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There were a lot of reasons why you didn’t prefer staying in castles during your travels. When you dedicated most of your time to Geralt’s pursuits, you got to sleep under the stars, or in small quiet inns, but when you focused on yours and Jaskier’s work, you often ended up performing at royal engagements. And that meant you had to stay in crowded castles, containing lots of people with strange manners and constant noise. You would take a dingy inn any day.
The one thing you did prefer in castles though, were the baths. Always bigger than the ones in the inns, and they were free. Right now you were using these pros to try and cope with all of the cons. You were stretched out on the floor of a hot bath, the water blocking out all of the incessant castle sounds, and keeping you from having any unpleasant sensations on your skin.
You’d even gone so far as to take the large heavy doorstop from the chamber door, holding it on top of your chest to keep you solidly on the bottom of the deep bath. Standing up, the tub had nearly reached your waist. Down here you’d finally found the sensory deprivation you needed.
The only feelings were the deep pressure of the weight on your chest, and the ever growing burning in your lungs.
You weren’t trying to drown, only thinking about it. You let your mind wander down this dark path, imagining what it would feel like to let go and allow the water to rush into your lungs. How long would you lay there under the water until someone found you? Who would it be, Geralt or Jaskier? A handmaiden? Would they go on with the performance you were supposed to be a part of? Or were you important enough to send the weekend’s revelry grinding to a halt?
You didn’t think so.
It wasn’t that you wanted to die—you didn’t—but your life felt spectacularly out of your control at the moment, and you were overwhelmed. These fantasies allowed you to feel like you still held some semblance of the reins. Comforting wasn’t quite the right word, but they were calming. This calming effect paired with the sensory deprivation under the water was almost enough to make you feel better. It was also enough to keep you from hearing Geralt.
You didn’t hear him enter your room. You didn’t hear his too-fast footsteps. You weren’t aware of his presence at all until his torso was plunging into the bath.
He pulled you out with one sweeping motion, taking the doorstop and throwing it aside. It broke into three pieces, and the sound of it was enough to make you wince. This along with the shock of the whole situation caused you to take in a lungful of water, gasping in surprise half a second before you broke through the surface of the bath.
Geralt brought you over the rim and into his lap, leaning you over and striking your back sharply while you fought to expel the water from your lungs—very nearly bringing up your lunch with it.
“Goddamnit,” Geralt growled. “Breathe.”
You fought to escape his grasp as soon as you were able, even before you had gotten your breath back. You squirmed, the rough feeling of his clothes on your wet skin making you all the more desperate to get out. All the while you were sputtering and coughing up bath water.
Geralt gripped you tighter the more desperately you squirmed, not willing to let you go. He repeated your name with increasing urgency, trying hard to get you calm enough to speak with.
You weren’t anywhere close to being able to speak though, and you couldn’t believe Geralt was doing this to you. The calm sadness of the bath had transformed almost instantaneously to hot, fiery rage, and you were ready to use that anger to get Geralt out. You wanted to be alone.
You began slamming your head into the sharp edge of his shoulder, and when he moved one hand to try and press your head up against his chest, you were finally able to wriggle free from his grasp. Only for a moment though.
Geralt reached for a towel and wrapped you up in it before holding you down on the floor by your arms. You thought briefly about slamming your head against the stone floor, but the idea of a days-long headache was enough to get you to keep still. You were rational enough to make that decision, if only barely.
The moment you were calm enough to stop trying to break free from his grasp, Geralt began asking you questions.
“Are you hurt?”
You shook your head, still not speaking.
“Have you ingested anything that could hurt you?”
Another head shake.
“Are you sober?”
You nodded, and Geralt finally let go. As soon as he did you sat up and scurried to the far wall, away from him, wrapping yourself up as tightly as possible in your towel.
He snapped your name, and this was enough to get you to find your voice again. If there were any questions before about whether or not you were having a full on meltdown…
“Get out!” you shrieked.
You weren’t a loud person in general, but right now you didn’t hesitate to yell—scream even.
“What the fuck are you doing? Get out!”
You always made sure to keep your emotions in check. When you were overstimulated, frustrated, and overwhelmed—a bundle of hot, angry, energy spreading from your core—you made your feelings worse by trying to hide your distress from sight. Geralt was unlucky enough to know you and your struggles better than anyone. This meant you couldn’t muster up the energy to keep yourself together in front of him.
Geralt said your name in a slow, gentle tone. “I’m worried about you,” he said. “I don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone like this.”
A wave of frustration and shame washed over you. Geralt dealt with this too; he experienced sensory overload just like you did, but he didn’t need babysitting. Nobody ever worried about his feelings making him dangerous.
You let out a desperate wordless expression of your anger and helplessness, putting your arms around your head and squeezing tight, as if to block out the world.
“Would it help if you could hit something?” Geralt asked. How did he know? Perhaps the restless, frustrated, inescapable energy coursing through your body was visible to him.
He knew you needed to get it out. He knew that it sometimes took violence.
You stilled, looked up at him, and made brief, but distinct eye contact. It was the closest thing to affirmation that you could give right now. But he knew that too.
He crossed the short distance between you, and then sat on the floor in front of you, not touching you, but offering himself up.
“You won’t hurt me,” he reassured you. “I promise.”
No part of you wanted to hurt him, but the feelings his offering incited in you were enough to push you over the edge. It didn’t matter that they were good feelings—gratitude, care, affection—at this point any emotion would do it.
You lashed out and struck him in the chest with a closed fist, a sob breaking from your own chest when you did it. And then you were lost in it, screaming and crying as you beat on his chest and arms until you collapsed into his lap, exhausted.
“That’s it,” Geralt encouraged. “You’re okay. We’re okay.”
The tears wouldn’t relent though. They kept going until your body went limp, only stopping when you physically couldn’t force them out any longer. Then you just lay on the floor, shaking like a leaf in your Witcher’s lap. He pet your head with a gentleness that shouldn’t be possible from such large, powerful hands.
“It’s over,” he told you. “Now you can rest.”
You didn't reply, still unable to find words.
“Can I help you get dressed? You’re shivering.”
You nodded, staring dazedly at the opposite wall, unable to muster even the energy it took to focus your eyes.
By now you were mostly dry, and he wrapped you up in a blanket and carried you to the next room, to bed.
You were half asleep as he dressed you in your smalls and one of his own billowing shirts. And as soon as he tucked you under the covers you were gone.