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yaskefer · 2 years

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written for whumptober 2022, No. 8 EVERYTHING HURTS AND I’M DYING

read on ao3

warning for self harm (jaskier hits his head against a wall multiple times)

summary: Jaskier knew how to pick up after himself, he just wished he didn't have to, not always. or The bloody, broken aftermath of Voleth Meir, as experienced by a bloody, broken bard.

Something was definitely broken.

The destroyed hall had cleared out, people leaving with barely a glance at Jaskier, slumped against a broken table which dug into his back painfully. He’d seen Geralt, Yennefer and Cirilla go out together, towards the cold, cold balcony, overlooking a blood curdling drop that Jaskier very much did not want to see ever again, so it’s not like he’d have wanted to follow anyway–

But it still hurt, the barely there glance at him, the way Geralt just… didn’t care.

His mouth twisted bitterly, but he forged on. He needed to see the damage, needed to see if he could maybe make it to his room. So, grunting and shifting, making embarrassing noises that made him feel glad no one was here, he shifted until he managed to tug the boot off his left ankle.

He bit the inside of his cheeks until it hurt, and slowly, tenderly, shifted the boot off his socked foot.

He didn’t have to remove the sock to see it was definitely, horrifically, absolutely broken. It bent at an awful angle, and throbbed in pain with every heartbeat. Jaskier tasted blood in his mouth and quickly let go of the tender flesh on the inside of his cheeks, tonguing it and wincing.

He let his head fall back onto the table, barely noticing the way a broken edge was still digging into his back. He didn’t want to look at his misshapen leg anymore. Wanted to tug his boots back on and not think about how he couldn’t leave now, not on a broken ankle. The way he probably couldn’t even help around the keep anymore, couldn’t help in clean up, would only hinder, even more than he already did as a mere human.

Swallowing down a sob, he slowly pushed himself off the table, and dragged himself in a mostly upright sitting position. Planting a hand on the grainy, splintered surface, he heaved himself up with all his might, and managed to put his entire weight on his good leg.

The semi standing position remained for about one full second before his legs gave out under him and he collapsed onto a heap, a short, half terrified, half pained scream escaping him as he narrowly avoided landing right on top of the broken ankle.

Now in an even more undignified position on the floor, he let a few frustrated tears escape, swiping away at them angrily as he started trying to heave himself into a standing position again. This time, he was more balanced, letting his weight rest entirely on his arm and good leg, leaning heavily to one side.

He left his boot right where it was, and started hopping on his good leg towards the door. He wouldn’t be found sitting and wallowing like some– some pathetic– some–

He wouldn’t let himself be found like this by anyone. He wouldn’t. He has to be in his room by the time the others have rested up and begun the last rites and clean up.

---

He forgot about the stairs.

Jaskier gazed blankly at the narrow, high steps, cold stone, slippery. He stared and tried to hold in the urge to burst into tears. He stared and burst into tears.

He was so fucking stupid. How could he have forgotten about the goddamn stairs, the ones he’d complained about without stop, whined and cried and muttered so much about? The stairs he so fucking hated, how could he have forgotten about them?

Fuck it, Jaskier thought, fuck it all. He slowly, painstakingly slid down the wall, and breathed.

Just sat there, the cold stone of Kaer Morhen chilling him right down to the bones as he heaved in breath after breath, trying to calm himself down enough to actually do something other than freeze himself to death at the bottom of a godforsaken staircase.

Then, damning dignity –because really, what use did he have for it right now anyway– he got onto his hands and knees and started crawling, making his way towards where he hoped was the kitchen.

If he couldn’t have the dignity of wallowing in pain in his own room, if he couldn’t have that scratchy, awful blanket and that half full wine bottle, he would at least very well be warm while in pain.

Eventually, he did manage to find the kitchen, and he didn’t even run into anyone on the way. So maybe it wasn’t all very terrible. The kitchen was even reasonably warm. The fire was down on its last legs, but even the dying embers would keep the entire kitchen warm for quite a while.

He went as close as he dared without being too far to enjoy the heat, and curled into a ball, mostly a foetal position except his broken leg was flung out in a desperate bid to ease the pain.

It didn’t help.

Gritting his teeth, Jaskier scrubbed a harsh, cold hand down his face, and then stifled a cry when the fresh burns on his fingers stung.

He won’t cry.

He won’t. Not anymore. He would stay here and recuperate until he could maybe find a way to bind that leg, or maybe even ask Yennefer for her help. He was fairly certain he’d seen her healing some injured witchers with her newly returned powers. How wonderfully convenient.

Everything ached and throbbed. He still had that awful hangover, his hands hurt, and his ankle was the worst of all. He hadn’t slept well and he hadn’t slept enough. He hadn’t eaten anything substantial in two days now. He had been scraped up pretty badly in the scuffle as well, and he could feel his chemise sticking to his skin in some places with what he hoped was sweat but already knew was blood. At least it didn’t feel like it was enough to be alarming.

He shifted again, trying to find a position that maybe didn’t hurt quite as much, and failing miserably.

Eventually, after a lot of tears he really didn’t want to shed, he managed to drag himself into a sitting position, once again leaning against a wall, legs stretched out in front of him. At least the wall was warmer this time.

He stared up at the ceiling, at the bunch of cobwebs hanging from one corner of it, and thought about how maybe he should have grabbed a bunch of spoons, to pass the time, to distract himself from the overwhelming throbbing.

He’d broken bones before, he’d broken bones when he’d been a kid and he’d broken bones before at Oxenfurt, and he’d broken bones when he’d been with Geralt, travelling on the road. He wasn’t a stranger to broken bones.

Then why did it hurt so much worse this time?

He lifted his head up and let it fall back onto the wall with a thud, wincing when pain echoed through his skull, and then repeating it anyway. Maybe if he did it enough times he’d pass out and be free of pain. Or get amnesia and forget about Geralt forever.

He had his eyes squeezed shut, and was hitting his head on the wall behind himself over and over, and had the vague thought that maybe he had a concussion and should probably stop.

He didn’t stop.

It wasn’t that painful anyway, it wasn’t like he was putting any force behind the hits, not after the initial one, they were more gentle taps against the wall to distract himself from the all consuming ache in the rest of his body than anything actually harmful. Hopefully.

He should stop, should definitely sto–

Something that was definitely not the wall hit the back of his head, and his eyes shot open, only to meet with a pair of gold ones, leaning way too close to his face. He startled, shrieked, tried to scramble away, and then screamed again, this time due to the pain that flared up his broken ankle.

Geralt acted quickly and grabbed Jaskier, settling him back into a sitting position and straightening out his leg before Jaskier can do something stupid like bang it against the floor. One of Geralt’s hands was still between Jaskier’s head and the wall.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked, concern plain in both his voice and face, so open, such a stark contrast to his usually stoic, stoney expression.

Jaskier stifled the urge to punch him in the face, knowing his burnt hand couldn’t handle it. And then he paused, thought a little, leaned his head back hard against Geralt’s hand, before lurching forward and striking Geralt hard in the face with his head, letting out a yelp of pain.

“What the fuck, ” Geralt yelled, stumbling backwards and staring at Jaskier with bewildered, wide eyes, his hand going up to his nose. Jaskier hoped it was bleeding.

Jaskier bared his teeth at him for a moment before raising his hand up to rub at his forehead. Great, another ache to add onto the hundred others.

“What’s wrong with you?” Geralt asked, his voice lower now, and eyes boring into Jaskier’s.

“What’s wrong with me, he asks,” Jaskier said, more to himself than to Geralt, “ Me, he asks, like he doesn’t know, like it’s somehow my fault that a crazy fucking demon decided to posess his child surprise that he claimed by himself as a fucking joke, released into the wild by a witch he bound to himself with a djinn he was looking for to get some fucking slee–”

“Right,” Geralt interrupted him, his face sour and pale, “Right, that’s enough. I get it.”

Jaskier looked up at him sullenly, the pain across his body almost forgotten in the rush of anger he’d felt at seeing Geralt concerned. How dare he? Hasn’t he done enough? He already knows Jaskier will do anything for him, what’s the point of fake concern? He didn’t need to pretend.

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have something else to do?” Jaskier asked harshly.

“I was looking for you.”

“For what? If it’s escaped your notice, I’m not really in any state to help you out with literally anything.”

“I wanted to–” Geralt hesitated, before continuing, “I wanted to check up on you. To see if you were fine, after the whole…”

“Well,” Jaskier said loudly, “Clearly I’m not, now can you leave so I can wallow in peace?”

Geralt looked surprised at the words. “I– what? No. You’re hurt.”

“No, shit,” Jaskier said, faking surprise so exaggeratedly he could feel it on his tongue, bitter and acrid, burning, “I could never have guessed. Thank goodness for your superior witcher senses!”

His leg gave a particularly bad throb of pain, as if agreeing with him– or possibly disagreeing, he didn’t much care which, only that it hurt awfully and he wondered if amputating the leg completely off won’t be better than the pain of a broken ankle. If cutting out this heart would spare him the ache.

“We need to wrap the ankle properly, set it so it doesn’t heal wrong,” Geralt said, ignoring the sarcasm.

“So sorry for the inconvenience,” Jaskier muttered, “At least then you won’t have to work very hard to get rid of me.”

He didn’t know why he was quite so angry. Geralt was trying, wasn’t he? Wouldn’t it be better to let him? To bask in the attention and care? To just… let go. Easier than keeping up this ruse of anger. Like he could ever be truly angry at Geralt, no matter what he does. He might even have felt guilty about the headbutt if it weren’t for the fact that he would definitely be sporting an ugly bruise on his head the next day while Geralt won’t, so it was him suffering in the end anyway. As always.

Geralt didn’t say anything, crouching down to take a look at the ankle. He lifted it up, gently, almost reverently, like Jaskier was a fragile little thing. He felt like one.

He swallowed down further words and watched Geralt turn it this way and that, and it almost didn’t hurt, Geralt’s hand on Jaskier’s ankle. When he started trying to tug off the sock, Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut and worried the already tender flesh on the inside of his cheeks, ignoring the pain and the taste of blood.

But Geralt stilled suddenly, eyes meeting Jaskier’s as he said, a little sternly, “Stop that.”

Jaskier quickly let go of the skin, and then scowled at having done so, but Geralt had already moved on to the ankle, the sock now off. It looked even worse without the additional layer of wool. Jaskier looked away quickly.

Which is why he didn’t see it coming when Geralt grabbed his ankle with both hands and yanked.

Jaskier let out a scream so loud it made his throat hurt, and he saw Geralt grimace. Pain shot up so harshly he felt bile rise in his mouth.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, ” Jaskier cursed, “Are you setting it or breaking it worse? At this rate I'll never walk again! And then where would you be? I doubt poor Roach would be happy to lug me around all the time.”

Jaskier had a sudden image of himself, leg unhealed and broken forever, unable to trail after Geralt. He could still play, but he'd be then confined to his position at Oxenfurt only. He wouldn't even be able to help out the elves as the Sandpiper. He wouldn't be able to do anything.

A part of him knew he was just being overly dramatic, that he'd both broken and fractured bones before and none of them troubled him now. And that Geralt was an expert at setting bones, at healing injuries even when they were on a weak human and not a witcher. His ankle would be fine. He would be fine. Everything was fine, he just had to stop his heart from doing his thinking.

“Don’t be silly," Geralt said mildly, and despite his effort at not letting his heart get the better of him, Jaskier felt it drop. So what if Geralt healed his leg? He was still going to be a burden. After all, he'd been one even without a useless ankle to contend with. Of course he wouldn't be riding Roach. He didn't even know where Roach was, he hadn't seen her since coming down that mountain in Caingorn. The thought filled him with sudden dread.

Geralt went on, oblivious to the turmoil going on within Jaskier, "I’ll get you your own horse.”

Jaskier froze, something tight around his heart unclenching as he finally took in an easy breath, despite the pain still coursing through him, despite the tender ribs and aching body and broken ankle.

They usually didn’t even have enough money for a night in the inn, let alone a horse. And despite that, Geralt saying it, it felt like an olive branch. Like a peace offering. Like a chance, like a plea for a chance. Geralt was carefully not looking at Jaskier, wholly focused on the ankle with an intensity it probably, hopefully, didn’t warrant.

All the fight and anger drained out of him, leaving him exhausted and just the tiniest bit hopeful.

“Well," he said, slightly choked up. He cleared his throat, eyes going a little misty as Geralt finally looked up at him from where he was splinting the bone, "One thing’s for sure, I’ll be the one naming it. You’ll probably just end up naming it Roach Two or something equally ridiculous.”

#whumptober2022 #no.8 #everything hurts and im dying #broken bones #the witcher #jaskier #self harm #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier dandelion #my fic

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