FIC: Petals and Pining, (5/12)

[roughentumble]

Title: Petals and Pining
Pairing: Geraskier
Total word count: 49,992
Entry word count: 4,852
Summary: Hanahaki!Geralt AU
Title suggested by @/yappingjaskier on Tumblr
Bonus tags: Hanahaki, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Slow Burn
AO3 Link: archiveofourown.org/works/22904086/
[1] . [2] . [3] . [4] . =5= . [6] . [7] . [8] . [9] . [10] . [11] . [12]

They arrive in town the next morning and make a beeline for their notice board. This one has an actual contract pinned to it. Something's been stalking the graveyard at night, and they'd like someone to get to the bottom of it before someone gets eaten or flayed or other some such.

Reasonable, as far as requests go. Always nice to see a town being proactive. 

The town ealdorman doesn't have much more information, other than the sound of digging being heard, and Geralt catalogs that away, but otherwise leaves feeling a bit under-prepared. 

"So, what mean ole' monster's on the menu for today?" Jaskier asks once they leave his office.

Geralt shrugs. "Don't know, could be anything. Didn't give me a lot to go on." 

"But surely you have some idea, come on. It's probably not... a wyvern or something. So, what do you think? In your oh so professional opinion. What sort of possibilities are we looking at?" His eyes are sparkling in that way they do when he thinks he's about to get a glimpse into how witchers work, into the wealth of knowledge they carry.

Geralt's always been bad at truly saying no to Jaskier. So he sighs, says "Like I said, could be anything. Graveyard at night, plus digging sounds... Could be necrophages of some sort. Could be nekkers again. Some sort of specter maybe, like a wraith, but I don't know why it'd be digging. Might even be some sort of nest, kikimora or endrega-- not likely, though, there'd be a death or five already. Or it could just be a pack of wolves, or the trees scraping together at night."

Jaskier nods along, watching Geralt closely as he talks. "...You really do know your stuff, don't you?"

"Wouldn't be alive right now if I didn't." Is Geralt's gruff response.

Jaskier seems unbothered, a little skip in his step as he walks beside Geralt, smiling at his profile. "Well, yes, I know, I just... it's impressive, is all."

And, really, what's he supposed to say to that? 

He grunts in response and Jaskier laughs. "You'll have to learn how to accept praise someday, Geralt."


------


They get to the graveyard mid-afternoon. It's quiet, still and peaceful in the sun, nothing more than a gentle breeze disturbing the nearby trees. 

As good conditions for an investigation as any.

The graveyard itself isn't large, and some of the headstones are mossy and cracked, but he's seen places in worse disrepair, which puts a bit of a dent in the wraith theory, but he keeps it on the table for now. In the center is a single, small mausoleum, surrounded on all sides by headstones, except for a thin, overgrown path. Not walked often-- either they weren't liked, or whoever would bother to visit is long gone themselves.

Jaskier mostly hangs back, sitting on the knee-high cobblestone wall that surrounds the cemetery with his notebook in hand, alternating between scribbling notes and compositions and watching Geralt search. It's one of Geralt's favorite arrangements, since it leaves almost nothing to distract him as he works, and, if he were forced to admit it... he rather liked this aspect of the hunt. The gathering information, tracking, investigating. 

He walks slowly, scanning the area. No obvious nests or mounds-- not insectoids or nekkers, then. It smelled faintly of rot, but then again, something had been digging in a graveyard, so that was hardly conclusive. He picks his way over to the mausoleum he noticed earlier. The inside is slightly cramped, fairly musty, but nothing is particularly out of place, except... 

"Claw marks...?" He mumbles to himself, crouching next to the crypt in the center of the space. On the corner, near to the lid, are gouges in the stone. Shallow, but present. He runs his fingers over them lightly, mentally running through a list of what could've caused them and why. He stands and gives the lid a little experimental push. It doesn't budge. The stone is heavy, and it'd take quite a blow to move it. Perhaps something was trying to get in and couldn't?

He walks back outside and takes a deep breath of fresh air. Now that he knows something had been in the mausoleum, he focuses harder on the entrance. It's hard to tell but... there, in the grass, a footprint. Too shallow to glean much, but it was heading left. Now that he knows what to look for, he spots more gouges on the wall, in the same direction the footprint was pointing. It stalked out of the building, angry, and swiped at the wall again in frustration.

Snapped flowers, disturbed grass, and shallow footprints lead him to an open grave around back of the mausoleum. A casket lies open, wood warped and smashed, and the dirt was pushed aside haphazardly. It wasn't waiting for a body-- the grave had been disturbed. More footprints, these a little clearer. Humanoid, but long, with only three toes. The scent of rot, barely perceptible on the air. 

"Jaskier!" He calls as he moves forward, eyes glued to the tracks. He inhales deeply, trying to latch onto the faint stench of decay.

"Oh, are we moving already? Did you find what you needed?" Jaskier calls back, lightly jogging around the mausoleum. "Oh! Seems like you did find something."

"Hush." He shoots back absentmindedly, hopping over the wall with ease as he follows the footprints. More claw marks, like it had gouged the stone jumping over it. 

Jaskier makes an affronted sound. "Don't you tell me to hush!"

Geralt huffs, cutting Jaskier off. "Shut up, or I'll leave you alone in the graveyard to fend for yourself."

He gasps dramatically, hand flying over his heart. "You wouldn't dare!" He pauses for a moment, noticing Geralt breathing more deeply than usual. "Oh, are you doing your blood hound thing?"

Geralt's eyebrow twitches at the name, but Jaskier dutifully quiets down so that he can focus on the scent he needs to track. He somehow manages to balance writing and walking at the same time without spilling any ink, which is a feat in its own right. Geralt almost hates to break the silence, but eventually his curiosity wins out. "What are you writing about now?"

"Trying to think of a less insulting metaphor than 'blood hound', for when I turn this into a song."

Geralt's eyes flash with rage, and he turns away from the tracks to glare at Jaskier. "You knew it was insulting, and you still called me that... to my face?"

Grinning like the cat that got the canary, and without a shred of remorse or repentance. "Go on, go back to your tracking, would hate for you to lose the trail now, have all this work to be for naught."

He manages to turn back to the tracks in front of him instead of strangling Jaskier where he stood, but it was a close thing.


------


They finally arrive at a ramshackle old house-- more ruin than home, at this point. Nearly the entirety of the roof is missing, and the boards and beams are all rotted, creaking in the breeze. The windows have all long since been shattered, and there's no longer a door. There's no movement, though, beyond the swaying of the trees and the gentle rolling wind. He takes a cautious step forward, past the threshold, and sees nothing living. Beyond the odd spider or two, huddled in the corner, anyway. 

Jaskier is hot on his heel, peering around his shoulder, trying to get a glimpse. His nose wrinkles in disgust. "Ugh, smells awful in here."

"Well," Geralt's eyes sweep over the interior, double-checking there was nothing to pop out while he investigated, "something did drag a corpse in here." Jaskier shivers behind him.

There's not much to investigate, anyway. A stack of bones in one corner, a cauldron over a fire, what is most certainly a human femur floating in the rancid stew. Put it together with everything else, and you get, "Grave hag."

"Oh, lovely. What a truly delightful name." Jaskier puts his hands on his hips, examining the filthy walls. Upon closer inspection, one of the stains is most definitely some form of viscera. He steps back from the wall.

"What would you prefer, then, call 'em spring maidens? They're hags, they steal corpses from graves. Grave hag." He stomps out the fire with his heel.

"Would prefer if they simply weren't a thing at all, thank you very much." Geralt hums in agreement. "What are you doing?"

"Ruining her dinner." Geralt lifts the pot and heaves it outside, dumping out the contents across what might've, once, a long time ago, been a front lawn. 

Jaskier follows after him, face hidden in his elbow to avoid the smell. "And why, pray tell," he says, voice slightly muffled, "are we doing that? Won't that just make her angry?"

"Angry and hungry. Guarantees she'll be at the graveyard tonight." Geralt goes back and gathers the rest of the bones from the hut. Smashes each one and burns them for good measure, then wipes his hands off on his pants. 

Jaskier stares down at the cloth there. "You know that doesn't make your hands clean, right? They're still dirty. Please tell me you know that."


------


They head back to the graveyard. It's still early enough in the evening that they have time to prepare, so Geralt finds Jaskier a hiding spot among the treeline that will, hopefully, keep him well hidden during the fight. Roach is hitched a little further back, so they can make a quick escape if necessary. Oils his blade, slowly and methodically. Comes up with a plan of action, since he doesn't especially want to fight the hag among all the tripping hazards that are headstones.

The whole time, Jaskier is humming and writing, and it's a pleasant soundtrack to his preparations.

He deposits his bag by Jaskier for safekeeping, and then goes to meditate by the gate.


------


"Youuu!" A hissing voice, rough and worn, announces. Geralt rolls his shoulders, slowly shifting out of a crouch. "You're the one, ruined my food!" Its voice is an unnatural thing, too much popping and crackling, like it was never meant to speak. Like it wasn't made for such a thing. 

"Yep." Geralt swung his blade in an easy arc, testing its balance, eyes never leaving the grave hag. "Gonna' do something about it?" 

The creature screeches and launches itself at him, but he rolls out of the way with ease, knocking it aside with a blast of Aard. When he slashes at its calf, the flesh cracks and sizzles, and it screeches again, howling in unexpected pain. It whirls on him, swiping furiously, and he dances outside its range, blasting it back whenever it gets too close, leading it a few feet away from the graveyard. 

His movements are easy, practiced, and he's so used to them, so used to ignoring pain in a fight, he doesn't even notice the familiar sensation starting in the back of his throat.

The hag isn't limping, exactly, but he can tell it's starting to favor its other leg after that first slice. It charges again and he feints, manages to catch it in the shoulder on the same side, before jumping back to get some distance between them. He takes a deep breath in, and--

Why is he so winded?

Why...

Oh no. Oh fuck. His grip tightens on the hilt, and he resolves to end the fight quickly. He jumps in on the next opening he sees, bringing his sword down in a wide arc. The cut's not as deep as he intended, and the hag gets a swipe in for his troubles, leaving his cheek a bloody mess. He's got to take the riskier options, though, if he wants this to end before...

He doesn't allow himself to complete the thought, throwing up a shield and diving back in, fully on the offensive now. He presses forward, swinging down with the intention of hitting the hag in the head, but it blocks the blow with its arm and roars in his face. It claws at him, again, and the hand bounces off once, twice, three times-- before Quen is shattering and the claws are right there, raking across his ribs. 

He jumps back, chest heaving, too fast, too fast--

One single, brutal cough tears its way out of his throat, and then he can't stop.

He knows, now, knows he's fucked if he doesn't get control of himself, but his chest keeps spasming despite his best efforts, and the grave hag is more than willing to take advantage of the clear opening.

He staggers back, but only a few steps, and then it's right there, right on top of him, wicked smile spread across its teeth. Its arm rears back, and there's still time, there's time to dodge back but Geralt is stumbling, chest still spasming, and he takes one more stumbling half-step backwards, and it's not enough, it's not enough. It arranges its razor-sharp claws into a vicious point, and with one swift movement, drives the hand directly into Geralt's side.

It slides home easy as anything, like his flesh isn't even there, like a blade through fog. Blood flows instantly and thick, like a warm, wet waterfall. His foot slips in the dirt, struggling to find purchase in the soaked soil, the left side of his body faltering from the pain. The stench is suffocating, overwhelming this close, her putrid corpse-drenched breath hitting Geralt's face in waves, overwhelming his senses. 

Fuck, he thinks desperately, hand scrabbling for purchase on its forearm, trying to push it away, oh, fuck.

The grave hag's beady eyes get even smaller, little crinkles at the corners as if truly grinning now, as it slowly opens its hand.

If Geralt hadn't screamed before, he does now.

White hot pain explodes in his side as it slowly scrapes along his insides. The sensation of a foreign object moving inside him has the world tilting on its axis, stomach churning, and he hasn't stopped fucking coughing yet, but now he tastes iron on the back of his tongue, staining his teeth. Its hand twists all the way around, then, agonizingly slow, its fingers curl up, claws grinding against bone before finding purchase. Holding him. It's holding him in place by his ribs, from the inside. 

He can't shove the hag off now, its grip is too strong. 

Pinned on the spot, like a butterfly on display.

His hand is still on its arm, as much leaning on it for support as trying to push it away, and it's just-- just fucking watching him for a moment, considering him. He rears back, brings his blade up above his head to pommel strike its forehead, but it meets his blow, blocking the attack with its arm and pushing him away. Its jaw opens wide, practically distended, and another wave of putrescence slams into his senses, smell so thick, so heavy, he can taste it past his own blood. Rot and shit and something sickly sweet, underneath it all. 

Its teeth sink into his right shoulder with ease. Even around the leather spaulder, the grave hag's teeth are sharp and vicious, sliding in as easily as its hand did. This is what the creature is made for, after all. Rending human flesh from bone. Its long, long, too long tongue is moving against him, undulating sickeningly against his flesh, wiggling its way between the gaps in his armor, and it's jaw is like a vice, sinking deeper and deeper. Something toxic and searing seeps into the wound-- the grave hag's venom. 

His grip on his sword goes lax then tight again, nearly losing it, and his hand that had been on the hag's arm flies up to grip at its shoulder as it makes a meal of him. His grip is weak. His footing is messy. He can't pull his arm back far enough to do anything with his blade.

Everything is moving slow and fast, all at once. He's disoriented, supported by it's grip on his insides. He can't use his sword. The dead weight of it makes his arm ache. He lets it slip from his grip, and the sound Jaskier makes from the treeline is pure devastation. He screams Geralt's name, and Geralt can see the moment the grave hag really notices him. It won't let go of its current meal when it's so easily devoured, but Jaskier is next.

No. He digs his heels into the dirt, grits his teeth, No fucking way, reaches down deep and pulls up an all-encompassing, righteous fury that sweeps through his system, steels his resolve, pushes his pains to the side. You can't fucking have him. Quick as a whip, he reaches for the knife strapped to his hip. It's not meant for fighting, it isn't silver-- it's just for taking trophies, after a job is done. But here, in these close quarters, it's all he has room for. 

He has to drive it forward, lean into it to get it to pierce the hag's skin, and it howls with rage when the knife connects with its side. He twists it in place, gets his other hand on the hilt so he can drag it across. It's agonizingly slow, and the hag releases him to stumble back before he can get very far, but he managed to get the blade in deep enough. Viscera shows through the hole, slipping free from its body, and even a monster has the sense to scrabble at the wound, attempt to push its intestines back in. 

He pants heavily. Losing too much blood. A new wave oozes out of his side, now that its hand is no longer stopping him up. His stance is all wrong, collapsed in on himself. The hag watches him as well, angry and hurting, the two of them locked in a staring match as they wait for their chance to strike. His vision is going in and out, fuck, in and out, too much fucking blood, his side slick and warm with it. He keeps his eyes locked on the hag, though. 

Jaskier shouts, again, loud and piercing and frantic, and it cuts through the haze, forces him into the present just as it leaps and there, there, an opening--

He lets out a primal scream and launches himself forward, both hands on the knife as he aims it up, up--

It screams back, a howl of rage, dodges him, but he catches its chin and slides home right in the underside of its jaw. It screeches and thrashes wildly with its claws, but Geralt weathers the onslaught, keeps it pinned in place. Then he pulls, down, down, down, jaw to collarbone as it gurgles, thrashing getting weaker and weaker. Its claws find his hands, scraping at his knuckles, but it's fading fast. 

The twitching slowly stops, and it becomes a dead weight on the end of his knife, so he pulls back, lets the body hit the ground.

As the adrenaline wears off, Geralt finds his hands shaking. Without the hag pinning him, without the rush of the fight to keep him upright, he finds himself without anything to support him, and he staggers. The world is dark around the edges, and everything tilts to the side very suddenly.

It didn't get Jaskier. He blinks up at the night sky and finds it blurry. It didn't get Jaskier. I saved Jaskier. The thought is calming, has his breath evening out a little. The fight is over. The grave hag is dead, and Jaskier is safe. 

He's safe, and currently falling to his knees by Geralt's side, shouting something. Geralt has to focus very hard to coordinate his lips and his mouth and his tongue. They all feel numb. "Bas..." He mumbles, head rolling to one side. Fuck, fuck. He furrows his brow, focuses harder, tries to communicate what he needs to Jaskier. "B-- ba... bags. Need'm... my... my bag." It takes a moment to get the words out clearly, but once he says it, Jaskier is off like a shot. 

Jaskier is talking, a lot, but none of it registers as anything more than white noise. Geralt tries to sit up, but the pain is searing when he tries, and it leaves his head spinning. His breathing is so shallow, little gasps in and puffs out, and it feels both like an eternity since Jaskier left, and instantaneous. "Mn... Gol... Need, uh... g- gol'en... an'.... sw'llow..." He swallows hard. His hands are so cold. They grip uselessly at the dirt. He can hear-- bottles, clinking together, as Jaskier digs around, trying to find what he's asked for.

"Go- gol... den." Can Jaskier even understand him? His mind feels sluggish. With great concentrated effort, he pulls his hand up, and manages to press it against his side.

The effect is instant, whole body going taut as a bow, a shout of pain working its way out of his throat. He coughs more, barely managing to turn his head to the side to spit blood and bile and little yellow petals out of the way. The pain is just enough to wake him up, and he manages to force out, "Gol. Den. Ori. Ole," through gritted teeth.

A thin bottle full of something yellow is in front of his face. It-- it's probably the right one, but his vision is swimming. The buzzing in his ears is louder, and where he doesn't feel cold he feels hot, fire under his skin. He nods, and all he can do is trust that Jaskier has the correct bottle. 

About half the bottle makes it down his throat before he's closing his lips, trying to turn his head away. Distantly, he thinks he hears Jaskier-- begging. Yes, begging, begging him to drink it, but as precious drops roll down his cheek, spilled, he tries to gesture to his wounds. "P... Pour it." It needs to go on his wounds, needs to get to the poison as quickly as possible, and he prays Jaskier understands him.

Something starts pawing frantically at one of his spaulders, so... so Jaskier must've understood then. He floats for a minute, just lets whatever's happening happen. Jaskier knows. Jaskier understood. It hurts, maybe, distantly, theoretically, but it's hard to actually feel it. "Sw'llow."

"There's none left to swallow, I poured it all!" His voice is distant, muffled as if by a thick wool blanket, but it must be pretty loud and shrill to reach him in his current state.

"Bottle. Called.... 's red." He blinks, long and slow, up at the sky. Eventually, another bottle appears in his vision.

"Is it this one? Geralt, you have to answer me, I don't-- I don't know! I don't know which one you mean!" There's panic in his voice, and Geralt wants to soothe him, but his arms won't move. He can't tell if it's the right bottle. He hums in response.

There's a soft, frenzied 'fuck', and then the bottle is uncorked and poured down his throat. The hand on the back of his head-- when did that get there?-- is cradling him so gently, tilting his head at just the right angle. It's nice. Someone's asking him something, maybe. He fights to hear what's being said. "...one, too? Geralt? Onto your-- the, your side, and your shoulder, like before?" The question's too disjointed, and he makes little hitching sounds between the words that make it harder for Geralt to decipher. He hums again, unsure of how to answer. 

He thinks, maybe, it hurts when Jaskier upends the bottle over his wounds, but pain is still a distant concept. He tilts his head to the side. Jaskier's face is red from crying, cheeks wet and glistening, blood and dirt smeared against his skin at random. Geralt wants to soothe him, but his body is so, so heavy. He feels like maybe he's had this thought before.

He looks gorgeous. Even under all the panic, and the sweat, and the blood. Moonlight always did look good on him. Sunlight, too. Maybe he just looks nice in general, Geralt thinks idly, eyes sweeping over his face.

He tries to say 'you look lovely,' but it comes out so slurred even he doesn't recognize the words. Jaskier panics further, starts pawing through the bag again. "Is there another step? What else do you need?" 

Geralt shakes his head. "Goo...d. Di'... did good." Sucks in a deep breath, concentrates on his next word. "P... press'r. Pres... Presshure." After a moment, Jaskier seems to get the idea. He rips his doublet off and presses it against Geralt's side. It had been a rather lovely shade of blue, too. Went nicely with his eyes. "S'rry. Nice... Nice clothes. Sorry." He manages to mumble, and Jaskier laughs wetly above him.

"Of course, now you feel bad about ruining my finery." He shakes his head, leans a little harder. Even with Swallow, blood still seeps slowly from his side. "It's fine, I don't care, just... just be alright, okay? Just... Tell me it's going to be okay." His voice sounds thick with emotion.

Jaskier wanted something from him, but now that they'd done everything they could, all the steps completed, Geralt just feels... tired. He can't think of what he's supposed to say. Everything's floating. He blinks up at Jaskier's expectant face. "T... Talk t'me?" His eyelids are so heavy.

"Talk-- about what?" His voice is getting distant again. Geralt focuses hard on his face.

"An... Anythin'." So tired.

"I..." He flounders for a moment. Tears in his eyes. "Do... do you know anything at all about music theory?"

A relieved smile overtakes Geralt's face as he stares up at his bard. "Tell me."

He can't make out the words, but the cadence is lovely, sweet as any lullaby. He holds onto that as he slips into unconsciousness.


------


When Geralt wakes up, which he is mildly surprised happens at all, it's in a bed at an inn. His head is pounding, and the world still feels vaguely... floaty. Still suffering from blood loss, it seems. He thinks, head listing to the side to examine the rest of the room. 

Before he can take in much, though, Jaskier is shouting his name and launching himself at the bedridden man. The chair Jaskier had been sitting in clatters to the ground, and Geralt finds himself with a lapful of bard, talking to him rather animatedly. He groans a little, pain radiating from his side at the sudden jostling. It takes a moment for his ears to get into agreement with his mind, and the constant noise coming from Jaskier slowly shapes itself into words.

"...was so worried! You just stopped moving, you were barely breathing, you-- I had to go get Roach to carry you back to town, and I- I had no idea, no idea if I picked the right potions because you were so out of it, so I was worried the whole time I'd poisoned you as well, and--" 

Geralt reaches up, slides a hand up and down Jaskier's arm, cutting off his panicked rambling. "You did good." He says quietly, and tears are welling up in Jaskier's eyes, now. "You did good. I'm fine." 

He'd meant the words to be comforting, but Jaskier scoffs, pulls away from him to stand and pace. "Fine! Fine, he says! You were fucking gored by a grave hag, and you think you're fine?"

Geralt blinks slowly. "...'S not goring unless it's a tusk or a horn." He supplies.

Jaskier looks down at him incredulously. "Oh!" He shouts, throwing his hands in the air, "Oh, well, in that case!" 

Geralt winces a little at the rise in tone, head still sore, and Jaskier calms down a bit when he sees it. Picks the chair back up and pulls it next to Geralt's bed, sits down heavily. He reaches out and takes Geralt's hand, gives it a squeeze. "You and I," he says, more quietly than before, "are going to have so many words, once you're actually, properly conscious, mister." His eyes are damp again.

"I don't doubt it." Geralt says softly, squeezing his hand back. Sleep is already trying to pull him back under. His lids feel heavy. He gives Jaskier's hand another squeeze. And he must still be out of it, must've lost more blood than he thought, must still be pretty loopy, because he looks up at Jaskier and asks, "Can... Can you talk to me again?"

Jaskier huffs out a laugh, leans forward to rest his forehead on Geralt's uninjured shoulder. "I... I suppose I can, yeah. After you so rudely fell asleep in the middle of my last lecture, I suppose I should start with music theory again, hmm? You see, it's actually a bit of an umbrella term, it encompasses three different..."

Geralt lets out a pleased hum and closes his eyes, allowing Jaskier's gentle voice to lull him to sleep once more.