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The weather refuses to clear up.
Geralt limps heavily up the sloping forest edge to get back to the road, mud pulling at his boots with every step. He’s regretting already having taken White Honey. It would be easier to ignore the pain with the potions still flooding his system. Every step jars the weeping gash on his outer thigh. He hasn’t stopped to assess the damage on his chest. The rain is making it impossible to tell if the wetness he’s feeling is blood or not.
The sky cracks with a flash of lightning, briefly illuminating the road ahead. The saturated fabric pulls painfully across his wounds. Jaskier had told him to take Roach but Geralt had known it was going to rain and figured he would spare himself having to clean her up after. He’s regretting leaving her behind now. His leg is throbbing as he drags it, barely able to even limp. The wyvern must have cut him deep for it to be affecting his ability to walk this much.
Geralt forces himself to put one sore foot in front of the other as he makes his way back to town. He knows if he doesn’t make it back tonight that Jaskier will come looking for him. It’s a wonder to think that there was a time in his long, long life where he hasn’t had someone fretting for him when he goes hunting. Jaskier hadn’t been allowed to come tonight; he would have been even more vulnerable than usual in the dark. Geralt had put his foot down and the bard had, for once, not complained. Too much, anyway.
It gives Geralt pause to think that Jaskier will be waiting up for him. He had told Geralt more than once that it made him too anxious to sleep if he knew the witcher was alone on a hunt nearby. “I have to keep tabs on my muse, you understand,” Jaskier had rambled, “and who else is going to stitch you up? Oh, don’t look at me like that. Your handiwork isn’t nearly as good as mine and we both know it. I’m basically a professional at this point. Perhaps I should consider a side career in medicine . . .”
Lights become visible in the distance and Geralt lets out a shaky breath. “Just a little bit further,” he encourages himself through clenched teeth. The rain is coming down harder and the edges of his normally clear night vision are starting to blur.
Breathing hard, he slumps against the front door to the inn, fumbling to get it open. The common room is empty. He leans heavily against the furniture as he makes his way to the stairs. He lifts his left foot to clear the first step and a sharp cry escapes him as a searing pain shoots through that leg. Stopping to catch his breath, he braces himself against the wall. The staircase is beginning to look insurmountable as he realizes his leg might not be able to take his weight.
He's seriously considering crawling up the stairs when there comes a quiet creaking of a door swinging open, followed by soft footsteps coming down the hall. A familiar face peers down into the dark.
“Geralt? Is that you? I thought I heard someone down here but then no one came upstairs so I thought I would come check. Did the wyvern give you much trouble?” Jaskier trots down the stairs and stops a step above him. “Oh, you are soaking wet! Are you all right? No, you’re not, what’s the matter?”
“I need you to-“ Geralt swallows hard against the pain that is not subsiding. “My leg.”
Jaskier’s hands start to wander, examining the torn trousers. He lets out a loud hiss. “My gods, Geralt, this is bad. Here, lean on me.” He slips under Geralt’s left arm, bracing a sturdy hand against his hip. Geralt often forgets that they are practically the same height and living life on the Path has made Jaskier deceptively strong. He lets Jaskier take his weight as they slowly make their way upstairs. Jaskier lets him set the pace. Every step feels like someone is putting a hot iron against his thigh. The unknown injury on his chest is also complaining but Geralt can’t help but pant. He is filthy, a disgusting combination of blood, sweat, rain, and mud, and he has a fleeting thought that he’s probably getting some of it on Jaskier, who is never not meticulous about his clothing. He’s going to have to make it up to him for that.
They finally make it to the landing. Jaskier guides him carefully to their room, shutting the door behind them with a push of his foot.
Geralt blinks, trying to clear his vision. Maybe it isn’t just the rain that’s blurring things. Jaskier says something but Geralt can’t make it out. There’s a rush in his ears like he’s underwater. He squeezes his eyes shut in one more attempt to clear them but the edges are getting dark. Oh, fuck. He’s going down.
He feels his mouth move, slurring out some kind of warning to Jaskier. Jaskier’s grip on him tightens to soften the fall but it can’t save him from the overwhelming pain that shoots through his body as his knees hit the floor.
And then nothing.
* * *
Jaskier is not sore about being left behind on the hunt. He is not. Geralt is a very competent witcher who is perfectly capable of performing a sneak attack on a wyvern in the middle of the night. The evening will be more boring without him but Jaskier has always been talented when it comes to occupying himself.
The rain started early, just as Geralt said it would. Jaskier is sure he would be better off taking Roach but Geralt insisted on walking. Stubborn as usual.
It’s late enough that Jaskier is on the edge of starting to worry when he hears the sound of the front door. The relief he feels at finding Geralt at the bottom of the stairs is quickly replaced with concern at the discovery of the gaping leg wound. They make it to their room when Jaskier feels Geralt start to sway, mumbling something unintelligible that Jaskier interprets for the warning it is. He tries to help Geralt go down easy but the witcher hits the floor like his strings have been cut. Jaskier sets him the rest of the way down carefully, mind racing ahead at what needs to be done.
Geralt doesn’t look any less in pain despite being unconscious. Jaskier peels off his torn trousers and has to take a breath when he’s able to see the wound clearly. A long, deep gash runs across the outside of Geralt’s thigh, still bleeding sluggishly, the surrounding skin red and swollen. The thick muscle has been sliced through like it’s nothing; no wonder he can barely stand. Torn skin and fabric are crusting around the edges. That’s going to need to be cleaned thoroughly before Geralt’s body starts to heal itself and seals in anything foreign.
Jaskier makes quick work stripping Geralt of the rest of his armor. He wishes he had been able to get him onto the bed before he passed out but maybe it’s better to clean the wounds on the floor. No point in soiling multiple sets of sheets.
Removing the armor and the soaked clothes beneath reveals a massive amount of bruising and three long but fairly superficial scratches across his ribcage. Nowhere near as bad as the leg wound but they will still need to be cleaned.
Jaskier rolls up his sleeves. There’s a lot of work ahead.
* * *
It’s still raining when Geralt wakes up.
The grey skies make it hard to determine what time it is. He lets out a slow breath as his injuries make themselves known. There’s a familiar pull of bandages across his chest and leg. He winces at the sight of the purple and blue bruises mottling what he can see of his chest. Every muscle in his body is aching in loud harmony. He remembers passing out on the floor but is now somehow in bed. He shifts his good leg, wondering if he can find the strength to get up for some water.
The other side of the bed starts to move. Jaskier’s sleep-mussed hair appears in the corner of Geralt’s vision. “You should not be awake,” the bard grumbles at him. “Do you have any idea how much blood you lost? No, you don’t, because you weren’t conscious to see the mess. They’re going to have to sterilize this room, maybe even replace the floor. I’ll have to cough up some extra coin because I think I ruined every piece of fabric I could find in the place in an attempt to clean up. I did the best I could but we're really going to have to get you into the bath as soon as possible.”
Any response Geralt has gets lost in a long cough that leaves his throat raw and his eyes watery. There’s a patter of socked footsteps as Jaskier comes around and slips a gentle hand under his head. “Easy, darling. You know I never blame you for getting hurt. Sip this. Slowly!” Jaskier brings a glass to Geralt’s lips and he drinks gratefully until his throat no longer burns.
“How long have I been out?” he rasps as Jaskier ever so carefully lowers his head back to the pillow. He closes his eyes, the exhaustion threatening to pull him under.
“About half a day. Not nearly enough, as I was saying. You woke up just long enough for me to get you off the floor. How do you feel?”
“Bad.”
Jaskier huffs. “I don’t doubt it. I think if that cut on your leg had gone an inch deeper I would have been able to see bone. Your chest isn’t as bad but Geralt, you are bruised from head to toe. You’ll probably be pissing blood for a while if your kidneys have anything to say about it. Please tell me you were able to finish the job so you don’t have to go back out there.”
“It’s done,” Geralt says. “The proof is in my bag.”
“Well thank goodness for that. Do you need anything? I’ll have to check the dressing on your leg at some point but . . .” Jaskier makes a noise in frustration. “I don’t think there’s anything else to be done except let your body heal.”
There’s a feeling in Geralt’s chest that has nothing to do with the pain. “You’ve done more than enough, Jask. I don’t know what I would do without you and I don’t want to know.”
The uncharacteristic silence that follows is enough to make Geralt open his eyes. Jaskier is looking at him with a stunned expression that confirms maybe Geralt should say these things out loud more often. They’re true, after all.
Geralt reaches out and tugs weakly on Jaskier’s wrist, trying to get him back into the bed. Jaskier complies easily. He burrows under the blanket, turning on his side to look at Geralt, who lets out of a hiss of pain when he turns his head in return as much as his stiff muscles will allow. Jaskier frowns at the noise like he’s absorbing Geralt’s discomfort.
Geralt sighs as the pain recedes. He hates making Jaskier upset.
As if reading his mind Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand in his own, lacing their fingers together, the warmth of his skin a comforting balm. “I’m not angry with you. It’s not your fault that your required line of work sometimes gets a few kicks in. I just want to be able to take care of you as best I can.”
“You do take care of me,” Geralt says softly. “Better than anyone ever has.”
Jaskier’s eyes are bright but he’s smiling. “You never have to ask. I’ll always be here.”
Geralt tightens his hold on Jaskier’s hand and with a contented sigh falls into an easy sleep, the rain outside a gentle lullaby.