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The last nekker has long stopped thrashing and squirming in agony when Geralt finally allows his frenzied body to relax just slightly, the fury of the fight still lingering in his super sharp reflexes and inhuman speed, excess energy steaming right under his sweaty, dirty skin.
It boils in his blood, raw and violent, and it makes his upper lip twitch imperceptibly and quiver, as restless as his trembling hands and rigid legs, the joints popping with a satisfying crunch when he takes a first, tentative step out of the comforting darkness of the woods.
Predictably enough, sunlight is still too bright, almost offensive, it roughs up his hypersensitive eyes making him go blind for a split second before he deems it safer to hide out in the shadows for a while longer, at least until sundown or, even better, until dusk has settled in full.
In hindsight, he shouldn’t have gobbled down that backup Blizzard when he had spotted a dozen more nekkers coming from the nest hidden in the underbrush, but what’s done is done, wrong calls have been made and whatnot.
The tremor in his hands is, if anything, annoying. And so is the fact that he can’t focus his gaze on the same target for more than a couple of seconds before getting antsy, his brain urging him to divert his focus somewhere else, looking for any potential threat that would sneak up on him in the wild. Needless to say there’s none, though he can hear the distant, faint howling of a male wolf in his prime on the edge of his hearing. A long, weary sigh escapes his lips. He could take some White Honey, of course, but sadly he has none at the ready, and he curses under his breath for it.
Thing is, he wasn’t prepared for so many nekkers. He’s fairly old, both for human and even witcher standards, so he’s well aware that nekkers tend to form large colonies, but this one? Well, if someone cared to ask him what his opinion on the matter is, he would go for “ huge”. A massive nest with almost thirty individuals, an astonishingly large populace for an ogroid species -- well, before the alderman of the small village at the foot of the hills had offered him a hefty sum to get rid of them, that is.
He has even dared to break his fast before going off to exterminate the unwanted guests of the woods - on Jaskier’s insistence, of course - and now he’s regretting it wildly, his upset stomach rumbling and kicking, the sour taste of toxins and half-digested sausages and cheese burning on his tongue. He tries to vomit, bending forward and forcing himself to gag, but Blizzard has always had this kind of weird side-effect on him, it makes his stomach churn while, at the same time, preventing him from puking his guts out like he does with most of the other potions he imbibes before challenging jobs. Vomiting would be helpful, since he doesn’t have any White Honey at the ready. To his defense, he wasn’t planning on taking anything stronger than half a vial of Thunderbolt to make things quick and easy.
So.
He wonders how long will the effects of the elixir last in his system. He doesn’t like to wander around when he’s under the spell of potions specifically designed to make a killing machine out of him, thus sharpening his reflexes so much he could catch a fly with his bare hands an a blindfold to cover his eyes, and enhancing his senses to maximise his efficiency in combat.
Not that he has always strictly avoided humans while in such an overexcited state. Once or twice he has found himself in no position of waiting for the effect of the potions to wear off before crawling to the nearest village, looking for someone who had the skills and the balls to help him keep his guts inside of his belly and not, well, scattered on the ground.
Speaking of which.
Though he’s not feeling himself yet, Geralt knows he must run a quick check of his own injuries and possible broken, sprained or disjointed bones. Potions like Blizzard dull the pain to the point of not letting a witcher know if he’s bleeding out from an artery. Carefully, Geralt starts prodding at the various bumps, bruises and gashes he can find based on where and how much torn his gambeson is. He finds a couple of straight cuts on his ribs that will need some mending, or a few drops of Swallow if he can tolerate it, two bad bruises that are going to give him hell as soon as the effects of the Blizzard he has imbibed subside, and a nasty gash running down the length of his lower-leg, his heavy breeches torn and ragged.
“Fuck,” he mutters. Those were damn fine breeches.
His skin feels too tight. Nerves, muscles -- they jump under his skin, twitch, tremble, and Geralt can’t say if there’s a tiny little fraction of his body that isn’t moving somehow, right now.
He hates this. The antsiness that comes with having a potion still running in his system but no monster to fight at his hands. Not even a wolf. He doesn’t like engaging with wild animals - he perfectly gets their need of hunting and defending themselves - but he would literally pay for some action right now or, at least, for anything that would be even remotely helpful with releasing some of the tension in his muscles. For lack of anything better to do, he starts forming Signs with his fingers, without releasing them. It’s far better than just fidgeting uselessly, plus it’s an exercise in dexterity. Sadly, he gets bored easily enough, and even exhausting himself with actually wasting off some Signs doesn’t improve his situation.
And then-
Shit.
The thought of Jaskier probably already pestering everyone at the village to gather a party and defy the woods to look for him start forming behind his restless eyes. He grits his teeth against another surge of nausea, triggered by the fact that he’s morally obliged, now, to step into the slitting sunlight and take the tedious walk back to the settlement.
He can already feel the beginning of a headache pounding in his temples. A soft, exasperated groan escapes his lips. Dealing with human shit while he’s still like this is going to be painful. And annoying. And also, painful.
Still.
He owns Jaskier this kind of courtesy. He would never sit on his ass as serene as a wise crone if he know that Jaskier was out in the woods, all alone, probably fatally wounded or shit like that - because, of course, Jaskier is always convinced that he’s bleeding out, somehow, or in any mortal danger of some sorts. Geralt assumes it’s because his trade is, well, kind of a mortal one. Yet. Overthinking won’t do him any good in this predicament so, with another frustrated groan, he takes out his hunting knife and starts collecting some trophies and another bunch of useful thingies from the dead nekkers.
It’s going to be a fucking long day.
***
The first thing that assaults his overworked senses is the smell, that comes long before the overwhelming noise.
Human shit. Manure. The rusty tang of old blood - some freshly washed menstrual rags, perhaps, laid to dry under the sun - and the myriad of odours coming from the animals, each equally unbearable.
Fuck.
Trying to tight his nose shut is no use since Blizzard is still messing around with his senses and reflexes. It occurs to him that he must be extra careful with his movements now that he’s getting so close to the humans. Normally, his enhanced speed and reflexes can be just considered as above average, nothing too dramatic or so otherworldly to justify people’s distress or blatant fear in front of a witcher, but now he feels quick and strong and able to deflect a fucking shower of arrows with only a single blow of his blade, which means that he’ll surely make a couple of kids cry and some maids faint if he dared to do anything more than fetch a coin from his definitely not heavy enough purse.
He’ll be too fast. Too ready. And people tend to notice such details, especially since the reputation of witchers is so bad it sets people on edge without any apparent reason.
Which, in his experience, can pose a not insignificant threat; he’s got more than one scar to testify about all the various and creative ways people come up with when it comes to incapacitating a witcher and get rid of him.
He bares his teeth involuntarily at the thought.
It used to happen more often when Jaskier wasn’t traveling with him yet, but Geralt seems not to be able to rid himself of of that primordial tension anyway; not only human settlements feel overwhelming, but people -- the stares, the muttered words. He is always more than just alert when people, especially large crowds, are around.
Which, in his current state, is far from fine since every sound, every smell, every fucking color roughs his brain up like a tavern brawl against forty heavily-armored soldiers.
When a loaded cart passes him by on the road, the grating sound of the large wheels against the gravel almost makes his eardrums burst. A muscle jumps in his jaw and he has to make a fucking herculean effort not to reach for his sword and just eradicate the source of this agony. Even when it’s gone, already far behind the hills, Geralt can still feel that fucking sound scraping against his skull.
Not fucking good.
Approaching the wooden gates of the village feels like drowning.
Smells and sounds and bright colors and everything -- it all hurts the same. Children play near the fields and their shrieks pierce through Geralt’s skull. He is aware that he’s bleeding both from the straight cuts in his ribs and the gash in his leg, but at least the blood isn’t seeping from his armor, so he doesn’t draw any more attention than usual. Save from a couple of kids that pester him because they want to see his swords, no one bothers him during the short but fairly miserable walk to the inn.
It doesn’t mean that he’s faring well, by the way, and all of this colorful humanity is giving him a hell of a headache. The green dresses of the women are too green. Their aprons are too bright and too white, though dirty and clearly heavily used. Men whistling -- why do they have to be so fucking loud when they whistle?
Someone - Geralt barely registers if they’re a man or a woman, fully grown up or an exceptionally tall child - asks him something, words he can’t quite grasp drowned out as they are by the background noises. If he forces himself to focus, the pain in his ears becomes unbearable, so he just lets the peasant talk and grunts back what he hopes could suffice as an exhaustive answer.
He bumps into several shoulders on the street. Someone has the nerve of shutting “Oi!” in his direction, but the grimace that peels his upper lip back to reveal a set of sharp, pearly white teeth is enough to shut them up. He’s too overwhelmed for etiquette, by now. And the thought of facing the inn -- it should be enough to make him turn on his heels, deposit his trophies at the alderman’s doorstep and hide out in the forest ‘till night comes.
Hopefully, he would have vomited whatever Blizzard has left in his blood by then.
However.
Jaskier.
Jaskier doesn’t deserve to be confined in a backwater inn and worry about him all the time.
He lets a growl spring free from his mouth when a laundress sprays him with cold water, each drop stinging at his skin as if an entire hive of hornets has decided to pick on him.
Blizzard: wonderful effects in combat, a literal pain in the ass if its effect lasts longer than a fight. It occurs to him that he might have fucked up the recipe - his heightened tolerance to toxins allow him to take some liberties on the dosage of each ingredient - or maybe brewed the damn thing too strong, but it’s quite late for a self-lecture about safety and caution, he’s almost there, his eardrums sore from the dissonant singing of the day drinkers and the full-blown drunkards gathering around the bar.
The innkeep, at least, is so sensible not to comment on the fact that Geralt has swinged the door open with a slight kick and entered the inn carrying along some filthy nekker heads that reek of decomposing flesh and singed grease. Before the whole merry band of patrons can be all over him, he walks to the bar, slides a nice and shiny coin on the stained wood and, summoning all of his self-control, he forces some bits of a civilized speech out of his mouth.
“These -- bring the sacks to the alderman. Tell him -- the witcher -- is going to collect. Tomorrow.”
Gods.
When has everything become so loud?
He can’t stand the heavy, loud breathing of at least a dozen noses all around him. Sounds like the snorting of a herd of bulls, but amplified. And their heartbeats -- quick, fluttering butterflies that set his teeth on edge, fueling his adrenaline, his fight-or-flight response. He restrains himself from banging his fist into the bar, if only to thin out the crowd that’s swallowing him whole.
He’s grinding his teeth. It hurts.
Everything hurts.
People talk, and their stale breath chokes the air out of him.
He is drowning.
All he wishes for is to curl up in a ball on the floor and just -- wait. Wait for his body to expel the toxins. Wait for -- everything to go away.
The people. Their flamboyant colors. The harsh sounds of their voices, their heartbeats, their grating breathing sounds. All these smells.
Everything.
“Geralt? Melitele be praised, you’re back! And in one piece, more so!”
Jaskier.
Geralt would very much like to tell him to keep it quiet, but it seems like he isn’t physically able to unclench his teeth right now, so he only groans at Jaskier - or, at least, in his general direction, it’s hard to tell when there’s so much noise around - and he reaches for him, not bothering to move slowly so he can pretend to blend in, just-
He wants to go away.
Safe.
Quiet.
He is on Jaskier in a flash, and he doesn’t mean any harm when he grabs him by the collar of his indecently unbuttoned doublet - why does he always have to be so indecent - and drags him across the floor, not minding his frequent “oh dear”, “oh Geralt” muttered under his breath.
No one dares to stop him, thankfully. In his current state, Geralt is at risk of shattering someone’s jaw with a well-aimed right hook, and that would only make things go south and south, endangering not only himself but Jaskier too.
And, well, Jaskier doesn’t deserve any of this shit.
“Geralt?”
The crumpled fabric of the expensive doublet crunches under Geralt’s fingers. When he lets go of Jaskier with a grunt, they’re already upstairs, in the short hallway leading to the few single rooms the inn has to offer.
“Fine, fine,” says Jaskier with a slightly flushed face and fever-bright eyes, “I’ll lead the way. Come on.”
Geralt covers his ears against the shrill sound of the bard’s voice, a gesture that doesn’t fall unnoticed.
“Loud. Please. Don’t.”
Jaskier frowns. Geralt has walked on him with a mild sensory overload and the residual effects of one or two potions still lingering, but never like this, never in such pain and discomfort. He understands, though, and his voice becomes thin and low.
“Oh, Geralt. What happened?” He asks, as he walks down the hallway and pushes open the last door on the left. Geralt can’t help but notice that the keyhole has been somehow unhinged, and therefore it hangs useless from the ruined wooden door. He growls, discontentment displaying on his twisted features, his lips curled in a feral snarl.
“Potion,” he tries to explain dryly, without needing to knit together many words. “Need...quiet.”
Again, Jaskier chooses to go for a pretty self-explanatory “Oh dear”, only merely whispered this time.
Geralt will never be thankful enough. However, the horrendous screech the door makes as it gets swinged close has him covering his ears with his hands again, his teeth rattling in his skull horribly as he grinds arch against arch, almost chipping one or two.
“Sweet Melitele, Geralt, tell me the blood on your hands isn’t yours.”
Only after a beat Geralt feels comfortable enough to unplug his ears and take a look at his own hands -- he has no recollection of having gotten rid of his own gloves, so the sight of his bare, bloody hands is unsettling to say the least.
“Mine,” he states. Soon enough he’ll be ready to vomit; his stomach is churning so terribly it feels like having eaten a living being that just refuses to die and...squirms around. Jaskier might already consider himself an expert on the matter of detoxification and potion overdose - which has happened one too many times for Geralt to feel proud about his recent deeds - so he fetches a bucket and pushes it into Geralt’s hands.
“Yours? What happened? Do you require stitches?”
Geralt shakes his head firmly. Bad, bad idea. He feels so dizzy he’s forced to lean against the wooden wall and slide slowly until his ass meets the dirty floor with a heavy thud.
“No...no stitches. I dug...my nails…”
“You dug your nails into your palm?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. But...why, Geralt?”
He is so overwhelmingly tired of talking. When retching finally comes, he welcomes it as a fairly unpleasant but very efficient way of wiggling out of the conversation.
Jaskier’s litany of oh dear fades into background noise after a while. When he’s done with the vomiting, Geralt feels like someone who has been beaten to an inch of his life by a band of brigands, his wounds and bruises starting to sting and burn immediately, as a not-so-pleasant fog settles into his brain. It’s Jaskier that helps him out of his bloody, filthy armor, carefully removing one piece at a time and, obviously, fussing over Geralt’s wounds, blabbering things that Geralt can’t quite grasp, fast and urgent. Still, he can’t help but murmur a faint “Thanks” when Jaskier hands him a vial of Swallow -- they’re slowly getting there, since Geralt has started labeling his vials. Jaskier is kind of a fast learner on that matter, so he would trust him without even catching the sour stench of crushed drowner brain and celandine coming from the vial.
“I’ll get the sewing kit…”
He shakes his head vehemently.
“No. Need to...lay down, now. For...a while.”
“My, that potion was a real fuck up, isn’t it?”
Geralt huffs out a small chuckle. It comes out growly and distorted but it will do.
“Something went wrong...with the brewing.”
“I guessed as much. Come on, lean on me, the bed is kind of narrow and lumpy but you’ll be comfortable. More than if you lay down on the floor, at least, which I wouldn’t recommend. A piss-poor cleaning service, hu?”
Now, Geralt’s definition of comfortable might be debatable, but there’s nothing comfortable in the hard, impractical and half-broken bunk the innkeep tries to sell as a bed. He tosses and turns, growls, grumbles until Jaskier is at his side, his fingers gently combing through his sweaty hair.
“Stay,” Geralt growls, leaning into the touch. It feels comforting, now, no longer painful and itchy. Jaskier’s hands are cool against his heated, warm skin, and his smell - stale sweat under a pleasant whiff of rosemary and lavender soap - is relaxing, soft, a balm against all the stench that has punched him in the guts since he has returned to the village.
Not to mention his whispering, which sounds like melted honey and silk.
When Jaskier scoots him gently to lay down with him for a while, Geralt curls up on his chest, allowing the beating of his heart to drown out everything else. It’s quick and slightly loud, but at least it keeps all the other violent, aggressive noises at bay.
He sighs, and Jaskier takes courage to start rubbing soothing circles into his back.
They’ve been close before, but never this close. Sure, they’ve shared beds and bedrolls, with Jaskier often sleeping all sprawled out on Geralt, indecently half-naked most of the time, but -- this feels different. It’s a kind of intimacy that Geralt isn’t used to experiencing outside the safe walls of Kaer Morhen, still if feels amazingly right, though he suspects the heavy exhaustion is playing a major role in making him actually enjoy the coddling.
He doesn’t want to think now.
He only wants everything to dull out, and if he focuses hard enough on Jaskier’s breathing and the steady beating of his heart, perhaps, he’ll be his usual self in an hour or so.
In the meantime, why should he deprive himself of Jaskier’s gentle touch and the soft sounds coming from his frail, human body, so soothing and yet so incredibly grounding?
“Feels...good,” he hears himself saying, and Jaskier’s heart flutters at his words.
Usually, Geralt wouldn’t be so physical, but yet -- desperate times call for desperate measures.
“Oh. Really?”
It’s impossible to miss the sheer surprise in Jaskier’s voice. Geralt sighs, rubbing his cheek gently against his chest.
“Mmmh.”
“Oh.”
He considers saying something else. A thank you, Jaskier would be nice, he’s sure. Still, he can’t summon enough strength to form a coherent thought, let alone a coherent sentence. Jaskier, as usual, compensates for his rusty communication skills on his own.
“We shall do it more often, then.”
Geralt, for the time being, agrees.