All He Needed to Remember Anyway
Rating: T
Warnings: None
Fuck, the world was too loud.
Geralt stumbled into the tavern, screwing his eyes shut at the onslaught of noise. Men were shouting, someone was attempting to sing, chairs scraped the wooden floor, fists pounded the tables. He could hear a muted version outside, well before he approached the inn, but convinced himself it would fine.
He would be fine. It was just noise.
He was not fine, and it was not just noise. Every clang of a tankard on a table sent shivers through his skin. All the cacophony surrounded him, suffocating him. The fireplace was burning a hole in his vision. Every step, every shuffle, every scrape tore at his train of thought. That damn singer sounded more like a cat being gutted than music, and Geralt could feel a migraine flaring to life behind his eyes. The smell of sweat and ale, meats and emotions, too-many-bodies-packed-too-close made him gag.
Someone’s chair fell to the floor with a devastating thud, the sound reverberating in his bones. Before Geralt realized it, his feet had moved him back out the door and away from the inn. He sucked in the fresh air, not liking how shaky his breaths were. He hadn’t meant to escape, but the entirety of the atmosphere inside was too much for him to handle right now. He had two options, wait outside like a leper until this sour potion finally wore off, or grit his teeth, go back inside, and attempt to seek solace in his room.
He glared at the tavern door, weighing his options. It would be hours before the rowdy crowd inside quieted down and dissipated. Then again, who knows how long it would be before this potion wore finally wore off, if it even did without the aid of white honey.
Geralt settled himself along the tavern wall, feeling the clamor inside vibrating out. He closed his eyes and let his head thunk back against the wall, breathing deep. Even out here his senses were too strong, he could smell the stabled horses from across the road. If he listened closely, he could hear the couple arguing inside their house down the road. He could feel the stray cats’ delicate footfalls as they investigated the trash on the other side of the tavern. He could feel his pulse in his toes, he could hear himself blink.
Suppressing a groan, he flopped his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. Long ago he’d grown used to the sensitivity witcher potions brought, but this wasn’t normal. He waited the usual length of time for them to run their course, then waited some more before returning to town. It didn’t help his reception if emerged from the darkness, covered in monster ichor, bearing eyes blacker than night. He walked slower than normal on his way back, both to help his oversensitive senses and give this potion time to dissipate. It hadn’t worked on either front.
He flinched as the tavern door slammed open, the reverberations echoing painfully into his bones. He held his breath as the stench of ale and sweat threatened to turn his stomach again. The tavern noise escaped into the night, and Geralt cringed until the drunk shut the door and stumbled down the road. He shifted in the grass and resigned himself to a long night of torment.
Geralt didn’t bother to try to keep track of the time. He focused on his breathing, trying to drown out the rest of the world. His own body was enough to overwhelm him right now. He breathed in, and back out. In. Out.
Geralt couldn’t ignore the creak as the tavern door opened again, and out stepped someone familiar. Geralt recognized the smell, the way his clothes rustled, even his heartbeat. Jaskier.
“Where is that witcher?” He heard Jaskier mutter to himself. He could just imagine the stance he’d taken, one hip cocked with a hand resting on it, much like a nagging wife waiting on her husband. “He said he’d be back before midnight.” Exactly like a nagging wife.
As Jaskier moved closer, unaware of Geralt seated just feet from him, Geralt could tell he hadn’t partaken in the copious amounts of alcohol inside, or the myriad of warm bodies. He smelled like himself, sober, inquisitive, and slightly annoying.
“I’m over here Jask.” Geralt couldn’t manage much more than a whisper, his own voice echoing in his head. He still hadn’t opened his eyes, but he heard Jaskier turn around, his shoes grinding gravel, grinding his head.
“Geralt! What are you doing over there?” Jaskier stomped his way over, taking a deep breath to prepare for the inane babble he was going to assault Geralt with. “Did someone say something to you, is that why you’re hiding out here? You know they’re all just a bunch of drunken idiots. Why are you sitting-,” Jaskier broke off and Geralt could hear his mouth snap shut for a second. “Geralt, are you alright?” He asked much quieter.
He let out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He was pretty positive his eyes had returned to their normal color, but he was probably still ghost white. “Potion,” he managed to force out, finally opening his eyes.
Jaskier knelt by his side, gently placing a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. He flinched automatically, expecting the pressure to be agonizing, but thankfully it wasn’t. Jaskier still pulled his hand away. “What do you need?” He asked softly, so softly.
The tavern door slammed open again as a group of men exited this time, continuing their boisterous conversation from inside. Geralt’s migraine throbbed in time with his slow pulse. He swallowed hard before replying, “White honey. Upstairs.”
It didn’t go unnoticed how Jaskier tried to use his body as a shield against the noise. “Do you want me to go get your bag, or do you want me to help you upstairs into our room?”
Geralt waited until the group was further down the street before replying. “Help me. Please,” he added quietly. He knew he could just send Jaskier to fetch his things and do what he needed to do out here, but the lure of a warm fire and softness (or at least softer than the ground) of a bed called to him.
Jaskier never took those cornflower blue eyes off him and nodded. “Can you stand? Are you okay to walk?” He held his hands out to Geralt, allowing him to make the connection if he wanted. Geralt nodded once and grabbed his hand. He let Jaskier pull him to his feet, surprised by his strength.
“Is it all too much?” Jaskier whispered. He always forgot how tall Jaskier was until they were face-to-face, until they were close enough to kiss. Geralt nodded again, and shut his eyes, preparing for the onslaught.
“We’ll make this quick, okay?” Jaskier started to pull him in the direction of the tavern. He kept one hand on Geralt’s forearm, the other cupping his back. “Does it help if I hold you like this? To help steer?”
Geralt nodded again, grateful that Jaskier knew him so well by now. How long had it been, a decade, maybe more? He couldn’t imagine trying to get through this when Jaskier first joined him, baby-faced and full of eager ambition.
They reached the tavern door and Jaskier paused, allowing Geralt another moment to collect himself. He could tell the noise inside hadn’t died down any since the last time he tried. Neither had the effects of the potion. His stomach felt sour, already turning in his worry.
“Are you ready?” Jaskier sounded as unsure as Geralt felt.
Geralt steeled his resolve, forcing his eyes to open and focus on that blasted tavern door. “Let’s get this over with.”
He could hear Jaskier swallow as he reached for the door. Once open, all the noises and smells and feelings slammed into Geralt just as intensely as they had the first time. He allowed himself to blink once before pulling Jaskier along through the threshold. He wrinkled his nose and tried to hold his breath, his eyes fixed on the staircase at the other end of the room.
Beside him Jaskier kept up with his pace, his attention solely fixed on Geralt. The witcher could practically feel the concern leaking through his skin, he could certainly smell it. He could also smell anger spike in the bard when one of the drunks yelled something about witchers and injuries and something else he couldn’t make out. His words were too loud, and they echoed in his mind, bouncing around and overlapping until he couldn’t make out anything.
His vision went black at the edges and against his will his feet stopped. They’d only gone halfway, the staircase still just out of reach. Everything surged up and threatened to overwhelm him, threatened to pull him under into the darkness. At least there he would find relief.
But there was Jaskier, anchoring him here. He took a shallow breath of the bard’s comforting scent. Soft as butterfly wings he whispered, “We’re almost there.” Geralt didn’t know how he picked out Jaskier’s voice amidst the overlapping sensations and thoughts in his head, but he heard him, clear as day. “Just one more step.”
So, Geralt took one more step. And another one. And another. Before he knew it the staircase was close enough to touch. With his free hand he gripped the banister tight, then softer as the action made his skin burn.
“We’re almost there,” Jaskier repeated, ever so softly pulling Geralt up the stairs.
The rest of the night was a blur. Geralt didn’t really remember nearly collapsing as he made it into their room, didn’t remember picking out the white honey from the potion bottles Jaskier offered. He didn’t remember Jaskier helping him out of his gut-covered armor, or the shakes that overtook him as the potions battled it out inside him.
What he did remember was Jaskier’s soft words, reassuring him he would be all right. He promised he wasn’t going anywhere. He remembered the way he combed his fingers through his hair. He remembered his warmth as Jaskier held him until he fell asleep. And he remembered the safety he felt, the security, the peace.
That was all the Geralt really needed to remember anyway.
