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geraskierficrecs · 4 years

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litcherally anything where geralt is being mean to jaskier and then is guilty when it actually upsets the bard bc he doesn’t think before he speaks :( and then making up for it and realizing how all these things he’s said over the years have weighed on jaskier and JUST TRYING TO BE BETTER AFTER THAT. tysm i love ur writing

Get ready to hurt.

______________________________________

It happens so suddenly that Geralt finds himself stunned and stumbling like a soldier in his first battle.

He’s surrounded in a field full of growling, snapping ghouls trying to kill the fucking massive alghoul in the center when he hears it. Unmistakable despite the unexpectedness.

“Geralt!”

Jaskier’s voice is high on adrenaline and foolish courage as he rushes into the fray with his Geralt’s spare sword held high. He slashes at the ghouls who turn toward the noise, managing through luck or skill to hack off the head of the first and shove another away.

Geralt curses viciously--torn between the need to protect the damn fool and the logic of killing the alghoul first.

The beast decides it for him, slamming one hand into Geralt’s chest and leaping to close the distance between itself and Jaskier.

Jaskier turns--blue eyes wide and frightened--and takes the hit on his side, falling beneath the onslaught of a monster of nightmare and legend. He disappears beneath the weight of it.

And Geralt sees red.

He feels his hands grip onto the oily, slick, and rotting skin of the next ghoul and yanks its head loose in one vicious pull. His sword moves in a violent arc through the next, clearing the way to the alghoul with almighty purpose.

He can’t get the image of Jaskier’s expression out of his mind.

It drives him to madness as he roars and slams his weight against the alghoul--the last of the monsters left in a field of blood and viscera. The beast shrieks, bloodied jaws reaching for his throat, but Geralt is beyond caring. His sword is too large for such close conflict so he lets it fall to the grass, rolling with the rotting creature as they struggle bodily for control.

His hand slips low and finds the familiar hilt on his thigh.

He thrusts upward, blade moving like an extension of himself. High and sharp and cutting deep--

He feels the wet pull of muscle giving way beneath his fingers and snarls into the face of the beast above him--

A twist, and then it goes still, face frozen in a permanent maw of agony.

Geralt lays still for a moment, panting, before he shoves the carcass off of him and gets to his feet. His heart is still pounding a vicious rhythm in his chest thanks to the adrenaline and potion he’d downed before wading into the fray. He scans the impromptu battlefield desperately, terrified of what he’d find.

Then, a groan and a small shift of movement.

Panic and terror gives way to anger as Jaskier slowly gets to his feet using Geralt’s sword as a crutch. He turns--his face streaked with mud and oily blood--and beams at Geralt.

“Well, Geralt, I think we really proved--”

“What the fuck do you think you were doing?” Geralt’s voice is whip quick and carries the same sting. He sees Jaskier’s expression falter, but he’s near seething now. “I told you not to come near this area.”

“I know, but you didn’t come back when you said and I--”

“What? You thought you would be able to come in and save me?” Geralt’s sneer felt as sharp as the ghoul’s hunger. “Did you really think you would be anything but a gigantic pain in my ass here?”

Jaskier’s voice trembles slightly and he leans more heavily against the sword. “Geralt-”

“The only thing you are good for is crafting lies to charm women into your bed and getting on my last damn nerve--neither of which is any good here!” Geralt paces away from him, trying to blow off some of his frustration by kicking on of the corpses.

“Please, I--”

“What, Jaskier? How could you possibly think that I would be glad to see you rush in like a damn fool just to get yourself included in the next stupid ballad you--”

Geralt’s words give way to horrified silence a moment after Jaskier fell unconscious on the ground.

He runs forward, ignoring the mud soaking into his clothes as he pulls Jaskier up against his chest. The bard is pale, completely limp in his grip. The stolen sword falls to the ground from lifeless fingers and Geralt feels his fury drain away so quickly he is breathless.

“Jaskier,” he calls, shaking the man. “Jaskier, wake up.”

Nothing.

The only sound he hears is the echo of his vicious words and the heart beneath his palms beginning to slow...

_____________________________

The bite is high on the chest, just above a dusky nipple and the heart that continues to pulse weakly.

The sight of it makes Geralt feel a cold sweat creep down his back. A ghoul’s bite is poison for human, Vesemir’s voice murmurs from his memories. Better to kill the poor creature than to let it make the change.

Just the thought of using one of his blades to slit Jaskier’s throat makes him turn and vomit bile and regret onto the grass.

There are more injuries littering Jaskier’s body, but Geralt knows that it is the bite that will doom them both. Already black lines filled with poison are spreading away from the cutting--taunting Geralt with their inevitability. This close to Jaskier’s most vital organs, it might only be a few hours before the bard would draw his last breath and awake a monster.

Unless...

Geralt’s hands shake as the reach for the knife at his side. It’s still caked with ghoul’s blood and he pauses to wipe it clean meticulously. He reaches out and cups one of Jaskier’s clammy, cold cheeks and whispers,

“Forgive me.”

And begins to cut.

_____________________________

Jaskier’s wakes--wild and glassy-eyed--after Geralt makes the second incision.

The ghouls blood stinks like rotten pus and burns like acid as it drips sluggishly from each carefully placed cut around the bite. His mouth is bloody from coaxing the black liquid free and his hands are forced to pin Jaskier flat against the earth as he works.

The bard screams, high and agonized. His eyes fix on Geralt mindlessly and tear carve pale trails through the dirt streaked across his face.

“Please--no! Don’t!” he begs, “Geralt, please!”

Geralt grits his teeth, feeling his own eyes burn at the betrayal in those blue eyes. “I have to get the poison out.”

His knife digs deep once more, the line jagged as Jaskier arches bodily in a weak attempt to escape the pain. He thrashes, wild as an animal caught in a trap, and sobs.

“Please, Geralt. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please, I’m sorry.”

The bard babbling cuts off with another scream as more blood gushes from the wound. His body seizes and Geralt is forced to lay bodily against his in an attempt to keep him from hurting himself more.

Geralt’s heart is made of ice and stone as he sees the last of the darkened and sickly blood run clear of the wound. His hand clenches around the slick handle of his knife and he takes a deep breath. The scent of poison and rot has faded now beneath the acid sharp scent of pain radiating from the sobbing bard.

He takes a breath and tells himself he deserves this suffering.

His hands trace the sigil Igni as he looks over the trembling man beneath him, face turned away from the Witcher and teeth chattering in agony.

He waits until the blade is red hot before he presses it firmly against the bite.

Jaskier’s scream sends the birds into flight.

__________________________

There are no towns close enough to risk moving the bard nor does he have some hidden trick that will summon a mage or a healer to his side. It is the first time since the mountains of Cairgorn that he has wished to see Yennefer, if only for her ability to heal what he seems incapable of not destroying.

Jaskier is still in his arms as Geralt carries him out of the woods and down a game trail that takes him to the trapper’s cabin that had started the mess. There are scratches and blood along the walls, but the door and windows are still intact. The bed stinks of old sweat, but Geralt finds fresh sheets laying limp and forgotten on the clothesline outside.

He makes the bed quickly, the unfamiliar task sped by the sight of Jaskier lying silently on the ground nearby.

The silence, he decides, might be the worst of it. It gives him plenty of time to remember the cruelty of his voice and the hurt he seemed to spew at Jaskier at every opportunity. Somehow, he always manages to lash out against the only person who has ever remained loyal and devoted even after seeing the worst parts of him.

But this, this might be the final blow that brings Jaskier’s endless faith to its knees.

Geralt tries to tell himself that he could watch Jaskier leave him if it meant the bard would survive this.

It is little comfort.

____________________________

Geralt stands watch over the too-still body for three days before he begins to hope that Jaskier might live.

He’s barely left the small bedside except to call for Roach and bring water and food for the bard. He washed away the blood and mud until Jaskier looks soft and young--so damn young--and almost peaceful. If you ignored the red, angry burns across his chest.

The scars are brutal--far more fitting for a Witcher than a bard. He winces when he thinks of what Jaskier will say when he sees them. The vanity and snobbishness of the courtiers Jaskier plays for is foreign to Geralt, but he would strip the skin from his bones to keep Jaskier from feeling their scorn or pity.

Geralt has ruined so much of the man laying pale and broken before him.

He leans his head against the mattress, feeling his eyes burn once again at the reminder of what he had done. Jaskier could have died with Geralt’s sneering and mockery still echoing in his ears. He would have believed every bit of the poison the Witcher spewed in place of real emotions and to avoid the concern he truly felt. It proved what Jaskier had been trying to disprove all along:

Geralt was a monster.

_____________________________

The Witcher wakes to hands carding through the tangled strands of his hair.

For a moment, his mind is at peace, enjoying a rare moment of calm with Jaskier--

Geralt’s head snaps up so quickly the bard jerks in surprise, wincing as the gesture irritates the wound on his chest. Geralt feels his body tremble faintly and his voice is raw with emotion when he speaks. “Jaskier?”

Jaskier gives him an awkward smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ah, yes. Sorry for waking you. It just, it looked like you were uncomfortable.”

The bard’s voice is raspy and rough from the screams Geralt will hear in his nightmares for the rest of his life. He stands quickly and grabs a cup near the water pitcher to press to Jaskier’s lips. “Stay still,” he says, “You still need to rest.”

“Must be bad if you stayed,” Jaskier answers with a trace of bitterness. Blue eyes flick to Geralt and then skitter away to focus on the fingers toying nervously with the sheets. “You don’t have to, you know. Stay, that is. I know I shouldn’t have distracted you like that. You don’t owe me anything--it was my fault.”

Geralt’s throat goes tight and he falls to his knees beside the bed. He grips Jaskier’s hand like it’s made of glass, pressing his forehead against his palm. Tears drip unnoticed down his cheeks and his voice trembles, “I thought I’d lost you.”

“Geralt...”

The Witcher shakes his head when Jaskeir starts to speak, determined to release the words that had been swirling in his mind since he’d seen Jaskier charging into battle.

“I should never have said those things to you. It’s just--I thought you’d died when that alghoul turned on you and it was easier to be angry than be scared. Then you nearly died right after I said all those horrible things, and I--”

Jaskier’s hand shifts against him, coaxing Geralt’s chin up until he was staring at the bard while tears dripped down his cheeks.

“I would never survive losing you, Jaskier. Not now, not decades from now when we’re both old and slow. I will never forgive myself for all the scars and the pain I’ve caused you and I wouldn’t blame you if you chose to leave me for it.” Just the thought made his stomach twist in knots. “But if you give me a chance, I will spend the rest of my life making up for every horrible thing I’ve said to you.”

Jaskier’s eyes are bright with an emotion that Geralt is too terrified to hope for. His fingers tighten around Geralt’s jawline until the Witcher raises up on his knees to close the distance between them.

“Ready to start making it up to me?” he purrs and leans forward to swallow Geralt’s sigh of relief with his lips.

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