Somewhat Clear

deerna
somewhatclear

Rating: SAFE
Fandom: The Witcher
Relationship: Jaskier/Geralt
Tags: Vomiting, Witcher potions
Wordcount: 694
Notes: giveaway prize for Mittencrab

Summary:
Geralt takes too many potions. Luckily, Jaskier is there to help.

Excerpt:

“Okay,” Jaskier said, even they weren’t even skirting the vaguest definition of okay. He watched as Geralt hacked up another mouthful of gross, acidic liquid. “What about the vomiting?”

“Too many potions. I miscalculated,” he admitted.

“Okay,” Jaskiser repeated. He felt oddly calm, as the helplessness washed over him. The leather of Geralt’s gear was full of tiny slashes, shiny with blood. “You’re—bleeding quite a lot.”

“That’s—the point. Helps my odds if I get hurt while I’m fighting in a small space and I bleed all over my opponent—”

“Geralt,” Jaskier squeaked. “I’d love to discuss witcher fighting strategies with you, but not while it looks like you’re going to die.”

{ read on AO3 | read here }

The late afternoon sky was just starting to turn purple over Jaskier’s head when Geralt finally emerged from the monster den.

Hopped up on potions as he was, the witcher’s skin was as white as chalk, a dark web of veins spreading on the pale surface like cracks on a porcelain plate. There was an ugly cut over his cheekbone, and the blood that oozed from the wound looked almost black in the dim light. The most stunning, alien thing about him though, that never failed to make Jaskier’s breath catch, were his eyes, seamless black and wet like a bird’s, as if the pupil had widened to cover the entire eyeball.

Jaskier’s awe this time was short lived, because Geralt was limping and his sword arm hung to his side like he didn’t have the strength to lift it. A quietly pained frown was etched on his features.

“Geralt!” he called, alarmed, jumping on his feet.

Before he could come any closer, the witcher grimaced, dropped to his hands and knees and retched. A mixture of frothy fluids splattered the ground, smoking and bubbling, making the grass shrivel up in its wake. The witcher’s gauntlet looked distinctly worn-out where he’d used it to wipe his mouth.

“Holy shit,” Jaskier breathed out, eyeing the caustic puddle. “That was in your stomach? How are you still alive?”

“Witcher,” Geralt rasped out, deadpan. “Don’t— touch—”

“You don’t have to tell me twice. I’m pretty sure that shit would eat right through my boots,” Jaskier muttered, stepping around the dead grass.

He reached out to help Geralt up, but the witcher moved away from his grasp, almost falling on his ass with a startled shout. “Don’t touch me!” he snarled, pushing his hair out of his face with a frustrated gesture, smearing blood and mud on his face. “My blood will burn you!”

“What?”

“Shrike,” Geralt panted, like it explained anything. He dry-heaved again, then he elaborated, “makes my blood—caustic.”

“Okay,” Jaskier said, even they weren’t even skirting the vaguest definition of okay. He watched as Geralt hacked up another mouthful of gross, acidic liquid. “What about the vomiting?”

“Too many potions. I miscalculated,” he admitted.

“Okay,” Jaskiser repeated. He felt oddly calm, as the helplessness washed over him. The leather of Geralt’s gear was full of tiny slashes, shiny with blood. “You’re—bleeding quite a lot.”

“That’s—the point. Helps my odds if I get hurt while I’m fighting in a small space and I bleed all over my opponent—”

“Geralt,” Jaskier squeaked. “I’d love to discuss witcher fighting strategies with you, but not while it looks like you’re going to die. Can I do something?”

“I need my pack. Too nauseous to get up—”

Jaskier was off before Geralt finished the sentence. The bag was heavy enough to threaten to sprain his shoulder, but the urgency he brought it over with barely made him feel the weight. He put it on the ground next to Geralt, careful not to jostle the contents too roughly, expecting him to start rummaging in it.

“Fat, short bottle. Cork seal. Golden-white, thin fluid,” Geralt rasped out instead, pointing. Jaskier picked the potion out for him, and watched as the witcher unsealed the container and took a sip of the metallic-looking fluid, immediately gagging on it.

“Deep breaths,” Jaskier murmured, trying to sound encouraging, clasping his hands together to fight the urge of touching him. “Come on.”

Geralt nodded. “Find the—red potion. Dark. Smells like rotten blood. Don’t spill it on yourself,” he grumbled, as he attempted to down the golden potion again. When he succeeded, he exhaled a shuddering sigh and color came back to his face, the purple spidery-looking veins receded and gold touched his irises.

His pupils were still thin in a way that Jaskier had learned to associate with pain, and he looked exhausted, but at least he was breathing easier. “Feeling better?”

“Still nauseous.”

Jaskier smiled, faint, and passed him the other potion. “But alive.”

The witcher smirked. “I’ll drink to that.”