The wounds almost look worse once they've been cleaned.
The woman – Sayla – sends her husband to town to fetch the healer, and by the time she arrives, Sayla has finished washing out the dirt and dried blood. Geralt has seen hundreds of injuries in his lifetime, and has been hurt in a thousand different ways, but the way that Jaskier's collarbone peeks through the mangled skin on his shoulder makes Geralt sick in a way he's never felt before.
"What can I do?" he asks the healer. He's still clutching Jaskier's uninjured hand and staring helplessly at the shaky rise and fall of Jaskier's chest.
"Get out of my way," the woman says. "I need room to work."
Geralt nearly snaps at her, even though he knows she means well. But letting go of Jaskier's hand is the last thing he wants to do right now.
"Can I—"
"What did this?" the healer interrupts as she sets her satchel on one of the chairs.
"Barghest," Sayla replies. The healer clicks her tongue and shakes her head, then pulls out a small kit with a wicked-looking needle and catgut thread.
"Some of it can be sutured," she says, pressing her fingers lightly against the ragged edges of the skin on Jaskier's shoulder. "We'll pack the rest. Give him the valerian to keep him sleeping."
The last statement is directed at Sayla, who nods and takes a vial of dark-looking liquid from the healer, then tips it into Jaskier's mouth. There's no response other than a slight movement in his throat as he swallows on reflex.
"Will he—"
"Quiet, Witcher." The healer gives Geralt a look that would wither lesser men, but he just stares right back. She sighs. "I'm doing what I can."
So Geralt is patient. He sits as far out of the way as he can without relinquishing his grip on Jaskier's hand, gaze moving between Jaskier's pale, bloody face and the needle that slips in and out of his skin.
Nearly two hours later, the healer steps back, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. "He'll live," she says gently as Geralt quickly moves in, reaching out and carefully touching Jaskier's hair. "It will take time, but he will wake."
"Will he…" Geralt hesitates, staring at the bandaging on Jaskier's neck. "His voice," he says softly. "Is it…"
"We won't know until he wakes," the healer says. She hands Geralt another vial of valerian. "Keep him asleep as long as you can," she says. "I set the bone in the wrist, but it will take time to heal. Once he's lucid, send for me and I'll come back to change the bandages."
Geralt nods, wishing he didn't feel like he was drowning. "Here," he says quietly, reaching for the coinpurse on his belt. "Whatever you need."
Sayla lets them stay and Geralt's too tired to argue. He can't get Jaskier back on the horse anyway – not with the bandages and his splinted wrist.
"We can stay in the barn," Geralt says, keeping his eyes on Jaskier's bruised face. "I can pay you."
"Nonsense," Sayla says, pushing away Geralt's coinpurse. "We've got an extra room – our Theodore went off and married and we haven't filled the space yet. You're welcome to it."
The room is small and cramped, and there's nothing but a dresser and a bed that's barely big enough for Jaskier. Geralt lies him down gently, tucking his injured arm across his stomach. Sayla brings him another bowl of water and Geralt uses the rough cloth to gently clean the blood from the rest of Jaskier's face and chest. Then he tugs the threadbare blanket up and, after a moment, adds his cloak for good measure.
"I'm sorry." The words are barely audible as Geralt sits on the edge of the bed, reaching up and touching Jaskier's hair. He combs his fingers through it, exhaling sharply and closing his eyes as he thinks back to all the times Jaskier's done the same for him.
"I didn't mean it," he says, shaking his head. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind Jaskier's ear. "I was so angry – not at you, at Yenn, and the magic, and… and you were there, and it was easy to…" He rubs his face. "Fuck."
Use your words. He can hear Jaskier's voice in his head, see the grin that quirks the corner of his mouth whenever he's teasing. He says it all the time – whenever he asks about Geralt's adventures, and Geralt is sparse with his answers. Use your words, darling, or I'm going to have to make it all up.
"You make it up anyway," Geralt grumbles, sighing and staring at the bandage on Jaskier's neck. "Next time you ask…" He hesitates. "I'll tell you. I promise. Anything you want."
There's no response from Jaskier, and suddenly Geralt wants nothing more than to hear his voice. When he closes his eyes, all he can see is the deep, ragged edges of the wound in Jaskier's neck, and hear the pained gasp where Jaskier's words should have been.
The terrifying, quiet voice in his head that he's been trying so hard to ignore whispers, he'll never sing again and it's all your fault.
"You will," Geralt says out loud. "You'll get better and then you'll sing your ridiculous songs and I will never complain about it again." He slides his hand down until his fingers are twined with Jaskier's, brushing his thumb along his knuckles. "I like your voice," he says softly. "I like it when you sing to me."
Geralt lets out a shaky breath, taking Jaskier's hand in both of his. The room is far too quiet and Geralt hates it. He'd been alone for so long that at first, Jaskier had grated on him.
I want no one. And the last thing I want is someone needing me.
But Jaskier had persisted, and was there, always present, always talking and singing and filling up the room with his smile and song and laughter. At first Geralt had wanted nothing more than to get away from it, but after they'd parted, the first time, it had been… unsettling. The quiet wasn't comforting anymore, and for the first time in his life, Geralt hadn't wanted to be alone.
"I was wrong," he says softly, bringing Jaskier's hand to his lips and kissing his fingers. "I do need you." He shifts closer on the bed, tucking one leg under his knee. "You make my life…"
He trails off, tipping his head back and staring at the ceiling as he curses himself. Even now, with Jaskier nearly dead, he still can't say the things he should. His chest is tight with all the sentiment that the stories say he shouldn't have; a confusing tangle of emotions that only Jaskier can weave in him like the music he plucks from his lute.
"Happy," Geralt whispers finally, leaning down and kissing Jaskier's forehead. "You make me feel happy."
Then he settles in, leg resting against Jaskier's thigh, fingers twined together, and takes a deep breath. "I have a story for you," he says, "about a ridiculous bard who never knew how to give up."
