Jaskier shivers under his rough-spun blanket. He can't deal with this, with any of this. The flashback is still vivid in his mind and the memory clutches at him with ice-cold fingers. It squeezes his lungs and makes his breath hitch. When he closes his eyes, he can still see the mage's face inches away from his own. He can smell his breath, hears the snap of his fingers as fire bursts into life.
Desperately, he longs for the poppy. He knows that the images will follow him into his dreams. Hell, he can barely stop thinking about them when he is awake. But the means to deal with them have been taken away from him. How is he supposed to make it through the night? The next day? Every moment he closes his eyes, Rience is there. The sadistic eyes, the cruel smile. Having a name to put to that face doesn't help one bit.
He curls his injured hand protectively against his chest, biting back a sob. It throbs dully, every beat of his heart reminding him of what he would rather forget. Geralt's company has made it better for a while, but now he regrets letting him in again. Letting himself be talked into this journey. He has tried to help, sure. But he has only made it worse.
Get the fuck out of here.
Jaskier can still taste the words on his lips, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to keep the helpless tears at bay. He has just begun to trust again. How has it all gone to shit this quickly? He knows Geralt didn't want to hurt him. Not on purpose, not like back then on the mountain, and he loves him so fucking much for coming back to him. For caring. But he also hates him for breaking the flask, for even trying to take it away from him. What the hell had he been thinking? Jaskier is not a child, he is well capable of making his own decisions. He doesn't need to be patronized.
A burst of laughter sounds from above, and Jaskier realizes that it's the sailors. They'll probably continue drinking till late into the night. Fuck, he should have stayed below deck like he wanted to. He should never have allowed Geralt to make him join them. The mood is boisterous, so they probably haven't witnessed his argument with Geralt. It's a small mercy. At least there won't be any questions or sympathetic glances. It takes him a while before he notices that there's no singing.
Jaskier can't remember falling asleep, but he must have because when he looks at the floor again, the shards are gone. His heart quickens in a burst of hope that maybe it has just been a dream. That the poppy is still there. But when he sits up a little, pain blossoms along his ribcage and he registers the growing discomfort in his hand. No, he thinks, this is real. This is painfully real.
As he lies awake, he becomes aware of a crawling restlessness that prickles in the back of his mind. It comes with a discomfort that is hard to pinpoint, a sickness that lies beyond the pain of his injuries. He can feel it shivering through him in an all-encompassing ache, like the early stirrings of fever. Thirst burns in his throat.
When he sits a little, he discovers that someone has left a pitcher of water beside his hammock, together with an empty cup and a bucket. With some effort, he pours himself a drink and sips at the water, then lies down again. It's still dark outside. No need to get up yet.
He is endlessly tired, but he realizes soon that it's impossible to go back to sleep. His body won't let him. He flexes his fingers, rubs his feet nervously against each other. In the darkness, he can hear the sailors snoring.
He turns in his hammock, eyes wandering to the empty one beside him. Looks like Geralt is still on watch. It's probably for the better. Even the thought of talking to him makes Jaskier's pulse rise. If it wasn't for him, he'd still have a way to make things bearable. To dull the pain and forget. Everything would be easier with just one more sip of the drug, and the knowledge that there isn't any is driving him mad. He can feel it like pinpricks traveling across his flesh, like ants crawling beneath his skin, and he becomes uncomfortably aware of an ever-growing feeling of nausea that pools in his stomach. It makes him want to scream with frustration. He needs another dose and he needs it now.
It's a thought that's impossible to let go of. Again and again, he finds himself checking the floor hoping to find an overlooked shard, maybe a few half-dried drops. He can still smell the sickly sweetness of the drug, can make out the faint, dark stains where the floor has been scrubbed. But whoever has cleaned up the mess has done a good job. The poppy is gone. It's all gone.
He turns onto his back and stares at the beams above him, tries to focus on the display of shadows created by the dim light of the oil lamp, tries to focus on his breathing in a desperate attempt to calm down. To no avail. With every passing minute, it becomes more difficult to ignore the growing ache in his joints and the shivers that run up his spine. It almost feels like he has come down with the flu, but there is no drowsiness, no lazy pull of sleep. He is wide awake, fully conscious, and he feels like he's becoming more aware with every painful breath he takes.
He presses his hands against his eyes, biting back a cry of pain when he unintentionally strains his injured fingers and clenches his teeth. A hint of cramps squeezes around his stomach. Fuck, this needs to end right now. Cursing, he drags himself to his feet and kneels beside the chest that contains Geralt's and his belongings. Hands shaking, he starts to dig through the contents, knowing full well that there is no second flask, no medicine. There are witcher potions, of course, but he remembers that they are toxic to humans.
Finally, his hands close around a bottle of Redanian herbal. It's not exactly what he was after, but the haze of the alcohol should provide some relief at least. He pulls the cork with his teeth and takes a long swig. It burns on the way down, making his stomach clench, but it settles. He waits a moment, then decides he will need more. The second swag is a long one, greedy and intoxicating, and he regrets it the moment he puts the bottle down. Nausea hits him like a fist, flipping his stomach over, and he barely makes it to the bucket before it flushes him head to toe. He empties his stomach in one violent spell of retching, sobbing as pain lances through his injured ribs. Clumsily, he presses a trembling hand to his side. It helps a little, and he almost thinks that the worst is over, when another wave of sickness rips through him.
He doesn't know how long he kneels there, clutching the bucket, his world narrowed down to the convulsions that wreck through him, the taste of bile, the white bursts of agony in his side. When it is finally over, he is left shaking, a whimper trembling from his lips. Tears blur his vision as he opens his eyes, taking careful, shallow breaths.
Fuck. He really doesn't want to repeat that.
Slowly, he sits back on his haunches, trying get his bearings.
"Hey, are you alright?"
He raises his head to regard the man who has come to stand next to him. His face is young and soft, his chin barely covered by the first fluff of beard. Mike, Jaskier remembers. The deckhand who told him about the hobgoblin.
Jaskier shakes his head. He feels like shit, and he doesn't have the strength to hide it.
"Should I get someone? Your witcher friend maybe?"
The idea doesn't sound half bad. Only that he wants to strangle Geralt right now. Besides, he's on watch and he's no healer, so he won't be able to help anyway.
"No," Jaskier rasps out, swallowing dryly when his stomach flips once more. "'s okay."
"If you say so," Mike says doubtfully. He places a hand on Jaskier's shoulder. "Should I help you back into your hammock?"
Jaskier grimaces, pushing to his feet, and it's then that he realizes that this is not over yet. Searing pain shoots through his bowels and he bites his lip, stifling a moan. Sweet Melitele. He barely keeps himself from folding over, and he feels a panicky hand grab his upper arm.
"Come on, you should lie down."
"No," Jaskier gasps out, urgency lacing his voice. He can feel his insides twisting, muscles squeezing involuntarily. If he's not quick about it, this will become a lot more embarrassing than it already is. "Help me to the head of the ship."
"He's in here."
Geralt feels his heart clench as they approach the doorway that leads to the latrines. During the night, he has dropped in a few times to check on Jaskier and has always been relieved to find him asleep. The sickness must have hit him in the early morning hours.
The deckhand steps aside to let Geralt pass. The space is small, fitted with two holes in the floor and a bucket of water for hygiene. The lantern on the floor has almost burnt out, but there is still enough light for witcher senses.
"He said he didn't want any help," the man says from behind Geralt's back. "But when he didn't return, I got worried."
The shivering form on the floor is almost completely cast in shadow, but Geralt immediately recognizes it as Jaskier. He is curled into himself, arms slung tightly around his midsection, and the floor next to him glistens with moisture. By the stench of it, it's probably the meager contents of his stomach. He isn't even attempting to get up.
"Jaskier?"
Geralt drops to his knees and lays a gentle hand on Jaskier's shoulder. From what little he knows about opioid withdrawal, Geralt has expected something like this, but the sight still makes his chest tighten. Jaskier is pale as death, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. He makes a small sound of distress but otherwise fails to respond.
"Why didn't you get me sooner?" He addresses the man behind him without lifting his gaze from the trembling shoulders, the lines that are taut with pain.
"He told me not to."
Geralt clenches his teeth. He can only imagine what has been going on in Jaskier's mind, what made him decide to face this alone. Maybe he was still mad at him. Maybe he didn't think it would get that bad. Either way, Geralt is not happy with the result.
"You should have gotten me anyway."
"Yeah, well." He can feel the deckhand lingering behind him, unsure what to do and obviously uncomfortable with the situation. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
Geralt shifts closer to Jaskier to press a gentle hand against his brow, which is hot with fever. He can hear his racing heartbeat even without straining his ears.
"Get something to clean up this mess," Geralt bites out. He is angry. Angry with the deckhand for not telling him sooner, angry with Jaskier, but most of all, he is angry with himself. He has completely underestimated this, would never have thought that symptoms of withdrawal would show that quickly. He berates himself for taking the night's watch, giving Jaskier the space he had requested. He should have known better.
"Sure."
He barely notices the man leaving. All his attention is focused on Jaskier, who hasn't acknowledged his presence yet. He is conscious though, Geralt can tell by the taut set of his jaw. Tentatively, he takes hold of his shoulder.
"Jaskier?" He tries again, his voice soft. "Can you hear me? It's me. Geralt."
Jaskier's eyes slip open, and Geralt shudders at the naked pain he sees there. The torment. The rage.
"Fuck off."
The words are breath only, weak and forced out between clenched teeth, but Geralt feels them sting as if he had been slapped. He tries to ignore it though. Jaskier is barely lucid, and he is in pain. Who knows what's going on in his fevered mind right now?
"You cannot stay here," Geralt says patiently. "I'll get you back to your hammock."
"No," Jaskier protests and the word turns into a cry of pain when Geralt gently turns him onto his back. It's either his ribs, the cramps, or both; Geralt isn't sure, and he hates to hurt him, but it can't be helped. He sure as hell isn't going to leave him here lying in his own vomit.
Jaskier flails weakly, trying to bat him away, but Geralt is having none of it. With all the care he can muster, he gathers the writhing form into his arms, cradling the fevered head against his shoulder and ignoring the hoarse string of curses and whimpers that falls from Jaskier's lips as he tries to fend him off. The delicate fabric of his tunic is soaked with sweat and filth, the acrid stench near overwhelming, but Geralt holds him steady against his chest.
He ignores the looks of the crew members as he stalks across the deck and carries Jaskier down the stairs to the small corner that holds their bedding. Once there, he methodically rids him of his soiled clothes. Jaskier doesn't fight it, and Geralt takes that as encouragement. He runs a washcloth over his skin, cleaning the filth from his face and chest, and once he is done, Geralt gets him settled into his hammock. When he slips a pillow under his shoulders, positioning it in a way that he knows will support his injured ribs, Jaskier's eyes crack open. They are bloodshot and glazed with fever, but they are lucid, and they settle in Geralt's direction. The hostility in them hurts more than he would have thought possible.
"How are you feeling?"
Jaskier presses a hand against his side, jaw set tight. Everything in his body language says that he wants Geralt to leave, and it's not that Geralt doesn't understand. After all that happened, Jaskier has all right to be angry. But he also needs help, and Geralt isn't going to let him down. When he is sure there won't be an answer, Geralt nods at Jaskier's injured hand.
"Your bandage is soiled. It should be changed."
Geralt gets the things he needs from his pack and lays them out on the chest. Communication isn't his strong suit, and it's worse when it comes to hurt feelings. The tension between them is almost tangible, but he sees no way to address it, not without raising his voice, and he doesn't want to do that. He can barely comprehend what Jaskier is going through, and he'd rather suffer through this in awkward silence than make it worse.
When he turns to Jaskier again, he finds the young man staring at the ceiling, purposefully avoiding eye contact. Remembering the last time he touched Jaskier's wrist, Geralt decides to give him a heads-up.
"I'll take the dressing off now, okay?"
He gives the words a moment to sink in before reaching for his wrist. The skin is cold under his touch, and Jaskier flinches but doesn't pull away. Geralt casts a quick glance at his face to make sure he is alright and stops in mid-motion. Jaskier's eyes are empty and filled with tears. He is trembling, and for a beat, Geralt fears that he might be caught in a flashback again.
"You still with me?"
Jaskier meets his gaze and nods. There is still a hint of anger, but it's less prominent now. He looks beat and like he's about to fall apart any minute.
"Why are you still here?"
It's not a question Geralt has expected and he doesn't know what to say. Because you need me? It's only half the truth, but he doesn't have it in him to go into this at great length. Not now anyway. Not when he has not resolved how he is feeling himself, unable to pry apart guilt and duty and what he thinks is honest affection. Finding Jaskier in Oxenfurt has done something to him. Geralt can't quite explain it, but it has hurt almost physically, like shards of glass lodged in his chest. But he doesn't want to say anything he'll regret later. Jaskier is so vulnerable right now, and there's no knowing what an ill-chosen word might do.
"Where else would I be?"
Jaskier runs his tongue over cracked lips.
"Told you to get lost."
"Yeah. I heard." Geralt lowers his eyes, taking a deep breath. "Look, I'm sorry about what happened. I know it's my fault that - " He breaks off, shaking his head at himself. "All of it, really. And I can only guess how that makes you feel. How much you must hate me right now. But I'm not going to leave you like this. Okay? So don't ask me to."
He gently unwraps the bandage and wets a rag with alcohol from his bag.
"Hold still. This might sting a little."
Jaskier bites his lip, taking a sharp breath when the cloth touches his wound. Geralt works quietly and efficiently, and he covers the injury with Shani's salve before applying a fresh dressing.
"I don't understand," Jaskier says slowly. "In Caingorn you said -"
"I know what I said." The words come more heated than intended, but Geralt can't help it. He is tired and this touches a tender spot. He feels so damn guilty about this, and if he had known back then what his actions would lead to, he would never have acted that way. "I was hurt, and I'm sorry I ever said those things to you. You are important to me, Jaskier, and I care about you."
Jaskier blinks at him, and he looks so dumbfounded that Geralt wishes he hadn't phrased it like that. This is not the time to have this conversation. Jaskier is so sick he is half out of his mind, and Geralt hasn't had any sleep for 24 hours straight.
Geralt casts his eyes down. He practically feels Jaskier thinking, but he can't – he won't talk about this right now. With practiced fingers, he finishes tying the bandage into place and sets Jaskier's hand down. Then he pours him a cup of water and helps him drink. When he is finished, he pulls the blanket up to his shoulders, tugging him in.
"Is there anything else you need?" He asks quietly.
Jaskier has a strange look on his face, soft and endlessly tired as if all fight has just bled out of him. Geralt is surprised when he finds cold fingers searching for his hand and curling around it.
"I don't hate you." Jaskier's voice is small, and it seems to Geralt that he is fumbling for words, which is a rare thing for him. "I'm angry about the flask, but that is not the same. I just wish you hadn't tried to take it from me. And when it broke, I was so fucking scared." He huffs, and it sounds like a sad laugh. "I'm still scared as fuck."
Geralt sits on the chest, allowing Jaskier to hold on to his grasp.
"I didn't mean for the flask to break."
"I know." Jaskier sighs, turning a bit to lie on his side, and winces as he does. He looks at Geralt thoughtfully, as if he is considering something. "Can I ask something of you?"
"Sure. Anything you want."
Jaskier licks his lips.
"I'm feeling awful right now. I'm hurting all over, and everything is crashing down on me. You know, everything. The mage," Geralt notes that he still isn't able to say it out loud, "my hand. My future. Everything. And I can't stop thinking about it, and my skin is crawling and I'm so fucking tired but there's no way I'm gonna sleep." He looks at Geralt imploringly.
"There's nothing in my bags that could help. Witcher potions are deadly for humans."
"I know. That's not what I'm asking." Jaskier's brows twitch as if he fears what he is going to say next. "Could you use your signs on me? Just to help me sleep?"
Geralt sighs. It's not that if he doesn't want to help, but Jaskier might have a little misconception here.
"I can't put you to sleep," he explains. "It doesn't work like that. But I could help you relax if that's what you wanted."
Jaskier nods, apparently happy with the idea. "Okay."
Geralt hesitates, fearing that Jaskier might regret it in the morning. Up till now, he has been adamant about Geralt using his signs, and Axii has its downsides. No matter how good the intentions, it is still a manipulation of the mind, and Geralt has never employed it in a situation like this. He doesn't know how well it'll work, if it will work it all. It might be an unpleasant experience, and their relationship is in a difficult spot right now. Geralt feels like he is walking on thin ice here. But when he sees the desperation in Jaskier's eyes, he realizes that denying it isn't an option either.
"Are you sure you want that?" He asks tentatively. "It's a lot of trust. And you're - "
"I trust you," Jaskier says simply. His eyes are red-rimmed, swollen from crying and too little sleep, but they are serious. "You said you cared about me. I believe you."
The fingers around his hand squeeze lightly, and Geralt's resistance crumbles. Jaskier needs to rest, and if he's fine with this, who is Geralt to keep it from him? He just hopes that the sleep he'll get will be restful and devoid of dreams.
