great cow-lick.

He was distracted by the steer of topic, however. "The Skin-Eater's head. Where is it?" Not that he needed such a trophy for proof of payment for the people of this town. At this point (six days later), he assumed that the room and board had either become his pay or else Jaskier had been dipping into their savings. But with a creature like that, rare and particular, they could pawn it off for decent coin to any number of people specializing in such things.

Perhaps an ivory dealer, even.

"The head?" Jaskier repeated dumbly and blinked. His hands stilled on Geralt's arm and his brow dipped as he thought back. "Oh the roadside, I'm afraid--I hadn't the time to--"

Oh.

Oh no.

Jaskier paled and his blue eyes went wide as he looked back and met Geralt's. Contradicting his own assurances was a dreadful faux-pas, of course, but that wasn't the thought that snared his tongue. He gaped a moment and then swallowed.

"Um," Jaskier started, hesitantly. He felt like he was observing his own body from afar. "It's...right across from...your sword."

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Aqa

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