Until The Sky Falls Down On Me
A/N: This was meant to be an answer to a prompt I was sent but....it strayed quite a bit from the prompt sooo I'm posting it as a stand-alone. Here's 2.7k of hurt/comfort with sick!Geralt. Title is from Savage Garden's "Truly Madly Deeply".
Warnings: None I don't think? Tell me if I'm mistaken and I'll add the needed warnings.
Word Count: 2,743
Geralt didn't know where he was. That, coupled with the fact that he couldn't move, triggered all sorts of alarm bells.
Unable to open his eyes, his other senses strained to pick up any sort of outside stimuli that would provide insight for his current circumstances.
Touch: something cool and damp on his forehead, probably a washcloth based on the rough texture. He could feel a cool sheet against his chest, which told him that his torso was bare other than his medallion laying there. That it was still, no humming, soothed his unease a small amount.
Sound: A quiet, steady heartbeat and even breathing. To his left, close enough that he could hear the quiet click of what sounded like knitting needles and the swish of fabric as they shifted their weight. Someone was in the room with him. Not reassuring when he was so helpless, but not taking any measures at this precise moment to cause him harm.
Scent: Soaps, medicine, herbs. The bittersweet scent of worry, the faded stench of sour fear. A light perfume that made him want to sneeze.
Taste: Something bitter lingering underneath the familiar foulness of his usual potion. That was what finally triggered his memories: the basilisk he'd been hired to kill had managed to pierce his armor and envenomate him. He'd downed his potion as he stumbled back to the village to collect his coin. He couldn't remember much after that…..the poison must have circulated, made him pass out.
Which meant he was most likely being tended to by the village's healer. That much satisfied, he breathed in deep through his nose and threw all his gathered energy into the attempt to move.
His intention was to spring to his feet and roll away from the unfamiliar presence at his side, preferably with a wall at his back.
The results were….underwhelming, to say the least.
His eyes flew open and….his hands twitched at his sides. Other than that, he remained flat on his back, unmoving.
At his side, the click of needles went still. The formerly steady heartbeat sped up, and he wrinkled his nose, braced for a resurgence of the bitter fear-scent.
What wafted instead to his nose was….the gentle, citrus-sweet scent of gratitude. His nostrils flared slightly, and his eyes darted back and forth trying to see anything other than the damned ceiling.
A young woman leaned over him, smiling gently and looking rather pleased.
"Welcome back," you spoke softly. His eyes narrowed to slits as you reached up, but you only took the cloth from his forehead, dipping it in a bowl at your side and then draping it -- blessedly cool and damp once more -- across his forehead. "You gave us quite a scare, you know. Three fangs buried deep in your ribs, no telling how much blood you'd lost, and your fever has just refused to go down."
Geralt made a noise -- he meant to convey his frustration, wanted to growl and curse. But he was mortified that what came out of his throat sounded more like a pained groan. He despised having such weakness displayed before a stranger, hated how tired and hurt he felt, but there was no helping it.
He watched your brows crease in response to the sound he'd made.
"Take it easy," you murmured. "You're safe." He doubted that. "Your body is working incredibly hard to purge itself of the toxins." He could feel as much. "You need to rest. I'll watch over you until you're better."
Geralt narrowed his eyes into slits in your direction, inhaling deeply through his nose, trying to trace any hint of deception or ill will through your scent. He could identify none and that just made him more uneasy. What exactly did you want from him? Was this some sick study of him, taking advantage of his weakness to study a Witcher and their healing abilities? He knew many who would do awful things for such an opportunity.
His heartbeat elevated as his thoughts raced. You frowned down at him.
"Are you in pain?" you asked him. He was bewildered when you stroked his hair back from his face -- there was no lust in the touch, nor possession. What did you want from him? "I'll give you something to help you sleep."
He made another noise, wanting to protest, but you stood and shuffled around the dimly lit room. You returned with a glass vial. He despised that he was unable to resist as you slid a hand under his head to prop it up gently, unable to turn away as you tipped the vial to his lips.
He was going to spit it out just to be spiteful, but he caught a whiff of the concoction as you held it up, and he recognized the brew; it was similar to one he sometimes made himself, when he could get his hands on the necessary components.
Still confused, but slightly less suspicious, he swallowed the liquid you poured into his mouth.
The effect was almost immediate as you eased him back down, distancing him from his pain and making his eyelids heavy.
"That's better….you've earned some rest." The sound of your voice and the dim impression of your fingers smoothing his hair down were the last things he was aware of before he slid back into darkness.
**~°~°~°~**
When Geralt next roused, he instinctively stretched. And was pleased to find that, though still a bit tender, his body was responding normally again. He opened his eyes and sat up in a fluid motion, looking around him warily.
A fire burnt in the hearth, and a window was open to let in what he judged to be midday sunlight. It also allowed a breeze that felt pleasant against his sweat-sticky skin. Shoving the thin sheet that smelled of fever and medicine off of himself, Geralt climbed to his feet. Standing nude in the center of the room, he sniffed and followed the trail of his own faded scent to find his clothes, freshly washed and smelling crisply of soap and the scent that clung to your skin, folded on a chair in the corner. His swords rested against the wall next to the chair and his satchel was on the ground in front of them. When he picked them up he noticed that you'd also mended his clothes, no more tears or gashes. He frowned, tracing the lines of stitching with his fingers.
He was just sorting through his bag to ensure all his belongings were still there when you re-entered the room.
As soon as he heard the door knob turning he spun around, instinctively dropping into a fighting stance.
He watched you take in the empty bed, saw worry sadness flash across your features before your eyes lit on him, crouched in the corner and watching you with slitted eyes. You relaxed and smiled at him, though you smelled embarrassed and a blush tinged your cheeks as he watched.
"Feeling better, I see. I'm glad. If, erm, if you'd like to get dressed, I was just making lunch." Your eyes slid away from his then, your blush darkening. "You're welcome to join me, I'm sure you must be famished. I'll just--I'll be downstairs, feel free to join me whenever you're ready." He watched with interest as you turned, bumped into a table next to the door, and shot him a flustered look before slipping out the door.
Geralt waited until the sound of your footsteps had faded down the stairs before finally relaxing and straightening up. He could hear the quiet sounds of you puttering around downstairs, the clink of pots, and a hint of spices drifted up to him.
He should leave. Collect his coin and be on his way. But…
The faint scent of spices drifted up to him, and he scowled when his stomach rumbled.
Deciding a meal he didn't have to catch and cook himself might not be a bad idea, Geralt stiffly pulled on his clothes. Sliding his swords into place across his back was familiar and soothing in the midst of all this strangeness. Fortified, he padded down the stairs, following his nose and ears to the kitchen.
He paused in the doorway, watching as you sliced bread and stirred a pot of what he hoped his nose was correctly informing him was beef stew. He listened to you hum and he felt….puzzled. Unsure of what was expected of him in this situation, his instincts prickled uneasily, fingers twitching and flexing restlessly at his sides.
After a few minutes you finally caught him, jumping like a frightened rabbit when you turned and spotted him lurking. "Goodness! I didn't hear you come down."
Geralt didn't respond, watching you as he tried to puzzle out your motives. Tried to understand why, despite your thudding heart, he scented no fear or unease on you. Only a resurgence of citrus gratitude. His brows furrowed.
You smiled kindly at him as he regarded you warily. "Have a seat, it'll be ready soon." You pointed to a table in the dining room and, careful to never expose his back to you, Geralt went and sat. He chose a chair on the far side that kept his back to the wall and allowed him to keep his eyes on you unobstructed.
You went back and forth, bringing over bowls and silverware, the pot of stew, a tray with slices of bread and some cheese. A pitcher of lemonade was the last to be set on the table before you sat across from him.
"Help yourself," you encouraged, smiling warmly at him.
"Why are you doing this?" Geralt demanded, making no move to touch any of the food despite the gnawing ache of hunger twisting his stomach.
You tilted your head slightly. "I can't claim I know much about a Witcher's needs, but your metabolism worked a lot to burn out those toxins. Not to mention you lost a lot of blood, and we're under for almost two days. Some protein will help you get back on your feet."
Geralt made a frustrated gesture. "That's not what I meant."
Your brows wrinkled as you regarded him, as though he were the one behaving oddly. "Then what--?"
"All of--this," he interrupted harshly with a vague, agitated gesture that made his still-sore ribs protest. He watched comprehension dawn in your eyes.
And he felt irritation flare up as you had the audacity to look offended.
"You suspect me of ulterior motives?" Rather than answering, Geralt narrowed his eyes at you. "I don't...I wouldn't…."
"What do you want from me?" Geralt snapped. He only felt more confused and agitated when you didn't flinch, only pursed your lips and fidgeted with your spoon on the table. These responses weren't normal, damn it, and it had him unsure where he stood, uneasy and unable to relax until he was back on familiar ground.
"The basilisk," you spoke quietly. "It killed my father." Geralt frowned, sensing there was more to it than that. You sighed, shoulders slumping a bit. "My brother tried to kill it in vengeance, and it claimed his life as well as many others. Until you." You looked up and met Geralt's eyes again, and he was disconcerted by the warm, soft look in your gaze, unused to seeing such looks directed his way. "You did not have to help us, but you did."
Geralt grunted, suddenly uncomfortable. "I did not do it for free."
"And you think that somehow lessens the good that you've done?" you countered. Almost chiding him, it seemed. "A monster has plagued our village, and you freed us from its terror. Tending any wounds you sustained, giving you a bit of food and a safe place to rest, it is the least we could do as thanks." You looked determined now as you stared into his eyes.
"....and how do the other villagers feel about that sentiment?" he asked. Watched as your jaw flexed, and that was answer enough really.
"It's none of their business. I am the healer, and who I treat and welcome into my home is my decision." You set your shoulders, cheeks flushing with a hint of irritation.
"I'm not worth that trouble," Geralt said quietly. You looked at him, startled, and then you looked sad and he didn't understand.
"That's my decision," you said again. "Eat, and then I'll check on your injuries."
"I don't need--" Geralt tried to protest. You fixed him with a firm look.
"Eat, and then I will check on your injuries, Witcher," you repeated sternly. Geralt gaped at you.
".....Geralt," he finally said. At last he reached for the stew, serving himself a helping. The pleased smile it earned him from you seemed reward enough.
"I'm Y/N."
**~°~°~°~**
"I still don't think this is necessary," Geralt grumbled.
He was sat on a stool as you had him test his range of motion with his arms, checked on the rapidly healing cuts over his ribs that would soon blend in with the rest of his scars.
A particularly hard poke of your fingers made him hiss and he glared at you.
"Stop arguing with your healer, Geralt," you tutted at him without looking up. He stared at you, marveling at the fact that you were so…..at ease. Not only lacking fear, but comfortable, sure enough of your safety in his presence to tease and reprimand him.
It was…..unusual. But he found he didn't mind as much as he had initially, now that he understood the motives behind your actions better.
And you touched him without reservation, fingers skirting over his ribs feather-light. There was no lust in your touch, no morbid fascination, no demanding the stories behind his many scars. Only compassion as you smoothed a soothing salve over the inflamed skin.
It made him feel oddly…...small. Vulnerable, to be so thoroughly taken care of, with nothing asked of him in return....it was unfamiliar and left something in him raw and aching, but not in a wholly unpleasant way. He felt vaguely guilty, unsure that he deserved this treatment, but warm and content in a way he was unfamiliar with but savored nonetheless.
You worked with a small smile on your face, helped him gently back into his shirt once you were satisfied. He was unable to stop watching you, riveted. He watched your cheeks flush again and found it a pleasing look.
"What, have I got something on my face?" you asked self-consciously, touching your fingers to your cheek. Geralt shook his head with an amused quirk of his brow. You huffed. "What is it, why are you looking at me like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like…..like….I don't know, like that!" you huffed, flapping a hand at him vaguely. "You're not still suspicious of me, are you?"
"No," he spoke, felt the minute softening of his features and allowed it so you would see. He heard your heart begin to thump and it made him stifle a smile.
"Then what?" you asked quietly. You were still rather close, standing next to where he sat on the stool.
"Perhaps this is just how I look at things," Geralt suggested. Allowed his mouth to quirk at one corner, knowing there would be a flicker of mischief in his eyes if you looked.
You were looking, and you caught it. Huffing, you gathered up the soiled bandages you'd removed from him and began to clean up. He chuckled, quiet enough that he knew you wouldn't hear, and tracked you as you moved about the room.
"So, am I well enough to travel?" he asked you after a few moments. You glanced at him over your shoulder, and he didn't miss the way your eyes flickered over his body in interest. Something warm stirred low in his belly.
"Not just yet, but if my estimations are accurate you will be by morning."
"May I stay here again tonight?" he asked. You paused and turned to face him, face open with a sweet and sincere smile.
"Of course, Geralt. As long as you need."
As soon as he saw that smile Geralt knew he was well and truly fucked. Dangerous, to get attached. You were human, it was playing with fire.
But….watching you hum and resume cleaning up the room, Geralt decided one more night couldn't hurt.
**~°~°~°~**
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