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Skin, Geralt often finds himself thinking, can be such a weak barrier.
It seems so odd, that the last line to hold together the weird muddle of a human body. Hold in the blood, protect the flesh from the dangerous mess of the outside world. The dirt and grit and dust of life, harsh and cruel, always pressing in, sticking close to skin, trying to find the cracks, contaminate the blood and body below.
What a weak barrier man’s skin was against the might of the world. So soft and fragile.
So easy to break. To destroy.
Easy to tear and rip and slice. Break open and let the precious fluids within spill free.
Easy to burn. To roast and blister and boil and crack.
Gods was it easy to break.
Sometimes it seemed just about anything could break a man’s skin.
Rough bark, harsh gravel, the slip of a sharp knife. The unwavering press of a blunt blade, pushing in without hesitation.
Almost anything could do it.
An untimely fall, uneven ground resulting in a tumble, and the next thing you know hands are torn open, knees scratched bloody, skin scraped clean off. Grit and dirt slip in, sliding between the cuts and scrapes, ragged and torn edges unable to do anything to stop it.
It was so easy to break, split by a rock, scraped open on rough wood, thorns piercing through the skin with ease. The everyday world had no issues breaking through the flesh of a man.
So, what chances did it have against the harsher things in life? The unusual, dark, unnatural hidden corners of the world, what chance did it have against that?
The world of sharp, pointed teeth, piercing through the skin, stab in deep. Teeth with sharp, serrated edges made to saw through flesh and muscle with ease. Teeth heavy and strong, made to crush and press and pulverise. Crack the bones, grind them to dust.
The world of sharp, pointed claws. Unnaturally long, inhumanly strong, stabbing through flesh with such terrifying skill. Ripping and tearing, indiscriminately destroying anything that has the misfortune to cross its path.
What hope did a man’s skin have to protect him from such things?
What chance did it have, to hold and guard against everything?
It was foolish to expect it to. Foolish to ask it to, to withstand the might of the world.
It could not be expected to survive such hostility, and so often, it does not.
This time, it did not.
The cuts are deep. Three, long gashes, carved deep into flesh. Skin ripped and torn, rugged edges dangling free. Shoulder carved up, a brutal, bloody mess.
It hurts to look at. Deep and red and raw. Exposed, in a way flesh shouldn’t be.
And that was not to touch on the other wounds. Knees scrapped bloody, soft flesh of a palm torn open, lip split and bloody. Teeth stained red.
It was messy, all of it was messy. Gods so messy. Blood still sluggishly dripping free, a slow, sticky mess, soaking into the remains of the ruined fabric surrounding it. Shredded doublet still sticking to the skin, needing to be peeled free. Undershirt torn, caught up in the mess, fibers scattered, settled in the open wounds.
He dabs at it, damp cloth pressing against torn flesh. Tries to clean out the dirt, the grit and dust of life. Work free the infectious mess of the world.
Watches teeth clench. Grind tight together. Bard’s face screwed up tight, eyes squeezed shut, as though trying to close out the world in any way he can. Make up for the broken skin, do its job for it.
Cloth passes over flesh once more, working free the mess. The scraps of cloth, the mud and dirt, stones so small they could become lost within the flesh if one were not careful.
Hears Jaskier hiss through those clenched teeth. Shutter, body shaking against his will, twitching, shifting, forward, into the pain, before dancing back, away, as much as he could manage it. Hands clenching, knuckles white, nails digging into bloody palms, tearing them further. Blood dripping down between his fingers, pooling around the nails, staining them red.
Everything tense. Muscles shaking under the strain of trying to hold still.
“Relax.”
Tension only makes it worse. Holds it tight, sharp and on edge. Muscles strained. Skin pulled taunt, torn edges tugging on the rest of the flesh.
At times like this part of him can’t help but be grateful that his own skin is not so fragile. So easily breakable. Easy to tear and rip and shred.
His own skin is tough. Harsh and weathered. Well worn against the brunt of the world. Skin strong, thick, and calloused.
Tough hands, rough. Not made for delicate work, too thick and heavy. Skin too firm, a strong barrier between the tips of his fingers and the mess of the world. Keeping blood and body in, keeping out the press, the brush, of the rest of the world.
For tough hands as rough to the touch as they are in touch.
Rough, against others skin. He feels it the most then, when rough fingertips brush against another’s soft flesh. Rough fingertips, so well worn and harsh, sometimes he worries they alone would be enough to tear a man’s skin. Or a woman’s, anyone of the world. When he choses to lie with them, wrap thick arms around another’s body.
He worries, sometimes, that the course edges of rough hands will catch on soft skin, split and tear it open. Fingertips pressed so pleasantly against soft hips will press too hard. Nails turned to claws, digging through flesh.
He blinks away the thought. An unhelpful image to have in his mind when he should be focused on fixing another’s skin.
He offers another gentle pass of the cloth. At least he hopes it is gentle, hopes it is as light as it can be, enough to clear away the dirt, without tearing open the wounds any further. Without ripping through the delicate skin.
The blood is almost cleared away, skin rubbed raw and red. He dabs at it one last time, wounds finally clean. Or as clean as he will get them. Stark. Raw. Deep red flesh lined with rugged, ripped skin, edges turned white, dead and useless.
He settles the cloth aside, sets down the bowl, water and rag both stained red, saturated and messy.
Jaskier huffs, rolls tense shoulders. Roll out some of the stress. Settle them comfortably. Skin rippling, tugging and shifting as the muscles move below. Watching carefully as Geralt prepares the needle, wipes it in spirits, pulls through the thread.
Hand held steady, wrist resting against Jaskier’s flesh. He takes a breath, feels Jaskier’s body tense again under his touch, muscles tightened and stiff.
He pauses, hums, “relax.”
Stressed shoulders roll again, shifting under his touch. Settling, still tense.
“…breath Jaskier,”
He gets a huff in answer, bard looking away, focusing on the window across the room, staring out, into the darkness, night having swallowed all of the view beyond. A black wall pressed against the glass; world contained to the room around them.
Jaskier sighs. Deep and heavy, chest pulling up, dropping down, quick and heavy. Shoulders roll once more, settle.
Better this time. Not calm, not relaxed, but better. Less tense, if nothing else.
Not perfect, but likely as good as he will get.
He steadies the hand. Needle presses in, through the flesh. Jaskier hisses, eyes still locked on the window. Teeth gritted, hands clasping at nothing, pain painted on his face.
He doesn’t look at the bard’s face. Doesn’t look at the white knuckles, the nails cutting into flesh. He focuses instead on the wounds before him.
Needle pulls through, thread tied together, careful and gentle. Snips it off and moves to start on the next stitch, repeat the process, until the wound is closed.
As he works the skin slowly moves with each tug. Each careful pull of the thread, each knot tied together, carefully cut off.
Skin shifts, sliding back together, back into place. Pressed together, held carefully in place, until it can hold on its own, until the barrier is closed once more, flesh and blood protected as it should be.
Jaskier hisses at each tug. Each stab of the needle, the shift of the skin, the tug as he knots each stitch together. Thread pulled taunt.
One wound sewed shut, he pauses for a moment. Breaths, takes a moment to wipe clean the next wound, wipe away the pool of blood that had been brought to the surface with each tugging pull on the bard’s flesh.
He is grateful his own skin is easier to stich back together. The toughness makes it such a simpler task. Rough edges easy to yank back together, time and care not needed to complete the task. Simply pull together stiff edges, tie it together and leave it be.
No time needed to slowly tug skin together, try to lower the pain. No need to take the care to line up stitches, find the best way to fit back together a rugged and uneven gash, take the care to line everything up, nice and neat, decrease the chance of scaring. Decrease the extent of the scaring, if nothing else.
He has no care for such things. He feels he is free to let his skin do as it wishes. Let it sort and stick and repair itself as it wishes.
But he will not do that to the bard. Will not risk marring Jaskier’s skin in such a way. He will sit through the huffs and hisses, each little wince, to take the time to line up each stitch. Make it neat, clean. As delicate and gentle as he can.
Leave the skin as unmarked as he can.
He lets it take the time it needs.
He stiches the wounds together carefully, gently, as softly as he can manage.
Until torn skin is returned to its place. Each knot tied off, dark thread stark against the pale white skin.
He carefully cuts the final thread free. Feels Jaskier breath a sigh of relief. Shoulders drop down, hands relaxed, fingers softly curled.
He sets the needle and thread aside. Tugs free clean bandages, ready to carefully wind them around each wound.
Jaskier hums, head tilted back, taking a moment to breath, “I can finish it, if you want.” Jaskier’s voice is rough, low and gravely, as torn as his skin.
He snorts. Pushes away the bard’s reaching hand, before thinking better of it, catches the asking palm instead, turning it over in his grasp.
He studies the gash. The skin scrapped away, soft nail marks indenting the flesh. Takes up the least blood-soaked rag they have, carefully cleaning the palm.
Jaskier hisses, tries half heartedly to tug the arm back before giving in, grumbling quietly under his breath. He doesn’t bother to pick out the words, the empty insults, lacking any true bite.
Palm wiped free of blood he does his best to dry it off, wind a length of clean bandage around the wound. Let the cloth keep it clean and safe. Guard it from the messy dangers of the world, until the skin underneath grows back.
With a final tug he lets the hand drop. Lets Jaskier yank it back, cradle it softly against his chest.
Jaskier sniffs, wipes at his nose with the back of his hand, dirtying the bandages already.
He sighs at the move. Holding back the urge to scold. To grumble and argue and bite. It would not help. Not now, with wounds so fresh and new, it would do nothing but add to the hurt.
He unwinds more bandages. Winds them carefully around the rest of the wounds. Shifts Jaskier’s shoulder to let him settle the bandages correctly, shape them around the awkward slices, carved deep into the skin.
Jaskier tilts, head shifting, stretching out his neck, his back, letting muscles move, shift and resettle afterwards. Bandages shifting with him, secure enough to remain in place.
Jaskier sighs again, head tilting back to face Geralt, a small, tired smile pulling on the corner of his lips.
He smiles back, gentle and soft, leaning in to carefully wipe the half-dried streak of blood from Jaskier’s chin. Jaskier’s face scrunches at the pressure, a mock recreation of his earlier pained grimace.
Jaskier huffs, glancing away as the hand drops down, away from his face. Jaskier sighs softly, eyes glancing back for a moment before returning to the window.
“Anything else need bandaging?”
The bard shrugs, eyes not moving from the window.
“Jaskier.”
Jaskier sighs again, head turns back to face him, “…no, no nothing else needs bandaging.”
He grunts, offers his own tired sigh, “good.” He hums softly, hand resting for a moment on Jaskier’s arm, thumb softly rubbing against the skin before it drops away.
Jaskier shifts, hand rising to rest against the spot Geralt had just touched, rubbing nervously at his arm, self soothing as best he can.
He stands, offers Jaskier’s undamaged shoulder a gentle squeeze, “it will heal Jask,”
“…it will scar.”
He pauses, sighs with a tired nod, “probably,” a tired thumb pinches his brow, heavy weight tugging on his mind, “but it will still heal.”
Skin will stitch itself together, regrow as best it can, fix the cracks, even if in doing so it must leave reminders of the damage in its wake. It might not be perfect, but it would heal all the same.
Jaskier huffs, twisting to stare at the bandages, wrapped thick and firm around his chest, “I will be marked, Geralt, scarred.” It’s a fake annoyance, supposed to be playful, but something behind it makes Geralt’s chest burn.
A cut off growl slips from his throat, angry and sharp, sudden anger managing to overpower exhaustion, “well maybe that’s what happens when you get in the way – throw yourself in front of a beast’s claws, what did you expect would happen bard?” the last word leaves his mouth as a half snarl, lip curled in annoyance.
Jaskier shifts, grimaces, glancing away, air soured between them. “it wasn’t-” Jaskier sighs, “I didn’t- I had to stop it before… it was going to kill her Geralt, what else was I supposed to do?”
He can see it, as Jaskier speaks. The mindless beast, claws sharp, deadly, swinging down towards the child. She was young. Gods so young, too young to be there, too young to die, alone in the woods, torn limb from limb, bones crushed between strong jaws.
But she would have been, if that idiot hadn’t intervened, thrown a fragile human shoulder between the claws and the girl. If the strike had hit only slightly higher, slightly to the side… hit the heart, the neck… gods how close had they come to that?
He swallows. Nods, “… I know Jask, I know. Just…” he sighs, wants to say, ‘leave it to me next time,’ ‘don’t get involved’ ‘don’t risk your fucking life you fucking idiot, how could you?’ But he doesn’t. He can’t. Because if Jaskier hadn’t… they would have had nothing more than a corpse to return to a worried mother.
He rests an arm back around Jaskier’s shoulders, pulls the man close, “it will heal,” he offers the shoulder a soft squeeze, light and gentle, “it will heal.”
Jaskier sighs, pressing back close, face resting against Geralt’s shirt, soft and warm.
He hums, hand cupping Jaskier’s face, tilts the bard’s face up, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Watches Jaskier’s eyes comfortably slip close, face relaxing, tension slowly sliding off, sliding away.
It will heal. Slowly, in time, skin will stitch itself back together. Repair the gaps. Give it time and it will heal.
And he will be there to make sure it does.