FIC: Petals and Pining, (6/12)

[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]

The first thing Geralt is aware of is the scent of sausage. Warm and savory and full of spices, it seeps into his mind, filling up the darkness. He's content to simply float, enjoying the smell, still enveloped in the inky blackness of a dreamless sleep, mind not quite conscious yet. Slowly, though, he becomes aware of a weight on his shoulder, a gentle jostling of his body. Then, senses coming back to him in stages, he picks up on sound. "..alt. I know you need rest, but it's been days without food. You've got to eat something." The voice is soft and pleasant, but insistent.

As if on cue, his stomach growls, followed by the sound of a snort from somewhere to his left. "See? C'mon, just long enough to eat something for me. Then you can rest more." He cracks his eyes open and blinks up at the ceiling, clearing his sleep-blurry vision. Jaskier, sitting beside the bed, looks relieved, smiling down at Geralt. "Good morning. Honestly, I was starting to get a little worried."

Geralt continues to blink a few times, mind still settling into place. Lets out a simple grunt that has Jaskier laughing. "Ever the wordsmith, eh? Though, I suppose you have an excuse for now, what with the..." He trails off, eyes flicking down to Geralt's torso. Distress clouds his features for a moment, and he settles on a simple 'hmm' of his own, pulling his gaze away from the bandages there. "...Well. Anyway. Let's get you sat up so you can eat."

He nods and attempts to sit up on his own, but the simple tensing of his stomach muscles is enough to have him sucking in air through his teeth, head thrown back in pain. "Careful, now. It-- the wound, it's... it's deep. Just... here, just let me..." Jaskier reaches out, and Geralt only resists for a moment before leaning into his hands. Even with Jaskier's help, it takes a few minutes for him to get sat up properly, and his side aches by the time they're done.

Then Jaskier sets about placing pillows behind Geralt's back. He bristles a little at that. "I don't need coddling." He grits out, and Jaskier levels him with an unimpressed look.

"You had a grave hag's hand, her entire bloody hand, inside you. Doesn't matter if you need it, you're getting it." He leans away, grabs another pillow-- where did he get all those from?-- and tucks it behind Geralt's head with care. "There. Comfortable?" He's close, now, arms on either side of Geralt's head as he makes sure it's in place. It's... distracting. Geralt nods, just a little, and Jaskier smiles, something small and soft and deeply fond. "Lovely. Now, before the food gets any colder..."

Geralt eats with such speed and voracity, he surprises even himself. Apparently, nearly dying leaves you with quite the appetite. Jaskier excuses himself to go get Geralt another helping, and Geralt barely has time between bites to wonder if the bard had been playing for coin while he was passed out, to pay for these meals along with multiple nights in the inn, before Jaskier's back with more of the same plus a warm loaf of bread, and suddenly nothing really seems important beyond his meal.

They'd baked rosemary into the bread. Warm and soft on the inside, the flavor rich and woodsy, with the satisfying crunch of a good crust surrounding it, chunks of rock salt embedded in the top.

Geralt nearly moans.

He's not picky, he'll eat whatever he can get his hands on, as long as it isn't spoiled, and anything more extravagant than roasted rabbit is rare on the road... Plus, any coin he makes on The Path tends to go towards more important things, like fixing his armor or buying supplies, rather than into the pockets of a baker over a silly whim. Bread is bread, fills him the same whether it's studded with raisins or plain as a sheet.

So this is, admittedly, a bit of a novelty.

He wishes he could slow down a little, really savor it, but his hunger wins out, and the loaf disappears in a few generous bites.

When he looks up from his meal, he finds Jaskier watching him, corners of his lips turned up and amusement dancing in his eyes. "Good bread, then?"

Geralt suddenly feels pinned on the spot and, though he'd never admit it, a touch embarrassed. "Food is food," he says gruffly, looking away, "I was just hungry."

Jaskier shakes his head. "You know, you can just admit that you like something. I'm sure it was delicious. It had rosemary in it, yes? That sort've thing's always nice."

"I don't need to indulge in every tiny fancy that crosses my path. Bread is bread. Food is food. As long as it isn't rotten, it's fine." He explains, eyes still turned away.

Jaskier inhales sharply and his expression drops. "Geralt," and his name sounds so sad in Jaskier's mouth all of the sudden it has him turning, looking back at his bard, "you... you think of this as an indulgence?"

He shifts uncomfortably. "It's extraneous. Unnecessary. That's what an indulgence is, right?"

"But-- but it's just some fucking rosemary bread, I--" He takes a deep breath, and his tone pivots from defeated to determined. "Well! In that case, I'm just going to have to get you used to this sort of thing, aren't I?"

"What's the point? They're just a distraction." Geralt shrugs, leans more fully against the pillows. "It tastes nice, yes, I can't deny that. It's not an unpleasant experience or anything. But, if you get too used to that sort of thing, you'll end up mourning its inevitable absence. Better to not get used to it at all."

A mournful sound works its way out of his throat and he thwacks Geralt on the shoulder. "Just stop--! Stop saying sad shit and eat your breakfast, for gods' sake."

He doesn't really get it, what makes it sad, or why he shouldn't say it, but he nods anyway and digs back into his food.


------


Eating does seem to have done him good. By the time he's finished, he's fully awake, and his mind feels more settled in his body. Jaskier busies himself with stacking plates and bowls for easy carrying back to the kitchen, tidying. He checks that the pitcher of drinking water is still mostly full, that their bags are where they should be, that none of the blankets have fallen off of Geralt or slipped out of place.

Geralt watches him flit around the room anxiously, content to watch him burn through whatever this newfound energy is. After two circuits of the room, he finally comes to sit down on his chair, hands folded together, knee bouncing. "So," he starts, wets his lips, "you seem to be more awake now." Geralt nods. "Right, right, good... Geralt..." He sucks in a breath. "Geralt, we have to talk about this."

Suddenly Geralt is very, very tired.

He sighs heavily, drags a hand down his face. "Must we?"

Jaskier scoffs incredulously. "Yes, we absolutely must! Geralt, you almost died!" His hand shoots out to grab Geralt's, squeezing tight.

"That's the job--" he starts, but Jaskier is cutting him off.

"No it is not the job, the job is killing monsters, not letting yourself wander into battle handicapped!" Geralt bristles again, but Jaskier barrels forward, grip tightening. "We have to find someone, see some healer or sorcerer about this. We have to break the curse, or-- or get it removed, we have to do something to get rid of it, before you end up in a ditch!"

It stings a little. Jaskier doesn't know what he's suggesting, but it still leaves a sour taste in the back of Geralt's throat, and he grimaces around it. "That's not an option. We just have to let it--"

"I swear on all the gods and then some, Geralt, if you say 'we have to let it run its course' to me one more time--"

"Well, what should I say then?!" He shouts, yanking his hand away from Jaskier. "It's the truth, I have no other options. I need coin to live, I need to work for coin, so I simply have to work around this until it passes."

"But that's what I'm saying, you do have options, you're just not taking them! You can't work like this, we have to get it removed." Geralt clenches his teeth so hard he can feel a muscle jump in his jaw, and still Jaskier keeps talking, "It's been weeks and it hasn't worn off, maybe something went wrong, maybe it won't wear off on its own, and if that's the case, we need someone who knows what they're doing to fix it!"

Fix it.

He's still talking, "That hag had her entire hand inside you, Geralt, it was fucking terrifying, we have to fix this,"

Fix it.

The phrase jumps out at Geralt, sticks in his mind, running circles. We should fix it, something insidious whispers, fix you. Everyone knows witchers aren't supposed to feel this way. You're broken. Got to fix the broken weapon that thinks it could ever lo--

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut, slaps his hands over his ears, as if that would prevent the sound of an internal voice. Jaskier keeps going, misinterpreting the movement, reaching out to tug at Geralt's arms. "Oh, real mature, cover your ears because you don't like hearing that sometimes you do actually need help. I don't understand why you're fighting this so hard! Just let someone help you fix the damn problem!"

And at that, Geralt just... snaps. "Stop, just stop, stop fucking suggesting that, godsdammit!" He shouts, loud enough Jaskier's hands flinch away from him. He pants a little bit, and his throat burns and his lungs burn and his ribs are bruised from so much coughing and wheezing, and he bows his head with it, curls in on himself a little bit, and his side lights up in searing hot pain with the movement. But all of that is nothing, nothing compared to...

And Jaskier doesn't know. He's not saying it to hurt Geralt, he's not saying it because he genuinely thinks... But the reminder that his feelings are wrong, are bad, that he shouldn't have them, that Jaskier, his Jaskier, doesn't want them, doesn't want him, that he should just toss them aside like they're nothing...

It hurts. Gods, does it hurt.

Geralt is so very, very tired of feeling broken.

But despite the bone-deep weariness, he doesn't.... he doesn't want to stop feeling this. He realizes this with a sudden, sharp clarity. It's painful, and terrible, and likely to drag him into an early grave, its sharp and bitter and alien, and its the best thing he's ever felt. He just wants to have this. He just, selfishly, wants this one thing, and he can't convince himself to let it go, so...

"Please." He says this word so quietly, curling a little further in on himself.

"Geralt," and Jaskier's quiet now, too, voice laced with pain and confusion, "what--"

"To remove... this." He starts, head bowed, unable to look at Jaskier, "They have to-- they have to take away... a part of me. And its a part of myself I don't want to lose."

Jaskier is quiet for a moment. He scoots to the edge of his seat, reaches for Geralt's hand once more, tentative. "Like... like your foot, or like..." The pain in his eyes shows that he already knows the answer, but he needs to hear it. He needs the confirmation.

"A part..." Geralt wets his lips, and takes Jaskier's hand. Gives it a solid squeeze. His hand is so warm. "The part that makes me, me." He finally settles on. Close enough to the truth.

Jaskier looks wrecked as he squeezes Geralt's hand back. A paltry imitation of reassurance, but Geralt revels in it all the same. Feels guilty for taking comfort in a way Jaskier doesn't know about, could never suspect, but it just feels so good, and he's so weak. Such a weak person. And a weak witcher is a dead witcher, so the lungs thing really shouldn't have come as a surprise, honestly. "So. Please. Stop.... stop saying I should remove it. Removing it is easy, but I can't lose... I can't..."

"Geralt, I am so sorry. If I'd known, I swear, I never..." Jaskier says, distraught.

Geralt nods. "I know. It's fine." He shifts his grip and his thumb finds one of the many callouses on Jaskier's hands, evidence of his mastery of the lute. He can't stop himself from swiping his thumb across it, feeling the difference in texture. "So. Like I said... removal isn't an option, so we just have to wait until it's over."

"Why didn't you tell me? You know more than you're telling me, about all of this, about how your curse works, and I just don't understand why. Just tell me what's happening!" He pleads.

Geralt stares at their connected hands. "It's mine."

Jaskier huffs, his tone bitter. "Oh, lovely, more witchery martyr bullshit. You don't have to bear this on your own, I'll help in whatever way I can, I swear, so just--"

"No. It's not-- I..." He stops, brow furrowed deeply, struggling to come up with the right words. "It's not my burden to bear. Well, it is, but. It's not just that, it's that..." He flounders, eyes glancing back and forth as he searches in vain for what to say. How can he explain something he doesn't even fully understand himself? After a long moment, he looks back up and meets Jaskier's eyes, desperately hoping that somehow Jaskier can read him, if he does this. "...It's mine."

Jaskier doesn't understand. Not really. But he can see the depth of the emotion there. This is important, somehow. "Okay." He says it softly, holds Geralt's gaze. "I... Okay. But if there's anything else-- anything at all you can share with me..." He hopes, desperately, that somehow, somehow Geralt can read how serious he is, if he does this. "Please. Just tell me. I swear I won't judge, I just want to know how to help you. We're friends, aren't we?"

Geralt lets out a little wheeze, breaking eye contact. "Yeah, Jask. We're... we're friends."

The silence is a thick, tangible presence between the two of them. Jaskier squeezes his hand again, tighter, like he doesn't know what else to do.


------


Eventually, Jaskier quietly slips out of the room, carrying the plates with him. Geralt leans back against the pillows, eyes closed, and just lets himself drift. He feels drained, any energy reserves he might've had taken up by his body attempting to heal.

His almost-a-nap is interrupted by Jaskier re-entering the room holding a bucket of steaming water. He bumps into the door frame on his way in and curses, spilling a bit down the side and onto the floor. Geralt watches, amused, as Jaskier hurries to close the door behind himself and wipe up the mess.

"What's the water for?" He asks as Jaskier stands and picks the bucket back up.

"Well," he says, setting it by Geralt's bedside, "I need to check your bandages. While I'm at it, I figure we should get you a little cleaned up."

Geralt's nose wrinkles. "No."

"No? Oh, well, since you said it so persuasively." Jaskier rolls his eyes, then his sleeves. "Like I said, I need to check your bandages anyway, and you've been laying in your own sweat for days. Can't be clean or hygienic, and it can't feel great either."

"I've just been lying here, I'm not dirty." He says defensively, scooting away from Jaskier's hands and hissing in pain.

"You haven't got dirt on you, no, but like I said, you're sweaty. It's not good for your wounds. And you can't get in a tub like this, so we've got to do something about it. Not like I haven't seen you bathe before, either." He reaches out, gently fiddles with the hem of Geralt's shirt. His expression turns serious, little furrow between his brow. "Please. Just let me... I want to help."

It's all he's been asking for, this entire time. Pleading for more ways to help Geralt through it all. Geralt swallows hard, stares down at his hand. He wants to be helpful so badly, and Geralt... Geralt is abysmal at refusing Jaskier. He nods minutely, then says, "...Alright."

Jaskier beams at him.

"Alright then, let's get you out of that shirt." Jaskier's hands are gentle, fingers cool where they brush against the sleep-warm skin of Geralt's ribs. He shivers a little at the sensation, breath coming in short puffs. Jaskier misinterprets the reaction, however, and slows his movements down further, trying harder not to jostle too much. Eases the cloth over his head and down his arms for him when they find that, between his side and his shoulder, Geralt can't lift his arms entirely above his head.

He sits on the edge of the bed, hip pressed against Geralt, leg tucked up under himself for leverage. Dips a washcloth in the warm water and starts on Geralt's face. "It's too bad I can't wash your hair like this," he murmurs, barely above a whisper, "must feel terribly stringy."

"It's fine," Geralt says, sounding only slightly strangled.

The washcloth smooths over his cheekbone, gentle and attentive. Jaskier still has that crease between his brow, the way he does when he really concentrates. Something soft unfurls in Geralt's chest, leaves his pulse fluttering, and he has to close his eyes. He can't look at Jaskier like this, not while bearing the full brunt of his attention. "I-- I can at least do my own face." He says weakly.

"You can't see the cuts there, so you can't be careful of them." He fires back, rewetting the cloth. He starts on Geralt's other cheek, mindful of where the hag's claws had slashed him. Geralt wants to tell him that he doesn't need to be careful, that he can take it, that it doesn't matter, but he holds his tongue.

The minutes stretch on, and he keeps his eyes closed, world narrowed down to the feeling of the warm washcloth, those clever hands on his skin, tilting his head as needed. He leans into Jaskier's touch without meaning to, and is rewarded with those same clever fingers reaching up to tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear, out of the way. He can feel Jaskier's breath on his cheek. They're so close, so close...

He moves down Geralt's neck, then his uninjured shoulder. His hands pause once they reach Geralt's collarbone, near the edge of the first bandage. There's a heavy pause, and then Jaskier's leaning forward, forehead on Geralt's shoulder. "I just want you to be alright." He confides, washcloth balled up in his hand. "I... I think that's the most scared I've ever been on a contract with you." He laughs weakly.

"You've been in more danger before," Geralt says, trying for soothing, "she wouldn't have even spotted you in the trees if you hadn't screamed. And I never would've let it get to you."

Jaskier scoots even closer, plants his hand on the bed by Geralt's other hip for balance. "The most scared," he says it a little more firmly this time, more conviction behind it, "I've ever been. I... I was scared for you, Geralt. I really thought that you might..."

He doesn't know what to say. How to fix this, how to ease Jaskier's mind. "I never would've let it get to you." He repeats, because he doesn't know what else to say.

Jaskier nods against him, lets out a sigh. "I know. I know. Just... please don't scare me like that again." Geralt opens his mouth to respond, and Jaskier shakes his head. "Yes, yes, you can't promise that, it's the job, getting hurt. You don't need to tell me, I'm aware. I'm not asking for promises or platitudes, Geralt. I'm just... take better care of yourself. Don't rush into things, or ignore your pains. Please. Don't scare me like that again."

Geralt nods mutely, and Jaskier takes a deep breath, sniffling slightly at the end. When he pulls away, his eyes are shining, and he subtly dabs at them. "Alright!" He says, already pushing for a cheery tone, as if trying to move on from the emotionally charged moment. "Let's take a look at that shoulder, shall we?"


------


Just as Geralt's getting resettled against the pillows, there's a knock at the door. Jaskier's hands freeze at the hem of his shirt, having just got it resituated for him, and they both exchange a curious look. After a moment, Jaskier gets up to answer it. Geralt can't see out from his place in the bed, but he can see Jaskier's profile. He looks surprised. "Oh, hello. Is everything alright with the room?"

There's a shuffling sound, like movement. "We heard he was up, and we wanted to... to come see him. To talk, just for a little bit." The voice is deep, probably male, but Geralt can't tell much beyond that.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think he's really up for visitors at the moment." Jaskier speaks quietly, holding the door mostly closed, body angled to block whoever's on the other side from viewing Geralt. Protecting him.

"Please, it won't take long." A woman's voice as well.

"You can let them in, Jaskier." Geralt says quietly. Jaskier turns at that, peers over his shoulder at Geralt, as if to ask 'are you sure?' but after a moment he relents, stepping to the side.

A man and woman enter the room. Older, with kindly faces, though Geralt isn't the best judge of that sort of thing. They step up to Geralt's bedside and the man sits himself into Jaskier's chair, easing himself down in the slow, calculated way someone does when they have a bad knee. The woman stands behind him, hand on his shoulder. There's a tense moment where no one speaks, Geralt waiting for them to state their business, and the couple looking unsure of where to start. "I'm Henry," the man says eventually, "and this here is my wife, Orla. We're the innkeepers here."

"It's been a few days, yes?" Geralt starts, and the man nods. They must be running low on coin. Geralt runs a little mental math, nods right back. "Don't worry. We'll be gone in a few day's time." Do they have enough for that? He never had a chance to see the inn's rates. "Should still have enough coin for... two nights, I think."

The couple looks startled, glancing at each other. "No, it's... it's on the house. We didn't come to collect debts, witcher." The man, Henry, says, reaching up to place his hand over hers where it's resting on his shoulder.

He cocks his head, confused. "On the...? But--"

"We wanted to thank you." There's so much emotion in Orla's voice when she speaks it catches Geralt off-guard, and he can see the way their grips both tighten.

"The hag hadn't killed anyone yet," he says bluntly, glancing between the two of them, "and you weren't there when I slayed her." There was a question hidden there, between the statements. You weren't in danger. Why does it matter so much to you?

Orla bows her head a little, presses her other hand over her mouth, and Henry takes a deep breath. "The grave she disturbed was our son's. Fell ill last summer." He pauses, unable to meet Geralt's eyes anymore. The atmosphere in the room changes immediately, like all the air was sucked out at once. Geralt goes a little tense at the sudden shift, at the knowledge that's been laid at his feet. "Thanks to you, we can go back. Rebury what was left behind. Visit him again."

"We have our boy back, thanks to you." Orla's voice is shaking as she speaks. "So... so, for as long as you need it, bed, food, baths... It's on the house."

"We just wanted to come thank you, in person, for what you've done for us." Henry says. "Didn't mean to worry you about costs or nothin'."

He flounders for a moment. "I... I can't accept--"

Before he can finish the thought, Henry cuts him off with a "Nonsense! We're not hurting for coin, and it's the least we can do." The both smile encouragingly at him.

Something hot and sour curls up in Geralt's chest. What a paltry comfort. He thinks, face pinched as he stares down at the blanket. I didn't bring you anything. You don't have to do all this. I didn't earn any of this. He had desperately needed the safety of the lodging they'd so graciously provided, but it felt wrong, accepting it for something like that. For something so small, instead of something more important, like, "Suppose I made it safer for your other children, too..."

Their smiles turn a little sad, a little knowing. "He was our only." Ah. Shit. He'd been trying to rationalize it, make it feel like he'd actually done something to actively help these folks giving him so much, but instead he just made everything worse. Lovely. He mumbles a quiet apology.

"We had to try for years to get him. He was our little miracle, a blessing of a child. Always had a kind word or a sweet smile... and smart as a whip, too, Hammond was." Despite their tears, there's a fierce pride there, an intense love. And for one brief moment, Geralt is overwhelmed by how unfair that is. And it is so crushingly unfair. All that love and devotion, all that eagerness to bring a life into the world and nurture it, and they're the ones who lose it all? He sees in his mind all the faces of parents who he'd met that hated their children, hit them, threw them in the woods to avoid having to raise them, sees his own--

He schools his expression. That's the way of the world. Good things don't necessarily come to those who deserve it. It's all random, it's all chance. He knows this, has seen it countless times, and will see it countless times more.

He wishes, not for the first time, that he could do more. Be more.

"Thank you." He says, voice thick and sincere. "It may not mean much, but I give you my word we will not abuse your hospitality." It's not quite what he wants to say, but it's close enough, maybe. Something like, This is more than I deserve. Something like, I promise to leave soon. Wants to say, It's not fair that you needed me at all, and I might be dead right now without your willingness to offer me food and lodging, and I can't pay you back. I'll never be able to repay this.

Underneath it all, it's something like, Please don't kick me out yet. I swear I'm not a monster.

She lets go of her husband to reach out and place her hand on his. "You take all the time you need to heal, okay? It's our pleasure, master witcher. We're in your debt." And that's wrong, it's wrong, because he wasn't doing it for their son, didn't think about the boy once, they don't owe him a thing, but he doesn't know how to say that, either, so he stays silent. Stares at their connected hands and feels... something shifting in his chest.

When was the last time anyone other than Jaskier touched him without fear or disgust? She had no hesitation. Her grip hasn't loosened. It's firm and sure and completely unafraid. "Thank you." He flounders, unsure of what else to say, how to explain how deeply he means it. He drags his eyes up, looks at the two of them, desperate for them to know how sincere he is when he says it.

Eventually Henry speaks up. "We should get back to work," he says quietly, and Orla pulls her hand away, "we just had to tell you that in person." Henry extends his hand and, after a moment, Geralt gives it a firm shake. Then Orla's helping him up, and they're both heading to the door, leaving Geralt dumbstruck.

At the door, Jaskier gives Orla a tight hug. "I'm so sorry for your loss." He says quietly, and she sniffs a bit at that, but hugs him back just as firm.

"Thank you, dear. We're just happy to have him back." She says into his neck.

"We'll make sure to tell him about you two." Henry says, smiling softly as he claps Jaskier on the shoulder.

Then it's just Geralt and Jaskier, alone in the room again.

Jaskier sits down on the bed, near Geralt's hip. Still staring at the closed door. "They were nice." He says quietly. "...I'm glad we could help them."

Thoughts swirl through Geralt's head, about what constitutes help, and what it means to deserve a reward, about the unfairness of the world, about how he really hadn't earned such kindness-- but then Jaskier is leaning back, gently pressing his shoulder against Geralt's, and his mind goes pleasantly blank. Just basks in the familiarity of Jaskier, lets the other man's presence ground him. His fingers reach out and tangle, hesitantly, in the hem of Jaskier's chemise.

He must feel it, because Jaskier responds, leaning just a bit more heavily against Geralt, a comforting weight.

"Yeah," he says quietly, though he's not sure which part he's agreeing with. Maybe all of it. "Yeah."

Comments

[roughentumble]

btw sorry that this is being crossposted So Ridiculously Slowly, i keep forgetting about it and. to be Entirely honest. i got some depression stuff goin on in my brain that's making me slow about things. and obviously you can always just read the whole thing on ao3 at any time. but, well, it will all get crossposted here, if only for my own peace of mind haha. super double prommy