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He knew he was in trouble when the cramps started. It wasn't muscle weariness, it wasn't even a sudden strain. It was the deep, wrenching, oh no kind of cramping, low in his abdomen and immediately crippling.
He'd felt that before—that sick, edge of poisoning that came from too many decoctions. Or a bad mixture. At that point, when he barely missed being gutted by throwing himself unceremoniously to the left of the ekimmara, he didn't care what it was. He'd gone into instinctive survival mode, and it felt suspiciously like panic.
But Witchers didn't panic, they improvised, so he improvised through a fog of adrenaline and what could only be subconscious training. No rational part of his mind would have told him to throw the only bomb he had—a cloud of dimeritium, and use the moment of glittering green smoke to throw himself over the rail and into the water fifteen feet below.
He hit hard, and dove, the bare half a breath in his lungs escaping in a choking of bubbles. Blood fogged in the water and he couldn't tell if it was because he bit his tongue, or if the toxicity was at such a stage his skin was just, breaking down. Another powerful spasm of cramps wracked through him from ribs to groin and he nearly blacked out, the urge to curl up almost overpowering the knowledge that doing so would be his death. He had to keep swimming, get far enough away from his enemy that he could surface.
But his heart was uncharacteristically racing and tripping, and all he had left was the oxygen already in his blood. His lungs were empty. Or he hoped they were. He scrambled, uncaring now how far he'd made it, consumed only with the desire to reach the surface and breathe again.
He broke into the air with a flail and a sputter, the spray of water as he crawled onto the shore glittering in the very early sunlight. He choked and wretched, his legs still in the water, his head hung low between his shoulders as he barely held himself up on his elbows. He screwed his eyes shut and shuddered in a wet breath, coughing so hard his chest hurt. He groaned and crawled a few more feet up the shore, literally dragging his armor heavy body through the muddy sand.
A tremor ran through him and he groaned pitifully, his eyes rolling in his head as he flopped onto his side and curled up. His lungs begged him to lay on his back, but the pain wracking through his abdomen didn't let him. It wasn't getting any better, and as he groped at his hip for the flask that should have been there he felt an entirely different drop in his stomach.
His pack was gone completely, only the frayed edges of the straps that had been holding it coming apart in his hand.
For a moment he just lay there in disbelief, his fingers curling against his thigh and his breathing coming ragged and wrong through an open mouth. Blood and sweat and mud milled with the water and ran into his eyes and mouth, but the burning in his chest and the horrible pains in his stomach was all he had power to focus on.
I'm going to die like this, he thought vaguely, squeezing his eyes shut and curling up tighter. No white honey to cleanse his system, no saving his system, which was quickly growing more unstable. His heart was racing and he clenched his fist against it, teeth grit and head throbbing.
The last thought he had before he blacked out was Yen did have a point about the potions after all.
“Geralt! Geralt—blast, where is he?” Yennefer exclaimed, following the orb of red magic she was using to try and track the wayward witcher. He'd gone out on a 'simple' vampire contract but hadn't returned at dawn as he should have. She'd given him exactly one hour before she went after him, running into Regis along the way.
“I can't help but be aware of vampire hunts,” he'd explained. “I was going to try and deal with the beast myself, since it was past rabid, but it seems Geralt got there first. I started looking for him when I realized only he could have taken such a contract.”
They'd continued to follow Geralt's trail together after that, Yennefer searching for him magically while Regis uncovered more organic markers. It was still taking too long to find him for Yennefer's liking.
The trail had led them all the way to a nobleman's balcony and then over it into the stream below. Tracking Geralt if he had fallen into the water was harder for Regis' reliance on scent so they'd hoped Yennefer's magic was accurate.
“Well, it's tracked a part of him,” she said flatly, gesturing at a bloodied rock and a scrap of leather. She knelt and fished the familiar satchel out of the water, her brow furrowed as she raised her head to look downstream. “He's lost his potions pack,” she said, new worry lacing the tone. She flipped it open, the leather soaked through and yet still smelling vaguely like blood. She wrinkled her nose. “Of course.”
“What is it?” Regis asked, approaching on her right and crouching next to her.
“Every potion in this bloody pack is gone except white honey.” She snapped it shut and shoved it roughly in her bag, striding with renewed determination downstream. Regis followed her almost meekly.
“I can smell him--” he said suddenly, perking up. “He's nearby.”
When a white head and a crumpled figure in armor finally came into view, both sorceress and Vampire began to run.
Regis disappeared in a billow of smoke and re-appeared at Geralt's side, already gently moving him onto his back and cradling his head in a clawed hand.
“He's still breathing,” Regis reported as Yennefer fell to her knees next to him. “I fear you were correct about his potion intake. His toxicity is extremely high.” He frowned, touching Geralt's chest as his mind briefly flit back to the witcher heart in his collection, a heart that had burst from potion abuse.
Geralt's, for the moment, was still intact and beating. But it didn't sound right.
Yennefer's lips were pressed together, her brow drawn as she fished the last potion out of Geralt's pack and quickly uncorked it, lifting his head with one hand as she brought the elixer to his lips. Regis helpfully moved to pry Geralt's jaw open, a harder feat than expected since he was clenching even unconscious.
Yennefer poured the white honey into Geralt's mouth and then covered both his mouth and nose, waiting for him to swallow out of reflex. It took only a moment and then she waited, eyes searching his pale face for a sign that he might wake up. The dark veins brought into contrast from the toxicity were unnerving to look at and Regis wrinkled his nose, glancing at a wound oozing slowly in Geralt's thigh.
Blood, especially to vampires, had a very distinctive scent. Humans could normally only detect the copper, but Regis could smell far more, the warm, heady scent like ambrosia to his natural pallet. Vampires craved life and blood was bursting with it. Life itself had a scent and a sound and a heat, and all were bound up beautifully in that precious liquid.
Geralt's blood smelled entirely wrong. Acrid scents, like the aftertaste of gunpowder marred it and it was off in color. Even the sound of his blood was wrong, and Regis found himself thinking of his collection again as Geralt's heart took two staggering, arrythmic beats before finding itself again. Regis listened with furrowed brow as Yennefer continued to check Geralt over—thumbing an eyelid up so she could see his pupil.
“Idiot,” she cursed, glancing at Regis. “Lift him, will you? I'll conjure a portal and we'll get home faster that way.”
Regis obliged, carefully scooping the unconscious witcher into his arms. Geralt was physically larger than he was, but not by much and to a vampire's strength the difference was utterly trivial. He stood there holding his friend as Yennefer ripped a portal into the world and strode through it. Regis breathed out a long breath and glanced at Geralt's head where it rested against his shoulder. “You are in for quite the lecture when you wake, my friend,” he warned before walking through.
Yennefer had opened the portal right into their bedroom at Corvo Bianco and Regis obligingly lay Geralt down as Yennefer flit about getting supplies.
“His thigh will need to be bound and if he hasn't already destroyed his digestive tract he'll need food and water when he wakes,” she was saying to herself, anger billowing around her to mask what Regis knew was worry. He merely sat with Geralt and worked at getting him out of his armor, knowing it was the best course of action to stay out of Yennefer's way until she'd cooled.
It took twenty six hours for Geralt to detox out.
An unsteady heartbeat and spasming muscles gave way to an even unsteadier heartbeat and trouble breathing. Then the sweats and the low grade fever, then an eerie, unnatural stillness. It was that stillness that troubled Regis most, and he spent the entirety of it with his eyes cast down and his hand on Geralt's wrist, listening to his slow heartbeat and waiting hopefully for another. By the time Geralt went still Yennefer could do nothing else active for him, and so she spent those long, terrible hours with her head on his chest, so clearly praying for the same thing. Her shoulders were curled in and her inky hair sprawled across her lover's chest, such a contrast to her normally proud appearance it made Regis grimace.
Gradually, the veins faded and what little color Geralt posessed bled back into his skin. Around hour twenty five Regis brought his head up as a particularly strong thump from Geralt's chest was followed by a deep, healthy inhale. Yennefer had jerked her head up and was staring at Geralt's face, searching for a twitch of change.
“His heart has grown stronger,” Regis said softly, knowing Yennefer had heard the same thing. “It's settled back to where it should be. That's reason for hope.”
She said nothing, only gripped Geralt's wrist a little harder and sat memorizing his features until he woke.
Geralt came aware again with a groan, his whole body feeling like achy sand. “Ughhhh.” He licked his lips and blinked his eyes open, squinting as his pupils retracted sharply to the candle light. The air smelled like very early morning. “That was awful.”
“Yes. It was.”
His eyes widened and he glanced up, seeing Yennefer standing above him with her hands on her hips. He swallowed reflexively. “Hey...Yen...”
“Don't--” she said harshly, holding up a finger to silence him. “Don't Yen me right now. You nearly died. Black blood and white lightning!?” she exclaimed. “What possessed you to mix those?? Not even Lambert would try something so foolish.”
He grimaced. “Overconfidence,” he rasped. “Didn't think about the acidity interacting.....”
“White lightning is what killed the witcher in my study,” Regis said, stepping closer to Geralt's right and sitting on the bed. “I would have thought that visual would stick with you better.”
“Oh good you're here too,” Geralt said dryly, slowly pushing himself into a sitting position before sighing and staring at his lap. “It was a mistake, I'm sorry. Believe me, I'm really sorry,” he emphasized, remembering the horrible cramps. “But my heart is intact and I'm awake enough to get a lecture so it can't have been that bad right?”
“Your heart is intact because it is still strong,” Regis said seriously, his voice managing to chastise just as soundly as Yennefer even though he spoke softly. “For a time I was afraid I would hear it tear. There may yet be damage you'll need to heal from.”
“And do you know why it is strong?” Yennefer bit into the conversation. “Because I've nursed you through countless detoxes and prevented you from countless more. You may not realize it, but I've flooded your unconscious body with healing magics more times than I can remember. You will finish yourself if you continue like this, and I will not accept it.”
Geralt looked away, closing his hand on the blanket. He didn't say anything to that, knowing Yennefer was right. Again. And yet he still had the unwise urge to argue with her even a little, to defend himself as a competent witcher because honestly the situation was embarrassing.
“Decoctions have saved my life too, you know,” he said almost snidely, instantly regretting it. He glanced up at Yennefer, seeing the raw fury in her eyes.
“Not as many times as I have,” she said sharply, tossing the rag she'd been using to cool his brow onto the table with an aggressive smack. “Not as many times as I'm willing to, despite your suicidal methods.”
She stormed out, and Geralt grimaced, rubbing his forehead wearily. “Regis, the next time I open my mouth when she's mad, just smack me before I can speak?”
Regis hummed. “I don't think even that will stop you. Do you?”
He sighed. “Nope. Probably not.” He scrubbed his hand down his face and then shifted to get up, causing a spark of alarm to cross Regis' features. The vampire was quickly next to him, hand pressing hard into the middle of Geralt's chest to stop him rising. Geralt glanced down at the palm so perfectly pressed against his heart, then up at the vampire, raising an eyebrow.
“My heart isn't going to burst, Regis,” he said gently. “I've done this before. Yeah, it was stupid but not fatal.”
“This time,” Regis said quietly. “Do forgive my over-protective nature Geralt but consider my position for a moment.”
He knelt, his dark eyes troubled and his hand still resting on Geralt's chest. The thought occurred to Geralt that as a witcher he shouldn't be at all comfortable with a vampire's claws that close to his heart but he shrugged it off. Regis wasn't a vampire in his mind's classification any more—hadn't been for a long time. His heart would probably be safer in Regis' hands than it often was in Geralt's own chest, if he was being honest.
“I told you once that we're strangers here. That we've never quite found a way to be comfortable, even if we manage to blend in. I don't have many friends, but I am privileged to consider you one of them and it may be selfish of me but I do not relish the memory that you are mortal. In my eyes your years are already punishingly short. Please understand my hounding is only a reflection of the fact that I don't want to lose you any sooner than I must.”
Geralt heaved a great sigh against Regis' palm and nodded as the vampire finally took his hand away. “I know, Regis. I don't do this stuff on purpose I just--” he shrugged, rubbing at his hands as he stared into his lap. “Everybody makes mistakes. I just happen to have a profession where often, that's what does you in.”
“I know. And I won't ask you to give up your work, even though you're supposed to be retired,” Regis said snidely. “I know how much the hunt does for you, but please. Just listen to what I'm telling you, to what Yennefer is telling you. We aren't berating you because we think you do not know better. You'd never have lived this long if you weren't a capable witcher.”
“You know, the funny thing about all this Regis?” Geralt asked, a tired smile quirking his lips as he looked at the vampire. “I know everything you're telling me already, and I still manage to put my entire boot in my mouth in half the conversations I have with Yen. I know she's mad because she's worried and she doesn't want to see me die—and I still manage to say exactly the worst thing possible. After being with her for all these years.” He chuckled and shook his head, running a hand through his hair.
Regis smiled at that, shaking his head and chuckling himself. “Yes, well, that is one thing the males of our species seem to share. We both manage to enrage the females we admire on a regular basis no matter how well we know them.” He pat Geralt's knee before straightening up and waving a hand to dissmiss him. “Go on. Mend things with your mate. You don't want someone like Yennefer brooding.”
Geralt quirked an eyebrow. “You're going to let me get up now?”
“Yes, well, your heartbeat was quite strong against my palm and your blood smells clean once more so I would be more concerned with the wounds you are bound to sustain should you not patch things with your sorceress.”
He snorted, wincing. “Yeah. You and me both.”