Geralt wishes he could regret the events that led up to this.

The witcher is upright on his knees, providing an anchor and balance to Jaskier who has been in a deep squat for the past hour, his forearms flush with Geralt's and their fingers tightly interlocked. Geralt wishes he could see Jaskier's face, and at the same time is grateful that he doesn't have to watch his lover's suffering. He can already hear the weary sighs, the grunts of effort, the whimpers of pain. He can feel the tenseness of Jaskier's muscles squeezing and releasing as they work toward their goal of moving the babe down and out, seeming to be both for and against Jaskier as he struggles for control over his own body. Geralt can both smell and taste blood, and he hopes it is mostly from the lip he has bitten through in his own efforts not to cry out at the horror of it all and not from the bright red blood that he has just now noticed is falling one or two drops at a time onto the floorboards beneath Jaskier.

Geralt's thighs are trembling and his knees hurt so badly he is sure they are already purple with bruises, but he doesn't dare move or complain. This is the only position Jaskier has found that gives him any sense of control over what is happening to him. With Geralt's strong arms and hands holding him tightly in place, Jaskier doesn't have to worry about balancing on the platforms of his feet. He can just focus on that feeling of everything moving down, down, down, and out. Gravity has become his second birthing partner, and he has grown to depend on it more and more over the past hour.

Geralt vaguely registers that he can no longer feel his fingers, but that is also a complaint that can wait; he would deny himself any and every comfort if it offered Jaskier even the slightest respite from his suffering.

And he is suffering. It has gone on so long. Whether it has been too long, Geralt does not know. The midwives say that firstborns like to take their time, but he is certain that the pushing stage isn't supposed to last this long. Certainly he knows that childbirth isn't easy, but this…This surely cannot be normal. It has been well over an hour since Jaskier first began pushing. Jaskier had been so excited then, so sure that he was moments from meeting his child for the first time.

Now Jaskier is gasping for air, trying to gather the strength and nerve to attempt another huge push. He seems to have concluded that smaller pushes, though easier, are a waste of his energy, which is in short supply as it is. After what seems like an entire minute, the gasping suddenly stops, replaced by a strained, desperate sound as Jaskier bears down once again, his entire body rigid with effort. He cannot hold the push for very long, and it ends too quickly. Geralt knows without asking that the effort was as good as wasted. Jaskier hasn't felt the babe move down for a good half hour. He would have said something if it had.

Jaskier spends another minute breathing deeply, waiting for the next pain, for the next chance to take back control over the body that seems to have betrayed him entirely. The contraction comes far sooner than expected and Jaskier sobs with the pain, unable to find the strength to push. Geralt bites down harder on his lip and presses closer against Jaskier, willing him to feel his love and support because Geralt cannot trust himself to open his mouth without screaming.

Jaskier is growing weaker, and Geralt doesn't know how much longer they can go on like this. The bard is exhausted and hurting, and he must be scared out of his mind. He pants through the contraction that came too early; he seems to have decided to try anew on the next one. Or perhaps the one after that. Geralt suddenly wonders if the contractions will strengthen to the point that Jaskier will not have to push at all. Maybe the bard's body will force the child out on its own without assistance from its owner. The thought both comforts and appalls Geralt.

The witcher is pulled from his thoughts by a sharp keen of pain. The contraction has intensified to the point where Jaskier cannot be silent, the cry being pulled from his throat against his will. Jaskier presses back against Geralt and barely manages to utter the witcher's name in warning before collapsing, his legs no longer able to hold him up. Geralt catches him effortlessly; even without a warning he would not have let his lover fall. He shifts Jaskier in his arms, hooking his right arm beneath Jaskier's knees and holding his back up with his left arm. Despite the bard's daily insistence that he feels both enormous and so very heavy, he seems so small from this position cradled in the witcher's lap.

Jaskier looks up into Geralt's eyes and forces a small, weak smile that is probably supposed to be reassuring, but does nothing for Geralt's nerves. He should be the one comforting his partner, not the other way around. Jaskier looks away and winces, both hands now wrapping around the swell of his abdomen. He squirms in Geralt's arms.

"Let me back up. I need to keep going."

Geralt would find Jaskier's resolve encouraging if he couldn't feel the bard trembling in his arms. There is no way he can keep pushing on his feet, whether with Geralt's support or not.

"How about you try on your side for a little while?"

Jaskier sighs with frustration, but he nods his agreement. The meager room they are staying in doesn't have much to offer, but at least it has a bed and an innkeeper known for his discretion. Jaskier allows Geralt to carry him to the bed, roll him onto his side and lift his right leg. The next contraction is still earlier than expected—they are coming nearly on top of each other now—and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, curls in, and pushes, a soft whimper escaping his lips.

Geralt leans over to look beneath the leg he is holding up and bending back. He is dismayed, but not surprised to see the streaks of blood on Jaskier's thighs. But it is the thing between Jaskier's legs that causes Geralt's stomach to drop in abject horror.

It's a tiny foot.