Geralt gets fresh water as Jaskier turns over for him, arranging himself however is least painful on the bed. The cuts to his back are unpleasant, crusted and ragged, inflamed from going so long without proper treatment. No infection yet, though, and hopefully his tending has come soon enough to prevent any from setting in. He cleans them out as he did Jaskier's legs, forcing his calloused hands into gentleness. The salve with help it heal quick and clean, but there may still be scars.
His hands go still when the bard speaks.
He remembers Jaskier's face on the mountain, when Geralt had turned on him like the beast that the bard had tried to convince everyone he isn't. Shocked, hurt-- betrayed. Jaskier had spent twenty years of his life following Geralt all over the Continent, rehabilitating his terrible reputation and only separating from him for a few months at a time, and he had repaid his devotion with that.
If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off of my hands.
Geralt is exactly what his reputation had said. A witcher, synonymous with beast and monster. He had cut Jaskier down with the same cruel efficiency that he sliced through drowners or ghouls, but without ever even having to draw steel.
"Fuck."
He turns his head to the side, looking down at the worn floorboards instead of at Jaskier. At this point, to keep tending to him, he'll need him to sit up so that he can wind bandages around his back and chest, but that would mean looking at him, possibly even at his face. Geralt would rather throw himself into a whole nest of kikimores than do that, or, hell, go spelunking down the throat of a fucking selkiemore. If this whole conversation got interrupted by a band of rotfiends, he'd gladly welcome it.
"I. Jaskier." His mouth twists as though he'd just bitten into something sour. He isn't good with words, and they so often don't come out right when he tries. Just like with Yennefer-- he talked more around her than probably anyone else, but most of the time, what he said was all wrong. "It isn't."
Insufficient. If this had been a strike with a sword, it'd be a glancing blow. An incomplete Sign.
no subject
His hands go still when the bard speaks.
He remembers Jaskier's face on the mountain, when Geralt had turned on him like the beast that the bard had tried to convince everyone he isn't. Shocked, hurt-- betrayed. Jaskier had spent twenty years of his life following Geralt all over the Continent, rehabilitating his terrible reputation and only separating from him for a few months at a time, and he had repaid his devotion with that.
If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off of my hands.
Geralt is exactly what his reputation had said. A witcher, synonymous with beast and monster. He had cut Jaskier down with the same cruel efficiency that he sliced through drowners or ghouls, but without ever even having to draw steel.
"Fuck."
He turns his head to the side, looking down at the worn floorboards instead of at Jaskier. At this point, to keep tending to him, he'll need him to sit up so that he can wind bandages around his back and chest, but that would mean looking at him, possibly even at his face. Geralt would rather throw himself into a whole nest of kikimores than do that, or, hell, go spelunking down the throat of a fucking selkiemore. If this whole conversation got interrupted by a band of rotfiends, he'd gladly welcome it.
"I. Jaskier." His mouth twists as though he'd just bitten into something sour. He isn't good with words, and they so often don't come out right when he tries. Just like with Yennefer-- he talked more around her than probably anyone else, but most of the time, what he said was all wrong. "It isn't."
Insufficient. If this had been a strike with a sword, it'd be a glancing blow. An incomplete Sign.
"A blessing, I mean."
That you were gone.