Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was common knowledge that pre-schools were cesspools of bacteria. Geralt and Jaskier expected when Ciri started attending pre-school a few days a week, that it would mean more illness around the house, but they hadn’t realized the extent of it—the perfect storm they had created.

They didn’t realize how a rugby team was nearly as bad. Many of Geralt’s teammates were young dads as well, and with the close proximity the sport necessitated they were taking their children’s germs from a handful of different preschools, elementary schools, and daycares around the city, and congregating them all in one place.

And Jaskier’s job wasn’t blameless either. He traveled often, and did a lot of work with local high school and university choirs, and in doing so he’d learned that teenagers were hardly less gross than toddlers.

The consequences were unavoidable, and to their credit Geralt and Jaskier handled the near constant sniffles, and ear infections, and fevers admirably, but there were still times where things just got out of hand.

Geralt had a sense it was coming.

During a full team training the day before, one of his teammates had mentioned how they’d kept their daughter home from school today since a stomach bug was going around her class and he didn’t want to risk her getting it. Taken at face value, this was a neutral, if not positive statement. He was taking precautions. Nobody had actually gotten sick. But Geralt was far too familiar with stomach bugs. They were a wildfire which spread quickly and devastatingly, jumping over highways and rivers as they went.

Maybe it was this comment which had tuned him into what was to come. Maybe it was a father’s intuition. Or maybe it was the pit in his own stomach he woke with the next morning, but when Jaskier asked him to go wake Ciri for breakfast, and he found her sitting up in bed already awake, he knew something was wrong.

“Good morning, Ciri,” he said cautiously, entering his daughter’s room. “Daddy is making breakfast, are you ready to get up?”

Usually in the morning she was clambering for cuddles and more sleep, but today she just shook her head.

“What’s up, lovebug?” Geralt knelt at her bedside, ignoring the nausea brewing in his own stomach, telling himself it was just anxiety and dread. “Are you feeling okay?” He already knew the answer. He could see it on her face.

She shook her head again, mouth shut.

That was enough for him. He scooped her up out of bed and set her on his hip, walking to the bathroom as quickly as he could without inciting panic. His own stomach was in his throat.

“Is it your tummy?” Again, he already knew the answer.

“Yeah,” she whimpered, sounding like she might start to cry.

“Okay. Let’s get to the bathroom. You’re okay.” He could see on her face though, that he’d caught it too late. “We’re nearly there.” But it was useless.

Her already too pale face went white, and Geralt watched, unable to do anything to stop it, as his daughter vomited onto his chest.

“You’re okay, baby,” he encouraged, rubbing her back as she gagged and brought up more of last night’s dinner onto his shirt and the floor.

Geralt’s stomach went from a little shaky, to, most definitely feeling sick, as his daughter finished throwing up on him.

“Jaskier,” he called out to his husband. “Can I get a little help?” They didn’t need this scene getting any messier than it already was.

“What’s up? Is everything o—“ his voice trailed off as he took in the scene in front. “Oh sh…” to his credit, he kept from swearing, but Geralt could see his husband go through the five stages of grief in the second it took to realize what exactly had happened here. But then he was finished processing, and starting to move.

He had always been quicker on his feet than Geralt was in situations like these, and now he navigated the mess expertly, somehow extracting Ciri from Geralt’s arms without stepping in vomit, and then ushering Geralt into the bathroom.

“Okay Ciri, let’s get these off,” Jaskier said.

By some miracle, although Geralt was absolutely covered, Ciri had managed to escape the mess apart from a few splatters on the legs of her pajama pants. He pulled them off her while she stood still, apparently stunned by what happened.

Geralt felt equally stunned, if not more. The warm, wet clothes stuck to him were a sensory nightmare, and he was still feeling very sick himself. It was too much, and he could feel his brain wanting to shut down.

“Geralt, get into the shower,” Jaskier instructed. “Rinse your clothes out the best you can and then put them in the hamper. I’ll put everything in the wash in a minute.”

He followed orders, stepping around the puddle on the floor and getting into the shower, not bothering to turn the water on first, just desperate to be clean. Still fully clothed, Geralt stood in the tub and turned the shower on full blast, hoping it would rinse most of the puke from his shirt so he wouldn’t have to pull it over his head. Vomit on his face would definitely be the last thing he could handle.

His sweatpants could go though. There was a long splatter down one leg, but the waist band was clean. Geralt thought he could step out of them and get them into the hamper before they were completely waterlogged. But when he bent over to pick them up all plans were forgotten. His stomach lurched.

If he’d been standing up he might have been able to handle it more gracefully. Being already bent double though, his stomach was compressed, his equilibrium was off, and he no longer had gravity on his side. There was no avoiding it. Geralt didn’t even have time to figure out the best way to handle this before he was retching, his own dinner from the night before spewing from his mouth.

The water washed it down the drain along with Ciri’s vomit still dripping from his shirt. Geralt watched it go, gagging and bringing up another heave onto the floor of the shower.

“Please tell me that’s just sympathy puke,” Jaskier said from the other side of the shower curtain when Geralt stopped to take a breath.

It wasn’t over yet though, and Geralt retched one last time, spat out the bile from his mouth, and rinsed it and his face off before answering. “I was already feeling a bit unwell when I woke up this morning,” he replied shakily. “Think this just sped things up.

“That is wonderful,” Jaskier sighed. It was clear he wasn’t upset with either Geralt or Ciri, but it was clear he wasn’t thrilled either. “Okay.”

“If you give me a minute to finish rinsing off and get dressed I can help clean up.” Geralt pulled back the shower curtain enough to be able to see Jaskier.

Seeing his husband’s condition made Jaskier look even more stressed. “No, you stay in the bathroom. I’ll clean up out in the hall if you can keep an eye on Ciri. Try and limit the puking to the toilet if that’s possible.”

“I can do that.” Geralt was eager to remain helpful despite the circumstances. “Thank you, love. I’m sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” Jaskier assured him. “Now you two just stay in here for a few minutes while I mop and then we’ll see about getting you moved out to the couch.” He looked at Ciri directly then. “You stand right there in front of the toilet, okay Ciri? And if you start feeling yucky again you throw up into the toilet.”

Ciri nodded her little head, staring up at Jaskier. She started crying as soon as he left the room.

Geralt had been hoping to get himself together a bit, or at least out of the puke covered shirt, and then get out, dry off, and sit with Ciri, but it seemed like Ciri was not interested in waiting.

“You’re okay, bug,” Geralt tried to comfort her while also trying to manipulate the shower head into rinsing out his shirt more efficiently. “Just give me a minute. I’ll be right there.”

“No,” she wailed. “Papa, I want you.”

“I know love, I’m right here.”

“Papa.” She drew out the word, fully sobbing now, and grabbing at the shower curtain with her clumsy little hands. “I want you, Papa,” she sobbed, hiccuped, and then gagged.

Without hesitation Geralt reached out of the shower and scooped her up, setting her down in front of him just in time for her to throw up again, in the same place Geralt had not five minutes ago. So much for keeping it confined to the toilet.

Geralt held her wispy blonde, now soaking wet, hair back while she threw up, rubbing her back with the other. “That’s it. You’re okay.”

She retched one last time before turning to look up at him.

“Do you feel better now?”

She nodded, sniffling once and then wiping her face with the back of one hand.

“Good,” he replied. “I’m glad.”

His shirt had been rinsed thoroughly enough that he could pull it over his head now, and he did so before sitting down on the shower floor. He knew he ought to get Ciri out and dried off while she still felt alright, but he did not feel alright, and he wanted to take a minute to sit.

Thankfully Ciri seemed content enough to stay in the shower with him. He let her sit down and snuggle up against his bare chest, and he thought they might be able to stay that way for a while. It was nice. Ciri was relaxed, and the water felt good, but all too soon her attention was grabbed by something else.

“I can wash.” She reached up and grabbed at his hair.

“You want to wash my hair?” Geralt asked.

She nodded, extricating herself from his grasp so she could stand under the shower spray and look at him.

He weighed the pros and cons, and in the end decided it would require less energy to just let her do it than it would to tell her no and try to get her to go back to just sitting with him. So he took the bottle of shampoo and put some on her hands, scooting forward so she could stand behind him and work it into a lather in his hair.

It honestly felt quite nice, and this along with the sensory stimulation from the warm water, and the security of knowing any mess would get taken right down the drain should have been enough to get him to relax. Still though, he couldn’t.

Geralt sat with his knees bent, his elbows resting on them and propping his head up. The water poured down around him while Ciri continued to rub shampoo into his hair. His stomach was boiling, and he could taste bile in his throat. He really hated doing this right in front of his daughter, but again, privacy just wasn’t worth the energy.

He was able to hold out for a few minutes, but the nausea was only getting stronger, and before Ciri had grown tired of playing with his hair, Geralt was leaning forward and throwing up onto the floor between his legs. It was awful. The nausea was all encompassing, and the position strained his back as he vomited, the muscles contracting without his permission.

“You’re okay Papa.” He heard Ciri from behind him, parroting what he always said to her while she rubbed tiny zig zags on his back. “You’re okay.”

“Okay, so I’ve got the hallway cleaned up.” Jaskier called from outside the open bathroom door. “That was all of it, right? There’s nothing in her room?” He stepped inside.

“Yeah, that’s all of it,” Geralt answered weakly.

“Is Ciri in the shower with you?” Jaskier asked, momentarily confused.

“Yeah.”

“Do you want me to take her?”

“Would you?” Geralt honestly wasn’t having the worst time in the shower with Ciri, but she’d be more comfortable in fresh pajamas on the couch, and Geralt felt he could really benefit from a couple minutes of privacy.

“How are you holding up?” Jaskier pulled back the curtain and knelt next to the bathtub, accepting Ciri from Geralt.

“I threw up again a minute ago,” he answered. “Ciri a couple minutes before.”

“All in the shower?”

“All in the shower.”

“Good lad.” Jaskier had Ciri wrapped up in a towel up against his chest, and he leaned forward to kiss Geralt on his temple.

The water was off now, but Geralt still lay on the floor of the shower in his boxers with no intention to leave.

“Gods why is there shampoo in your hair,” Jaskier sputtered and wiped his mouth with the corner of Ciri’s towel.

“Ciri wanted to wash it.”

“Aww, that’s so sweet.” Jaskier set her down and started to dry her off. “Why don’t you rinse it out and get dressed. We can put a movie on or something.”

“I might stay in here a bit longer.”

“Oh.” Jaskier sounded a bit disappointed, but mostly just concerned. “Okay, well I’m right out here if you need anything. I’ll come check on you in a bit.”

“Thanks love,” Geralt sighed.

He wanted to hope that the worst was over, but he knew he could never be that lucky.

Chapter Text

Geralt was content to keep laying in the tub for a while longer, but without the water running he was starting to get cold. He felt selfish for thinking it, but Geralt figured his husband would have Ciri settled by now, and he might be able to give Geralt some attention for a minute or two. And he had to admit, other than the puking, snuggling with Ciri had been lovely.

After rinsing the remaining shampoo from his hair, he got out, a bit dizzy, and dried himself off. He took his time toweling his hair dry and changing into clean pajamas. Throwing up had helped a bit, and Geralt let this convince him that maybe he wasn’t going to spend all day today with his head in the toilet.

“Hey, love. How are you feeling?”

Geralt gave him a noncommittal hum and then went to sit in the armchair. As he suspected, Ciri was already set up on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket and watching a Studio Ghibli movie on the tv.

“I’m getting Ciri some soda crackers and pedialyte. Can I interest you in any?”

One hand on his belly, Geralt’s eyebrows furrowed and he shook his head. His optimism didn’t go that far.

“How about just the pedialyte?” Jaskier offered. “I know how you like to get dehydrated.” He gave his husband a knowing look, certainly remembering all of the hangovers, and flus, and food poisonings which Geralt had let get out of hand. “But if we could avoid that this time that would be just lovely.”

He brought over two cups with lids, handing one to Ciri and one to Geralt.

“If nothing else, do it to set an example,” Jaskier said under his breath.

Geralt took the cup, somewhat begrudgingly, and took a sip of the sweet drink. He had to admit, it did help settle his stomach. He slumped back in the chair and watched the movie absentmindedly, weighing his nausea against his exhaustion and wondering if he might be able to get a little sleep.

“Geralt, can you manage watching baby girl for a few minutes while I call Ciri’s school and Elaine?” Luckily Jaskier had been planning on spending the day doing composing work from home.

Jaskier re-entered the living room then, and gave Geralt a quick once over.

“Yknow, actually I think I can just call them from here.”

Geralt gave him a small, exasperated smile and accepted the charity. He could get on just fine watching Ciri, but he was still feeling rather unwell. He’d rather have Jask out here with them.

“I’m just going to turn this down for a few minutes.”

Ciri just sat slumped against the arm of the couch, munching on a cracker and watching the movie, unperturbed when Jaskier turned the volume almost all the way down.

“Hi, yes this is Mr. Bellegarde. I’m just calling to say we’re keeping Ciri home today. She isn’t feeling well.” He paused for the receptionist’s response. “Yes, thank you. Have a good day.”

Now he would need to call Geralt’s team trainer and personal family friend Elaine to let her know he wouldn’t be at any trainings today.

“Can you put it on speaker?”

“Of course love.” Jaskier turned on the speakerphone and they both listened to it ring while the movie played softly in the background.

“Morning Jaskier. Everything alright?”

“Morning Elaine,” Jaskier replied. “Yeah, Geralt and Ciri have come down with a stomach bug.”

“Oh, that’s no good.”

“Yeah, he’s feeling pretty under the weather at the moment. He’s not going to be at training today.”

“Good, yes. Let’s keep this contained.”

“Think it might be too late,” Geralt spoke up, his voice cracking. “Have you heard anything from Luke?”

The exasperation in her sigh was evident even through the phone.

“Should I be expecting something from Luke?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt answered. “But he told me yesterday that something is going around his kid’s school. He said he thought he’d avoided it, but I can’t think of where else I’d have gotten this.”

“I’ll reach out to him and see,” she replied. “I hope you feel better soon, Geralt. Drink lots of fluids.”

“Thanks mom, will do.”

“Thanks Elaine.”

A minute later his phone buzzed with a text from Elaine. Luke just called to say he’s staying home to take care of his sick daughter.

“That bastard,” he muttered.

“Who’s a bastard?” Jaskier asked from the table where he sat finishing his breakfast—which made Geralt feel a bit like calling him a bastard as well, until he remembered that he’d gotten to relax in the shower while Jaskier had mopped puke off the floor. Anyway, he wasn’t angry at either of them, just jealous.

“Luke. I’m pretty sure he’s the one who gave this to me.”

“Oh yeah. Is he sick?”

“No, his daughter is.”

Jaskier gave him an exasperated chuckle. “Well if his kid is sick, then it’s probably just a matter of time.” He took his bowl to the kitchen and then returned to his ailing family on the couch.

“Guess so,” Geralt pouted.

Ciri was still contently nibbling on her crackers and watching the movie, and Jaskier came over to sit on the arm of Geralt’s chair.

“I know, love. I’m sorry. How are you feeling?”

“Really not good,” he mumbled, not wanting Ciri to hear. Since getting out of the shower, he’d only gotten more nauseous. He wasn’t feeling pukey just yet, but he had no doubt it was coming.

“Here you go.”

Ciri had scooted to the end of the couch and she held out one of her crackers to him. Geralt accepted it. He wasn’t hungry but he was genuinely touched by the gesture.

“You feel better,” she assured him.

“Thank you Ciri.” He turned to Jaskier. “I see you’re training her young.”

“I am actually so proud of her.” He put a hand on his chest, laughing.

Geralt shook his head and took a tentative bite of the cracker.

“She seems to be doing okay though,” Jaskier continued. “Maybe it was just a one off.”

“It was twice,” Geralt pointed out.

“Yeah, but she was crying the second time. I could hear her wailing from the hallway, and kids make themselves throw up from crying all the time.”

They both knew that wasn’t it, but still they both hoped.

“I had a second round too though.”

“Oh true.” Jaskier’s face fell. “You’ve always had a bit of a sensitive stomach though. And you had just been puked on.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Geralt didn’t want to point out that Ciri very well could have inherited his weak stomach, and he’d rinsed off all the vomit before he’d started throwing up again. If a little delusion made them feel better for a while then he’d take it.

He took another drink of his pedialyte.

“Daddy.”

Ciri called from the couch and immediately had Jaskier’s attention. He went and sat next to her on the couch, setting the crackers down on the coffee table

“What’s up love bug?”

“I want you.”

Geralt tensed. Last time she’d said that it had been pretty immediately followed by more puking, but thankfully this time she just wanted snuggles. He was tempted to go over to the couch and insert himself in the middle of it all. It sounded lovely, but he was feeling more nauseous by the minute, and he worried he’d have to get up again as soon as they got settled.

Ciri looked just precious laying on Jaskier’s chest though, out cold only a few minutes after abandoning her crackers. It brought to mind an image of the two a few years ago. When they’d brought Ciri home she had been so tiny, and so fussy, and as new parents with such a premature, fragile baby, they were terrified to set her down, and hardly ever did. She did a lot of her sleeping when they brought her home just like she lay now, her ear pressed against her father’s heartbeat, and her palms open against his chest, lips parted and cheeks pink.

The three of them stayed like that for a while, the movie playing quietly in the background while Geralt dozed in the armchair.

He was roused from his very light sleep by the sound of his daughter whimpering. He opened his eyes to find Ciri still sleeping, and Jaskier reaching out, the sick bucket just barely at his fingertips. Geralt wasted no time standing to retrieve it for him, not eager for a repeat of earlier.

“Thank you,” Jaskier whispered, one hand holding the bucket and the other holding Ciri. He could tell that she would wake in just a few seconds.

Both of them held their breath as they watched their daughter screw her face up in her sleep for a few moments, and then open her eyes.

“Daddy,” she whimpered, panicked and upset.

“Right here baby.” Jaskier sat her up and positioned her over the bucket just in time for her to start throwing up again.

Geralt’s heart ached for her.

“That’s it, baby. Good job, just like that. You’re alright,” Jaskier encouraged, rubbing her back and keeping her positioned safely above the bucket, cool as a cucumber.

Geralt didn’t know how he did it. He always got so panicky when people were throwing up, especially when that person was him. With lots of practice he’d learned to keep calm in most circumstances when Jaskier was vomiting, so he thought he’d be able to handle it with Ciri. Needless to say he’d been wrong. Right now Jaskier seemed perfectly healthy though, and more importantly, completely calm and collected.

“Breathe, Ciri. You’re alright.”

She took in a deep, shaking breath, and then relaxed her shoulders and shut her mouth.

“Are you all done?” Jaskier asked.

“Uh huh.”

“Okay um.” Jaskier looked around, one hand still holding Ciri steady while the other held the puke bucket. “Here, I can just—“

“I’ve got it, love.” Geralt stood.

“No, you just sit down,” Jaskier instructed. “I can put Ciri down for a second.”

“Noooo,” she wailed, clinging to him.

“Really love, it’s no problem.” He took the puke bucket into the bathroom and deposited it in the bathtub.

He really did want to help, but he was also glad for an excuse to get out of the living room. He really was starting to feel sick again, and although his heart broke for his daughter’s suffering, the crying was just too much for him to handle right now.

Chapter Text

He rinsed the bucket out in the bathtub, trying to keep from throwing up himself the entire time. The second it was clean he abandoned it and turned so he was kneeling in front of the toilet, panting into the toilet and trying to anticipate the first heave.

Jaskier knocked on the door. “Everything okay in there?”

“I’m fine,” Geralt replied, more into the toilet than it was to his husband.

“Well can we get the bucket back?”

“Fuck,” Geralt grumbled. “Yeah, you can come in.”

“Oh, my poor boy,” Jaskier cooed when he entered to find his husband with his head sunk into the toilet.

Out of the corner of his eye Geralt saw Jaskier standing above him holding Ciri.

“Here, I’m just going to step around you.” It wasn’t easy in the small bathroom, but somehow Jaskier was able to navigate past Geralt with Ciri in his arms to grab the bucket from the bathtub. “Alright, we’ll leave you be,” Jaskier told him from the doorway. “If you need anything just holler.”

Geralt gave him a weak thumbs up and then he was once more alone in the bathroom. Gone were the days of Jaskier sticking around and doting. Not that Geralt felt like he needed to be doted upon, but it was one of the parts of fatherhood he was still getting used to, even though he wasn’t really a new dad anymore.

He could hear the movie still on in the living room when he started throwing up again, whimsical music playing while his body forced up the pedialyte and the singular cracker.

It was rough. His body was insistent in its quest to empty him out, and the nausea wasn’t budging, no matter how many times he gagged and retched. After three rounds so early in the day, he really didn’t have much left to give. He coughed, air catching in his throat, and then belched loudly, giving one last retch before his muscles finally relaxed.

With a shaking hand, Geralt wiped his mouth and then flushed the toilet, laying down on the floor as soon as he’d finished. He ought to go back out to the living room, but for a couple minutes he wanted to be able to sit in a quiet room and just worry about himself.

He didn’t realize he’d dozed off again until he was being roused by his husband knocking on the bathroom door.

“Hey, can I come in?”

“Hmm?” Geralt hummed, still waking up.

Jaskier took this as an invitation to come in, and he did so without hesitating, sitting down next to where Geralt laid.

“I’ve got Ciri asleep on the couch, but as soon as she wakes up she’s going to want me back.”

“Okay,” Geralt mumbled, looking up at Jaskier from his position on the floor.

“She really just wants to be held.”

“I can take her for a while if you need a break,” he offered, pushing himself upright.

“No, no. She seems to be sleeping a bit sounder now. I’ll go back out in a minute but I wanted to come check in on you.” Jaskier brushed a hand over Geralt’s forehead. “You don’t feel too warm. Ciri doesn’t seem feverish either.”

“I feel awful,” Geralt croaked, leaning over to lay his head on Jaskier’s shoulder. “I’m such an old man now. Can’t even handle a stomach bug.”

“Awh, my poor sweet boy.” Jaskier took his hand.“Respectfully,” he began. “A couple of things.”

Geralt fought against a smirk, knowing he’d been caught in his melodrama.

“You’ve had a rough time with stomach bugs ever since I’ve known you. I think you’ve always been a bit of an old man,” Jaskier chuckled. “At least in this way.” He turned to kiss Geralt on the cheek. “Now can I interest you in laying down somewhere other than the floor?”

“Do you think Ciri would be okay moving to our bed?”

“I think Ciri would like nothing more than to come lay in our bed,” Jaskier replied. “And that sounds lovely, as long as nobody pukes on the sheets.”

The bathroom was probably his safest option right now, but the bed sounded so comfortable he couldn’t resist.

Geralt dragged himself up off the floor into his and Jaskier’s room while his husband retrieved Ciri from the couch.

“She is absolutely out cold,” he whispered, carrying her over to the bed.

“I wonder if she didn’t sleep well last night. She was already awake when I went to get her up this morning,” Geralt said.

“She was pretty fussy when we tried to put her down last night too, remember?” Jaskier pointed out.

“Poor baby.” Geralt took her from his husband’s arms and lay her down on his chest. He brushed the hair off her forehead and kissed it. “She really wasn’t feeling well by the time I got to her. I hate to think that she was feeling sick all night.”

“Well if that was the case, then hopefully it means she’s closer to the end of this than we thought.”

Yes, that would certainly be nice. They’d both thrown up, what, three times already? That was more than enough. If Ciri could wake up from this nap feeling better, Geralt wouldn’t mind so much if he was still feeling unwell. He hated seeing her sick.

***
“I can keep an eye on her for now if you want to get some work done,” Geralt offered.

“Are you sure? How are you feeling?” He asked the second question before Geralt got the chance to answer his first.

“Rough, but okay for the moment,” Geralt replied. “I’ll call you if that changes.”

“Promise?” Jaskier looked at him, wary. “Ciri too, if she wakes up feeling sick you can hand her off to me. I hate to think of you having to deal with that while you’re already feeling nauseous.”

Geralt was fairly certain that was just what it was like to be a parent, but he assured Jaskier that he could handle both his and Ciri’s illness well enough that Jaskier could go work in his office across the hall for a bit.

It worked well…for a bit. Ciri continued to sleep soundly for a little while, and Geralt put on a muted rugby game to keep himself awake and focused on something other than the sick feeling in his stomach.

They were in a race. A horrible race which Geralt hoped neither of them would win. Who would be sick next? So far today the pattern had been Ciri first, then Geralt soon after, but she seemed to be very soundly asleep, and his nausea was doing nothing but growing, blooming in his stomach and reaching up his throat.

With Ciri fast asleep on his chest, the race turned into a game of chicken, Geralt against himself. He was afraid Ciri would wake up if he moved, and even more afraid that she’d wake up and feel sick, but he knew he’d have to move her before too long. The nausea would hit his gag reflex soon, and the last thing he needed when that happened was a kid in his arms.

The game was only half over when Geralt paused it, and very carefully got himself up off the bed. He walked slowly, partly to try and keep Ciri from waking, and partly to avoid making the nausea worse. There were a few moments in the hallway where he worried he had waited too long, cut it too close, but then the wave of nausea crested and eased, and he was able to take a deep breath through his nose.

He knocked on the door of his husband’s office, waiting the customary couple of seconds before just walking in. Jaskier liked to compose with his fancy headphones plugged into his keyboard, rendering him nearly unreachable.

Usually Geralt would stand in the doorway and watch for a few moments. He loved the way Jaskier’s shoulders rose and fell as he played the piano, loved how even the empty thunks of the keys sounded like music when they came from his hands. But today he didn’t have time to revel.

Jaskier jumped when Geralt tapped on his shoulder, but wasted no time pushing his headphones off and turning to face him.

“Everything okay?”

Geralt nodded, and Jaskier stood with open arms, ready to take Ciri.

“I’m feeling sick again,” he mumbled, passing Ciri off masterfully. She didn’t even stir when Jaskier took her, just nestling into his chest. He wished he could stay and take it in, but he really was feeling sick. His face was hot, and saliva was starting to pool in his mouth.

“I’m sorry love. I’ve got her. You go.”

He must look as sick as he felt, because Jaskier practically shooed him out of his office. Geralt couldn’t blame him. If he had an office, he also wouldn’t want anyone throwing up in it.

Without the anxiety of making sure his daughter was safely in Jaskier’s care he was able to relax a bit. He was able to relax enough that by the time he made it to the bathroom he no longer felt like puking. He just felt miserably nauseous and now very frustrated.

Geralt hated throwing up more than almost anything, but he also knew that in these circumstances he wasn’t going to avoid it. He’d hoped he could just fall on his knees, puke, and be done with it, but of course it could never be that easy.

Instead he spent a miserable ten minutes with his feet falling asleep as he stared into the toilet, waiting for the wave that would be strong enough to finally take him out.

When he finally did get too nauseous to bear, it took three empty heaves before he finally brought up a splash of hot, bitter bile. After that it was more gagging and heaving, turning himself inside out for what felt like whole minutes before he was finally able to get himself, panting and sweating, back under control.

He waited until he got his breath back before he stood, and then he took the time to wash his face with cool water and try to get himself looking at least somewhat presentable, wanting to put on his best face for Jask.

When he returned to Jaskier’s office he found his husband in on the phone in his desk chair and Ciri sitting and banging on the piano keys, the volume on the keyboard turned up just enough for her to be able to hear herself. Geralt went to lay down on the futon and wait for Jaskier to get off the phone.

As soon as he hung up, Jaskier crossed the small office to sit on the edge next to where Geralt’s head lay propped up by a throw pillow.

“How are you feeling love?” Jaskier asked.

“Just threw up again,” he whispered. Jaskier must know this—might have even been able to hear him, the gods knew he’d put enough effort into it—but it was the only thought Geralt could conjure up. He felt exhausted.

“Oh, my poor sweet boy.” Jaskier caressed his cheek with one soft hand, rubbing a thumb across Geralt’s pallid cheek.

“Ciri seems to be feeling better,” Geralt changed the subject.

“Yeah, she does,” Jaskier agreed. “She woke up a minute or so after you brought her in here, and when I asked her how she was feeling she just said she wanted to play the piano.”

“Good I’m glad.” He was very happy to see his daughter looking better, and he sincerely hoped he was also reaching the end of his illness. “Who was that on the phone?”

He wasn’t one to pry, but Jaskier had looked stressed. He still looked stressed.

“It was West E,” he replied.

“The high school?”

Jaskier made most of his money as a freelance composer nowadays, but he still did a fair bit of substitute choir directing for local high schools and universities. The name was familiar.

“Yeah.”

“Do they want you for tomorrow?” Geralt didn’t like the thought of having Jaskier out working tomorrow. Hopefully everyone would be feeling better by then, but to be safe he’d rather have his husband around.

No, Jaskier told him, his expression grave. “They want me tonight.”

Chapter Text

“What?” Geralt was confused, and too tired for this. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“They’ve got their concert tonight, and the director’s wife just went into labor,” Jaskier explained.

“Well that’s just unlucky,” Geralt pouted. “Are you going to take it?”

He didn’t say it, but he really really hoped Jaskier had turned it down.

“I said I couldn’t, but she told me I’m the only sub they’ve had all semester. And they’re doing one of my pieces. She said she wasn’t sure there was another sub in the district who’d be able to direct the concert.”

“Quite the guilt trip,” he observed. “What did you tell her?”

“I said I’d talk to you and call her back, but I just felt bad shutting her down. I’m not going to take it. You still look miserable, I’m not leaving you.”

“Ciri’s feeling better,” Geralt pointed out. “I can probably manage.”

“You shouldn’t have to just manage. Not this.”

“I just feel bad for those kids. She really said you were the only one?”

Jaskier nodded. “She said they’d most likely have to cancel.”

“That’s really fucking unlucky.”

“I’m not going to take it,” Jaskier reiterated. “Nobody would hold that against me.”

“What time would you have to go?”

“I’d need to be there at six thirty.” It was obvious he really did want to go. He felt for those kids more than anybody, but he felt for Geralt just a little bit more.

“Ciri would be in bed then. I’d just have to take care of myself,” Geralt pointed out.

“No, you don’t have to do this. You’re not doing this.”

“Love.” Geralt put a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “It’s a couple of hours, with a sleeping child, and a mild stomach bug. It’s not ideal, but I’ll manage.”

“I’ll come right back home,” Jaskier promised. “The second the last note ends I’m out the door. I won’t talk to anyone.”

This earned Jaskier a sleepy smile. “I’ll be alright,” Geralt told him. “I promise.”

***

Jaskier let Geralt spend the rest of the afternoon resting, saving his energy for when he would need to get up and tend to Ciri. He was able to manage a nap in the afternoon, and when he woke up without immediately rushing to the bathroom he thought the worst of it was over. He then spent a lovely couple of hours with Jaskier and Ciri, who also seemed to be doing much better, but slowly and heartbreakingly the nausea returned.

At first he thought it was just nerves. Better or not, being alone with Ciri after they’d both been so sick was bound to make anybody anxious. Yes, this was just nerves. Geralt repeated this over and over in his mind, padding back into Jaskier’s office where he was practicing conducting the pieces for tonight while Ciri sat on the couch. watching a movie on Jaskier’s ipad.

“Hey, love.” Jaskier pulled his headphones off. “What’s up?”

“How long until you have to leave?” Geralt asked, pricks of heat spreading up his neck and across his cheeks.

“About forty minutes. Why?” Jaskier’s eyebrows furrowed with concern.

“Just wondering.”

“I was just about to put the baby to bed.”

“Good.” Geralt took a deep breath through his nose and did his best to ignore his now decidedly rolling stomach. “Thank you.”

“Is everything okay, love?”

“Mhmm,” he hummed, taking another measured breath. This wasn’t happening. He was a good dad, there was no need to be anxious. If he could just get that through his head then this nausea would go away. It had gone away once. It could do it again. It had to.

“Are you sure?”

Geralt turned quickly on his heel. He’d gone from fighting this battle valiantly to losing it horrendously in a matter of seconds. It was as if his stomach was offended that Geralt would try to write off its discomfort as psychological, and now it was demanding to be heard.

“Geralt?”

Already Jaskier’s voice was quiet, coming from across the hall as Geralt hurried into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t fair.

He fell to the floor, his knees connecting painfully with the tile in his haste.

“Is everything okay?” Jaskier asked again, knocking on the bathroom door.

This time instead of a hum Geralt responded with a loud, spectacular retch. His body hadn’t forgotten about the illness, and now it was ready to make up for all its lost time. The broth, and crackers, and pedialyte he had so carefully gotten down this afternoon came up in horrible heaves as the nausea attacked him in waves. His head spun and he coughed in an attempt to clear his airways, only succeeding in denying himself air in between retches. His body pressed on though, with a fierceness that made him feel like he might burst a blood vessel.

“I’m coming in.” Jaskier opened the door to find his husband with his head sunk in the toilet, still retching loudly and insistently. “Oh, love,” he cooed. “I’m so sorry. I thought we were past the worst of it.”

Geralt wanted to reply, but all he could do was sit there hanging over the toilet bowl, mouth open and drooling as he waited for the next heave. It came a few seconds later, clear liquid with little white flecks of half digested cracker splashing into the toilet with the rest of his stomach contents.

He grabbed a wad of toilet paper to wipe his face and flushed the toilet before he turned to face his very concerned husband, panting and sweating.

“Better now?” Jaskier asked. Geralt nodded and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I thought it had ended.”

“It’s fine,” Geralt lied. “I’m okay.”

Jaskier brushed the sweaty hair out of his eyes. “Just wait here for a minute. I’ll go put Ciri to bed and call the school and then I’ll be able to tend to you. Maybe this was just a fluke.”

“You’re going to call the school?” Geralt slumped against the bathtub, conserving his energy for the rest of this conversation.

“I can’t very well leave you here like this.”

“I’ll manage,” he insisted. “You can’t cancel now. It’s too late. The kids are probably already there.”

Jaskier looked conflicted, no doubt upset by the situation they’d landed themselves in. “I never should have agreed to this.” He covered his face with his hand.

“It’ll be alright.” With no small effort Geralt pushed himself upright. “You just get Ciri to bed and bring me the baby monitor.”

Getting Ciri to bed was no small feat, or at least that was how it sounded from Geralt’s vantage point on the bathroom floor.

They had to shorten their usual routine since Jaskier had spent some of the allotted time in here with him, and Ciri was not having it. She wanted another story. She wanted Jaskier to snuggle with her. She didn’t want him to leave, and she made these things known with an ear piercing, heart wrenching wailing, which did not subside no matter how many times Jaskier promised that he would be here when she woke.
Right there with you kid.
Geralt didn’t want Jaskier to leave either. He could feel in his gut that this last round of vomiting hadn’t been a fluke. If anything the peaceful afternoon had been the fluke. But Jaskier had to go. He’d made a commitment and he needed to stick to it. Geralt just hoped he wouldn’t be gone long.

In some miracle of parenting, Jaskier managed to get Ciri to stop crying. By then he had only a couple minutes to hurriedly get into concert attire and drive to the school.

“It should only be a few hours,” Jaskier said, coming into the bathroom to fix his hair. “As soon as the show is over I’m out the door. Do you want me to pick anything up from the store before I come back?” He looked down to where Geralt still sat on the floor.

“I want you to come straight home,” Geralt replied while Jaskier fought to get the knot of his tie to sit flat.

“Okay, love.” Jaskier planted a kiss on his sweaty forehead. “Ciri is asleep. You just hang in there until I get back.”

Geralt took a measured breath, the nausea once more creeping up to unsustainable levels. “I’ll do my best.”

Chapter Text

Just as he’d feared, it wasn’t a fluke. Geralt threw up again only a few minutes after Jaskier left for the concert, bile burning his throat and a deep unease in his gut. He was on his own. He’d need to take care of himself.

He really did try.

After he finished vomiting and cleaned himself up he took himself on shaking legs to the kitchen to get another cup of pedialyte to sip on. He had a feeling the puking wasn’t over yet, so there was no use in keeping his stomach empty. As Jaskier so often told him in times like these, dehydration was so much worse than throwing up electrolytes.

Geralt kept the baby monitor with him as well, listening carefully for any sign of Ciri waking up. Everything seemed calm though, so he settled in for what promised to be a miserable, but hopefully uneventful couple of hours.

Retrieving the now clean bucket that Ciri had been using earlier, he wandered into the living room, settling into the armchair and turning the TV on low volume. He worried if he went to bed he might fall asleep and not hear if Ciri needed something, but dozing in the armchair with the monitor right next to him certainly couldn’t hurt…

Geralt snapped awake. In a matter of seconds he went from peacefully asleep, to awake and scrambling. His stomach was boiling, but that hadn’t been what woke him. Ciri was wailing again, but now Geralt didn’t have Jaskier to calm her down.

The baby monitor screeched next to him, making it sound as if there were two crying babies instead of one. He shut it off and stood up, swaying for a moment and clutching his stomach before he regained his bearings enough to get to Ciri’s room.

She’s just upset because she fell asleep with Jaskier in the room and woke up alone. It’s been a long day and she’s just overtired. That’s it. She’s fine.

Geralt repeated these sentiments over and over in his head as he rushed to his daughter’s room, praying to all of the gods that they were true.

“Daaaaddyyyyyy,” Ciri wailed.

“You’re okay. I’m here. Papa’s here,” Geralt started the assurances as soon as he was close enough for her to hear them. They did nothing to stop the crying.

He flicked the light on.

“Papa,” Ciri whimpered, looking up at him from her bed where she sat absolutely covered in vomit.

It was all down her front, in the sheets, in her hair, dripping onto the floor.

“You’re okay, baby.” Geralt stepped carefully around the toys scattered on the floor and the still growing puddles of vomit. Unlike him, Ciri had felt well enough to eat dinner, and from the looks of it, she’d brought it all back up. He ground his teeth, fighting hard to keep his own nausea in check.

Ciri reached out for him and he picked her up, holding her out in front of him and taking her straight to the bathroom. She squirmed, no doubt displeased at being carried this way, but the last thing Geralt could handle right now was puke on his clothes. Anyway, they were nearly there now.

He deposited her, still crying, in the bathtub.

“We’re gonna get you cleaned up, okay? I’ve got you.”

He turned on the shower and started taking off her soaked pajamas. They could stay in the bathtub for now. All he needed to do was get her cleaned off enough to stop crying, then he could see to himself. He prayed he’d make it that far.

Geralt’s body was screaming at him. Drops of sweat ran down his face and his stomach turned somersaults. The smell coming from the shower hit him when he took Ciri’s shirt off of her and he gagged, nearly losing it right then. No. He had a job to do. He could do this.

He finished rinsing the vomit from her skin and hair, and then turned off the water and wrapped her in a towel. She stood on the bath mat shivering and looking up at him with her big green eyes, ringed with red and still shining with tears.

“I’ve got you, baby.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I’m going to get you some clean pajamas. You stay right here. I’ll be right back.”

He took long strides back across the hall, in a hurry to get this sorted out. The muscles in his stomach and back were tensing painfully now, cramping to let him know that they would not be ignored. He bit the inside of his cheek. Just five more minutes. All it would take was five minutes to get her in clean pajamas and tucked away in his own bed, then he’d be able to deal with his own suffering. He didn’t even dread the puking anymore, every part of his body screaming for the relief he knew it would bring.

When he stepped in the room the smell of vomit hit him like a brick wall. Had it been this bad before? Or did he just feel sicker now? No matter. He still had a job to do. He could do this.

Unfortunately, his body didn’t agree, and willpower could only get him so far.

To his great relief, Jaskier had had the foresight to put a trash can next to Ciri’s bed. Of course it would have been nice if she’d used it, but that didn’t mean it was without purpose.

The smell was around him, thick and sour, and he lunged for the trash can, just managing to grab it before it got the best of him. He turned to bring it back out into the hallway, nearly tripping over his daughter in the process. She must have followed him out of the bathroom.

He’d hoped that the fresh air of the hallway would be enough to buy him some time, but no. He’d passed the point of no return. There was nothing more he could do.

In his last moments, Geralt shut the door and sat down on the floor, setting the trash can in front of himself and kneeling over it. He hated that Ciri was here to see this.

“Papa?”

“I’m okay,” he lied, shaking and staring at the bottom of the trash can in anticipation. “Go wait for me in the bathroom.” If he could just get this over with in private then maybe this night wouldn’t feel so completely out of control.

She didn’t listen though, and Geralt could say no more. He gagged on the last word, and instead of turning around, Ciri stepped toward him. Geralt gritted his teeth and took slow breaths through his nose, hoping in vain that he might be able to at least mitigate some of the inevitable horribleness.

Ciri came right up to him and put a tiny hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Papa,” she told him, always the little parrot. He wasn’t though, the nausea in his stomach and his cramping muscles were too much. This was so much worse than any of the other episodes he’d had today. He shouldn’t have let it go on this long. “It’s alright.”

Geralt leaned closer into the trash can and retched, his vomit crinkling the plastic liner as it filled the small can. He heaved three more times before his stomach contents were finally all brought up, and he continued to gag and retch into the half full trash can until he was finally able to collect himself and sit back.

Ciri looked at him with wide eyes.

“I’m okay,” Geralt assured her. “Come on. Let’s get you in some clean pajamas.”

He ventured back into her room to grab a set of pajamas and then got her dressed and moved to pick her up. If he could get her asleep in his and Jaskier’s bed then he could get things cleaned up and sit with her in their room until Jaskier got home.

Ciri didn’t protest when he picked her up and brought her into their room, but when he moved to set her on the bed she started to whimper again.

“No, papa,” she whined. “I don’t want to.”

“Come on, Ciri.” Geralt was far too tired and too sick to do this right now. “I’ll put a movie on. I just need to clean up and then I’ll come lay with you.”

“I want daddy.” Her lip quivered and tears welled in her eyes.

Geralt’s chest tightened. After what she’d just witnessed he couldn’t blame her for wanting Jaskier instead, but it always stung to think she’d rather have him.

“Daddy will be home soon.” He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was just under an hour until Jaskier said he’d be home. He really couldn’t do this right now.

“No, I want daddy,” she insisted, the whining morphing into crying in earnest. “Papaaa.”

It was clear she was beyond the point of being reasoned with. It had been a long, upsetting day. Her routine had been interrupted, and she was overtired. It was the perfect recipe for a meltdown, and oh boy did she melt down.

Geralt tried everything, distraction, promises, bribes. He tried rocking her, but it seemed like the more he tried the more she insisted she wanted Jaskier.

It continued on like this for almost the entire hour. By the time she finally tired herself out and let Geralt lay her down on the bed, it was nearly time for Jaskier to come home. Thank the gods. Geralt was feeling very unwell again, and he hadn’t had the chance to even get rid of the vomit contained to the trash can in the hall, let alone the mess in Ciri’s room.

He should be a good husband and try to start cleaning, but he was just so exhausted and frustrated that he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Anyway, with how nauseated he’d become, he figured going back into Ciri’s room would have the same effect it had the first time.

Geralt hated himself for it, but Jaskier was going to have to help him deal with this when he got home. So instead of getting the mop, Geralt stumbled back into the bathroom and sat once again with his head hovering over the toilet.

It wasn’t long before he threw up again. He wasn’t nearly as bad off as he’d been the last time, but then he’d been actively avoiding it. This time he just hung his head over the bowl and let it happen, bringing up a splash of bright yellow bile, straining his muscles and burning his throat in the process. How long could this go on? Hadn’t he earned a break?

After he finished he stayed there for another minute or two, too tired to find the motivation to stand, but when he heard the lock in the front door click, he reluctantly dragged himself up off the floor. He really ought to help Jaskier, or at least warn him about what had happened. Selfishly though, he also anticipated the doting he’d get from his husband. Surely he would have an incredible amount of sympathy for what Geralt had dealt with while he’d been at the concert.

When Jaskier entered though, he hardly even acknowledged Geralt. He gave a halfhearted wave, not even making eye contact before dropping his bag and running to the kitchen sink, doubling over, coughing, and then loudly and productively vomiting.

Fuck.

Geralt really should have seen this coming, but he’d gotten through unscathed until now. Geralt thought if he’d caught the bug he would have gotten sick before this.

Jaskier heaved again and Geralt could hear the vomit splattering in the sink, turning his own stomach as it did. This wasn’t happening. It was like a rug had been pulled out from under him. He wasn’t going to be able to rely on Jaskier to clean up the mess. He should have just dealt with it when it happened. Why had he waited?

Jaskier finished throwing up a few moments later, rinsing his mouth out in the tap before turning to face Geralt.

“Sorry, love.” Jaskier finally spoke. “I misjudged how much worse the drive home would make me feel,” he explained, out of breath. I thought I’d be able to make it a little bit longer.”

Chapter Text

What happened?” Geralt asked. “Did you get sick at the concert?”

Jaskier nodded, shutting his mouth and taking several measured breaths before answering. “I started feeling sick right before the kids went on. I thought it was just nerves, but by the time we got to intermission I was practically sprinting for the bathroom. I almost didn’t make it in time.”

“I’m so sorry, Jask. That sounds awful.” Geralt tried to hide how upset he felt, wanting to be there for his partner. “Were you able to finish the show?”

He nodded again. “Just barely,” he said, motioning toward the sink. “What about you? How was your evening?”

“Ciri threw up again,” he answered. “She’s all cleaned up and in our bed now.”

“And what about you?” He asked. “You don’t look well.”

“I’m fine, love,” Geralt lied. “Why don’t you go lay down? You look exhausted.”

“Are you sure?” Jaskier yawned through his question.

No, he wasn’t sure. He certainly wasn’t fine, but he felt so horrible asking his sick husband to handle a problem that should have been dealt with long before he even got home, that he couldn’t bring himself to be honest.

“Yeah. Ciri’s in our bed though, so you’ll have to share.”

“Are you coming to bed too?” Jaskier raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll be there in a little bit.”

Jaskier looked like he wanted to question him further, but the illness and exhaustion won out and he left to go join their daughter in bed.

Once he was gone Geralt reluctantly approached Ciri’s room and opened the door, bracing himself for the smell. Somehow the mess was worse than he remembered. Before he’d been working around it, trying to avoid it as much as possible, but now he took it all in. He needed to figure out where to start. Did he pick up the toys which were now sticky with dried vomit? Did he strip the bed? Did he pull the rug out of the way?

In the end, Geralt did none of those things. Instead he broke down and cried, too overwhelmed to even start. He was a grown man. He was a father. This was his job, and even though it was unpleasant, it wasn’t exactly difficult. He should be able to do this. But he couldn’t.

Ashamed, Geralt left his daughter’s room and went back out to the couch, sitting down and burying his face in his hands, waiting until he could collect himself enough to figure out how to proceed. Already his head was throbbing from the crying, his body too dehydrated and tired to be doing this. He should at least get up and get a glass of water, maybe wash his face, but still he just sat there on the couch, hand clapped over his mouth to try and mitigate the sobs. He didn’t look up until he heard the floor creaking.

Jaskier stood on the other side of the room, looking tired, but very concerned.

“What’s going on, Geralt?” He asked, coming to sit next to him on the couch.

“It’s fine.” He wiped his nose with his sweatshirt sleeve and then tried unsuccessfully to mop up the tears from his cheeks, as if he could hide what he’d been doing.

“It’s not fine,” Jaskier replied. His voice was calm and collected, in stark contrast to Geralt’s. “You’re upset and I want to help. What can I do?”

Even if Geralt wanted to tell him he couldn’t get his voice to cooperate. He felt a sharp sympathy with the meltdown Ciri had had earlier. He too was sick, overtired, and had put up with too much disruption to handle anything else.

“Come on.” Jaskier guided Geralt down so he was laying with his head in his husband’s lap. Jaskier ran his fingers through Geralt’s hair and gently across his scalp in the way he knew he liked. “Everything’s okay, baby.” He kissed Geralt’s forehead. “How can I help?”

“It’s Ciri’s room,” Geralt admitted after another few long moments of crying. “I know I should have gotten everything cleaned up earlier, but I just felt so sick, and I thought you’d be able to help when you got home, but now you’re sick too,” he explained, his rambling punctuated by hiccups and catch breaths. “I just felt so bad making you do this when you already didn’t feel well, but I tried to do it and I just couldn’t, and I’m so sorry—”

“Hold on,” Jaskier interrupted him. “Back up. What happened in Ciri’s room?”

“She got sick,” Geralt answered. “I’d fallen asleep in the armchair, and by the time I heard her crying over the baby monitor she had already thrown up all over herself, and the bed, and the floor. I got her cleaned up, but her room is still a mess, and her pajamas are in the bathroom. I haven’t even emptied the trash can I threw up in. Love, I’m so sorry. I wanted to handle this myself. I really did.”

“Okay.” Jaskier sighed, but Geralt could see that it wasn’t him he was frustrated with. “This is okay. We can take care of this. I just wish you’d told me to begin with, before you’d gotten so upset.”

“I'm sorry. I just felt so bad at the thought of you coming home sick and immediately having to deal with this.”

“It’s definitely not ideal,” Jaskier replied. “But you’re sick too. You shouldn’t have to deal with this either.”

“Okay,” Geralt said, feeling very small.

“We can deal with this though,” he assured his still crying husband. “It’s alright.”

“Alright.” He pushed himself upright to face Jaskier. “What should I do?”

“You said there were dirty clothes in the bathroom and a trash can that needs emptying?”

Geralt nodded.

“Why don’t you go grab the clothes and put them in the washing machine, and take the trash out to the bin?” He suggested. “I’ll go take a look at Ciri’s room and figure out the best way to go about things.”

“Okay.” Geralt wiped the last of the tears from his cheeks. “Thank you, love.”

“Of course.” Jaskier stood up and kissed him on the forehead. “Let’s get this over with. I’d like to go to bed.”

Geralt did as he was told, rinsing out Ciri’s clothes and then depositing them in the washing machine. He then took the bag of his own vomit outside to the larger bin, relishing the cool, fresh night air before he went back inside to Ciri’s bedroom.

True to his word, Jaskier had figured out the best way to proceed, and he was ready to dole out more tasks when Geralt returned.

“Can you grab any toys that have puke on them and just put them in the tub? We don’t have to deal with those tonight. I just want to get enough done that we can go to bed.”

“I can do that.” Geralt’s nausea was building again, holding to the very upsetting pattern that he’d been following all evening. He could do this though. He needed to help.

“I’m going to roll up the rug and put it out back. We can sort that out tomorrow too. Then it’s just the bed I think.”

There were less sticky toys than Geralt had initially thought, and by the time he’d gotten them all safely quarantined in the bathtub, Jaskier had moved the rug and started cleaning the hardwood floor underneath. The puke on the rug would certainly be a pain to deal with, but for tonight at least, there wasn’t too much on the floor.

“This is going to take me another minute,” Jaskier said. “Can you start stripping the bed?” he asked. “Geralt? Fuck.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier knelt on the floor scrubbing vomit from under his daughter’s bed. It certainly wasn’t how he’d wanted his evening to go, but it seemed like every aspect of today had been an unpleasant surprise. He didn’t look up until he heard Geralt return from his latest task.

“This is going to take another minute. Can you start stripping the bed?” he asked, thinking only of what else needed to be done before he could go lay in his own bed, or maybe just go sit on the bathroom floor for a while.

He really didn’t feel well. He was trying to keep himself calm and collected for Geralt’s sake, who was much more tired and upset than he was, but this was beyond the last thing he wanted to be doing tonight.

“Geralt?” When he failed to respond, Jaskier sat up, a bit dizzy, and looked at his husband. “Fuck.”

Geralt stood in the doorway, eyes half closed and unfocused, his face absolutely green. He had one hand on his stomach, the other on the door frame to keep himself steady. His jaw was set, and it was clear he was trying to fight through it, but Jaskier was not willing to take any chances at this point.

“Just go, love,” he sighed.

Geralt turned on his heel and rushed across the hall, not even closing the door to the bathroom in his hurry. Jaskier heard every bit of what was happening as Geralt coughed, and gagged, and heaved in the other room. Jaskier wanted to be there for him, but the best thing he could do right now, for both of them, was keep cleaning. Still, his heart ached when he heard Geralt let out a long empty retch, and then whimper in pain. Poor sweet boy. Jaskier scrubbed a bit faster, needing this to be dealt with, so he could focus on tending—to himself and his husband.

The floor was clean enough now. He’d give it a more thorough mopping and disinfecting tomorrow when he dealt with everything else. For now he would just strip the bed, and then put the mattress outside with the rug. Ciri would have to spend the whole night in bed with him and Geralt. Somehow he didn’t think she’d mind.

Before he could go lay down with her though, he needed to go check on Geralt. The puking had ended several minutes ago, but he hadn’t left the bathroom yet.

Jaskier had a bad feeling he too would need to throw up again before he could sleep. He’d like for Geralt not to have to deal with that, and he’d also like very much to throw up in the toilet this time. When he’d been puking in the sink, and during the first round in the high school’s public restroom he’d been wishing he was safely in his bathroom at home. He would really like to have it to himself for a while now.

“Knock knock.” Jaskier yawned, stepping into the light of the bathroom.

Geralt was slouched against the bathtub, his face a pale grayish color and his eyes barely open.

“Love?” He wasn’t sure Geralt was even awake, but he lifted his head to make weak, straying eye contact with his husband.

“Hmm?”

“Can I help you to bed?” he asked.

“Mhmm.”

Geralt let Jaskier pull him up off the floor and half lead, half drag him into the bedroom. He didn’t protest when Jaskier tucked him in, setting the bucket in reaching distance on the bedside table. And to Jaskier’s great relief, he rolled over and fell asleep almost immediately. Ciri was also out cold, sprawled out on his side of the bed, taking up more space than he thought possible for someone her size. No matter. He’d deal with this when he returned to the bedroom.

Jaskier thought it would just be ten or fifteen more minutes, but his nausea eased a bit once he was safely in the bathroom. He spent the next hour alternating between dozing on the floor and hanging his head over the toilet until finally his discomfort worsened enough for him to be sick again. In a few halfhearted heaves, Jaskier emptied what little remained in his stomach, and he was surprised at how much better he felt once he’d finished.

Then he brushed his teeth, stumbled back to the bedroom, gently relocated Ciri to the middle of the bed, and then joined his husband and daughter in sleep.

***

All three of them slept late the next day.

Ciri woke mid-morning hungry and insisting her dads woke up and made her breakfast. Jaskier woke soon after with a slight headache, but also with an appetite. Geralt however, did not wake in the mid-morning. It was strange. Without fail, he woke earlier than anyone, often by a few hours. But not today.

Today he didn’t wake in the mid-morning, late morning, or even early afternoon. In fact, Ciri was requesting lunch by the time Geralt wandered out of the bedroom, eyelids heavy and hair in a frizzy white halo around his face.

“Morning love.” Jaskier looked up from the pasta he was preparing for lunch. “Are you feeling better?”

Even as he said it, Jaskier could see he didn’t. He looked just as pale and unsteady as he’d been the night before. Both Jaskier and Ciri seemed to be completely recovered from the bug—keeping down breakfast and still wanting lunch—but if anything, Geralt looked worse.

“I feel like shit,” Geralt rasped. Jaskier winced at how wrecked his throat sounded and immediately abandoned the pasta to pour him an ice cold glass of pedialyte.

“You got some sleep at least,” Jaskier pointed out. “That’s good.”

“Yeah I got a little.” Geralt sat down at the counter, next to where Ciri sat scribbling with her favorite blue crayon, and accepted the pedialyte. “I was up until almost seven puking every hour.”

“Oh?” Jaskier felt bad. He’d slept like the dead.

Geralt yawned and nodded. “Last time I got up to go to bed I felt ready to collapse. I think that’s why I was able to finally sleep. My body just couldn’t take it.” He put a hand on his stomach.

“I wish you’d woken me,” Jaskier told him.

“Why?” Geralt asked, too tired to filter his thoughts. “You couldn’t have done anything.”

The hopelessness in his voice was heartbreaking.

“Well, is there anything I can do to help now?”

“Can you switch this for water?” He motioned to the cup. “I’ve puked up too much pedialyte in the last twenty-four hours.”

“Of course love.”

He exchanged the pedialyte for a glass of ice water. He’d prefer Geralt get some electrolytes and a few calories, but water was better than nothing.

“I’m about to dish up some lunch for Ciri. Do you want to try eating a little something now, or do you want to wake up a bit more first?” Jaskier wanted to try and get a little food in him, but he didn’t want to rush Geralt into things.

“Maybe in a bit.” He eyed the pasta, his face going green. “I think I might just,” he let the sentence trail off, motioning towards the armchair.

“Okay, love,” Jaskier replied. “Is there anything else I can get for you? A blanket? Your pillow?”

“Can you go get the bucket?”

“Of course.” Jaskier worked hard to keep the concern off of his face. Had the puking really not ended yet? How much longer could Geralt go on like this?

Jaskier went to retrieve the bucket from where Geralt had left it on the bedside table, bringing him a blanket as well when he returned to the living room.

Geralt was curled up in the arm chair, knees pulled up toward his chest. His eyes were closed, but he opened them when Jaskier returned. “Thanks, love,” he mumbled, accepting the blanket and pulling it up around his shoulders.

“Of course, baby. Anything to help you feel better.”
***
He stayed like that for a while, dozing while Ciri ate her lunch. He seemed sick enough to keep Jaskier on edge, but the fact that he was still resting somewhat comfortably kept him from panic.

Ciri at least appeared to be in good spirits. She ate her lunch with the same enthusiasm she’d eaten her breakfast. While she slowly made her way through her pasta and apple slices, Jaskier tried to figure out how he’d keep her busy until nap time.

He’d been happy enough to play with her all morning, but now he’d like to find something quiet she could do on her own, so Jaskier could watch over her and still keep an eye on his sick husband.

A few ideas came to mind, but when Ciri finished her meal she made it clear that she had some ideas of her own.

“Where’s Papa?” she asked.

“He’s just there in the living room baby.” Jaskier motioned to where Geralt lay. “He’s resting.”

“I want to play.”

“We can play,” Jaskier offered. “How about we play with your blocks?”

“No, I want to play with Papa,” she insisted.

“Papa doesn’t want to play, baby. He isn’t feeling well,” he tried to explain.

Ciri looked up at him, eyebrows furrowed and lip quivering.

“You can bring her over,” Geralt spoke up, barely audible.

Jaskier scooped her up and carried her across the living room. “Are you sure?”

“Mhmm.” He reached out and accepted Ciri who immediately snuggled into his chest. “Hey, baby.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

Yes, Jaskier was glad too, immensely, but it was painfully obvious that Geralt was not feeling better, and although he insisted he was fine to sit and cuddle with Ciri, he went green any time she so much as breathed too close to his face. When she rolled over and Geralt clenched his jaw so tight Jaskier feared he’d crack a tooth, he decided to put an end to it.

“Come on, Ciri.” He picked her back up. “It’s nap time. Papa will be here when you wake up.”

It was a bit early for her nap, but she went without protest, and once Jaskier was sure she was down, he went back out to the living room. He walked over to where Geralt lay and sat down on the arm of the chair.

“Alright, what can I get you to eat?”

He hadn’t vomited again, and that gave Jaskier confidence. Maybe he was over the bug. This could just be the post-bug hangover, and Jaskier felt much better able to handle that than all of that horrible puking.

“I’m not hungry,” Geralt mumbled.

“How about some crackers and broth?”

He shook his head. “Like the pedialyte.”

Well that was fair enough. Throwing it up was enough to put someone off of a food for a while, but he really ought to eat something.

“Maybe some good old fashioned tea and toast then,” he suggested. “That’s enough to make anyone feel human again.” He could imagine Geralt wanted to feel a bit more human. At the moment he had more of the air of a wounded animal than anything else.

“Do I have to?” Geralt asked. “I don’t feel well.”

“It might make you feel better.”

He must be pretty desperate to feel better, because it didn’t take any more coaxing. Maybe he was just too tired to argue.

Jaskier didn’t hesitate to take the opportunity though. He wasted no time preparing a piece of dry toast, and a mug of ginger tea.

“I really don’t know, Jask.” Geralt eyed the meal warily.

“Just try your best, okay love? I think it might help.”

Chapter Text

To his credit, Geralt did try his best. He spent a half hour taking slow careful bites of the toast, and sipping his tea. Before he’d made it through either though, he set them both aside. Most of the tea was gone, but more than half the toast remained.

“Sorry, I think that’s all I can handle,” Geralt apologized.

“You did a good job,” Jaskier assured him. “Why don’t you try and get some more sleep?”

Geralt nodded and reclined the chair, curling into the fetal position and shutting his eyes. He was less successful with sleep than he’d been with breakfast though. Not ten minutes had passed before he sat up again, looking very shaky with a hand on his stomach.

“Here, take the bucket.” Jaskier rushed over from where he’d been folding laundry.

“I can get to the toilet,” Geralt offered.

Jaskier could hear in his voice though, that he really didn’t want to.

“Don’t be silly.” Jaskier picked up the bucket and handed it to him. “You don’t need to spend any more time on the floor.”

Geralt accepted the bucket, his body curling around it as he doubled over and sunk his head into it. Jaskier felt bad; this was probably his fault.

Wanting to support him in any way possible, Jaskier sat perched on the arm of the chair. He pulled Geralt’s hair back, holding it in one hand and rubbing Geralt’s back with his other.

His muscles tensed abruptly under Jaskier’s hand, and a fountain of tea and toast erupted from his mouth.

“Oh, love,” Jaskier commiserated.

Following the first heave, Geralt made a sound, half moan, half gag, and then let loose another torrent of stomach contents. It hadn’t seemed like he’d gotten much down, but between his meal and the water, there was apparently a fair bit to bring back up.

It took two more heaves like that before they stopped producing more vomit, but even after that he continued to cough and retch unproductively several more times before it finally ended.

Only then did his muscles relax, although he had begun to shiver. He was drenched in sweat as well, and Jaskier waited until he lifted his head and spoke, to stand up and take the now full puke bucket from him.

“Can you get me a rag?” His lips were still slick.

“Of course. I’ll be right back.”

Jaskier returned a minute later with an empty bucket, a damp rag, a hair tie, and a fresh t-shirt.

“Here, these should help you get at least a little more comfortable.”

He accepted the rag and the shirt, keeping the bucket in reaching distance, and allowing Jaskier to pull his hair back into a ponytail. When he pulled off his shirt to switch it for the fresh one, Jaskier was unpleasantly surprised to see how bloated and distended Geralt’s belly was.

“What else can I do, Geralt?” he asked. “I’ll do anything.” Jaskier was desperate to help his husband feel better.

“Could you get me my pen?”

“Oh.” Jaskier sat up a bit, surprised. He should have thought of this earlier.

“It’s helped a couple times in the past,” Geralt added, a bit sheepish.

“Right, yes, of course.” It had helped. Sometimes.

The weed seemed to be about a fifty-fifty split between mitigating the nausea, and just giving him the spins while he continued to puke. Jaskier was desperate though, which meant Geralt was far past desperate. He went into their bedroom and retrieved the pen from Geralt’s bedside drawer.

Much of Jaskier’s anxiety about the weed making things worse was relieved when he saw how much Geralt visibly relaxed as it started to kick in. By the time he set it aside, he’d stopped shivering, and could barely keep his eyes open. Jaskier was so relieved he thought he might cry. He helped Geralt straighten out and pull up his blanket, and then let out a sigh of relief when he started to snore.

Thank the gods. It had worked.

***

He slept for a long while—long enough for Jaskier to fold and put away all of the laundry. And when he woke, instead of reaching for the bucket, he reached for the pen, taking a few hits and then maintaining his relaxed demeanor, in stark contrast to the on edge, and upset energy he’d been radiating before.

Ciri woke not long after, and Jaskier felt himself slipping into recovery caretaking mode. Ciri was still sleepy and subdued, happy to sit on the couch and watch a movie. She also asked for a snack, and when she did, Geralt said that he’d like one too.

“Of course!” Jaskier jumped at the opportunity. “What sounds good?”

“Hmm.” Geralt contemplated this deeply. “Cereal,” he finally decided. “But no milk.”

“Can do, love. We’ve got cheerios, or lucky charms.”

“Cheerios.”

Ciri decided she wanted the same, and they all munched on dry cheerios and watched the movie.

Everything appeared to be going well until the final twenty minutes.

The first time Jaskier heard Geralt’s stomach grumble, he thought he was imagining things, his brain unwilling to accept the positive turn of events they’d experienced earlier. The next one was unmistakable, a loud, angry sound emanating from Geralt’s belly.

Jaskier turned to look at him, and found him pale and sweating once again, one hand clutching his stomach, his eyes a little too obviously focused on the movie.

He seemed to relax though, as his abdomen went quiet. Maybe it was a false alarm. This was just his digestive system waking up again. He was about to ask if Geralt wanted his heating pad to ease the cramps, but right as he opened his mouth to speak Geralt’s stomach made its loudest noise yet.

Without saying anything, Geralt stood up from the armchair and hurried into the bathroom. Oh no. They’d cured one symptom just so he could fall victim to a new one.
***
Geralt practically ran to the bathroom, in too much of a hurry to make an effort to appear casual. He rushed to sit down on the toilet as another white hot cramp twisted up his insides.

He pulled his shirt off, suddenly overheating and claustrophobic from the fabric sticking to his skin. He tossed it aside and then clutched his bare, distended belly as he waited for his respite from these horrible cramps. The breaks between we’re getting shorter and shorter, and the cramps themselves were lasting longer.

He started to panic when nothing was happening. How long was he going to have to endure this awful pain? Several more agonizing minutes passed like this, gritting his teeth through the stronger and stronger cramps.

Then he felt something shift, and his stomach let out a loud, elongated gurgle. For a split second he felt relief. He could feel that things were finally going to start moving. The relief was abruptly replaced with panic though, when he realized that they were going to be moving from both ends.

He grabbed desperately for the trash can before remembering, horrified, that he’d forgotten to bring it back last night after he’d emptied it. Then he’d been about to puke too.

“Jaskier, I need the bucket,” he whimpered as loud as he possibly could, praying his husband was close enough to hear him. In the meantime he started to scan his surroundings for other possible options. He was about ready to see if he could somehow bend over the bathtub and sit on the toilet at the same time when Jaskier came, literally running, into the bathroom. And not a second too soon.

He pushed the bucket into his husband’s hands just in time for Geralt’s muscles which were tensed to relax, and his muscles which were relaxed to seize up, and let out a rush of liquid.

“Okay.” Jaskier sounded panicked. “You’re okay.”

But he wasn’t okay. The onslaught didn’t relent for what felt like an eternity, his body forcing everything out of his system in a violent, painful manner, until finally his muscles went slack.

Every bit of comfort he’d managed to get for himself with the weed had been wholly erased. The shivering had escalated to full body tremors, his teeth chattering even though his skin was warm and slick with sweat.

He’d been bent completely double, but when he felt the nausea recede, he forced himself to sit up and face Jaskier. Usually his husband did his best to give Geralt privacy in times like these, knowing how embarrassed he got. The fact that he’d stayed meant Geralt looked just as frighteningly sick as he felt.

“ ‘m sorry.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier stood in the tiny bathroom, shell shocked as he watched his husband be violently ill from both ends. What was going on? He and Ciri were over the bug completely, so why was Geralt still getting worse?

“ ‘m sorry,” he mumbled, clearly working hard to keep his eyes focused on Jaskier.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Jaskier assured him, sounding as casual as he could, not wanting Geralt to panic. “Can I rinse this out?” He motioned to the bucket Geralt was still gripping like a lifeline.

He released it to Jaskier, who wasted no time dumping the cheerios and bile down the bathtub drain and washing out the bucket. He had a feeling Geralt wasn’t finished with it quite yet. As he did this, he tried to figure out the best way to proceed. It was clear that none of their current tactics were working, and Jaskier couldn’t bear to see his partner so miserable.

Geralt continued to sit on the toilet, and he accepted the bucket without hesitating, curling an arm around it and holding it close to his tender belly.

“What’s your plan here, love?” Jaskier asked. Maybe, somehow, Geralt had a better idea for handling this than Jaskier could come up with.

“Sit here a while longer.”

Or maybe he was just upset and in pain, and scared the sickness was going to strike again at any moment. That’s okay. Jaskier could do the thinking for both of them.

“Do you think you might need to go to the doctor?” Jaskier asked. He wasn’t totally sure it had come to this, but if he suggested it early then he’d have more time for bargaining in case his condition continued to deteriorate, like Jaskier feared it would.

“Maybe we call Eskel.”

Jaskier was taken aback, and a shock of panic ran down his spine. Usually calling Eskel—Geralt’s brother, former EMT and current nursing student—was his bargaining chip for when Geralt refused to get actual medical attention. The fact that he was jumping to it so quickly, and without any pestering from Jaskier, was chilling indeed.

“That sounds like a really good idea.” Jaskier tried not to sound too eager.

“Can I finish up in here first?” Geralt asked sheepishly, his question punctuated by another loud gurgle from his belly.

“Of course,” Jaskier replied. “I should probably go make sure Ciri isn’t getting into anything she shouldn’t be. Just yell if you need anything. I’ll stay close.”

He watched a drop of sweat form on Geralt’s brow and roll down his pallid, green cheek into the puke bucket.

“Thank you.”
***

Geralt remained on the toilet a while longer. It seemed like the vomiting had ended, at least for the moment, but he continued to feel the painful stomach cramps. It was nearly twenty minutes before he decided this was all his body was going to offer for the moment. He didn’t dare dream that this was really the end of it, but he was still relieved when he was finally able to stand up and put himself back together.

He kept his shirt off, still too warm for his liking, and washed his face with cool water. Then he cupped his hand under the faucet and took a couple of long drinks. He was wary of putting anything in his stomach at this point, but his throat was painfully dry, and he hoped that water might dilute some of the stomach acid. He could feel the tissue at both ends of his digestive system had been burned, and he winced at the thought of more acid on either of them.

After he’d put down all the water he felt like he could handle, which admittedly wasn’t much, he ventured on weak and shaking legs out to the living room. He was dizzy from being upright, and didn’t hesitate to collapse back into the armchair, bucket still safely at his side.

“Are you feeling any better?” Jaskier returned to his spot on the arm of the chair, brushing away the sweaty strands of hair stuck to Geralt’s forehead.

“For the moment,” he replied noncommittally.

“You feel a bit warm,” Jaskier observed, holding the back of his hand up to Geralt’s forehead and both cheeks in turn.

“Don’t doubt it.” Geralt probably could have guessed he was running a fever. He was much warmer than he ought to be, and the telltale fever headache had settled behind his eyes. Compared to his other symptoms, these weren’t terribly unpleasant, but he didn’t like what they could mean.

“Are you ready to call Eskel?”

“Mhmm.” He hoped Jaskier would do most of the talking.

It was the middle of the afternoon, but thankfully they seemed to catch Eskel at a good time.

“What’s up, Jask?”

“Hey Eskel.” Jaskier put the phone on speaker. “ Geralt’s here too. We just had a few medical questions for you.”

“Shoot.”

“So Geralt isn’t feeling very well.” How many phone calls like this had they made to Eskel over the years? “We’d really like to avoid going to the hospital, but we’re kind of at a loss.”

“Aw, I’m sorry guys. What’s going on?”

“So we picked up a stomach bug somewhere. It hit all three of us yesterday, pretty standard just a few hours of being pukey and miserable,” Jaskier began. “And Ciri and I have recovered completely, but Geralt just can’t seem to shake it. He woke up ill yesterday morning and it’s still getting worse.”

“I’m sorry, kid,” Eskel commiserated. “That’s no fun.”

No fun indeed. He swallowed thickly as the phone call continued, wondering if he could handle hearing Jaskier recount any more of the last day’s events or if he’d need to step out again. To be safe, he grabbed the bucket and held it close.

Jaskier rubbed his back, and continued talking to Eskel. “No, it’s been absolutely miserable. But do you think we ought to take him in? I mean, Ciri and I recovered just fine with fluids and time. Should we just wait and see if Geralt’s will clear up on its own too?”

“Depends,” Eskel replied. “Is he having any other symptoms?”

Geralt went over his growing list of symptoms in his head, and then brought the bucket up so it was right under his chin.

“Just a second, Eskel.” Jaskier put the phone on mute. “Should I hang up and call back in a few minutes?”

Geralt shook his head. “Just a precaution.”

“Sorry, Eskel. What were you saying?”

“Other symptoms,” he prompted.

“Right, yes. Up until just a little while ago it was just the vomiting. He’s had a couple of decent respites, but for most of the past twenty-four hours he’s been puking about once an hour, sometimes more.”

“Any blood?” Eskel asked.

Jaskier looked down at Geralt, who shook his head, his face prickling with heat at the thought of all the times he’d thrown up since yesterday morning.

“No blood, but a while ago we decided to see if some weed wouldn’t help with the nausea like it has before. It did for a while, and Geralt was actually able to keep down a little food, but then he started getting really bad stomach cramps and diarrhea. He’s running a fever now too, which neither Ciri or I did at any point,” he finished.

“Gods, that sounds just really unpleasant,” Eskel commiserated.

It was. It was really fucking unpleasant and getting moreso by the second.

“Do you know how high the fever is?” he continued.

“We haven’t checked yet. We noticed it just before we called. I can go get the thermometer.”

Geralt’s face flushed, red and hot, and his mouth filled with saliva.

“Can you take Ciri out actually?” Geralt looked up at Jaskier, frantic as he realized that this was all happening much quicker than he’d assumed it would.

“Oh,” Jaskier looked unpleasantly surprised. “Of course.” He abandoned the phone and walked over to where Ciri sat playing on the floor with her animal figurines. “Let’s go to your room for a minute,” he suggested, scooping her up and walking briskly out of the living room.

Geralt leaned forward so he could sit with his elbows resting on his knees, holding the bucket right beneath his mouth. By the grace of some god, Jaskier and Ciri had made it to the bedroom and shut the door behind them by the time he let out the first, unholy retch. Good. She’d seen him puke too many times in the past day and a half. Eskel on the other hand was not so lucky.

In his rush to leave, Jaskier must have forgotten to put the call back on mute. Geralt didn’t realize his brother was still listening in until after the second heave, when he made a sympathetic noise.

Suddenly extremely self conscious, Geralt tried to relax his back and stomach muscles by will alone. All this achieved was a couple very tense and uncomfortable seconds before the loudest and most painful retch yet. It tore at his throat, and he coughed, fighting to open up his airway again.

He ended up swallowing more air than he was able to get into his lungs, and the next heave was preempted by a long belch, and punctuated with one final splash of bile and water into the bucket. It hadn’t even had the time to be warmed up to body temperature yet, but the slight coolness and the dilution wasn’t enough to spare his throat from another scorching. Before he could stop himself, he whimpered in pain, any dignity he might have had going into this phone call completely gone.

“You okay, Geralt?” Eskel asked. “You breathing?”

“Yeah,” Geralt panted. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, mate.”

Jaskier peeked his head out from the hallway then. “Can I come back in?”

Geralt beckoned him over with a weak wave, wanting him back next to him.

“Ciri is going to play the piano for a bit.”

Sure enough, Geralt could hear her quietly banging on the keys from Jaskier’s office. Once again Jaskier was showing himself to be the clever parent. This way they could hear her, and know if she was doing anything but play on Jaskier’s keyboard, but she wouldn’t be able to hear them if, gods forbid, Geralt started to puke again.

“I’ve got the thermometer as well.” He offered it to Geralt who, sullen and dejected, pressed the button and put it in his mouth.

“Can you check his pulse while you do that?”

“Yeah.”

Well, he could try. It took two attempts to get his vitals, because after only ten or fifteen seconds Geralt pulled the thermometer from his mouth and leaned over the bucket, forcing up another bit of bile, but mostly just gagging and retching.

He noted that in the future it would be best to avoid trying to stop the puking by force. It was clearly doing much more harm than good.

“Why don’t we let you take a minute?” Eskel suggested. “Let you catch your breath.”

“Hmm,” he replied, jaw set. “Please.”

Jaskier and Eskel chatted for a few minutes, discussing Ciri’s growth, and Eskel’s schooling. They waited until Geralt himself said he was ready before they tried the vitals again. Neither were good, but neither were cause for immediate concern.

“His heart rate is ninety-eight, and his temperature is.” Jaskier squinted at the little screen. “One-oh-one point three.”

“Not great,” Eskel said. “Like I always say, I don’t think it would hurt to take him to the hospital for a check in and maybe some fluids. But if you wanted to stay home, I think as long as you keep a close eye on him and try to stay hydrated he should get better on his own. He’s always been more sensitive to this sort of thing.”

“Is there anything we can do from home that might help?” Geralt spoke up, his voice hoarse and breaking.

“Well it was most likely the food that caused the extra gastrointestinal distress, not the weed, so if it helped with the nausea I’d say try that again,” he suggested. “But this time I’d stick to liquids. Something cold might help ease some of the inflammation, like an ice pack for your insides.”

Jaskier chuckled. “Do you want a blue slushee?”

“Ha, ask me after I’m high.” Absolutely nothing sounded good at the moment, but he could see how he might want something like that once the nausea wasn’t so severe.

“Electrolytes if you can, but anything is better than nothing.”

“Anything we should watch out for?” Jaskier asked.

“I’d say if anything gets worse at this point I’d consider going in and getting checked out,” he advised. “And if you see any blood, or experience any fainting or lightheadedness I would insist you go in and get checked out.”

“Sounds good, Eskel,” Jaskier replied. “Thank you again. You’re always such a help.”

“Happy to do what I can. Hope you feel better soon, Geralt. Just let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do.” His husband spoke for both of them. “And good luck on that exam. You’re going to do great.”

“Haha, thank you. Hopefully I’ll see you two soon.”

Chapter Text

“Do you think you want to try a few more hits on your pen?” Jaskier asked. “Only if you think it will help.”

“I think it will.” The continued puking seemed inevitable, if he could be a little less nauseous during the build up, he wouldn’t complain.

“I was thinking we might see if someone can watch Ciri for the afternoon.”

Geralt felt a little of the tension fall from his shoulders. “That would be good, I think.”

He loved his daughter, but he didn’t like her seeing him like this, and anyway, he was selfish. He wanted Jaskier’s attention all to himself, and with the day he was having he felt like he’d earned that.

“Who do you think could take her?”

“I’m not sure.” Jaskier’s eyebrows furrowed. “I’ll call around. Do you think you can manage on your own for a little bit while I find a sitter and get Ciri bathed and ready to go?”

“Think so. Just gonna have a smoke and try to relax.”

Jaskier leaned in and kissed him on the forehead. “That sounds like a good plan. If you need anything please let me know.”

“I will. Promise.”

Once Jaskier was out of the living room, Geralt pushed himself up from the armchair and, after waiting for the lightheadedness to pass, wandered out with his pen to the back porch. The house was too stuffy. He wanted air.

He noticed that, while the rug was still rolled up and propped against the siding, the mattress was gone. Jaskier must have done some cleaning while he’d been asleep this morning.

Geralt stayed outside for quite a while. There was a nice breeze, cooling the layer of sweat on his bare chest. His belly still grumbled and turned every once in a while, but the discomfort eased with each hit.

He didn’t go inside until he felt like his head had been stuffed with cotton, and he wasn’t quite so upset about his misery. Whether it actually solved anything or not, at least he didn’t feel quite so awful. Maybe he should just stay high until he got over this godsforsaken bug.

“Hey, I was just looking for you.” Jaskier appeared in the living room, Ciri freshly bathed and on his hip right as Geralt returned from the porch. “Feeling any better?”

It took some extra time for the words to process, and even more for his brain and his mouth to cooperate enough to reply, but when he did speak he truly meant what he said.

“Yes. Loads better.”

He still felt too warm, his body still ached from the abuse it had been enduring, and no weed in the world was strong enough to get rid of all of his nausea, but he did, undoubtedly, feel better than he had before.

He stumbled over to the arm chair. Now that he was upright he could feel that he was maybe a bit higher than he’d been intending to get, but he was so far past the point of caring by now. He sat down hard in the chair, misjudging the distance slightly, and looked up at his husband, who was obviously stifling a laugh.

“Are you stoned?” He chuckled.

“Mhmm.”

“Can you manage here for a few minutes on your own? Susan and Elaine said they could take Ciri. I’m just going to go drop her off.”

“I can.”

“Do you want me to pick you up anything while I’m out? Does anything sound good?”

“Hmm.” Geralt thought about what Eskel had said. “A slushee, if you would.”

“I’d be happy to.” Jaskier looked very relieved when Geralt requested something to drink. “I’ll be back in just a little bit. If you think of anything else, call me.”

Geralt didn’t think of anything though. He didn’t think of anything at all. His mind was blissfully blank. He turned on a movie and half paid attention, focusing on himself and his high more than anything. He really must be stoned. Nothing quite felt real. At least not until Jaskier returned.

It felt like only a few minutes had passed when Jaskier returned, having traded their daughter for a blue slushee from the convenience store down the road.

“Susan and Elaine told me to tell you to feel better soon.” Jaskier handed him the drink. “They said not to worry about training, and just to focus on getting better.”

Geralt was too high to focus on anything, but he felt nice knowing his coach and trainer had his back, and the slushee tasted unbelievably nice. It was like a balm for his aching throat, and it might just be because Eskel had put the idea in his head, but he swore he could feel it easing his inflamed digestive system.

“Not too quick,” Jaskier warned.

“Right, sorry.” He hadn’t realized his pace. “It just feels really nice.”

“No need to be sorry.” Jaskier stroked his face. It was probably meant to come off as just a comforting gesture, but Geralt was aware enough to notice how long he lingered with his hand on his forehead. “I just want you to feel better.”

“I want to lay with you.” Geralt had Jaskier all to himself, and he wanted to take advantage of that fact.

“Why don’t you come over to the couch then?” Jaskier suggested. “I’ll put on Lord of the Rings.”

Geralt pulled himself up, the room around him seeming to lag a few frames behind, and shuffled over to the couch, slushee in one hand and puke bucket in the other.

“Oh, baby, you look exhausted.”

Geralt flopped down on the couch and put his head in Jaskier’s lap, letting his partner softly run his fingers through his hair and across his scalp like he’d done the night before when he’d been crying. Had that just been last night? It felt like he’d been sick for ages.

“I am.”

Geralt set the bucket down right next to him and took another drink of the slushee while Jaskier started the movie.

He was too out of it to pay much attention, but the familiar music and images were calming enough to lull him into a state of half-consciousness. The only sensations he felt were the cool, sweet drink in his mouth and on his throat, and Jaskier’s hand on him, bringing comfort wherever it could. And the nausea of course. The nausea which never quite went away.

He felt a twinge of it then and he set down his cup. It passed though, so he took another cautious drink. He went on like this for a while, doing his best to track and manage the nausea as it came, hoping he might be able to balance it enough to keep drinking his drink. He should have known that he wasn’t aware enough to be taking such gambles.

The next twinge gave him pause. He felt the telltale tickle in the back of his throat, and he knew he’d just gone from feeling nauseous, to feeling pukey.

He set his cup on the coffee table, out of the way. It was clear he’d reached his limit, but Geralt didn’t necessarily think that meant he was about to be sick. He just thought he’d need to be careful. He’d thought there would be more buildup, but when the next twinge came it was all he could do to turn his head and hope the bucket was in the right spot.

Chapter Text

“Woah, fuck. Are you okay?” Jaskier was as startled as Geralt.

More of a shocked response than anything else, Geralt swallowed hard, mouth shut tight, and looked down at the single bright blue splatter in the bucket, just as surprised as Jaskier sounded.

“What’s going on, Geralt?”

“I don’t know,” he breathed. Before Jaskier could answer the nausea twisted in his gut again. This time what came up wasn’t just a splatter, it was a flood of blue. This hadn’t been just a bit of reflux, he was vomiting again, and so stoned that he’d barely registered it was happening until he could see his stomach contents with his own eyes.

“Alright, up.” Jaskier encouraged. “Why don’t you sit up?”

“No,” Geralt groaned, having another very unfortunate and very delayed revelation. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Okay.” Jaskier practically pushed him up off the couch, and Geralt clutched the bucket under his chin as his husband dragged him up onto his feet. He put one hand on each of Geralt’s shoulders and led him forward towards the bathroom.

Geralt was acutely aware now that they didn’t have any time to waste—that despite their best efforts he still might not make it in time—but it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other.

He retched into the bucket again, bringing up another flood of blue, but Jaskier continued to push him forward. Geralt was tripping over his own feet, trying to balance both walking and puking at the same time, all while the room spun dangerously around him.

“We’re nearly there, love,” Jaskier said, the panic in his voice obvious even to Geralt, who at present was very distracted. He had every right to be anxious though; he’d cleaned up more bodily fluids these past few days than anyone should have to.

All Geralt could get out in response was another groan, which was promptly echoed by his stomach, which grumbled angrily.

“Okay, you’re okay.” They were at the bathroom now, and Jaskier ushered him through the door. “In you get.”

Geralt set the puke bucket down long enough to drop his pants, grabbing it again before he’d even sat down on the toilet. Or, tried to sit down on the toilet, rather.

“Woah, there you go.” Jaskier had to put his hands back on Geralt’s shoulder to make sure he didn’t stumble. The room was spinning quicker now, turning the simple task of sitting down into a harrowing challenge. “You’re okay. You’re there.”

Was he? It was hard to tell. He felt a bit like he was going to slip to one side, fall off, and smack his head against the counter or the bathtub. Jaskier had to keep hands on him, both to remind him that he was upright and to keep him that way. Once it registered that he really was safely sitting on the toilet, the real torture began.

The earlier vomiting had just been a preamble. He’d been fighting it as hard as he could, trying to hold out until he was in the bathroom. Now that he was here all bets were off.

It was like someone had opened the floodgates within him. Vomit spewed from both his mouth and nose, with similar violence from the other end. Coughing, spluttering, and gagging, his body fought to empty itself by any and all means necessary.

While his nausea eased the more he brought up, the stomach cramps only seemed to get sharper. He was able to catch his breath then, the vomiting momentarily over, but he could tell the pain had far from ended. His stomach gurgled again and he clutched his belly.

He didn’t notice the tears until Jaskier wiped them from his cheeks. Even then he thought that, like everything else, they’d just been forced from his body with the violence of it all, but no he was crying.

“Hey, you’re okay baby. It’s alright.”

He was aware enough now to feel the emotions behind his tears, frustration, pain, and despair.

Jaskier grabbed a wad of toilet paper, wiping away the tears from his eyes, and then the vomit from his mouth and nose. Geralt’s stomach, twisted up with cramps, let out an unholy noise. Frustration, pain, despair, and acute, mortifying embarrassment.

“Oh, Geralt. You’re okay,” Jaskier cooed.

“Not okay,” he mumbled. “Feel sick.”

“I know, baby. I’m sorry. Just get it all out.”

He did as he was told.

For the next, tense, miserable minute or so, he wondered if it was over. He felt pretty well empty by now, but of course his body was set on proving him wrong. He brought up another cool, blue mouthful of vomit.

He felt like he might faint. The room hadn’t stopped spinning. If anything it was picking up speed. Another heave, another mouthful, another sympathetic sound from his very concerned husband.

“That’s it, love. Get it out.”

By the time he really had gotten it all out, he felt on the verge of either passing out, or starting to cry. To his great dismay, his body chose the latter.

“I’m done.” Geralt hiccuped. “I think.” His already sore throat was throbbing and tears stung his eyes and ran down his cheeks.

Jaskier took care of the full puke bucket, and Geralt got himself cleaned up enough to get up and wash his hands.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror and was genuinely startled by his own reflection. His hair hung lank around his shoulders, half tied back. And his skin was so pallid that his blue lips, and his red ringed eyes with dark purple circles underneath them looked almost cartoonishly exaggerated. He somehow looked fifteen years older and five years younger at the same time. It just made him cry harder.

No doubt still wary of Geralt falling and smacking his head on the counter, Jaskier led him out to the couch, bucket in hand, before asking him what was wrong.

“Hey.” He put a hand under Geralt’s chin and lifted gently so they were making eye contact. Geralt sniffled and tried to remain composed. He was still stoned though, and so terribly upset. “What’s going on, love?”

“It hurts,” he whimpered, both arms wrapped around his middle.

“If it’s hurting that much, then I think we need to go to the hospital.”

“No.” Geralt rushed to oppose him. “It’s not just that.”

“Well what is it?” He wiped away a tear with one thumb, his hand cupping Geralt’s cheek. Geralt leaned into his hand, letting his husband support his weight. “I want to help.”

“I just feel so stupid.” The last word broke into a sob, and he had to fight to retain enough control to continue. “I got high because I thought it would help.” He inhaled sharply a few times, his throat screaming. “But both times it just made everything worse.”

“Oh, love.” Jaskier sounded close to tears too as he supported Geralt while he found his voice again. “Take your time. I’m here, baby.”

“I felt better for a bit, but now I feel even worse and I’m so out of it, and I almost just fucking shit myself because I’m too high and too sick to even make it to the bathroom.”

“I’m so sorry you feel so sick,” Jaskier told him. “But you’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about. You are doing your best to take care of yourself, and I am more than happy to pick up the slack. That is what I’m here for and you’ve always done the same for me.”

Geralt sniffled and then blinked, sending two more fat tears down his face.

“But you’ve got to be kind to yourself. Otherwise this is all going to be way harder than it needs to be, and I think this is hard enough already.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed. “Okay.”

“I think it might be time to go to the hospital though, love.” He said it as gently as he could.

“I know,” Geralt admitted. “I’d like to sober up though.” He put as much conviction behind the words as he could conjure up. He was willing to admit he needed help, but he’d like to do it on his own terms. “I don’t want this happening at the hospital.”

“Okay,” Jaskier replied, cautious. “If that’s what you want, we can try and wait a little bit longer, but like Eskel said, anything happens and we go right in.”

“Alright.” It was the best deal he was going to get. “I’d like to try and sleep a bit.”

Rest wouldn’t come easy in the emergency department. He was exhausted and upset, and would like to be as awake and alert as he could be once he was in public. “I’d like to go lay in bed.”

“Okay, baby. We can go lay in bed.”

Good, Jaskier wasn’t so disgusted that he wouldn’t lay with him. He took it one step further even, kissing Geralt on the forehead. It would be sweet if not for the goal behind it.

“I’d like to take your temperature again before you take your nap though.”

Geralt wasn’t sure what this would accomplish. They’d take his temperature first thing when he went in, but if it made Jaskier feel better to do it now then he’d let him.

Hopefully it would be lower than before. Hopefully he’d start feeling better soon.

Chapter Text

Jaskier was concerned. He’d feel a lot better once Geralt got some medical attention, but he couldn’t blame him for wanting to sober up first. In his youth, Jaskier had once spent an evening sobering up in the A&E waiting room. It had been very unpleasant, and he hadn’t been dealing with the awful symptoms Geralt was experiencing. Jaskier would keep an eye on him while he rested, and then when he was ready, he’d get him to the hospital.

He couldn’t completely suppress his concern though, so he settled for getting another temperature from him. After he was asleep he might send a few texts to Eskel to see if his brother-in-law might be able to help put his mind at ease.

The thermometer beeped. One-oh-two point seven. Geralt didn’t even ask, shutting his eyes and rolling over so he was facedown on the bed with one hand pressing into his belly, face screwed up in pain even as he tried to relax.

Jaskier kept waiting for his face to go slack, for his breathing to even out, but it wasn’t happening.

Geralt rolled over onto one side then, bringing a knee up and still clutching his stomach, staying in this position for less than a minute before flipping over to the other side. He continued on like this for a while. There were a few false alarms where Jaskier thought he had finally managed to doze off, but each time, before he could be sure Geralt was unconscious, he shifted his position, the movements often punctuated by groans and whimpers of pain. Jaskier could hear in these small motions of emotion just how frustrated and upset Geralt was, and his heart ached for him. He wished he could help.

“Do you think the heating pad might help with the cramps?” Jaskier asked the next time Geralt flipped onto his back, one hand still resting possessively over his belly. He still didn’t have a shirt on and under his hand Jaskier could see how distended he’d become. It made him want to rush to the hospital all the more. But he’d promised Geralt rest first, and he wanted to do anything in his power to help him get it.

“Too hot,” Geralt replied, looking at him through hazy, half shut eyes.

“Do you want me to get a cool cloth then? Maybe some ice? How can I help you get some rest?” Because he had really earned some, and he looked beyond desperate for it.

“I think I strained the muscles in my back while I was puking,” he admitted, the words mumbled and running together. He moved his hand from his belly to his back, rolling over on his side to show Jaskier. “Hurts.”

“Where?” Jaskier asked, the back pain immediately sounding alarm bells.

“Right here in the like, lower middle.” Geralt reached back and motioned as best as he could. “Some ice could help, maybe.”

“I can go get your ice pack,” Jaskier offered, his brain already thinking of something else.

“Thanks,” Geralt sighed, rolling back over and curling up into the fetal position.

He texted Eskel as soon as he was safely out of the bedroom. You said to tell you if any new symptoms showed up. Geralt is complaining about some back pain. He says he thinks he strained the muscles throwing up, but I’m worried.

Jaskier wrapped up the ice pack in a towel and brought it back to the bedroom along with a cool cloth while he waited for Eskel to reply. If he didn’t reply by the time the ice melted Jaskier would call him.

Geralt was still in the fetal position when Jaskier returned. He moved to take the ice pack when Jaskier climbed into the bed, but Jaskier didn’t let him. He shouldn’t have to lay with one arm twisted behind his back just to keep the ice in place.

“I’ll hold it for you,” he offered. “You just lay however is most comfortable for you right now.”

He returned to the fetal position, scooting over so his head could lay in his husband’s lap.

“Is this good?” He held the ice up to where he remembered Geralt showing him the pain.

“Bit higher.” Jaskier adjusted accordingly, happy when he saw the muscles in Geralt’s back relax a bit. Then he wiped down first his face and neck, and then his chest with the cool cloth. Geralt gave him a contented noise. Thank the gods. Maybe they were finally getting somewhere.

Sure enough, after about ten minutes with the ice, Jaskier now using his free hand to rub soothing circles on Geralt’s upper back, his face went slack and he began to snore. Thank the fucking gods.

Jaskier’s phone buzzed only a couple of minutes later, and he snatched it up, worried it might wake Geralt and praying it wasn’t bad news. His stomach dropped when he saw the message, and for a moment he felt like he too was going to start throwing up again.

You need to take him to the hospital. Now.

No, not when he was finally resting. This wasn’t fair.

It might just be a strained muscle like he said, but pain in that area could also be his kidneys, and you don’t want to take any chances with that.

Okay. Jaskier replied with a shaking hand, still holding the ice in place with the other. Thank you.

Call an ambulance if you have to.

Okay.

“Love.” Jaskier had to fight to keep his voice even. “Love, it’s time to get up.”

“Huh?” Geralt ground, curling into an even tighter ball and hiding his face with one hand.

“I know. I’m sorry but it’s time to get up, love. We’ve got to go to the hospital now.”

“No,” Geralt weakly protested.

“It’s time to go to the hospital. Let me help you up.”

“But you said,” he mumbled, his voice laced thickly with pain. “You promised.”

“Eskel is concerned about your back pain,” Jaskier explained. “He says we shouldn’t wait.”

“ ‘m not sober.”

Geralt actually seemed more out of it now than when he’d been freshly stoned, although he’d had plenty of time for the weed to wear off. This incoherence probably had more to do with the illness by now than the drugs. Just another reason why they shouldn’t put off going to the hospital.

“Do you think you can get out to the car?”

“Yes.” He didn’t hesitate. He knew the alternative.

“I’ll get your stuff together, and grab you a fresh shirt. For now let’s just sit you up so hopefully you can wake up a bit before we have to go.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier wasn’t sure if he was agreeing or protesting, but he let Jaskier help him up into a sitting position, going white as a sheet in the process, and immediately hunching forward and clutching his belly. Jaskier set the bucket down in front of him, and then set about retrieving Geralt’s wallet and his shoes.

“I don’t feel well,” Geralt whimpered when Jaskier returned to the bedroom. His skin was only a few shades short of matching his hair, apart from two bright pink points high on his cheekbones.

This was all the preamble Jaskier got from him before he leaned over the bucket and brought up a weak splatter of pale blue bile.

Jaskier waited until he was certain Geralt had finished, and then another minute after before he carefully took the bucket out from beneath his head, still hanging forward.

“I’m just going to go rinse this out and then we can go.”

He expected Geralt to be in the same position when he returned to the bedroom, but instead he found his husband holding his head up with one hand, and gripping the edge of his nightstand with the other.

“Love?” Jaskier felt his own anxiety build. “Are you ready to go?”

“Don’t feel well,” Geralt repeated.

Jaskier rushed to return the bucket, but Geralt pushed it away.

“No,” he said. “Not that.”

Only then did Jaskier notice just how fast Geralt was breathing, his mouth open and short panting breaths coming out in rapid succession.

“Feel faint.”

Jaskier could have guessed that was what was going on, and he remembered what Eskel had said, even before he’d raised his concerns about Geralt’s kidneys. He went right up to the edge of the bed, standing so he’d be in between Geralt and the nightstand if he slipped from the edge of the mattress.

He pulled his phone out, trying to give it, and Geralt his full attention as he fumbled to dial the emergency number. Geralt’s eyelids were fluttering now, and it looked like he was fighting hard to keep his eyes from rolling up into the back of his head.

“Hello, yes. I need an ambulance for my husband.” He muted the phone while the person on the other end started asking him questions. “Here, lay down, love.” He helped Geralt slump over onto the pillow, the hand which had been holding fast to the nightstand now moving back to his belly.

“He woke up with a stomach bug more than thirty-six hours ago and it’s still getting worse.” He had to think hard to get the words out. “Um, he can’t keep down water and now he’s hardly conscious. He’s got a fever as well, and is complaining of horrible stomach and back pain.”

Geralt moaned, his chest seeming to cave in on itself as his breaths got shorter and shorter. Then for three horrifying seconds he didn’t breathe at all, and after that the rise and fall of his chest resumed at a slower and more even pace.

“He isn’t conscious anymore.” Jaskier could no longer keep the panic from his voice. He scrambled to grab Geralt’s wrist. “His heart is racing.”

The operator assured him that there was an ambulance driving to their house now. She stayed on the phone with him while they waited, talking him through the steps to get Geralt in the best position to keep his airways clear, even if he started vomiting while unconscious. She also prepped him for the kinds of things the EMTs would ask him when they arrived. He wished Eskel was still an EMT, and he could be here with them now instead of in his apartment across town studying.

More than anything, the operator kept him from panicking. She made no empty promises about whether or not Geralt was going to be okay, but she did assure him that the ambulance would be there very soon, and that Geralt would receive the best care that they could offer. This was the only reason why he wasn’t a crying mess when he heard the sirens approach from down the street and then come to a stop in front of their house. He would have to get up now.

He would have to force himself to step away.

Chapter Text

Jaskier’s own heart was beating out of his chest as he let the EMTs into his house and led them to the bedroom where Geralt still lay in a heap on the bed.

“He fainted about two minutes ago, but he was exhausted,” Jaskier explained as they wheeled in the gurney, hoping the extended unconsciousness wasn’t as scary as it looked.

One EMT started getting Geralt’s vitals then, while the other barked questions at Jaskier, which he answered to the best of his abilities. Luckily this portion of things didn’t last long, and Jaskier thanked the gods when they allowed him to ride in the back of the truck with Geralt. He’d started driving again a few years ago, but it still put him on edge when he was stressed or anxious, and Jaskier was already far too close to the edge.

“Lights and sirens,” the EMT in the back yelled up to the one driving. They pulled out as soon as they’d successfully gotten an IV placed in the crook of his elbow.

He didn’t stir when the needle pierced his skin, but when the sirens started wailing his eyelids slowly fluttered open.

“Huh?” he groaned, his eyes now flitting frantically around the back of the ambulance. “Jask?”

“I’m right here, love.” He wasn’t close enough to touch him, to put a hand on his shoulder and kiss him on the forehead, to comfort him like he so clearly needed to be comforted. Instead he did his best to speak up loud enough to be heard clearly over the sirens, and to keep from sounding panicked. The last thing Geralt needed to be doing right now was panicking.

“We’re going to the hospital.”

Geralt let his head loll to one side, and his eyes strained to find Jaskier’s.

“They’re going to get you feeling better.”

“I don’t feel good.”

Jaskier wasn’t sure if this was a response to his comment, or another warning, but if things were going to happen as quickly as they had been the past couple times, he didn’t want to take any chances.

“I think he’s going to be sick,” Jaskier told the EMT, figuring he wouldn’t be annoyed if Jaskier turned out to be wrong. He knew his husband well though. He wasn’t wrong.

The EMT stood and watched, ready to spring into action if need be. There was nothing anybody could do though, nothing but watch as Geralt’s body, exhausted and abused, forced him to empty his already empty stomach.

The retches and coughs were loud, and sounded painful. The whole thing was drawn out, hardly a mouthful coming up despite the insistent, rhythmic heaving. By the time it ended Geralt looked like he might faint again.

He laid back, panting and staring up at the ceiling.

“We’re almost there,” the EMT assured them, trading the used emesis bag for a clean one, even though this one was far from full and there was a good chance he’d vomit again before he was safely in his hospital room.

For a moment Jaskier felt a shock of panic, afraid they might still have to wait, but then he remembered that they were driving with lights and sirens on. No, of all the things Jaskier could worry about, the waiting room was not one of them.

Sure enough, when they arrived a minute or two later, there was someone ready and waiting to intercept Geralt and bring him into an exam room. They transferred him onto the bed, traded the emesis bag for a basin, and then retook his vitals.

“Is there anything you can do for the nausea?” Jaskier asked, not wanting to wait until they saw a doctor to get him on an antiemetic. “He’s been vomiting for almost two days now. He can’t go on like this.”

“I’ll let the doctor know,” the nurse told him, seemingly unconcerned. “She’ll be in soon.”

He had to remind himself that they’d gotten to skip the dreaded waiting room, but it was hard to feel thankful for anything while he was seeing his partner so miserable. He had the fluids at least.

That was a start.

***

The hospital room was spinning at an alarming rate. By the time he’d finally been able to fall asleep back at home Geralt had sobered up enough that he thought this part was over, but between the fainting and the ambulance ride it was back and worse than ever. It was hard to be aware of his surroundings under the circumstances, but he could sense enough to know he was in a hospital room, Jaskier was at his bedside, and most importantly of all, he had an emesis basin.

His head swam thick with nausea. Why couldn’t it let him rest? Couldn’t it see he had nothing left to give? Except maybe he did. He was vaguely aware of something coming out of his arm, although he had no recollection of anyone placing an IV. Just the thought of things being put into his body, stomach or otherwise, was enough to trigger his gag reflex.

Nothing came up this time. He felt insane doing it, but he couldn’t help but think longingly of before, when he’d been puking up copious amounts of cool blue vomit. He was sunk too deeply into his illness to wish for a time before the puking had begun. From his current vantage point, propped up on one elbow, gagging over a hospital emesis basin, it was hard to believe a time before the puking had ever existed.

Was it really just yesterday morning that Ciri had thrown up on him in the hallway? How had he fallen so far in such little time?

A bubble of air was forced up from his throat, tearing at the wrecked tissue as it went. He could hardly even muster up the energy to feel embarrassed about the noises he was making anymore, let alone try and stop them.

They came in the place of vomit now, causing more pain, and bringing no relief.

“Breathe, love.”

He was vaguely aware of Jaskier standing above him and holding his hair back. It was a comforting gesture, but ultimately useless.

“You’ve got to breathe, baby. Or you’re going to faint again.”

He had a fair point. His lips were tingling and the black around the edges of his vision encroached further with each violent contraction of his back and stomach muscles. Geralt sucked in a deep breath between heaves, and it did help. Either that, or his body had finally realized that he didn’t have the energy to participate in such athletic, excruciating puking.

“There you go. That’s it.”

The heaving devolved into coughing, which was followed by one final gag before he could finally flop back onto his pillow and try to catch his breath.

“How much longer?” He wasn’t even sure what he was asking about. He just knew he wanted all of it to end.

“Not long, love.”

Geralt wondered what Jaskier was referencing. How long until he felt better? How long until he stopped throwing up? How long until he could go home? None of those seemed like they would happen soon. Even the next step in feeling better, seeing the doctor, didn’t happen terribly quickly.

Admittedly, he had a very poor grasp of how quickly time was passing, but he had to endure another one of those horrible, useless dry heaving episodes, and a while more curled up in the fetal position failing at sleep before someone knocked on the door.

Finally.

Chapter Text

“Come in,” Jaskier called. Geralt tried to wake up and focus a bit more, wanting to make the most of his time with the doctor. It was difficult though. The brain fog was almost as thick as the nausea.

“Mr. Bellegarde.” A woman around Elaine’s age entered the room, his chart in hand. “It looks like you’re in here because you’re worried about some stomach pain, vomiting, and back pain, is that correct?”

“Yes.” The word was barely a croak.

“He and I and our daughter all caught a stomach bug yesterday. Ours both cleared up completely within twenty-four hours, but his is still getting worse,” Jaskier elaborated. “He can’t keep down water, he’s running a fever, and now he’s having some serious back pain.”

Like Jaskier, she had him show her where the back pain was, and then probed around his back for a minute, pressing her fingers in and asking about his pain. It wasn’t pleasant, but he knew this was far from the worst of what his exam had to offer. Geralt wondered how medicine had come so far, but they hadn’t found a less excruciating way to screen for bowel issues.

This doctor at least had the kindness to work up to it, to save it for last. She examined his eyes first, then had him open his mouth so she could look down his throat. He wondered what it must look like right now. It felt bright red, but he had drunk and then also thrown up a fair amount of blue dye. Maybe his throat was purple.

Then she felt his lymph nodes, sore and aching from the fever, and listened to his heart and lungs. She made a few remarks through those early portions, but they both knew this was where she was going to find things which were seriously wrong.

“I’m going to be as gentle as I can,” she told him. “You just let me know any time something I do makes any of your symptoms worse, okay?”

“Okay.” Geralt felt like puking again, but he gambled that it was his dread and anxiety about the imminent pain rather than a genuine need to vomit.

She started out just by listening, remarking that his bowel sounded plenty active, and they didn’t need to worry about anything like an obstruction.

She used her stethoscope, but she probably could have gotten by just fine without it. Geralt worried the people next door could hear the noises coming from his abdomen. Like a dog growling when someone got too close, even her gentle palpations caused it to make loud grumbling and groaning noises. He felt the contents of his belly moving, and his face twisted up in pain.

“Does that hurt?” The doctor asked.

“It’s a cramp.” He could barely get the words out. Thankfully she waited for it to pass before she continued on with the exam. She hadn't even finished yet when it happened again, his stomach growling and his belly cramping at just the slightest provocation. He swore he could feel things moving through his insides, no matter how impossible that seemed. It must have to do with the fluids they were pumping into him, because he could swear he could feel his stomach expanding too.

Or maybe he really did need to vomit again.

“Can we stop?” The nausea was thick in his voice.

“Of course.” The doctor stepped away, allowing Geralt to lean over the emesis basin. He supposed he was about to find out just how much the fluids in his IV were achieving.

Sure enough, after three painful, empty retches, he was able to force up a bitter mouthful of bile.

At least three more unproductive heaves came after before he was able to lay back, panting and shaking.

He braced himself for the exam to resume, but to his great relief, the doctor let him know that she had gotten enough information.

“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what’s happening, but I’d like to get an ultrasound before I settle on the best course of treatment,” she explained. “For now we’ll keep giving fluids, and I’d like to see if we can’t cool you down a bit as well.”

“Can you do anything for the nausea?” Jaskier asked, reading his mind.

“I’ve already started him on an antiemetic, but I think we could probably try something a bit stronger,” she agreed. “I’ll put the order in.”

He’d try anything to get this to stop.

***

They traded the doctor for his nurse then. She adjusted his IV, and Geralt wasn’t sure if it was just the new medicine, or his imagination, but it both looked and felt like they’d increased the volume and speed of what they were pumping through his veins. Then the nurse emptied and cleaned his emesis basin, and explained that the doctor wanted to try ice packs to reduce the fever.

Geralt agreed. He was still far too warm. But he was currently laying in the fetal position, curled around his stomach as it ached sharply under his ribs, and he had no intention of unfurling his body unless he absolutely had to. The nurse would have to just work in the ice packs around that.

Thankfully, she did just this, placing packs under each armpit, one at his groin, and then a final one on his neck. It felt lovely.

“Can I get some water?” he asked. His voice must sound dry and pitiful enough for her to agree—to ice chips at least.

“I’m sorry. The doctor wants to stick to rehydrating with the IV until she can check your kidneys. I’m sure she’ll include the reintroduction of oral hydration in her treatment plan though,” she said. “For now just try and relax and let the IV do its job.”

Geralt could barely follow her sentence. His head was spinning too fast, her words were too big and came too quickly, but he gathered enough to know he should feel disappointed. He wanted this awful taste out of his mouth.

Jaskier moved up close to the bed, taking Geralt’s hand.

“I just don’t understand what’s happening,” Geralt confessed in a whisper. “I don’t know why I’m not getting better.” The IV fluids must be helping, because he was able to produce tears. It wasn’t the sobbing from earlier, but considering how exhausted and in pain he was, the quiet tears were just as painful.

“That’s why we’re here, love,” Jaskier told him. “We’re going to figure out what’s going on, and we’re going to fix it. Just a little bit longer.”

“But you and Ciri got better on your own,” he said. “It’s not fair.” The tears were falling faster now, and every other breath was a sharp inhale.

“I know, baby.” Jaskier wiped the tears from Geralt’s cheek with his sleeve. “It isn’t fair, but we’re doing the right thing here. You’ll be home and feeling better soon.”

Geralt was glad when Jaskier’s phone rang. If he’d said anything else the crying would have just escalated. It was a welcome distraction.

Jaskier’s eyes darted down to his pocket, but then trained back on Geralt. Asking for permission.

“Go ahead.”

He pulled his phone from his pocket. “It’s mom.”

“Hmm, mine or yours?” Geralt asked.

“Yours.”

“Can you put it on speaker?”

Jaskier accepted the call. “Hey, you’re on with Jaskier and Geralt.”

“And you’re on with Elaine and Ciri,” she responded. “She is missing her dads.”

That did nothing to help with the tears, and Jaskier had to speak for the both of them while he collected himself.

“Hey, lovebug,” he cooed. “We miss you too. Are you having fun with Susan and Elaine?”

“Where’s Papa?” She asked. It was clear she too was crying.

Geralt’s heart ached for her. She was usually such a happy kid. These past few days had been rough on her.

“I’m right here, bug.” He had to work to get his voice loud enough. “I love you. I’ll be back soon.”

“I want to go home,” Ciri cried. “And you and Daddy.”

“Sh sh sh.”

Geralt could picture Elaine sitting there rocking her, just like when she’d watched her for the first time over a year ago, when she’d just been a tiny baby.

“Papa and Daddy are going to be back soon,” he assured her. “Elaine? I’m sorry, but is there any way you can take it off speaker for a minute?”

Chapter Text

He didn’t have to elaborate any further. She knew.

“Ciri, I’m going to talk to your dads for a minute. Do you want to go play with Susan?”

“Noooo, Daddy and Papa.”

“I know, and they’ll be right here. I’ll bring them right back after we’re done, but I need to talk with them for a minute.”

It took a bit more coaxing, but finally, with the help of a bribe in the form of ice cream, he and Jaskier were finally able to speak with her privately.

“How are you doing, Geralt?” She sounded much more somber than when Ciri had been present.

“Mmm.” All Geralt could muster in response was a groan.

“Oh, poor kiddo,” she commiserated. “Any idea how much longer it’ll last? Have you improved at all since this morning?”

If he’d had the energy he would have laughed.

“That’s what we need to talk about,” Jaskier said. “I should have let you know earlier, but things have been sort of hectic.”

“What’s going on?” There was real concern in her voice. If it were anyone other than the eternally level-headed Elaine, he would have called it fear.

“I’ve taken him to the hospital,” Jaskier admitted. “Or, well, I guess the ambulance took him to the hospital.”

“When did you decide he needed emergency care?” She asked, slipping into trainer mode.

“We called his brother earlier. He used to work in emergency medicine and now he’s a nursing school student. He said to take Geralt in if his symptoms got any worse. Then Geralt started complaining of back pain and Eskel said that we couldn’t waste any more time,” he explained. “Geralt fainted just before we were going to leave. That’s when I called the ambulance.”

“Oh no,” she breathed. “Is he injured? Did he fall?”

“He was in bed when it happened, thankfully. We’re in the emergency department now. The doctor is worried about his kidneys, and the severity of some of his other symptoms. They’ve got ice on him to try and bring down the fever while we wait to get an ultrasound.”

“Well I’m glad you’re safely at the hospital,” she said. “Do you have any idea what might be going on? Do you think it's still that same bug?”

“We’re really not sure.”

It was hard to imagine the same bug which had made his husband throw up only three times, and had been handled by a two year old with just some passing discomfort could make him so sick, but he couldn’t figure what else it could be.

“It sounds like you two might be stuck there for a while,” she replied. “Do you want Susan and I to keep Ciri for the night?”

“Thank you so much for the offer, but I’m afraid with all she’s been through these past few days, a night away from home might be pretty upsetting,” Jaskier said. “It sounds like she’s already upset.”

“It has been a rough afternoon,” Elaine confirmed. “It hasn’t been the entire time, but I agree; she does seem on edge.”

Poor baby.

“I should probably come and get her so we can get through her whole bedtime routine back at home. Hopefully then she won’t feel so dysregulated.”

Ciri was still too young for them to be able to tell whether or not she’d inherited Geralt’s autism, but times like these really made him wonder—especially when Jaskier used the same language and terms that he used for himself.

“I’ll be over to get her as soon as I can,” Jaskier continued.

“No rush. Susan and I can keep her for as long as you need.”

“I think I’d like to stay until the nurse comes in to check on him again,” Jaskier decided. “Then I’ll come pick her up. I don’t think it will be long.” He looked down at Geralt. “Does that sound good?”

“Sounds good,” he agreed.

“Oh, Geralt. I really hope you start feeling better soon.”

“Thanks Elaine.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Jaskier said before ending the call and directing all his focus back on Geralt. “I’ll get her home and put to bed. I can see if Eskel can come over and take the night shift so I can come back here,” he said. “Unless you’re discharged before then.”

Even he didn’t sound optimistic. They both knew he’d likely have to stay here well into the night, long past Ciri’s bedtime.

This was confirmed as soon as the nurse returned—the one who was supposed to assure them that Geralt was stable and give Jaskier the green light to go. He thought she’d just check his vitals, maybe adjust his IV, but when she came in it was with news from his doctor.

“So it looks like your vitals aren’t responding to the interventions quite as well as the doctor had hoped,” she told them. “And between this and the severity of some of your other symptoms, she’d like to get you admitted and into a private room.”

Translation: we don’t want the other patients in the emergency department to have to listen to you puke all night. Geralt didn’t care what the reason was though. If it meant he got a private room then he’d take it.

***

He’d stay with Geralt until he got settled in the new room, Jaskier told himself. Ciri might be upset, but she was safe with Susan and Elaine. He wanted to make sure Geralt was stable before he took a single step from his side, and right now he looked like even the relatively simple act of moving rooms might destabilize him completely.

“This will be good,” he told Geralt to try and assuage any anxiety he might be having about being admitted. “You’ll be able to rest easier.”

“Mhmm.”

“I won’t go until you’re settled.”

“Thank you.”

He sounded so exhausted and so forlorn that he nearly started crying himself. But that wouldn’t do. He’d need to keep himself together for Geralt’s sake, and for Ciri’s as well. Somebody in this family needed to remain composed.

“Mr. Bellegarde, are you ready to get into your new room?” The nurse asked.

“Mhmm.”

“I promise you’ll be a lot more comfortable in there,” she said.

Jaskier really hoped this was true.

Thankfully, he wouldn’t have to do much other than let himself be wheeled to wherever his new room was. Jaskier wasn’t sure how difficult it would be for him to walk at the moment, and he didn’t want to find out.

“Alright, let’s just get you into the chair.” This would be the hardest part.

Geralt’s face screwed up with pain, and even after he was safely sitting down he put his hand up to let the nurse know he needed a moment. He looked like he was considering fainting again, and the nurse handed him the emesis basin.

“Why don’t we bring this with us?” she said.

“Yes,” Geralt said through gritted teeth, still not relaxing and allowing her to move him.

“Are you ready, love?” Jaskier asked. He didn’t want to push him to do something he wasn’t ready for, but he also knew that he probably wouldn’t be able to relax again until he was in bed.

“I don’t feel good,” he said for what seemed like the thousandth time in the last two days. It got more heartbreaking every time.

“You’ll feel better once you’re in bed again.”

“No, I really don’t feel good,” he urged.

“Oh.” Jaskier shared a panicked look with the nurse. “Right, well I think we’d still better try and move then.”

“Yeah,” Geralt breathed. “You’re right.”

Jaskier nodded at the nurse then, and they set off.

Chapter Text

Geralt clutched his belly, head sunk into the emesis basin, and the nurse wasted no time getting him down the hall and into the elevator. Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do to get the elevator to go any faster.

Always prone to motion sickness, the elevator was no exception. Maybe it was just the strange lighting, but Jaskier swore Geralt’s whole face went green as soon as they started moving up.

“Just a few more seconds,” Jaskier said. Geralt panted into the basin, and his stomach emitted a long, twisting gurgle. “You’re okay, love.”

The elevator jerked a bit when it settled on the second floor, and Geralt groaned, clapping a hand over his mouth. He had the emesis basin right there, and there was nobody else in the elevator. If he was avoiding letting himself throw up, it must be for another reason.

“We’re right here down the hall,” the nurse reassured him. “You’ve got a nice corner room with a private bathroom,” she explained, the three of them walking down the hallway as fast as they dared. It was good to know they were all on the same page though.

“Here we are.”

Further proving they all knew what was about to happen, she didn’t even make any pretense of helping him into the bed, instead wheeling him straight to the bathroom.

“I can tend to him,” Jaskier offered while she made sure the IV stand wasn’t going to get tangled up in the transfer. Geralt got embarrassed enough having this happen in front of him, let alone a stranger.

“There’s a call button.” She pointed at the wall next to the toilet. “If you need anything, someone will be in right away.”

“Thank you.”

Geralt’s stomach growled again, and he groaned. The nurse took the hint, leaving them alone.

“I’ve got you,” Jaskier said, swooping in to help him make the transfer from wheelchair to toilet, somehow managing to shimmy his boxers down in the process. And not a moment too soon.

He groaned, keeping the emesis basin safely in his lap. Geralt hunched forward, finally letting his body do what it had wanted to ever since leaving the emergency department.

Jaskier tried to see the silver linings. He wasn’t dry heaving, so the fluids were doing something, and everything was safely contained, but it was difficult to find any other upsides. Impossible.

Geralt gagged on a slimy mouthful of bile, his body forcing its contents out violently. Jaskier stood directly in front of him, leaning forward just enough to pull Geralt’s hair from his face and rub his back, ready to put hands on his shoulders if he started to lose consciousness. Jaskier was glad Geralt was still letting him stay this close, despite the horrors his body was going through, but he had to admit that his current position was giving him a rather unpleasant bird’s eye view of those horrors, at least the ones happening up top.

It wasn’t upsetting because of the gross and visceral nature of this illness. Jaskier prided himself on being someone who wasn’t fazed by such things. In his youth he’d been the friend who took care of drunk and puking partygoers (when he wasn’t also drunk and puking), and Geralt had given him a fair bit of exposure therapy on this front as well.

And if that wasn’t enough, fatherhood had gotten rid of any remaining squeamishness. No, he wasn’t upset because it was gross. He was upset because Geralt was in obvious, terrible pain.

Looking down on him, Jaskier could see just how violently his muscles were convulsing, all the way from his neck to his thighs. He could also see just how much work Geralt was putting into bringing up such small amounts of bile. Vomiting usually provided at least a little relief, but this couldn’t be bringing him anything but more pain.

“It’ll be over soon,” Jaskier told him. It felt wrong to tell him he was okay. He was very clearly not okay.

“Uuunnhh,” Geralt offered in response, half moan, half heave. Nothing came up, but his mouth opened wide over the basin, and the tendons in his neck looked about ready to snap.

“You’re done, love,” Jaskier encouraged, willing these words to be true, although that hadn’t seemed to stop him before. “It’s all up. You can relax.”

“Oww.” His husband tilted his head up and looked Jaskier in the eyes. “It hurts,” he whimpered.

“It’s nearly over,” Jaskier lied. “I’ve got you. All you need to do is sit.”

Even just sitting though, without the added violence of puking, was torturous. The pain came in waves. Jaskier didn’t need Geralt to tell him this, it was obvious in the look on his face, the way he sat. And of course the noises which came from his belly. The cramps though, seemed to be just as hit or miss as the heaves had been, and even more painful.

Geralt let his head fall back after his body had been able to force out a little more. His eyes were half closed, and his head and neck were coated in sweat. “Mmm,” he groaned. “It hurts.” The words were hardly audible.

“Should I call the doctor?” Jaskier asked. It was clear her interventions weren’t working. The antiemetic had not kept him from vomiting, and if the ice packs had done anything, their work had been undone by this last athletic round of sickness. Heat radiated off of him like an open oven.

“No,” Geralt protested, steadfast as ever, as Jaskier’s brain came up with even more reasons why another medical professional should be present. “It’s nearly done.” He swallowed hard, his muscles twisting around another cramp. “I think.”

The doctor needed to change her strategies, Jaskier’s mind continued to race. He needed more than the antiemetic. He needed an antispasmodic. Fuck, he needed morphine. He couldn’t keep going like this, and Jaskier wasn’t sure how he was meant to leave now.

Geralt let his head fall forward again, hovering there for a moment with his mouth open before belching loudly, gagging, coughing, and bringing up another slosh of bile. Jaskier feared this meant they were just starting all over again, but Geralt had been right. It was done, for now.

“I’m going to call for a nurse,” Jaskier said as gently as he could. Geralt wouldn’t like it, but he was in horrible shape at the moment, and Jaskier didn’t trust himself to get him into the bed without putting him in danger, or at least causing unnecessary pain.

Geralt didn’t protest this time though. He too knew that he’d crossed the line into total convalescence, at least for the time being. Jaskier waited until he’d cleaned himself up a bit before he pressed the button, wanting him to be able to retain as much dignity as possible.

Jaskier pressed the button, and Geralt leaned forward to rest his head against Jaskier’s hip while they waited for the nurse to arrive.

It was a different nurse than the one who’d brought him to this new room, but she also seemed eager to help.

“I think I could use some help getting him back into bed,” Jaskier explained. “He’s in a lot of pain and he’s already fainted once today. I’m not sure how much he’ll be able to move on his own.” Geralt didn’t look up, keeping his eyes shut, his head held up by his husband. Jaskier wondered how much of this was from the pain and the exhaustion, and how much was from the shame.

“No problem,” the nurse assured them both.

To her credit, it really wasn’t. She made it look easy, getting Geralt’s boxers back up and switching him from sitting on the toilet to sitting in the wheelchair without so much as a groan.

Then it was just a matter of wheeling him back to the bed and getting him onto the mattress.

Jaskier stood back until Geralt was safely in his hospital bed, and then sat down in the chair next to him. He hadn’t intended to stay nearly this long, but he wasn’t about to leave now. Not until Geralt had seen the doctor again and Jaskier could advocate for some more hands-on care.

“I’m going to check in with the doctor and see what we can do to get you more comfortable.”

“The doctor will be in soon?” Jaskier asked.

“She’s just been paged.”

He let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“If you need anything, just press the call button.”

Yes, he knew the drill. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that again though.

Chapter Text

“Are you staying?” Geralt said once the two of them were alone again.

He looked so feeble, curled up in the fetal position in the middle of the mattress, soaked in sweat, shivering, and clutching his belly as tightly as ever. Jaskier wanted to tell him yes, to say that he’d be here at his side every second until he was discharged and they could go home, but that wasn’t how things were anymore. They had a child now, and she needed him too.

“I’ll stay until we can talk to the doctor.” Jaskier was happy to see Geralt relax when he said this. “Then I’ll go pick up Ciri and get her to bed.”

“Okay.” He let his eyes fall shut.

He probably wouldn’t have fallen asleep, still in far too much pain to rest, but even if he could’ve, the doctor didn’t give him time. She was in only minutes after he was transferred over to the bed, and to Jaskier’s great relief, she looked ready to help.

“Mr. Bellegarde.” She greeted him the same way she had before. “I’m sorry to hear you’re still so uncomfortable. I’d like to get you a bit more stable before we send you off for the ultrasound, okay?”

“Hmm.” Geralt was in no shape for conversation.

“He’s still having pretty severe symptoms,” Jaskier spoke up for him. “The vomiting hasn’t stopped and the stomach pain is just getting worse.”

The doctor nodded, as if she knew this. “I’d like to start him on an antispasmodic, and some painkillers. I also think it’s time for some more aggressive treatment for the fever. We can keep on with the ice if it helps him rest more comfortably, but I don’t think we can rely on that alone to get it lower.”

Jaskier wished he’d peeked when the nurse had taken his temperature the last time. He didn’t like the way the doctor was talking about it.

“Is there anything else you can do about the vomiting?” Jaskier asked once more. “He’s so exhausted, and it just makes everything else so much worse.”

“We’ve got him on a pretty strong antiemetic already,” the doctor said. “I don’t feel comfortable upping the dose until we have a better idea of what’s causing the gastrointestinal distress, but hopefully once the other symptoms are managed a bit better, it won’t be so severe.”

“Okay.” Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s hand. For his sake he hoped she was right, but considering the way things usually went, the vomiting would be the last symptom to leave him. “Thank you.”

Jaskier waited until the nurse came in and adjusted his meds, but he couldn’t stay to watch the morphine take effect. Not if he wanted Ciri to get home in time for bed.

“Do you think you’ll be able to get some rest while I’m gone?” He asked.

“Mhmm,” Geralt replied unconvincingly.

This was the best he was going to get, and the longer he waited the harder it would be. Anyway, the sooner he left, the sooner he’d be able to come back.

“Okay.” He kissed Geralt on his scorching forehead. “I love you,” he told him. “I’ll be back soon.”

***

“Daddy!” Ciri squealed as soon as Susan opened the front door, running up to him and letting him scoop her up.

“Hey, lovebug. I missed you! Did you have fun with Susan and Elaine?”

She nodded, smiling sheepishly and hiding her face in his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her and held her tight. He really had missed her horribly. He hated the position they were in.

Geralt will be home soon, he told himself. We’ll all be back at the house together soon.

“Thank you so much for babysitting so last minute,” Jaskier said, trying and failing to reach his wallet without moving Ciri. “I’m sorry. I meant to come here earlier but things at the hospital got delayed.”

“It’s our pleasure,” Susan assured him.

Elaine gave him a pointed look as he continued to fumble awkwardly for his pocket. “You don’t owe us anything. We’re happy to do it.”

“Are you sure?” He blushed.

“Positive,” Susan confirmed. “How is Geralt doing?”

Jaskier adjusted Ciri so she could rest her head on his shoulder.

“They’ve admitted him,” Jaskier explained. “So far they’re still just trying to get his symptoms under control before they can start doing tests to figure out what’s going on.”

“But they haven’t said what they thought is happening?” Elaine pressed.

“They aren’t letting him have anything orally because they’re worried about his kidneys, and they’re worried about his fever, but other than that we’re not sure,” he continued. “I think the current theory is still just the bug hitting him harder than the rest of us.”

“Some bug.”

Some bug indeed. Jaskier had all but forgotten he’d been sick at all. There had to be something else going on. The question was what.

“Are you going back to the hospital now?” Susan said.

“I’ve got to get this one to bed.” At the reference to bed time, Ciri lifted her head and looked at him. “Yes, you.” He kissed her cheek. “It’s bed time. Are you ready to go?”

“Do you think Geralt would mind if I paid him a visit before visiting hours are over?” Elaine spoke up.

It was as if a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders.

“That would be lovely.”
***
Geralt laid curled up on the bed, staring absentmindedly at the little plastic tube snaking into his vein, watching the fluids flowing into his body.

When he’d been in the hospital before, he’d always disliked IV’s, but he hardly even noticed this one. Perhaps it was because it had been placed when he was unconscious, or maybe it had just been placed more expertly than his others. He suspected though, that it had more to do with the other, much greater pains which were overshadowing it.

They were fading though, with each cc of whatever they were pumping into him. He tried to remember all the ingredients to the cocktail in his IV bag. Morphine, saline… There was something else the doctor had mentioned, at least one other thing, but he couldn’t get his brain to work hard enough to figure out the rest. In fact, it was getting foggier by the minute.

He didn’t feel terribly different than earlier when he’d been stoned. But this time, instead of erasing his nausea, the drugs were erasing his pain. He’d prefer if it would do both—the nausea was as present as ever—but he felt like he could bear it better than those horrible, excruciating cramps.

Anyway, weed as an antiemetic had yet to work for him today, and who knows, maybe it would work like the doctor said, and getting the fever and the pain under control would ease the sick feeling in his stomach as well.

He ought to sleep. His body was desperate for rest, and he worried if he didn’t get some soon his body would start demanding it, and he had no desire to faint again. But just like everything else today, things didn’t come easy.

Geralt was certainly tired enough, but he still couldn’t get comfortable. The morphine was working, and it felt like it was still kicking in, but his back was too sore to let him lay comfortably in one position for more than a few minutes.

He was about to press the call button and see if he couldn’t get another ice pack when he heard someone knock on his door.

“Come in,” he projected his voice as best as he could.

He expected it to be a nurse, or maybe the doctor, but when he turned his head, he was met with a lovely surprise.

“Mom,” he sighed, sinking back into his pillow and giving her a weak smile. “Hi.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, Geralt.” She took Jaskier’s place in the bedside chair. “Jaskier just came over and picked up Ciri. I thought I might come visit for a bit to keep you company until he gets back.”

“Ciri!” Geralt perked up instantly. “Is she alright? Is she upset? I mean, on the phone she.” He was aware he sounded completely stoned, but he was also aware that he had every right to be, and also Elaine wouldn’t care.

“She had a few rough patches this afternoon, but she’s doing just fine,” Elaine assured him. “She was very excited to see Jaskier. And I’m sure she’ll be really excited to see you.”

“I’m not sure when they’re going to let me out.” His excitement faded, and he curled in on himself a little bit more, his stomach twisting.

“They just want to make sure you’re getting the best care,” Elaine said. “And they’re going to figure out what’s going on so you never have to go through this again.”

“I don’t ever want to go through this again,” he agreed. “I can’t keep doing this.”

“Do you think it’s something else then?” She asked. “Other than just the bug?”

Geralt thought about that, and his brain started making connections. Slow, hazy connections, but connections nonetheless. He stared at a point on the wall just past Elaine’s shoulder, taking a few seconds to collect his thoughts before worrying about eye contact again. His stomach turned again, as if unable to handle Geralt even thinking too hard.

“Yes,” Geralt breathed, like the word itself was a sigh of relief. “You’re right. I do.” The elation was followed a half second later by despair, his reactions still lagging by a little bit.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” He shut his eyes, his eyebrows furrowing, trying to decide whether this would make him feel better or worse. Before he could choose, his body made the decision for him. “I’m sorry, I don’t feel well.” It was all he could think to say.

The puking didn’t seem quite immediate—at least not as immediate as some of the bouts he’d survived today—and he had time to prop himself up on one elbow and make sure the basin was positioned under his mouth.

He wanted to explain himself, or apologize, or tell Elaine she could leave. Something. But he’d lost the ability to speak. All he could do was sit there, burning up with both fever and embarrassment, waiting to be sick. He almost hoped she would step out, but when she stepped forward and offered to pull his hair back, the dominant emotion he felt was relief.

Expertly, she removed the knotted in hair tie, and collected all of his hair, loose, and tangled, and sweaty, into a new ponytail. And just in time.

He heaved loudly and brought up a mouthful of hot, bitter bile. His body had even worked through the blue dye by now. All he brought up was clear. He worried soon he’d start throwing up his stomach lining.

“That’s it.” Elaine rubbed his back. “Get it out.”

Another retch, another mouthful, another cough, another gag. It went on like this for half a minute or more before he could finally catch his breath.

“Can you hand me a tissue?” he asked, his lips slick with vomit and his nose running.

Elaine did as she was asked, calling in a nurse to make sure everything was in order and taken care of. She worked swiftly and efficiently, and in what felt like the blink of an eye he was back laying down in the fetal position on the bed.

But that wouldn’t do anymore either. He felt like he would never be able to get comfortable, not as long as this illness had a hold of him.

“What’s wrong?” Elaine asked, sitting down again so they could be closer to eye level. “How can I help?”

“It’s just the muscles in my back, I think.” He must have twisted something, or pulled it again when he’d been vomiting because the ache was deeper and more intense than ever.

“Here, sitting up a bit might help.”

“Mmkay.”

“We’ll give it a try. If it doesn’t help, then I can put it right back down.”

It did help. By the grace of all the gods, it helped. She sat the bed up so he was at about a forty-five degree angle. It took a lot of pressure off of his lower back. He felt like he could breathe without the pain radiating further.

“How’s that?”

“Good,” he breathed. Nearly perfect, or as close to perfect as he could hope for. “Actually.” He remembered then, what Jaskier had done for him earlier. “Would you be able to ask for an ice pack?”

“Of course.”

Just as efficient as before, in no time at all he had a nice big ice pack to tuck between his back and the bed. He let out a sigh of relief when his muscles relaxed and the pain started to numb.

“Thank you,” Geralt told her. Puking and ice packs, it was like the first time they’d met, five years ago.

“Anything else I can do to help?”

Geralt shook his head. “They won’t give me anything to drink.” That was what he wanted: something to rinse his mouth out, and cool his throat, and to maybe make throwing up a little less painful.

“It’s just a precaution,” Elaine told him. “I’m sure as soon as they know what’s going on, they’ll let you have something to drink.”

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Geralt said. His brain was foggy and his mouth was clumsy. “I don’t think they do either.”

“Well what makes you think there’s something going on?” She asked. “If you want to talk about it.”

He wasn’t puking anymore, and his curiosity was the only thing keeping him both lucid and away from panic. Elaine truly was an expert.

“I don’t know.” Geralt thought hard. “It’s never quite the same, but it’s like every time I get sick.” He shut his eyes and tried to gather his thoughts. “It’s always so much worse than it needs to be,” he says. “Or than it is for everyone else.”

“Is that any time you’re sick, or just when you’re throwing up?”

“I’m always throwing up,” he replied. “I’ve always had a sensitive stomach, especially whenever I’m sick.”

“Well if it’s something wrong with your stomach, they might be able to treat it, so you won’t have to be so miserable any time you get sick.”

“Yeah, maybe.” But somehow he found that hard to believe.

“For now you just need to rest,” Elaine said.

There was no rest though, not for him. The nurse came to retrieve him not five minutes later, letting him know that the doctor had decided he was ready for his ultrasound.

If someone had asked him, he would have said no. He wasn’t ready. He was too nauseous, too upset, in too much pain. It had to happen before he’d be allowed to go home though, so he didn’t ask for a bit more time to let the drugs kick in.

“Will you be here?” Geralt asked Elaine after they’d transferred him back into the wheelchair. “When I get back?”

He had no idea when Jaskier would return, and the thought of coming back here and finding his room empty was too much.

“I’ll be right here,” Elaine assured him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Chapter Text

Okay.”

Geralt allowed the nurse to wheel him to radiology and then transfer him onto the recliner where he’d stay until they finished the test.

The radiologist had him pull his shirt up, and then started spreading the cold jelly onto his abdomen. It was tender and distended, and even the slight pressure it took to apply the jelly made him wince.

The radiologist gave him an apologetic look, but there was nothing to be done. The recliner too was making him feel worse. It didn’t look much different to the way Elaine had set him up back in the room, but something about this posture was causing the pain in his stomach to spike. Instinctively he wanted to hold his belly, to do anything he could to manage the discomfort, but all he could do was lay there and wait for it to end.

Just as he’d feared, the ultrasound wand, roving lazily across his belly, was a veritable instrument of torture. He gritted his teeth. He thought watching the screen might help to distract him, but the shifting, amorphous blobs of his organs just made him feel motion sick. He focused on taking slow breaths through his nose, but even the slight pressure of his diaphragm against his stomach caused him pain.

“Do you want to take a break?” The tech asked when they noticed how distressed he was.

“No.” He replied through gritted teeth. “I just want it to be over.”

Apparently his doctor wanted them to be thorough though, because the tech took their time scanning his entire abdomen, examining his organs closely, hoping to find what could be causing such horrible symptoms.

He handled it as best as he could, but by the time they finished he was close to a meltdown. Honestly he was surprised it hadn’t happened earlier. He was so far past overstimulated, and he was plenty upset.

If he was sober, and more awake he thought he’d probably go the whole nine yards, sobbing, hyperventilating, stimming, but as it was he did start to cry when they wiped the jelly from his abdomen and got him back in the wheelchair.

Geralt would like to put his head in his hands, but he had to keep his eyes trained forward to stop from getting motion sick with the movement of the wheelchair. He had to fight to keep himself together to spare himself from more upset. This meant Elaine got to bear the brunt of everything when they got him back into his bed.

The hospital bed was still in the upright position he’d left it in, and as soon as he was back on the mattress he curled up on his side and buried his face in the pillow, as if he could collect himself before Elaine got concerned. As if that was possible.

“Hey, kiddo.” She scooted right up to the edge of the bed. “Did the ultrasound go okay?”

Geralt reluctantly unburied his head from the pillow. “It’s fine.” He went to rub the tears from his cheeks, but forgot about his IV and ended up tugging the tube, only causing him to get more upset. “Everything is fine.”

“It’s clearly not fine, Geralt. Will you tell me what’s going on? I want to help.”

He was grown. He shouldn’t need help. It was one thing to cry in front of his husband, but this? He should be better than this. But he wasn’t.

“I’m just so tired, and so out of it,” he said in between hiccuping breaths. “And it hurts.” His voice broke on the last word.

“I’m so sorry, Geralt. I’ll call in the nurse and see if we can’t get you some more morphine. I’m not sure how much they’ve got you on, but you shouldn’t still be in this much pain.”

It felt like he was going to be in pain like this forever. He stayed curled up on the bed, trying in vain to even out his breathing. He didn’t catch everything Elaine said to the nurse, too tired and out of it to follow a conversation he wasn’t a part of, but after she left Elaine said they were going to up his dose of morphine.

“We’ll get you feeling better.”

This just made him cry harder.

“What else can I do?” she asked. It was like he could feel his own pain mirrored back to him through the sympathy in her voice.

“I’m sorry.” His apology was punctuated by a choked sob. “You don’t have to be here for this. This isn’t your job.”

Elaine had to wait until Geralt had collected himself a little better before she responded.

“I’m not here because it’s my job,” she told him. “Do you think I go to the hospital any time one of my players gets sick on their own time and goes to A&E?”

He just sniffled and waited for her to keep going, unable to figure out how to respond to such kindness, overwhelmed by it and everything else.

“I’m here because you’re my kiddo, and I want you to be okay.”

“ ‘m twenty-eight,” he mumbled.

“I know you are, but to me you’re still that scared twenty-two year old who came into my office with heat exhaustion after his first training,” she said. “You let me take care of you then. Will you let me help you now?”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

“So I ask again: what can I do to help?”

“I just want to sleep,” he answered. “I’m exhausted, but I can’t relax. I’m so uncomfortable.”

“Is the ice still helping?”

“Yes.” Immensely.

“So we’ll keep that. I’ll see if I can get these lights a bit dimmer.” She definitely seemed to know her way around a hospital room. “And I’m sure the beeping of these monitors isn’t helping. Do you like white noise?”

“Mhmm.”

Her calm, matter of fact manner already had him calmer, although he’d yet to stop crying. Having the lights lower helped though, and so did the rain sounds Elaine had pulled up on her phone.

“How’s that?”

“Better.”

“Good.” She gave him a warm smile and then reached out to brush a tear, and then a sweaty strand of hair off his face.

He relaxed into the pillow, taking a long shaky breath in before letting out another sob, too tired to fight them.

“It’s okay,” Elaine reassured him. “I promise this isn’t going to last forever.”

She kept a hand on his cheek, cupping his face and gently rubbing her thumb across his cheekbone. He took another shaky breath.

“There you go. That’s it.”

Her hand moved to his shoulder then, running down his arm and releasing the tension. After she did the same on his back, keeping him grounded and relaxed.

“That’s better.”

The sobbing slowed to just a trickle of tears and his eyelids fluttered shut, too heavy to keep open any longer.

“There you go,” she repeated. “Get some rest, Geralt. You’ve earned it.”

“Hmm.”

“Everything is going to be okay.”

And that was the last thing he remembered, before drifting off into unconsciousness, tethered to reality by Elaine’s hand, and the knowledge that he would be well taken care of while he slept.

Chapter Text

Jaskier had a lovely evening with Ciri. It would have been perfect if not for the thought of his husband still miserable at the hospital. If not for the guilt he felt leaving him there. If not for Elaine there, he wasn’t sure what he’d have done.

As it was, he tried not to dwell too much, and instead tried to give Ciri all of the attention she’d been wanting from him all day. She asked after Geralt several times, wondering where he was. She wasn’t happy when he told her that Papa was at the doctor and he would be home soon, but she didn’t break down and cry. Even if she had, Jaskier couldn’t blame her. He wanted to break down and cry too.

He told himself that it would be okay, that he’d go right back to the hospital and see him, and if he wasn’t discharged before tomorrow, he’d take Ciri to visit in the afternoon. For now all he could do was take care of Ciri.

She was sleepy, and content to go through her normal bath and bedtime routine, and once she was in bed, Jaskier stayed and cuddled with her until he was certain she was fast asleep. Then he slipped out of the bed and dialed Eskel.

“Jaskier, I was meaning to call. How’s Geralt?”

“He’s still at the hospital,” Jaskier answered.

“Have they got him stable? I haven’t heard anything since I told you to go to A&E. Did you end up calling an ambulance?”

“We weren’t going to, but then Geralt fainted,” he confessed. “It was honestly terrifying. They’ve admitted him.”

“Oh, fuck,” Eskel said. “That’s no good at all.”

“No, it’s not,” Jaskier agreed. “That’s part of why I called. I’m at home with Ciri, but I was hoping to go back and visit Geralt again tonight. Is there any way you could come stay with Ciri?”

“Of course!” Eskel said. “No problem. Could you send me an update once you get to the hospital though? I’d like to know how he’s doing.”

“Yeah, definitely,” he agreed. “Ciri is in bed, so you can really just come over and study or watch TV or whatever.”

“I’ll do whatever you need me to.”

“Thank you so much, Eskel. You’re really a life saver.”

“When do you want me to head over?”

“Ciri is already asleep, so whenever you can. If you’ve still got stuff you need to do I can stay for a while longer.”

“Nah, I’ll be right there.”

***

True to his word, Eskel arrived at the house less than twenty minutes later, backpack in hand, but also with an overnight bag. Jaskier didn’t think he’d need to stay more than a few hours, but he was happy to have his options open.

Eskel dropped his stuff in the entryway, and before he knew what he was doing Jaskier threw his arms around him, holding him tight. Eskel reciprocated the gesture, gently rubbing Jaskier’s back.

“Hey, I know this looks scary, but he’s going to be okay,” Eskel reassured him.

“How do you know?” What if there was something seriously wrong? What if he’d had a terrifying illness just sitting in wait for an opportunity, like the stomach bug, to rear its ugly head?

“I know because he’s Geralt, and Geralt always pulls through.”

Eskel still held him tight. Jaskier wondered if he could feel him trembling. He’d started to cry, and he could tell this would turn into a full blown panic attack if he let it. Luckily he had Eskel.

“Hey.” He stepped back and put his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, holding him at an arm’s length. “Geralt is strong. This really sucks, Jaskier, it does, but you’ve done everything right. He’s at the hospital. He’s being seen to, and I’m sure he would love to see you.”

“Yeah.” Jaskier nodded and wiped the tears from his cheeks. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for,” Eskel replied. “Do you want me to call an Uber while you get ready to go?”

“That would be great.” Jask took a deep breath and finished collecting himself. “Thank you.”

Taking himself would be quicker, but both he and Eskel knew he was far too anxious to drive. At least this way he wouldn’t need to move Ciri’s car seat to Eskel’s car.

While they waited for the car to arrive, Jaskier washed his face, and changed into sweats and a sweatshirt. Taking notes from Eskel, he packed a small overnight bag with his phone charger, a toothbrush, and a few other things he always found himself wanting when he was in the hospital, like a hairbrush and some chapstick.

“Car’s here.” Eskel poked his head into the bedroom doorway. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah.” As ready as anyone could ever be to visit their spouse at the hospital. He was dreading it, but there was also nowhere he wanted to be more. “Thank you again. I’ll call you once I know when I’ll be home.”

“No rush. I’ll stay as long as you need,” Eskel said. “Go take care of our boy.”

***

Jaskier wasn’t sure what to expect when he got to the hospital. He feared the worst, and was pleasantly surprised to find Elaine still there. She sat in his chair next to the bed, a hand on Geralt’s arm while he slept.

“Knock, knock,” Jaskier whispered, entering the hospital room. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s been resting for a bit now,” Elaine replied. “Before that he was pretty upset, but I think it’s just been a long day. It looks like they’ve got his doses right though, since he was finally able to fall asleep.”

“That is such a relief to hear,” Jaskier sighed. “Thank you so much, Elaine. Again, for everything.”

“It’s no trouble. I just want you both to be alright.” She ceded her chair to him. “If you need anything, I’ll have my phone on me. If not, I’ll try to come back and check on him tomorrow.”

Jaskier noticed how everyone, or at least Eskel and Elaine (the two medical professionals) were certainly acting like he wasn’t going to be discharged soon. Elaine got the same treatment from Jaskier as Eskel had, and when Jaskier put his arms around her she responded with just as much care and tenderness.

“I just can’t stand seeing him in so much pain and not knowing what’s causing it,” he said. “I feel so useless.” It felt like he might start crying again, and that wouldn’t do.

“Oh, honey I know,” she comforted. “That feeling of helplessness is the hardest thing, but you are helping. Just having you here is helping him.”

“Thank you.” He pulled back and wiped a stray tear from his cheek.

“Of course.”

The last thing Jaskier expected to get when he married Geralt was a mother-in-law, but now he couldn’t imagine what he’d do without Elaine and Susan.

“We’ll be in touch. You take care of yourself, Jaskier.”

“I will.”

Geralt remained asleep for another half hour, during which Jaskier was able to calm down significantly, but when the nurse came in to check his vitals he stirred. It seemed for a minute like it might be a false alarm when he shut his eyes and buried his head in the pillow, but his attempt to fall asleep was in vain.

Only then did he notice Jaskier.

“Jask,” he rasped.

He sounded absolutely beat, and again Jaskier felt a shock of panic in his chest. He pushed it down though. He needed to be calm for Geralt.

“How’s Ciri?”

It was clear he was barely there, but still his first thought was his daughter.

“She’s doing fine, love. I put her to bed and cuddled her for a while. Eskel is at the house now.”

He relaxed at this news. “Good.”

“How are you feeling? I’m glad Elaine was here while I was gone.”

“Mmm.” He deliberated. “Not very good.”

“I’m so sorry, baby. What can I do?”

“Dunno.”

“Why don’t you try and sleep a bit more?” Jask suggested.

“Mhmm.” His eyes drifted shut. “Can you play some noise?

“Huh?”

Geralt’s eyebrows furrowed and his eyes opened just a crack.

“Mom played noise,” he mumbled. “Rain I think.”

“Ohh, white noise?”

“Yes,” Geralt sighed.

“Of course, love.” Jaskier just wished he could do more.

Chapter Text

They sat with the noise on for a while, Jaskier trying to answer work emails, which he’d been sorely neglecting for two days now, and Geralt did his best to doze. Jaskier couldn’t focus though, no matter how he tried, and Geralt couldn’t sleep.

“Think ‘m awake.”

Jaskier put his phone away and directed all of his attention back on his husband, fingers tapping and leg bouncing. He was more dysregulated than he’d thought. But that was not the concern at the moment.

“Just can’t sleep or do you not feel good?”

“Don’t feel good.”

“Do you think you should go sit in the bathroom then?”

“Not sure. Hard to tell with the morphine.” All of his words were slurring into each other. That would be the morphine. Jaskier wondered if they’d upped his dose again while he was gone, but asking that wouldn’t change anything. Getting Geralt into the bathroom before things got more dire might though.

“My stomach hurts.”

If Jaskier needed any confirmation this was it. He pressed the call button and handed Geralt the emesis basin.

“Okay, we’re gonna get you into the bathroom. Are you ready?”

Geralt pushed himself a bit more upright, looking a bit more lucid, but only marginally. The nurse arrived then, but Geralt didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t move until Jaskier put a hand on his shoulder. Even then, he just turned to look at him.

“Are you ready to move?”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier honestly wasn’t sure if that was a yes or a no, but he didn’t protest when the nurse came up to the bed and transferred him into the wheelchair.

“I can walk,” he mumbled almost too quiet to make out.

“Don’t worry about it, love. We’ve got you.”

He might be just stubborn enough to get himself there on his own two feet, but he could very well be too proud and end up flat on his face. And that was the last thing he needed today.

It was the same nurse from earlier, and the transfer was quick and painless. Well, as painless as something could be for Geralt right now.

As soon as the nurse left, he doubled over, basin between his knees in one hand, and the other hand on his belly.

“How are you doing, love?” Jaskier leaned against the counter next to him, and cupped Geralt’s cheek, his heart aching in sympathy. “You’re burning.”

“ ‘m cold.”

“You can get under the blankets once you’re finished here and back in the bed.”

“I don’t want to do this again. I can’t do it. It hurts.” He looked close to tears again which made Jaskier want to start sobbing.

“Maybe the morphine will help make it a little easier.”

“It won’t.” He was insistent. “It doesn’t.”

Jaskier’s heart was breaking—shattered—but he put on a brave face.

“I’m sorry, baby. How can I help?” Jaskier asked.

“Stay.”

He must be beyond miserable to not even pretend to be embarrassed. At least he wasn’t battling that anymore—he wasn’t going to get through this if he was worrying about anything other than himself and his body.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Jaskier resumed his position in front of Geralt, holding the bucket for him so Geralt could put both hands on his knees to keep himself upright. His belly grumbled angrily and Geralt groaned.

“It’s okay.” Jaskier rubbed his back with his free hand. “It’ll be over soon.” He prayed this was true.

“It hurts.”

“I know, baby. Just a little bit longer and then you can rest again.”

It took longer to start than Jaskier thought it would. Geralt did his best to manage the nausea and pain during the lead up, but by the time things actually got started Jaskier was almost glad. If this were normal, just a bout of vomiting and maybe some stomach cramps getting this over with would bring some relief. Here it only promised pain.

It started ugly, and only got uglier. Jaskier watched, helpless and horrified while Geralt’s body contorted itself, turned him inside out in its quest to stay empty. Or rather, to get empty again. When Jaskier had left Geralt’s body didn’t have anything left to give. Now it appeared to have plenty.

The first heave was horrendous. Jaskier held the basin in one hand and moved his other to Geralt’s forehead to take some of the strain off his neck. His muscles were corded, veins bright blue and straining against his skin. Geralt let Jaskier support his weight, his abs clenching.

“That’s it, love. Get it out. It’ll be over soon.”

From the look of it, he hadn’t had an episode like this since before Jaskier had left. Either that or they were pumping fluids into him at a truly incredible rate. More likely though, he’d been given a respite. Jaskier knew he should be happy—and he was euphoric that Geralt hadn’t gone through it again—but the timing made him feel like this was his fault somehow, that Elaine was better able to care for him than he was.

Maybe if she were here she would know some better way to help him through this, but all Jaskier could think of to do was stand there and hold him, and wait for it to finish.

“You’re doing such a good job, love. It’s nearly over.”

Geralt gagged then, but brought nothing up, and Jaskier thought it might be winding down, but immediately after he coughed and sent a spray of vomit into the basin.

“There you go, get it all out.” He was afraid Geralt might start choking. He was prepared to thump him on the back if it came to that. He was not, however, prepared for looking down into the basin and seeing a splatter of bright red appear with the next heave. After that, things devolved quickly.

Geralt’s head hung limp, Jaskier supporting all his weight as he retched one last time, bringing up a slimy mess of bile streaked with blood.

“Feel faint,” Geralt slurred, head still hanging over the basin.

“Can you look up at me?” Jaskier moved his hand from Geralt’s sweaty, boiling forehead, and put it under his chin, tilting it up so he could see Geralt’s face.

Even the flush from his cheeks was gone. The only parts not stark white were the purple, almost black rings under his eyes, and the mess of blood flowing from his nose. Good. At least he wasn’t bleeding internally.

“Here.” He didn’t have enough hands. “I’m just going to put this here.” He set the basin on the floor. “It’s still right there, but you just hold steady. Elbows on your knees. Good, just like that.” His brain scrambled trying to figure out how to manage this. Before he made any more moves though, he reached out, barely able to press the call button with the tip of his finger.

“I’m going to hold your nose, okay?” Since his surgery during their third year of university Geralt had started getting nosebleeds. Not often, but often enough for Jaskier to know how to handle them.

He continued to hold Geralt’s forehead, and with the other hand he pinched the bridge of Geralt’s nose as hard as he could without causing pain. Geralt seemed to hardly notice though, indifferent while he continued to retch and heave. Most of what was getting into the bucket now was just blood from his nose, but every two or three heaves he’d bring up another slimy, bloody mouthful.

Jaskier had no idea what was happening on the other end, but from what he could tell, nothing good. Judging by the way Geralt was holding his belly and moving his abdomen, he’d be writhing in pain if his position allowed.

The nurse arrived then, and Jaskier felt the sharp edge of his panic soften.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do,” Jaskier admitted.

“It’s alright.” She sounded cheery despite the circumstances, although the first thing she did was call another nurse. After that all her attention was on Geralt.

The vomiting appeared to be slowing at least, and the nurse was able to much more efficiently handle all of the concurrent symptoms than Jaskier was.

She helped him to juggle them until Geralt himself said that he’d like to go back to bed. His nose was still bleeding, although not as badly as before, and he looked nearer to fainting than ever.

“He gets nosebleeds,” Jaskier told the nurse. “He usually handles them fine but I’m worried he might faint again.”

“We’ll get him back into the bed,” the nurse told him. “Then we’ll get the doctor back in to take a look at him.”

“Yes,” Jaskier sighed. “Good.”

He feared that nothing was painless for Geralt anymore, but the transfer back to the bed went without major incident. It did start his nose bleeding again, back to an insistent flow rather than the trickle it had slowed to before.

Jaskier sat on the edge of the bed holding the wad of toilet paper to his nose, applying as much pressure as he dared. Geralt sat cross legged on the bed, eyes shut and trembling, leaning against Jaskier’s shoulder. He listened close to his breath, hoping it might clue him in to how conscious Geralt was without having to bother him. He hadn’t fainted, but Jaskier thought he might have fallen asleep. He opened his eyes when the doctor arrived though, and the two of them sat waiting patiently for news that certainly wouldn’t be good.

“So I’ve had a look at your ultrasound,” she said, chart in hand. “We found a shadow on your stomach.”

Jaskier’s blood ran cold. What did shadow mean? A tear? A tumor? Something worse?

“It could very well be nothing, but based on his symptoms we think it might be an ulcer,” she explained. “Our specialist will be here in the morning. Our plan up until now has been to keep him stable and comfortable overnight, but since our attempts to do that don’t seem to be working, I think we need to switch to a more aggressive approach.”

“I agree.” Yes. They needed to be doing something. He wasn’t going to stabilize until they knew what was going on and could start treatment.

“I want to order a complete blood count and a panel checking his kidney and liver function,” she began. “And it’s a bit more invasive, but with the bleeding I’d like to do an endoscopy. I know it was a nosebleed, but if it was masking any type of internal bleeding we want to catch that sooner rather than later.”

They should have been doing all of this sooner rather than later. He was annoyed that they’d waited this long to do anything other than the ultrasound. Jaskier had to remind himself that they’d been doing what they thought would be easiest on Geralt. They hadn’t known that none of their interventions would help.

“This way if it is an ulcer we’ll be able to see it and assess the severity, and once we’re finished with the endoscopy we should have the blood panel back. Then we’ll have a lot more information and hopefully things will start moving.”

“Thank you. That sounds good.”

“We’ll have someone in here in just a minute to get some blood. Then we’ll get him prepped for the procedure.”

“Okay.” Jaskier was a bit calmer now that they had a plan, but not much.

“What’s going on?” Geralt mumbled after the doctor left, looking up at Jaskier with hazy, unfocused eyes.

“They’re going to come in and get some blood.” Jaskier pulled the toilet paper off of his face and was pleased to see he’d stopped bleeding. He threw the tissue in the trash and then wiped the remaining blood from his mouth and chin. “After that they want to do an endoscopy to make sure you’re not bleeding.”

“I’m not bleeding,” Geralt confirmed, wiping his hand under his nose and showing Jaskier that it came back clean.

“Internally, love. They think you might have an ulcer. The endoscopy will let them look in your stomach and see.”

“How?” He looked very loopy, and equally confused.

“They’re gonna put you to sleep and look down your throat with a camera,” Jaskier explained.

“I get to sleep?”

He looked so hopeful Jaskier nearly burst into tears, happy or sad he didn’t know.

“Yes, they’re gonna give you some anesthesia.”

“Now?” He asked, that same childlike hope in his eyes.

“Soon,” Jaskier assured him. “They just want to come take some blood first.”

Chapter Text

The phlebotomist came in a couple minutes after the doctor left, and by the time she did Jaskier was already thinking forward to the endoscopy, wondering if he should leave once Geralt was taken for the procedure.

It was getting late. With the anesthesia he might be able to sleep all night, and Jaskier really ought to go and relieve Eskel and try to get a good night’s sleep in his own bed so he could come back first thing in the morning.

“Alright, sit back,” the tech instructed. “Are you ready?”

“Hmm.” Geralt held out his right arm, the one closer to her. Like Jaskier, he was probably thinking more about the procedure, not about what should be just a simple blood draw.

He barely winced when the needle sunk into the crook of his elbow, but after she filled the first vial he looked over to Jaskier, panic behind his tired, glassy eyes.

“I don’t feel good.”

“This’ll be over in just a second, love.” Jaskier grabbed the basin and set it in Geralt’s lap.

“All finished.” The phlebotomist pulled the needle out, expertly wrapped a bandage around his arm, and undid the elastic around his bicep. “We’ll have the results from these in the next few hours.”

Jaskier thanked her, but most of his attention was on Geralt, braced for whatever was going to happen next.

“I don’t feel good,” Geralt repeated, more urgently this time.

“Do you want to go and sit in the bathroom again?” Jaskier wasn’t sure he had it in him to move again, but what other option did they have?

“No, not that.” He noticed the basin then, and pushed it back toward Jaskier, who wasn’t sure if he should view this as a good thing or a bad thing. “Bit dizzy.”

“Do you feel like you’re going to faint again?”

His heart monitor started to beep faster. Geralt looked on the verge of passing out. He had that same look he’d had earlier when they’d still been at home, like if he didn’t hold onto something he was going to lose himself. Jaskier took his hand.

“Just breathe, love. It was probably just the blood draw. Just lay back and rest.” He would really like for him to avoid fainting, but if his body needed rest then this probably wasn’t the worst thing. Maybe he’d finally sleep.

“This feels wrong.” Geralt was more insistent than he’d been in hours, and his panic was sharper. “Something is wrong.”

Jaskier pressed the call button, not letting go of his husband’s hand. “Someone is coming to help. Just lay back.”

Geralt had pushed himself upright when Jaskier thought he might start puking, but now he guided him back onto the mattress. He really did look on the verge of fainting, and Jaskier wanted him laying down when it happened. He wanted them both to be prepared.

He had no idea what they should be preparing for.

The monitors started blaring a half second before it began. Geralt’s eyes were shut, and for that half second Jaskier was confused. Was this how the monitors reacted to a faint? His brain barely had time to register the question before Geralt started to thrash.

Jaskier pressed the call button again, calling out as he did it. “Help! Please, help!” His own heart was ready to beat out of his chest, and he watched the horror unfolding on the bed, unable to do anything about it.

Geralt’s eyes were half open again, rolled all the way back until only the whites showed, and his neck strained, alternating between shoving his head back into the pillow and going slack.

Jaskier worried he was going to rip out his IV with the way his arms were moving, his legs doing the same. Possibly the most unsettling thing of all was his mouth, pink foam spilling out past his slack jaw, threatening to choke him.

Jaskier didn’t realize help had arrived until he was being pushed back from the bedside. The first thing the nurse did was roll Geralt onto his side, and not a moment too soon. With the next thrash came a rush of bile from his mouth, streaked with blood and foam. It was accompanied, not by the usual retching sounds Jaskier had grown so accustomed to, but these horrible wet gasps alternating with an almost croaking sound.

Halfway through the next heave Geralt’s jaw clamped shut, the vomit being forced through the gaps between his teeth and then a second later out his nose, which began to bleed again as soon as the vomit passed through. Jaskier clamped a hand over his mouth, horrified.

The nurse who was holding Geralt on his side turned to her counterpart who had been fumbling with the IV port.

“Do it now! He’s going to start aspirating,” she barked, calm but urgent.

“I can’t get it. He’s moving too much and there’s air in the line.” She sounded noticeably less calm.

As if on cue, Geralt’s IV ripped from his arm, blood welling in the crook of his elbow.

“Take him. I’ll do it.”

“I can’t hold him,” she protested as the first nurse took her and forcibly switched their positions. “He’s too big. I’m not strong enough.”

“You’re going to have to be.”

The entire exchange took only a few seconds, but it felt like hours knowing that at any moment the vomit might enter Geralt’s lungs and start suffocating him.

“You’ve got to hold him steady!”

“I’m trying!” the second nurse cried. “He’s strong.”

The first nurse wasn’t listening anymore though. She’d caught hold of Geralt’s arm, tucked it between her own elbow and her side, and sunk the needle into the vein in his wrist.

“Got it.”

It was as if a switch had flipped. Geralt’s mouth fell open again, releasing one last mouthful of bile to soak into the sheets and drip onto the floor before he fell completely, unnaturally still. The only signs that he was still alive were the beeping monitors and the blood pulsing from his nose.

Elaine was right. The helplessness was the hardest part. It was all encompassing. Gut wrenching. Heart breaking. And paralyzing.

Jaskier stood, shell shocked, unable to remove his hand from his mouth, watching while the nurses cleaned him up. He didn’t move until the doctor came in the room, and even then only enough to turn and face her, and acknowledge it when she told him they were moving Geralt up to the ICU.

Geralt was gone by the time she left the room. Jaskier hadn’t even seen them take him. It was all he could do not to burst into tears.

Instead he stumbled out to the elevator and took it up to the intensive care unit. When he arrived he stood and stared at the sign for a full minute, wondering how he would find Geralt before he remembered the nurse’s station existed.

“Hi, um, my husband.” He realized as soon as he started speaking that he was in no shape to be trying to communicate. “I’m sorry. They said he would be here. I don’t know—“

“What’s your husband’s name?” The nurse cut in before Jaskier could spend another minute rambling senselessly.

“Geralt,” he replied. “Geralt Bellegarde.”

“Okay, Bellegarde.” She squinted at the computer in front of her. “He isn’t in my system, but if he’s just being brought up here they might not have inputted him yet. Let me go see.”

She left Jaskier there at the station and he stood and waited, shaking and staring glassy eyed at the picture of someone’s dog hung up behind the desk until she returned.

“Mr. Bellegarde?”

Jaskier snapped back to attention. “Yes.”

She gave him a warm smile. “Your husband is just down the hall. He’s in the last room on the right.”

She pointed him in the right direction and she thanked him before walking as fast as he dared down the hallway, desperate to be there, and terrified of what he might find when he arrived.

He felt equal parts fear and relief when he saw Geralt laying perfectly still on the bed. The scales tipped to fear when he noticed the oxygen cannula snaking its way under Geralt’s nose. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the doctor spoke behind him. He hadn’t even noticed she’d entered.

“He’s resting comfortably.”

He wasn’t resting. He was out cold. How could she possibly know if he was comfortable or not?

“His lungs.” Jaskier scrambled to gather his thoughts. “Is he not breathing on his own anymore?”

“His respiration is a little labored still,” she began. “But I’m not concerned about his lung function.”

“But the oxygen,” Jaskier stammered.

“He lost oxygen for over a minute during his seizure.” She broke the news gently, but it still felt like a punch to the gut.

“The likelihood of brain damage is very low, but we wanted to put him on some supplemental oxygen to be safe, and to just make sure his body isn’t working harder than it needs to.”

“Have you sedated him?” Jaskier asked, not sure which answer he wanted to hear.

The doctor shook her head. “He hasn’t regained consciousness since the seizure,” she told him. “His vitals are stable though. We think the best thing to do is let him rest.”

“What next then? More tests?”

“Our plan is to let him rest until we get the blood panel back, and then re-evaluate from the information we get there.”

“Okay.” Jaskier was shaking like he’d been dunked in ice cold water. “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier collapsed into the chair at the bedside as soon as the doctor left. It was nicer than the one in the other ward, plush and big enough to pull his legs up onto. He curled up with his head resting on the armrest, and reached out to rest his hand on Geralt’s. It was ice cold.

They’d placed another IV in the opposite arm, and the fluid running through it looked different than before. He’d also been put into a fresh gown, and there were wires snaking out from underneath it.

Jaskier wanted to stay like this and hold his hand until he woke up, but that was probably going to be quite a while from now, and there were things Jaskier needed to do.

Still holding his husband’s hand, he pulled out his phone. He needed to call Eskel and let him know he wouldn’t be coming home tonight. No way was he leaving Geralt’s side.

When he opened his phone his screen was crowded with message notifications from Eskel.

“Ciri woke up crying and asking for you. I just got her back to bed.”

That one was from over an hour ago. More recently there were: “how’s Geralt doing?” and, “let me know what your plan is. I’ll probably still be up for a few more hours.”

That last one was only twenty minutes ago. Instead of replying to any of them he dialed him. He needed to talk to another conscious human or he might break down completely.

“Hey, Jaskier. I was hoping I’d hear from you. How is everything at the hospital?”

Where did he begin?

“You’re able to stay with Ciri overnight, right?” It probably wasn’t the most polite way to start the call, but it was the first thought he was able to put into words.

“Yeah, of course I can. Are you going to stay the whole night at the hospital?”

“I think so, yeah.” Jaskier would have to break the news sooner or later. He would have to find the words. “Geralt had a seizure,” he said, his voice growing tight around the last word. “He’s been transferred to the ICU. He still hasn’t regained consciousness.”

“Dear gods,” Eskel replied. “He really doesn’t do things halfway.”

In shock, and taken aback by the humor, Jaskier let out a humorless bark of a laugh, which morphed into a sob about halfway through. Geralt didn’t stir.

“What kind of seizure was it?” Eskel asked, sounding both concerned and curious. “Were you with him when it happened?”

“The only time I left his side was when they brought him up to the ICU. I don’t know what kind it was. The doctor didn’t say.”

“Would you mind describing it? If it’s too much you don’t have to.”

“No.” Maybe getting the words out would help him process what he’d seen. “He was thrashing.” Jaskier swallowed past the lump in his throat. “And foaming at the mouth. He started vomiting and then the nurse shot something into his wrist and his whole body went limp.” He was picking up speed now, the words stumbling over each other in their rush to get out of his head. “He’s still just laying like that. They’ve got him hooked up to all these monitors and he’s got a cannula now and a new IV because he ripped the other one out. The doctor said he lost oxygen for over a minute and now he’s so still, and she said that the possibility of brain damage is low but not—“

“Jaskier,” Eskel cut in before he got too overwhelmed with everything and just started to sob. “I am so sorry you had to see that, Jaskier.” He was using his bedside manner voice. “That sounds really scary, and super upsetting to watch happen to anybody—especially someone you love so much. But tonic clonic seizures, like the one it sounds like Geralt had, are a lot of times way less scary than they seem,” he explained. “They can be caused by a lot of different things. I don’t think you should worry before you’ve got more information as to what caused it.”

“But what about his oxygen?” He asked. “He almost aspirated. His jaw was locked and he was throwing up. The one nurse was yelling at the other nurse, and it just seemed to go on for ages.”

“Just like the seizure, oxygen deprivation is one of those things that is really scary, but a lot of times doesn’t have any lasting effects. The body can go without oxygen for up to six minutes sometimes without lasting damage. And you’ve got to remember that before any of this happened, Geralt was in incredible shape,” he pointed out. “His heart and his lungs are a lot stronger than a normal person’s.”

“I just can’t help but worry.”

He wished he could have Eskel here with him. He hadn’t felt this lonely since right after they’d adopted Ciri when he and Geralt had been switching off between staying at home to work and prep the apartment for the new baby, and staying with her in the NICU several hours away. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if Geralt was in the hospital for more than a night or two.

“I know, kid. And I’m not going to lie to you, this is really fucking scary, but worrying before we know what’s going on isn’t going to help anything. The best way we can help him is take care of ourselves and Ciri until there’s something we can do.”

He liked how Eskel said ‘we’ as if Jaskier wasn’t the only one failing to pieces.

“Okay,” Jaskier agreed. “I’ll do my best.”

“And I can watch Ciri all day tomorrow. I’ve got my exam the next day and then classes, but I can miss one or two if necessary.”

“Thank you so much. I can make sure you don’t miss any classes. You’ve already gone out of your way enough.”

“That’s what family’s for. Is there anything else I can do to make this easier on you?”

“Can you call Vesemir? I don’t know if I have it in me to explain everything from the beginning.” Vesemir should know, but Jaskier didn’t think he could be the one to break this news to him.

“I let him know when you took him to A&E, but I’ll make sure he’s up to date.”

Jaskier thanked him profusely, promising he’d be back in the morning to get Ciri through her morning routine at least, and then pulled up the other person who needed to be updated.

Geralt had a seizure. He’s still unconscious and they’ve transferred him to intensive care. Still waiting on test results.

Not fifteen seconds had passed when his phone started to ring.

“Elaine. I would have called but I didn’t know if you’d already gone to bed. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I was staying up to see if there were any updates.”

“I wish I had a better one for you.”

“So they’ve put him in the ICU?” she asked.

“Yeah, they transferred him right after the seizure.”

“Do you know what kind of seizure it was?”

“Gods, Eskel said it. What was it?” He had to think about it for a second. “Tonic, something.”

“Tonic clonic?” Of course she knew what it was.

“Yeah, the shaking one,” Jaskier confirmed. “The doctor said he lost oxygen for over a minute during the seizure. He’s on oxygen now, but the doctor says she isn’t worried about brain damage. He’s still unconscious though.”

“Poor kiddo is just exhausted,” Elaine commiserated. “And they haven’t said anything about a treatment plan?”

Jaskier shook his head and then realized she couldn’t see him. He too was exhausted.

“The plan before was to take blood and then do an endoscopy. They took the blood, but that’s when he had the seizure.”

“During the blood draw?” She at least sounded calm, which helped keep Jaskier calm as well.

“I think he could tell something was going to happen during,” Jaskier thought back. “But it didn’t happen until a minute or so after. He was so scared, and he hasn’t woken up yet, and I’m just so worried.”

“I’m so sorry Jaskier. This is a lot to bear.”

“It’s okay,” he said unconvincingly. “We’re alright. We’re just waiting on his blood test results. Then we’re supposed to finally have a treatment plan.”

“Hopefully the blood test will tell the doctors what they need to know,” she said. “Are you staying there with him tonight?”

“Yeah. Geralt’s brother is staying over at the house with Ciri.”

“I can come back to the hospital as soon as visiting hours start tomorrow morning to check on you two.”

“That would be great, Elaine. Thank you.”

“Of course, Jaskier. You take care of yourself tonight, okay?”

“I’ll do my best.” That was the most he could promise.

“Alright. I’ll see you two in the morning.”

He got a text from Vesemir only a few minutes after he hung up with Elaine.

“Eskel filled me in on what’s going on. If there’s anything I can do to help please let me know. Love you kiddo.”

“Right now we’re just waiting on test results. Thanks Vesemir. Love you <3”

And then Jaskier was alone, holding his husband's hand, and willing the test results to come back faster. Before anything else happened.

Chapter Text

Geralt was floating in that place halfway between wakefulness and sleep, considering rolling over and going back to sleep while also anticipating the chime of his alarm at any moment.

He felt like he’d been hit by a truck. There must have been a rugby game yesterday. He couldn’t think of any other reason he’d feel so beat up. Must have been a rough game.

He felt a spark of panic then, waking him up a little further. He couldn’t remember who had won. He couldn’t remember any of the game, now that he tried to. Had he gotten a concussion? Something was wrong. The more he woke, the greater this feeling became.

When he tried to roll over and shake his husband awake, he found his body frighteningly unwilling to follow orders. Only then did he open his eyes, and when he did he was met with dizzying confusion. This wasn’t his bedroom. This wasn’t his house. His heart started to race, mirrored by a frantic beeping somewhere to his left.

With some effort and quite a bit of pain, he was able to turn his head to the side, his neck cracking in several places as he did.

The panic eased a bit when he found Jaskier there, curled up and sleeping in an armchair with his hand on the bed next to Geralt’s own.

They were in a hospital room—that much he was able to put together—but he couldn’t figure out why. His brain kept going back to the obvious answer, a rugby game gone wrong, but some part of that theory just didn’t compute.

He was sick.

Yes. He’d gotten sick. He could remember now, Ciri throwing up on him, Jaskier getting sick at the concert, and him getting sick over and over and over again, unrelentingly, until he’d come here. Hazy memories were starting to appear now, of an ambulance and sirens.

He must have fallen asleep after they’d brought him to A&E. This didn’t look like an A&E though, and between him and Jaskier the gods knew he’d seen plenty of A&Es. Had they admitted him?

Geralt pressed his eyes shut. All of this thinking was hurting his head. Instead of trying to push it, he let himself relax into the pillow and clear his mind. He might have laid like this for two minutes or two hours, he couldn’t tell, but when he tried to think back again more memories were available to him. He did his best to arrange them all in the right order.

He had fallen asleep. Yes. Elaine had come to see him. He’d gotten an ultrasound, and then he’d been crying, and Elaine had gotten him to sleep. Jaskier must have come to take her place while he’d been sleeping.

Except that wasn’t right either. There hadn’t been a window in the room he’d been in with Elaine, and this one had a large one on the far wall, showing a view of the sleeping city. He was still missing things. Geralt was certain of this, but he couldn’t work out what parts he wasn’t remembering, or where they fit into this terrible story.

The harder he tried to find these missing parts the worse he felt. His head was spinning now, and he was certain if he kept pressing it he was going to be sick again.

“Jaskier.” His first attempt produced no sound. “Jaskier.” His throat protested sharply, but this time it was loud enough to get his husband to stir.

“Love?” Jaskier sat up, leaning in closer so Geralt wouldn’t have to work so hard to be heard. “Are you okay? What can I do?”

“I can’t remember what happened.” Quiet as it was, his voice was still clearly laced with panic.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Jaskier took his hand, and it felt so warm, and soft, and lovely it nearly brought him to tears.

“Mom.”

Jaskier went pale. “Elaine came to visit a few hours ago. She’s going to come back and see you again in the morning.”

“The other room.”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “They’ve transferred you up to the ICU for the time being.”

“Why?”

Jaskier didn’t answer right away. Instead he sat there running his thumb back and forth across the back of Geralt’s hand while he thought.

“They took some blood,” he began. “And then you had a seizure.”

“I did?”

His husband nodded somberly.

“Why?”

“The doctor isn’t sure yet. We’re waiting on some test results that should hopefully give us a better picture of what’s going on.”

“Hmm.” Geralt was running out of steam, and he couldn’t form another response so he just let Jaskier sit there holding his hand until he dozed off again.

The next time he woke the sky out the window showed the pale darkness of the very early morning, and Jaskier was shaking his shoulder gently.

“The doctor is here,” he told him. “She’d like to talk to you.”

“Hmm?” He had to work to get his eyes to focus on her. Somehow he felt worse now than when he’d woken up in the middle of the night, but if the doctor had news, he wanted to hear it. He just prayed it was good.

“Mr. Bellegarde, we’ve gotten the results of your blood test back,” she explained. “Your liver function is fine, and your complete blood count looks how it should for your current condition, but your kidney function is severely impaired.

“Huh?” He was too tired and his brain was too foggy to make sense of that. His stomach was the problem. Why was she talking about his kidneys?

Jaskier must have sensed his confusion because he squeezed Geralt’s hand and whispered, “the back pain, remember?”

“Oh.”

The doctor continued as soon as it looked like Geralt was on the same page as she and Jaskier, although Geralt still felt like he was missing things.

“We think it’s your electrolytes,” she told him. “They’re imbalanced and it’s causing your kidneys to become inflamed and stop working as they should. This has triggered a type of circular reaction, where your body is forcing out every bit of water it can to keep your kidneys from essentially drowning—which explains the severe vomiting and diarrhea—while only furthering the dehydration and keeping your kidneys irritated.”

“How do you fix it then?” Jaskier asked. “If the problem is dehydration, but fluids hurt his kidneys?”

“So the core of the problem is the electrolyte imbalance,” she corrected. “We need to be much heavier on the electrolytes as we work on rehydration, and I’d like to monitor his kidneys as we go.”

“But he’ll get better?” Jaskier’s voice held all of the hopefulness Geralt was feeling but couldn’t express. “This will fix it?”

“It should,” she replied. “We’ll still need to find out what caused this in the first place, since it’s a fairly extreme reaction to a simple stomach flu, but yes. This will get him feeling better.”

Thank the gods.

“The nurse will be right in to switch out your IV,” the doctor said. “And I’ll be back in a few hours to check in on you and get a bit more blood for another kidney function test. By then you should be feeling much better.”

As she had promised, a nurse came not long after, switching out Geralt’s IV bag for a different one, and assuring him, just like the doctor did, that he’d be feeling better soon.

Geralt was wary of getting his hopes up. How many times in the past two days had he been told that he was about to start feeling better? And how could he handle it if he started to feel worse? Too exhausted to hold out long enough to see which way things turned, Geralt let himself fall back asleep. But he didn’t let himself hope that this was over.

Chapter Text

To be fair, he was told that he was better before he felt much better. He slept until the next blood draw, and spent the next while waiting for the results alternating between dozing, and curling up in the fetal position to ride out the remaining, unpleasant symptoms.

“How are you feeling, love?” Jaskier asked him, a spark of hope behind his eyes.

“Okay,” he replied, but he said it so noncommittally that he may as well have just said, “dreadful.”

If he had the desire or ability to consider things reasonably, he would be able to appreciate the fact that—although he still felt wretchedly nauseous, and stomach cramps still took hold of his belly without warning and sometimes for several minutes at a time—he was no longer experiencing things like that horrible endless puking, or another seizure.

When the test results returned, they showed that his kidneys were working a bit better than they’d been before.

“We’ve still got a ways to go, but we’re moving in the right direction,” the doctor told him. “I think later today we’ll try some oral rehydration, but for now you should rest.”

Geralt could think of few things he’d like to do less than putting something in his stomach (apart from a cool glass of water, which had been strictly forbidden), but he was happy to rest.

It was nearing eight in the morning, and, unable to fall back asleep, he and Jaskier were watching a rerun of M*A*S*H on the little hospital TV. And although he wished the nausea would relent a little further, it was more pleasant than anything else he’d done in the past twenty-four hours. So of course it couldn’t last.

“I told Eskel I would go home and make Ciri breakfast and get her through her morning routine,” he whispered, as if breaking the news quietly would make it less unpleasant. “He said he could watch her today though, so I’ll only be gone for a few hours.”

“Okay.”

The episode was over, and another, unfamiliar show had started. He was losing them both.

“Is there anything I can bring you from home?”

Despite the doctor’s assurances that he was moving in the right direction, she hadn’t so much as mentioned discharging him.

“Can you bring my pillow?” He asked. The hospital one was flat, and had a strange, antiseptic scent.

“Of course, love. Anything else.”

An idea hit him then, and he perked up. “Would you bring Ciri with you when you come back?”

Jaskier smiled. “I was going to ask if you were feeling up for visitors.”

“I’d like to see her.”

“I’ll bring her after breakfast then,” he promised. “And Elaine said she’d come this morning. Visiting hours start at nine, and you know your mom. She’ll be here at nine on the dot.”

“Good. I really ought to talk to her.”

“She came before.” Jaskier took his hand again. “Do you remember?”

“A bit. Those are my last memories before the seizure and they’re pretty vague.” He remembered puking, and he remembered crying. He’d like to be able to show her this time that he wasn’t such a mess.

“Hopefully this will be a nice visit.” Jaskier kissed him on the cheek before standing and collecting his things. “I’ll see you soon, love. Call me if you think of anything else you want from home.”

“Alright. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Jaskier’s assumption was correct. It was nine o’clock exactly when Elaine arrived, coffee in hand and very happy to see him.

“Geralt! You look so much better.” She took Jaskier’s place in the armchair, looking at him with a wide, genuine smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Morning mom,” he greeted her. “I’m still feeling pretty rough, but way better than yesterday.”

“Good. That’s really good,” she encouraged. “Do you feel up to talking about it? Or do you just want to sit for a bit?”

“We can talk about it,” he said. “You might have to wait for Jaskier if you want all the details though. My brain is still pretty foggy.”

“After the last few days, I’d be surprised if it wasn’t,” she said. “So did the doctor figure out what’s going on? Have you started any treatments or have fluids and rest been enough?”

Geralt shook his head. Fluids and rest had not been nearly enough.

“I started treatment a few hours ago,” he replied. “The doctor explained earlier what had happened. I wasn’t totally able to follow it, but I guess I got too dehydrated and my kidneys stopped working right. Not enough electrolytes I think. That’s what they’re giving me,” he explained. “Some other stuff too, but I think that’s just for managing symptoms. I’m not quite sure.”

“And how are your symptoms?”

“I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck,” Geralt admitted. “My whole body hurts.”

“That’ll be the seizure. And I’m sure all the vomiting didn’t help either.”

“That at least has stopped. I’m still really nauseous, and I’m still having pretty bad stomach cramps, but the doctor said those symptoms will go away as we keep doing the treatment.”

“I’m sorry you’re still feeling so unwell,” Elaine told him. “I’m glad the treatment is working though. You had me scared last night.”

“I’m sorry, mom.”

“It’s not your fault, kiddo.” She took his hand, just like Jaskier had before he left. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Can we just sit for a bit?” He wasn’t sure if he had the energy to keep up the conversation for much longer.

“Of course we can. Do you want to turn the TV on? Or do you think you want to sleep?”

“Some TV would be lovely, I think.”

And it was lovely. Elaine found some reality show about selling houses which apparently she and Susan liked to watch. She had lots of opinions, and shared them all with Geralt while she drank her coffee and he dozed.

After the second episode, he fell into a deeper sleep, and when he woke again mid-morning he was elated to find not only his mom at the bedside, but also his husband and his daughter.

“Papa!”

Geralt’s face broke out in a huge grin. It might be the first time he’d smiled in about two days. “Hey, lovebug. Come here; I missed you.”

Jaskier had her resting on his hip, but at his invitation she reached out to Geralt and leaned forward, causing Jaskier to adjust his hold to keep from dumping her on the floor.

“Do you feel up for some snuggles?” he asked. “She’s been asking for you all morning.”

“I would love some snuggles. Come here, baby.”

Jaskier deposited her on the bed right next to Geralt and she immediately nestled into his side. Geralt put his arm around her, holding her close.

“Where do you go?” Ciri looked up at him with her big green eyes, her little eyebrows furrowed.

“I came here,” he answered.

“Why?”

“Because I wasn’t feeling good. They’re taking care of me.”

“Better now?”

“Yeah, I’m starting to feel better. They’re giving me medicine,” he explained.

“In there?” She reached across his body and over to the IV tube.

“Yep, be careful; don’t touch.” He held her hand and she peeked over him to look at the IV. “That goes into my vein, so they can put the medicine in my blood.”

“Why?”

“Because I had an upset tummy,” he explained. “They didn’t want to put the medicine right into my tummy.”

Ciri wriggled her hand from his so she could rub tiny circles on his belly. “Your tummy hurts?”

“A bit,” he replied truthfully. “But it’s feeling better the more medicine I get.”

“Better better better,” she said in a sing-songy voice.

“What about you?” Geralt poked her belly. “How are you feeling?”

“Sleepy,” she answered, yawning as if she’d forgotten and he’d just reminded her.

“Eskel said she didn’t sleep very well last night,” Jaskier said. “Honestly, I’m worried she isn’t going to until everyone is back home.”

“Do you mind if she naps here with me for a bit? Or were you wanting to try and hold out a little longer?”

“I would love to see her get a little more sleep,” Jaskier replied. “By the time I got home she’d already been up for more than two hours. I found her and Eskel in our bed watching cartoons. He said they’d been that way since before six.”

Geralt looked down at her. “Do you want to take a nap with Papa?”

She nodded.

“Let me know if you start to get uncomfortable and I’ll take her,” Jaskier said. “Oh, I have your pillow too. I forgot it down in the car.”

“That’s okay. I’ll be fine without it.”

“Don’t be silly.” Elaine stood. “I’ll go down with you. I’d like to get another coffee anyway. Are you okay staying here with Ciri, Geralt? Or would you rather one of us stay?”

“I’ll be okay here with Ciri,” he replied. “If I need anything I’ll let you know.”

Chapter Text

“Did you want to grab a coffee before we go back out to the car?” Jaskier asked.

“I could use another coffee,” Elaine replied. “Last night was a late one.”

Jaskier sighed. “Too right.”

“And I wanted to check in with you,” she added. “How are you doing?”

“I’m exhausted,” he sighed. “Two nights ago I was sick myself, and I didn’t get much sleep last night either. I was too anxious to do much other than watch Geralt, and that armchair was definitely comfier than what most hospitals offer, but it’s still not easy to sleep in.”

“Do you want to go home and sleep for a few hours?” she asked. “Susan and I are happy to watch Ciri again.”

“I might take you up on that.” They’d reached the hospital cafeteria by now, and Elaine was pouring them each a cup of coffee from the big carafe. “I want to stick around a while longer to see if the doctor has anything else for him though.”

“With his treatment?”

“That as well. She said she wanted to try oral rehydration later today, and I want to be here for Geralt in case that goes poorly.”

“Was there something else you were waiting on?” she asked, leading them over to a table next to the window looking out on the courtyard.

Jaskier checked his phone to make sure Geralt hadn’t texted before he sat down across from her.

“Well, she hasn’t said anything else about more tests, but we still don’t know what caused all this,” he explained. “I know he got that same stomach bug that Ciri and I got, but I find it really hard to believe that it just hit him this much harder than me or Ciri.”

“It does seem unlikely,” she agreed. “I was talking to Geralt about this a bit when I was here yesterday. I could tell he was in a lot of pain, and fairly out of it, but when I suggested something else might be going on he seemed to latch onto that idea.”

“It makes sense,” Jaskier replied. “This sort of thing has happened before, just never this severely. I worry whatever it is might be getting worse.”

“I wouldn’t do any worrying prematurely,” Elaine advised. “Figuring out what’s going on just means you’re that much closer to figuring out a way to deal with it.”

“It’s just hard, because the doctor hasn’t said anything about what could be causing this. Earlier she thought it could be an ulcer, but now that we’ve got some answers and figured out it’s his kidneys she’s dropped that theory, and if she has another one, she hasn’t let us know.”

“And she hasn’t said anything about seeing a specialist, or doing any further testing?”

Jaskier shook his head and took a drink of his coffee.

“Seems like she’s at just as much of a loss as the rest of us,” he decided. “Unless you’ve got any ideas.”

He expected her to just say they needed to wait for the doctor to come talk to them again, or maybe suggest a test that might reveal something. He did not expect her to go straight to a diagnosis.

“Have you ever heard of cyclic vomiting syndrome?” she asked.

“No, I haven’t.” It sounded horrendous.

“I am nowhere near qualified to be diagnosing gastrointestinal issues, but with everything that’s happened these past few days, and what Geralt told me yesterday, along with everything I’ve seen working with him these past six years, I think it might be worth asking about.”

“What would that diagnosis even mean?”

“It’s a chronic condition that causes severe episodes of repeated vomiting, often along with other gastrointestinal symptoms like stomach cramps,” she began.

That would certainly be an apt description for a lot of the illnesses Jaskier had witnessed during the decade they’d spent together.

“And it affects everyone differently. For some people it’s triggered a lot more easily than others. For others the episodes are more severe, and can consist of different symptoms along with the vomiting.”

“What would make you think that’s what Geralt has?”

“The way he describes these episodes for one, of repeated bouts of vomiting for hours on end even after the body doesn’t have anything to throw up anymore,” she began. “And just the similarities between these episodes even when the cause is totally different, or there isn’t any cause at all. Does that fit with what you’ve seen?”

“It does.” Uncannily so. “I’ve seen him land himself in the hospital, or nearly do so, over food poisoning, and the flu along with this whole ordeal with the stomach bug. All things that reasonably shouldn’t have progressed that far.”

Elaine nodded knowingly. “And I’ve seen it a couple times as well. His first season with Southaven he got sick and was throwing up for a day and a half. We assumed it was norovirus or something similar, but none of the other boys got sick.”

Jaskier remembered that, Geralt calling him sick and miserable from his quarantine at the team house.

“And another time a few years later. We were traveling for an away game and he was sick on the plane and didn’t stop throwing up until after he was back home.”

Jaskier remembered that too. Similar miserable calls from the hotel bathroom he holed up in while his team went and lost a game he was supposed to be a player in.

“Again, we assumed it was a bug, but nobody else got sick. I think it might have been triggered by the air sickness.”

“And he’s had a sensitive stomach for as long as I’ve known him,” Jaskier continued. “Even outside of these more extreme episodes. He’s always gotten carsick pretty easily, a lot of times if he takes any sort of painkillers on an empty stomach he’ll just throw them back up, and usually when he’s sick it’ll be a lot harder to keep things down, even if the sickness is just a cold or a fever.”

“It definitely sounds like he’s got something going on. Do you want me to try and have a chat with his doctor about it?”

“Would you?” Having another medical professional throw her hat in might be enough to get them moving toward a diagnosis.

“I’d be happy to,” she replied. “I just want him to feel better.”

Not long after that they went out to retrieve Geralt’s pillow from the car and then returned to his room in the ICU. Jaskier hoped he’d find both Geralt and Ciri asleep when they returned, but he opened the door to find Ciri out cold, snuggled between Geralt’s arm and his chest, and Geralt wide awake watching her.

“I’m going to go out to the nurse’s station and see if I can’t figure out a time to have a chat with Geralt’s doctor,” Elaine whispered. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Okay,” Jaskier replied, his attention already fully shifted back to his husband and daughter.

Geralt sat up enough for Jaskier to replace his pillow, and Ciri stirred, but didn’t wake.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“It’s alright,” Geralt deflected.

“Do you want me to take Ciri? I bet she’d sleep here in the armchair with me. You might be more comfortable.”

“It’s not that,” Geralt said. He didn’t have to explain further. His stomach did the answering for him, growling loudly and causing Geralt to wince. This time Ciri did stir, and when Geralt’s stomach gurgled again she opened her eyes and looked up at him.

He’d gone pale, and he squirmed, readjusting the two of them to better accommodate whatever nausea or stomach cramps he was currently experiencing. Jaskier could imagine the turning and twisting going on in Geralt’s belly, and his discomfort was so evident that even Ciri noticed.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m okay, Ciri.” Despite his best efforts Geralt grimaced. “My tummy is just a little upset again.”

“Up you get. Let’s let Papa rest.” Jaskier knew how much they both enjoyed snuggling, but Geralt was starting to look like he might be sick again, and having her so close probably wasn’t helping things. “Come sit here with me. We can sit next to Papa.”

“Noooo I want to stay.” She looked to be gearing up for a meltdown, her cheeks pink and eyelids still heavy with sleep, but as soon as Jaskier stepped back and put his hands up she calmed down. “I will help.” She laid her head on Geralt’s chest and stretched her arm out to rub his belly.

Jaskier gave Geralt an apologetic look, trying to figure out some way he could extract Ciri from the situation without any tears, but to his great surprise and relief, Geralt relaxed.

“Better better better,” Ciri sang with the same tuneless melody as she had before.

“Here.” Geralt picked up Ciri’s tiny hand from where it roamed across the left side of his abdomen, and brought it right up under his ribs. “Like this, baby.” He guided her hand across the top of his belly, and down as far as her arm could comfortably reach, in a wide circle.

“Is that nice?” Jaskier asked, chuckling as Geralt’s eyes drifted shut.

“Mhmm.” The poor boy was already half asleep.

“I’ll leave you to it then.” Jaskier kissed him on the cheek and sat down in the armchair.

Geralt began to snore softly, and Ciri continued to rub his belly.

Elaine entered then, taking in the scene before sitting down on the arm of the chair to whisper to Jaskier.

“Aren’t they just precious?”

Ciri sat up, momentarily breaking her rhythm to look up at Elaine.

“I’m helping,” she told Elaine, before giving Jaskier a look so pointed he nearly laughed out loud. He had to stifle it to keep from waking Geralt.

“Yes baby,” he said, collecting himself. “You’re doing a very good job. Thank you.”

“Better better better.”

“Yes. Papa is going to be all better soon.”

Chapter Text

Geralt fell asleep to his daughter rubbing his belly, and he woke to find his daughter asleep, his stomach aching, and the doctor standing at his bedside, chatting with his mom.

“Oh, Geralt. We were going to let you sleep for another couple of minutes.”

“ ‘m up,” he mumbled. “How long was I out?” It felt like a long while.

“About forty-five minutes,” Jaskier replied. “Do you want me to take Ciri? She’s out cold. I don’t think she’ll wake if I do.”

“No.” Geralt’s arms tightened around her, and she nestled deeper into his side in her sleep. “She’s helping.”

“Okay,” Jaskier chuckled.

“What’s the doctor here for?”

“I think she wants to talk to you about the next part of your treatment plan,” he replied.

“Hmm, because I’m doing so well with the first part?”

“She says your last blood test looks good. Your kidneys are looking better. Are you not feeling better?” Jaskier asked, confused.

“Just a bit of an upset tummy,” he said, holding Ciri close.

“We’ll let the doctor know.”

“Let the doctor know what?” Elaine spoke up, both her and the doctor’s attention now on him.

“It’s just that the nausea is getting worse again,” he admitted. “But it’s fine.”

“It isn’t fine,” Jaskier insisted. “Is there anything you can do?” he asked the doctor.

“I’ll see about another dose of the antiemetic,” the doctor said. “I’d like to try giving you some electrolyte drink here soon. I don’t want you to have to stay here too much longer, but I also won’t feel comfortable discharging you until we know you can keep down clear liquids at least.”

“Can we wait for the medicine to kick in before we try?” Geralt asked.

“We can wait a bit longer,” she said. “You just let the nurse know when you’re ready.”

It seemed like a good idea, but the pressure of having to decide for himself made him anxious. When he told the nurse he was ready, the nausea was worse than before.

With the new dose of antiemetics he should be feeling better by now, so he chalked up the current nausea to anxiety—worried the doctor might think he was being lazy or avoidant if he waited too much longer—and confirmed with the nurse that he was ready for her to bring him the electrolyte drink.

Ciri had woken up by then, and had started getting antsy. When the nurse brought in the drink she was down off the bed hopping from tile to tile and flapping her arms like a bird.

“How about I take Ciri down to the cafeteria for some lunch,” Elaine suggested. “Give you two a little privacy.”

“That would be great,” Geralt replied. Not having to worry about being sick in front of his daughter again decreased his anxiety significantly, and he almost believed that the nausea could actually go away.

Elaine scooped Ciri up and set her on her hip. “I bet you’re getting pretty hungry, kiddo. Let’s go have some lunch.”

“With Daddy and Papa?”

“Daddy and Papa are gonna stay here for a bit, but we’ll come right back up to see them after lunch.”

“Okay.”

He was glad she didn’t argue.

“Can you wave goodbye to Papa and tell him to feel better?”

“Bye, Papa.” Ciri waved. “Better better better.”

The nurse waited patiently until Elaine and Ciri were gone to hand him the drink.

It was a pale, cloudy yellow, in a clear cup with a lid and a straw.”

“I kind of wish it was blue,” Geralt said, half joking and half putting off taking a drink. He could tell just by looking that it wasn’t going to taste good.

The nurse explained then, that the doctor wanted him to do his best to drink the full cup, and that this would only count as a successful step toward his discharge if he could finish it and keep it down.

He thought she was asking a bit much of him, but he agreed to her terms, happy when she left him and Jaskier alone.

“Quicker you get started the quicker you finish.”

Geralt noted that he specified quickness only for getting started. They both knew if he chugged the drink to get it over with he’d be puking before he even had the chance to give the cup back to the nurse.

He took a hesitant sip, immediately making a face.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Jaskier chuckled.

“Funny hearing that from you,” Geralt replied.

“Come on, it can’t taste that bad.”

It did taste that bad, but that wasn’t why Geralt was making a face.

“It’s so salty,” he complained, nose wrinkling.

“That’s kind of the point, love. It’s to help your kidneys, remember?”

“I know, I know.” He took another hesitant sip, encountering the same problem as before. “I think I bit my cheek or something though. It stings.”

All the teasing disappeared from Jaskier’s expression, and Geralt saw a darkness pass behind his eyes.

“What?” he asked, taking this as his cue to set the drink aside.

“I think I know how that happened.”

Well at least one of them did. He had no recollection, and was honestly confused. He hadn’t eaten anything since before coming to the hospital. He must have bit it in his sleep or something.

“During your seizure,” Jaskier began cautiously. “There was blood in your mouth, and your jaw locked. You might have bit your cheek when it all started.”

Geralt probed the spot with his tongue, finding the flesh torn up and tasting of metal. “Oh.”

“Do you think you can still try the drink?” he asked. “Or do we need to put it off a bit longer.”

Two minutes ago Geralt would have at least considered taking this as an excuse to hold off on this next stage in his treatment, but Jaskier looked so shaken after remembering his seizure that Geralt found himself wanting to do anything he could to make him feel better.

“I can still drink it.”

It tasted horrible though. He took cautious sip after cautious sip, but it wasn’t refreshing like a cool drink should be. His body should want this. If he was as starved for sodium as the doctor said he would, this should taste good, but all Geralt could think of as he drank it was Gatorade somebody had dumped a load of salt into.

His stomach felt irritated and upset, and about halfway through he was suddenly sure that if he took one more drink he was going to start puking again.

“Are you finished?” Jaskier asked when Geralt broke his rhythm of sipping, waiting, and then sipping again.

“Not sure,” he replied. “Feeling a bit sick.”

“Huh, this ought to be helping your symptoms. Is it not?”

Jask was right. This should be helping, and if it felt like it wasn’t, that was most likely just in his head.

“No, you’re right. I’m sure it’s helping.” He took another drink, and swore he could feel it sloshing with the other liquid in his stomach. “I think I’m just anxious.” Too used to puking up anything he put in his body.

“Elaine just texted that Ciri is done eating. Are you ready to have her back up here?”

“Can she take her over to the playground for a bit?” He requested. “Just until I’m finished with this.” He shook the cup, now three quarters of the way down.

“Love, if you’re not feeling good then just stop. There’s no need to power through.”

“No, it’s fine.” He took another drink, working hard not to make a face. “I just need a few more minutes. It’s helping, I’m sure.” He was trying to convince himself as much as he was Jaskier.

He got the rest of it finished in two big drinks that he had to fight not to gag on. It gave him a sense of accomplishment, and he figured that now it was done, and he’d made it through without succumbing to the nausea, the anxiety would fade and he’d start feeling better.

The taste of the salty drink lingered in his mouth though, making him unable to ignore the sloshing in his stomach. It wasn’t long before he had to accept defeat.

“Can you hand me the basin?” he whispered, embarrassed.

“Oh, baby. I told you not to finish if you felt sick,” he admonished, handing Geralt the basin and pulling his hair back. “We do not need to be in any rush to get you discharged. I want you to stay here for as long as you need.”

“Thought it was just anxiety.”

“My poor sweet boy.” He started to rub warm circles on Geralt’s back.

Geralt’s breath hitched then, and the floodgates were opened. The electrolyte drink rushed back up his throat, spraying the inside of the basin, sloshing in the same way it had in his stomach—the same way it still was.

Another heave. Another rush of vomit.

Compared to the violence of his earlier bouts this hardly even felt like vomiting. He barely had to put any effort into it. The worst part was honestly the taste, the salty drink made worse with the bitter warmth of bile to compound the unpleasantness.

It just seemed to spill out of him. It took a bit more work at the end, his stomach twisting itself in knots to wring out the last dregs of puke with a couple of empty retches. Even that didn’t feel so bad though. At least it was over more quickly than before.

When he finished, Jaskier took the basin and pressed the call button while Geralt laid back, panting.

“How are you feeling, love?” Jaskier took his hand.

“Better,” he sighed, putting his other hand on his belly.

“Well that’s good at least.” He didn’t sound convinced.

“I don’t think I’m quite ready for drinking yet.”

“I think the doctor will agree.”

The doctor returned a few minutes later, and just as Jaskier had predicted, she too thought Geralt ought to wait a bit longer before they did another oral rehydration test. Geralt tried not to dwell on how this meant his discharge was being delayed as well.

“For the moment we’ll keep you on IV fluids,” she said. “And considering how long it’s been since you’ve been able to keep food down, I’m going to put you on some IV nutrients as well.”

“So now are we just waiting?” Jaskier asked. “Until he can pass?”

“While we wait, I’d like to do some more testing to try and figure out what the root cause of this could be.”

“Were you able to speak with Geralt’s athletic trainer about what she’s observed?”

Elaine? Nobody had told him anything about Elaine talking with the doctor.

“I did. I think that her theory about cyclic vomiting syndrome could very well be what’s going on. It certainly would match his symptoms, but CVS is a diagnosis of elimination,” she explained. “So we’ll need to do tests to rule out other possible causes before we go forward with that as our diagnosis.”

“What kind of tests?” Geralt didn’t like the sound of this. He didn’t want to do any more tests, and he couldn’t imagine being carted around the hospital would do anything to speed up his passing of the drinking test. He just wanted to go home.

“I’d like to go ahead and do the endoscopy,” she began. “I’d also like to do an MRI, and judging by how those go we’ll decide whether or not we should do some additional tests like a gastric emptying test or an upper GI series.”

Geralt knew what about half of those things were, and he didn’t want to do any of it. He knew he was being stubborn, but he’d been through enough these past few days. Couldn’t they just sedate him until it was time to try the drink again? He didn’t think he had the energy to do much else.

“We have an opening to do the endoscopy later this afternoon,” she continued. “We’ll start there.”

“Okay,” Jaskier agreed for both of them. “Thank you doctor.”

Chapter Text

After she’d gone, Geralt curled up on his side, no longer trying to put on a good show. He didn’t feel in danger of puking again, but overall the oral rehydration test had left him feeling worse off than he’d been before.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Geralt considered this. Was there anything which might help him feel even a little bit better? A nap in his own bed for one, and the comfort of being back in his own home, but that seemed impossibly out of reach. So how could he bring that same energy here?

“Is Ciri still downstairs with Elaine?”

“Yeah, they went to the playground. Do you want her to come back up?”

“I don’t think she should have to stay here all day, but I would like to see her again before she goes.”

“Of course, love.”

Geralt lay curled up in the fetal position until Ciri and Elaine arrived.

“Special delivery,” Elaine announced, leading Ciri back into the hospital room, holding her hand. “Ciri, do you want to go see your Papa?”

Geralt held his arms out for her, and Elaine lifted her up onto the bed. Ciri twisted at the last second though, and landed awkwardly against Geralt’s side. Normally he wouldn’t have given it a second thought. He was used to being rammed into by grown men running at full speed, a toddler putting about half her body weight up against his belly shouldn’t have even registered as uncomfortable, but today the pain blossomed and radiated.

“Oof,” he sighed, readjusting her.

“Everything okay?” Elaine asked, both her and Jaskier hovering over them protectively.

“Yeah, fine.”

Ciri nestled into his side, and Geralt waited for the pain to dissipate enough for him to relax.

“Are you all better now?” Ciri peered up at him, and he couldn’t help but laugh.

“We’re getting there, bug, but it’s going to take some time.”

“How much time?”

“I’m not sure, baby,” he answered. He worried it was going to take more time than either he or Ciri had bargained for.

“What about school?”

Geralt was the one who got Ciri up, and dressed, and fed on the days she went to preschool. They had a good routine, and Geralt would miss it too.

“I’ll be back home soon,” he assured her. “Until then, Daddy will get you ready for school.”

“And chocolate milk?”

“Yes, I will make sure he knows to give you your chocolate milk with breakfast.”

“You’ll be asleep?” Her confusion was beginning to upset him—he didn’t like the thought of her being home without him, and not knowing where he was or how he was doing—and the stomach pain wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’ll be here, baby.” He put his own hand on his stomach to try and mitigate some of the pain, and Ciri promptly pushed it back over to his side so she could rub his belly herself.

“Until tomorrow?”

Geralt’s stomach grumbled, and he winced, once again trying to readjust him and Ciri in the bed so they could both be comfortable. He feared that comfort might be out of the question though.

“Probably a little later than tomorrow,” he admitted.

The next grumble came with a sharp, twisting cramp, and he had to stop Ciri until it passed, the weight of her tiny hand enough to exacerbate the pain.

“Alright, Ciri,” Jaskier stepped in. “Let’s sit in the chair next to Papa. I think his tummy is hurting again. Let’s let him lay in the bed by himself.”

“No, I want to help,” she insisted, continuing to rub circles across his abdomen. It felt nice for the moment, but when the next cramp hit, he knew any external stimuli was just going to make him hurt worse.

“You can help by listening to Daddy, and Elaine, and Uncle Eskel until I’m home, okay?” He handed her to Jaskier as gently as he could, but it still hurt, and she still started to cry the second she was gone from his side. She only went as far as the armchair, and he kept hold of her hand, but the damage had been done.

“No, be here with you.” Tears started to well in her eyes, and another cramp took hold of his stomach. Tears welled in his eyes too, from the pain or the emotion he didn’t know.

“I won’t be here too long, and you’ll be able to come visit me every day until I’m home,” he promised.

“Come home now,” she sobbed.

“I think it’s past someone’s usual nap time,” Jaskier observed. Geralt was relieved when she relaxed into Jaskier’s arms though, and cried into his shoulder—still upset, but willing to take comfort from someone other than him.

“Do you think you should take her home?” Geralt asked.

“No, I can stay here,” Ciri insisted. “With Papa.”

“If you feel up to it you can stay here and sit with me until you fall asleep, and then I’ll take you home, bug,” Jaskier offered. “But you and Papa need to rest.”

“I want to rest with Papa,” she sniffled, still gripping his hand.

“I’m right here, baby.”

They stayed like that until Ciri fell asleep. It didn’t take long, Jaskier’s guess about her being due for a nap being completely correct, and after she was out, they were able to figure out where to go from here.

“I’ve got some work I need to get done today,” Elaine said, not so subtly hinting that Jaskier and Geralt might want a bit of time alone. “Do you want me to take Ciri with me?”

Geralt did want some time alone with Jaskier. He was in more pain than he’d like to be, but he was tired of being vulnerable in front of other people, no matter how kind they were. He wanted some time to be pouty alone here with his husband.

“Eskel is still at the house,” Jaskier said. “If you could drop her off, he can watch her until I get home.”

Jaskier accompanied her and Ciri downstairs to get the car seat from their car to hers, and to oversee the transfer.

Not two minutes after he left a nurse came in to check his vitals and give him an overview of the doctor’s proposed plan for his afternoon and evening.

“In about forty-five minutes we’re gonna take you to go do the endoscopy,” she began. “You will be put under general anesthesia for the procedure, but other than that there’s no prep you need to do. Feel free to just relax until we come get you for that. And depending on how well you do with the anesthetic, and how you’re feeling after coming out of it, we might go ahead and do the MRI and possibly another drink test, depending on how the nausea is and how your labs look.”

So they’d be taking more blood too. When had he reached the point that labs were so nonchalant that they didn’t even warrant mentioning as part of the plan for his day? More likely she just hadn’t had the time to talk about them any more than a brief mention. She had so much other shit to tell him.

“Busy afternoon.” He meant for it to sound lighthearted, but when the words reached his ears it didn’t sound like he was joking. They sounded bitter and tired.

“Yep,” she confirmed. “We’re going to get this all figured out. Sooner we do, sooner you’re home.”

“Right,” he mumbled. “Thanks.” Although the only thing he was thankful for from her was the fact that she left soon after giving her briefing.

The universe must not be kind enough to let him rest, because as soon as the nurse left his phone started to ring.

“Jask?” Please let it be something trivial. Geralt could not handle anything else happening at this point. He’d reached his limit.

“Papa?” It was his husband’s phone calling, but his daughter was the one on the other end. She was crying, upset and overtired. “Papaaaa.”

“I’m right here baby. What’s wrong?”

Her response would have been completely unintelligible to anyone but him or Jaskier. Ciri fumbled through her explanation, punctuated with hiccuping sobs, and missing most of the words, but after a good half a minute at least, Geralt thought he had the gist of it.

“You’re sad because Daddy brought you downstairs while you were sleeping and you didn’t get to say goodbye?”

“Uh huh,” she whimpered.

“I’m sorry, lovebug,” he apologized. “I gave you a kiss before you left, but you were still sleeping. Did you want to say our goodbyes now?”

“Yeah,” she replied, sniffling.

“Okay, baby. Goodbye, I love you.”

“When do you come home?” She asked.

“Soon.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier hoped he would go upstairs to find Geralt resting, maybe even sleeping (if he dared be that hopeful). Realistically he figured he’d find Geralt uncomfortable and watching TV or scrolling on his phone. He didn’t expect to find Geralt up and out of bed, for the first time in over a day, one arm around his belly, hunched over, and looking through Jaskier’s overnight bag.

“Love?” Jaskier stepped into the room, immediately confused. “Everything okay?”

Everything did not look okay. In fact, nothing looked okay.

“I can’t find my clothes.” Geralt grumbled.

“What?”

Geralt was sweating and shivering, clearly in horrible pain, and dangerously unsteady on his feet. Jaskier would need to get him back to bed sooner rather than later. The last thing he needed was another ripped out IV. He was going to run out of veins.

“My fucking clothes,” Geralt repeated. “The ones I was wearing when they brought me in here. Did you take them home when you left last night?” He sounded incredibly agitated. Jaskier hardly ever saw him like this, and when he did it was never followed by anything good.

Jaskier approached him, like someone might a wounded animal. “Yeah, I brought them home to wash last night. I can bring you some more pajamas the next time I’m home though.” He attempted to guide Geralt back over to the bed with a gentle hand on his back, and was surprised when Geralt didn’t let himself be moved an inch.

“That’s no good,” he insisted. “I need them now.”

“What do you need your clothes for?” Jaskier was confused now, as well as concerned. “Why don’t you come sit down on the bed and we’ll work this out?”

At this he went so far as to shrug Jaskier’s hand off of his back and take a step away from him.

“No. I’m going home,” he said. “That’s why I need them. I’m going home.”

“You’ll be home soon,” Jaskier told him. “For now can you please let me help you to bed? You look about ready to collapse.”

“No.” Geralt was shaking harder now, and Jaskier feared it wasn’t just the fever causing such a visceral reaction. “I’m leaving. If you don’t want to drive me, I’ll call a cab.”

“Love, can we please just think about this for a minute?”

“No,” he insisted. He was past the point of reason. “Ow.” He paled and pressed his eyes shut for a few seconds, and Jaskier watched, terrified he was going to faint again, but worried that approaching Geralt now would just upset him worse.

Jaskier had only seen a handful of meltdowns this severe in the last decade. He felt ill equipped, and found himself scrambling to find something to say that might be able to get through to Geralt before he seriously hurt himself.

“I promise they’re doing everything they can to get you home, but the doctor can’t let you go before you can drink on your own. Otherwise you’ll just end up back in the emergency room,” he told him. “But as soon as you can pass the rehydration test, you’ll be right out of here. You just need to be a little more patient.”

“I have to do so much more than be patient.”

The look he gave Jaskier was heartbreaking. His eyes were rimmed red and wet with tears, and his jaw was set, to keep from crying or to stop his teeth from chattering, Jaskier didn’t know.

“I have to lay in this bed alone and in pain. I have to do all of those fucking tests, and they hurt. I’m sick of being jabbed with needles. I’m tired of people pressing on my stomach when they know it will hurt. I don’t care if it’s a test. I’m not doing it. I’m done.”

He was on a roll now, and Jaskier worried he was too far gone.

“And the whole time while they’re doing it, I am away from my daughter and I know she’s upset with me, and I just can’t stand it, Jask. I can’t do it.”

“We’ll talk to the doctor. I think we could figure something—”

“There’s nothing to figure.” Geralt’s eyes were pressed shut now, and his teeth were gritted. “Fuck. Owww.” He was white as a sheet, and hunched over so far he was practically bent double.

“Geralt. You’re going to hurt yourself. You need to get back in bed.” The emotional damage had already been done, but he still might be able to escape the physical damage.

Geralt didn’t open his eyes, but when Jaskier put both hands on him to lead him back to the bed he let himself be guided.

“That’s it, love. Let’s get into bed. I promise we’re going to get this all worked out. I’m here. I love you.” Jaskier was throwing out every nice thing he could come up with, hoping one of them would stick.

Geralt collapsed onto the bed, curled up in the fetal position, and grabbed Jaskier’s arm in one shaking hand, not letting go.

“You’re okay, baby. It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t. They both knew it wasn’t.

Geralt burst into tears.

“I know, love.” He took Geralt’s hand, and wished he could do more. “How do I help?”

“My stomach really hurts,” Geralt choked out between sobs. He pulled on Jaskier’s hand, tugging him toward the bed. “I just want you. I want to be home.”

“I know it feels like you’re going to be here forever,” Jaskier said. “Trust me, love. I know there is nothing worse than being stuck at the hospital, but I promise that it’s not going to last forever.”

“I can’t do it.” His whole body was trembling, and he was holding Jaskier’s hand with white knuckles, the other hand digging into his belly to try and stem some of the pain. “I can’t bear it.”

“Let me bear it then.” It was against the rules, Jaskier knew, but he couldn’t convince himself to care right now. He climbed into the bed with his husband.

It was a small bed, and there wasn’t enough room to do anything other than lay face to face, foreheads nearly pressed together. Jaskier was terrified he was going to snag on the IV tube, or accidentally hurt him like Ciri had earlier, but the way that Geralt let himself relax into Jaskier’s arms, burying his head in the crook of Jaskier’s neck and sobbing openly, kept Jaskier from feeling any regret for this decision.

“That’s it, love. You’re alright.”

“It hurts,” he choked out. Already the shoulder of Jaskier’s shirt was soaking through.

“It’s probably time for a bit more morphine. Do you want me to call the nurse and ask?”

“Mhmm.”

He was worried the nurse might kick him out of the bed, but when she saw how upset Geralt was her expression softened, and she didn’t say anything. She did say that she’d see about more morphine though, and best of all, brought them a heating pad.

Jaskier put it in between them, and Geralt absolutely melted. He had been trying to relax before, but now he went limp, all the tension erased from his muscles by the heating pad and his husband in bed beside him.

“How’s that, love?” Jaskier asked. “Better?”

“Mhmm,” Geralt replied, still sniffling. “But it doesn’t change anything,” he continued. His words were starting to slur together. Jaskier wasn’t sure if it was the exhaustion doing it, or if they’d hit him with another dose of morphine, but either way he preferred the subdued, tired crying over the agitation he’d seen before.

Of course, he’d rather find a third option. Geralt was still trembling, and while the tears weren’t quite so violent as before, they were filled with just as much sadness. “I’m not doing the tests. I won’t. I can’t,” he stammered.

“They’re going to help you get home,” Jaskier pointed out. “The sooner we figure out what’s going on, the sooner this is over with.”

“Why can’t I just focus on the drink?” he asked, clearly thinking hard. “And then come back for the tests after I’m discharged? They’re already treating me. Isn’t that enough?”

“They have to make sure they aren’t sending you home with something dangerous going on. It’s the same as the drink—they don’t want you to leave until they know you’ll be safe.”

“But what about the thing Elaine said?” he asked. “The doctor said that was it, and I’ve had that for ages. I promise I’m safe.”

“Yes, but remember that they can’t diagnose you with that before they rule out the other possibilities,” he explained as gently as he could. “If there’s something else going on, like an ulcer, they want to make sure and catch it while you’re still here.”

“I can’t. It’s too much.”

“What’s too much? The tests?”

“Yes,” Geralt confirmed emphatically. “The nurse came and told me. I have to go under soon and then she said they want to do even more stuff afterwards.” This was followed by a renewed round of sobs, which Jaskier rushed to mitigate before they got out of hand.

“We’ll wait a bit then,” he offered. “You want to be done after the endoscopy today?”

“Yes,” he repeated, even more emphatically this time.

“Then I’m sure we can make that happen. I will let the doctor know that you don’t feel well enough to do the other tests today, and you’d prefer to wait until tomorrow.”

“You’d do that?”

“Of course I will.” Jaskier was starting to relax too, knowing that he was making at least a little bit of progress. “Then maybe Ciri can come back to see you again this evening after dinner, and in the morning once you’re feeling a bit better, then we can go ahead and do the other tests, and see about trying the electrolyte drink.”

“No.” His breath caught again on another sob, and Jaskier put a hand on the back of his head, holding him close and weaving his fingers into Geralt’s hair. “I’m never going to pass,” he insisted. “It tastes so bad. I swear it’d make me puke even if I wasn’t sick.”

“Well, we can see if there’s anything we can do about that too,” he replied. “Another flavor or something.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course, love. These people aren’t here to torture you. They want to accommodate you. You’ve just got to let them know how.”

“I want you to be with me for the endoscopy,” Geralt said. “Will they accommodate that?”

“I can’t be with you during the procedure, but I’m sure I’ll be able to stay with you until they put you under, and I’ll make sure I’m there as soon as you wake up.”

“Okay.”

“We’re going to get through this, love. I promise.”

When Geralt didn’t reply, Jaskier felt concerned, but before he could ask for a response he noticed how the shaking catch breaths had smoothed out, and Geralt’s face had gone slack. He’d fallen asleep.

Poor, sweet, sick boy.

He’d been tired before, but this meltdown had taken what little energy he had left, and as soon as it ended he lost the last thing keeping him awake. Good. He needed the rest.

Chapter Text

Geralt didn’t even realize he’d fallen asleep until he woke up to a nurse standing at his bedside. Well, that wasn’t what had woken him. He’d woken at the sound of his husband’s voice, but kept conscious by the nurse looking at him and Jaskier expectantly.

“He’s autistic, and having a really rough time with all of this.”

When he realized he probably wasn’t needed to chime in, he shut his eyes and snuggled even closer to Jaskier. His husband was much better at finding and arranging autism accommodations for him than he was. Keeping quiet was probably the best thing he could do. Jaskier held him close, and kept talking.

“He is feeling really overwhelmed with all of the testing going on, especially since failing the clear liquids test,” Jaskier explained. “He’s just had a pretty bad meltdown, and he let me know that he’d just like to rest after the endoscopy is finished.”

He’d started to tremble again at the thought of doing the endoscopy, and he nestled his head even deeper into the crook of Jaskier’s neck.

“Is there any way we can put off any more testing until tomorrow morning?” He asked. “I’d be more than willing to contact his psychiatrist if that’s necessary for getting accommodations.”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that.”

Good to know that his autism was obvious enough to not need a professional vouching for him

“I’ll talk to the doctor, but I’m sure we can make that happen,” the nurse replied. “Is there anything else we can do to accommodate him?

“They’re ready to prep him for the endoscopy. Is there anything we can do to make that easier?”

“I’m not going anywhere by myself,” he mumbled into Jaskier’s neck.

“Would I be able to stay with him until he’s put under?” Jaskier asked.

“Usually that’s done in the OR, but let me go get the doctor. I’m sure we can work something out.”

Geralt cherished the two minutes alone with Jaskier that he got before the nurse arrived with the doctor. He was convinced that if he was allowed to lay here and snuggle with Jaskier while he kept getting IV fluids and morphine, he’d be much better off than if he did all the tests, but for some reason he didn’t think the others would be on board with this plan. He wasn’t even sure they’d be on board with letting Jaskier into the OR with him.

Between Jaskier and the nurse, they laid everything out for the doctor, about his autism and the accommodations he thought would help the most.

He lost the thread of the conversation a couple times, not trying very hard to pay attention, but by the end of it everyone seemed to be on his side.

“Are you ready to go do the endoscopy?” Jaskier asked, gently untangling himself from Geralt and climbing off the bed.

“Are you coming with me?”

“I’ve got permission to get some scrubs on and stay with you until the anesthesiologist has got you under,” Jaskier explained. “And I’ll be there waiting when you wake up. You won’t even know I was gone.”

“Good,” Geralt sighed. Maybe now he had an actual shot at getting through this last test without another meltdown.

They got him into his wheelchair without too much pain, and Jaskier pushed him as they followed the nurse to the elevator and up to a different floor. Like last time, the movement made him feel sick, but thankfully this time it wasn’t bad enough to make him want to puke.

Once they were there they gave Jaskier a paper gown, along with a mask and gloves to wear into the room where they’d be doing the procedure. Again, he was reminded of when Ciri had been in the NICU, and all the precautions they’d had to take to keep her safe.

If there was one thing he was grateful for in all of this, it was that she wasn’t the sick one this time. He was miserable, but this didn’t come close to the pain he’d felt when she’d been the one in the hospital bed—or hospital bassinet, rather.

“Ready to go in?” Jaskier asked after he’d donned his PPE.

No, but he doubted that would change anything.

“Yeah.” Hopefully it would be over quickly.

Just as they’d promised, Jaskier got to stay by his side the entire time while they stuck monitors to his chest and put an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose.

“This gas is going to put you to sleep,” the anesthesiologist explained. “Then once you’re under I’ll administer the anesthetic. Are you ready?”

The one good thing in all of this was the fact that he’d get some good sleep. If only he could get it without having a camera shoved down his throat.

“Yeah,” he answered, his voice hardly audible through the mask.

“Good.” She smiled, and Geralt’s eyes darted over to his husband, who also gave him an encouraging look. “If you could just count backwards from ten for me, then we can get this started.”

He mumbled the numbers, keeping his eyes on Jaskier the whole time, worried he might leave before Geralt was actually asleep.

He stayed right at his side though, and sure enough before he even got to seven, his eyes were drifting closed. The last thing he saw was his husband standing dutifully next to the bed, and his final thought was a prayer that Jask would be right there the next time his eyes opened.

And he was.

Everything else had changed. He wasn’t in the OR, or in his room in the ICU, but Jaskier was still right there by his side.

“Good morning, my sweet sleepy boy,” Jaskier said. His hand was on the mattress next to Geralt’s, but he couldn’t find the energy to take it. “How are you feeling?”

Geralt thought about this—not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to communicate it.

“You took a page out of my book,” Jask continued when Geralt didn’t reply. “Took you more than an hour to come out of anesthesia. Your poor body must be so exhausted.”

He wished he could go back to sleep. He was still exhausted, only now he was also incredibly uncomfortable.

“Everything okay, love?”

No, this went past discomfort. Something was wrong. He felt like, on top of all his other symptoms, he’d been hit with the worst flu of his life. His throat felt like it was lined with broken glass, and he started to shake.

“We can go back up to your room once the nurse checks that you’re doing okay,” Jaskier said. “Are you doing okay?”

This was a simple enough question. He could answer this one.

“No.”

The shaking was escalating rapidly to full body tremors, and the ever-present nausea took an even tighter hold of his stomach.

“Do you feel sick?”

“Mhmm.”

He was still laying back on the pillow, and the room started spinning around him. What had gone wrong during the endoscopy? There was no way that a procedure without any complications had left him feeling this unwell.

Jaskier pressed the call button.

“Do you feel vomity, or just nauseous?”

His stomach felt stretched taut, and the nausea was starting to climb up his tortured throat.

“Gonna throw up,” he rasped. The words were hardly intelligible, but Jaskier understood.

The nurse entered then, and they wasted no time getting him positioned over an emesis basin. He was so dizzy though that he could hardly hold his head up. Jaskier had to keep him steady while his body shook, and he took useless, panting breaths into the basin.

He wasn’t getting enough air, he could feel his lungs starting to ache, but anything more than a shallow inhale made him feel like he was going to turn himself inside out.

He should have just let it happen. He should know now that any attempt to delay or dissuade the vomiting only made things worse.

The wave of nausea swelled as it finally reached his gag reflex, and Geralt was surprised when the first involuntary flex of his back and abdominal muscles triggered, not a flood of vomit—like he expected, judging by how bloated and tight his belly felt—but a long, and rather impressive belch.

“There you go.” Jaskier rubbed his back, sounding relieved.

“The doctors use air to help inflate the stomach so they can examine the lining a bit more closely. It’s normal to experience some gas or bloating after the procedure,” the nurse offered.

He ought to be relieved. This was normal. It was expected. But it still fucking hurt. His throat felt like he’d drank a gallon of boiling water. Even breathing made him wince, and the stomach cramps hadn’t gone anywhere. If anything they’d gotten sharper.

He belched again, drooling into the basin.

“That’s it,” Jaskier encouraged. “You’ll feel better once it’s out.”

Really? Because he was feeling worse by the second. Although he was right at his side, touching him even, Jaskier seemed far away. Geralt could feel his perception was off, and the fact that he couldn’t seem to get the room in focus just made him feel panicked, which in turn made the trembling worse, and the hyperventilating worse until Geralt wasn’t sure how he would manage it.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

As if to prove he was very much not okay, the next belch brought with it a rush of hot, stinging vomit.

“Oh, baby. That’s okay. Just get it out.”

Yes, he was going to get it all out, regardless of if he wanted to or not.

Somehow the air in his stomach made the puking worse. He felt unstable; some heaves brought up nothing at all, and others were a horrible mix of vomit and air, which left his stomach with such violence that it came back to splatter against his face.

As soon as he was sure he’d finished, his throat screaming and stomach cramping, Geralt lay back on his pillow. He couldn’t catch his breath.

“Here.” Once the nurse had taken the emesis basin, Jaskier helped Geralt sit up a bit more, using the pillow to support his head and neck. “You’re alright, love. Just breathe.”

Geralt looked up at him from where he laid, shaking and fighting to keep his eyes focused on his husband’s face.

“I can’t,” Geralt said through chattering teeth. “Don’t feel good.”

“Don’t feel good, how?” Jaskier asked. “Can you give me any more details? Do you need to be sick again?”

“Cold,” Geralt replied. Cold didn’t even come close to describing the way he felt. He felt like he’d been dunked in an ice bath and left in a freezer, but he couldn’t hope to get that many words out. “Dizzy.”

Before Jaskier could try and figure out what he could do with that information, the nurse returned.

“Hey, um, he’s really not doing well,” Jaskier told her. “He says he’s feeling cold, as well as dizzy. And he’s still holding his stomach,” he added.

Was he? Geralt hadn’t even noticed he was doing it. The motion was so automatic by now.

“I’m worried he might not be done throwing up. It’s unusual that it only happens once.”

It only took one cursory look at his vitals for the nurse to be completely on Jaskier’s side.

“His oxygen saturation has dropped quite a bit,” she noted. “His blood pressure as well.” She seemed to speed up with every word, realizing just how bad of a shape he was in. “I’m going to go get the doctor. We’re likely going to need to start taking some measures to prevent shock.”

Another dunk in the ice bath. This wasn’t happening. How could this be happening? He knew how devastating shock could be on even a healthy body.

“Hey, it’s just preventative,” Jaskier said, getting right down to Geralt’s level, taking his hand and stroking his hair. “They just need to make sure your vitals don’t drop any further. It’s gonna be fine.”

Already the nurse was returning, the doctor right behind, and Jaskier was temporarily pushed from the bedside so they could surround him with a flurry of activity to try and keep his body from just giving up and shutting down entirely. He was so tired.

The first thing they did was administer something through his IV, the doctor threading an oxygen cannula under his nose and turning on the machine while the nurse saw to his medicine. Then she returned the emesis basin and, best of all, covered him in a thick, heated blanket.

It wasn’t enough to get him warm, but at least he no longer felt hypothermic. The shivering calmed down a bit. Geralt suspected even if he was completely warm, he’d still be shaking. These preventative measures would keep him from going into shock, yes, but he doubted how much they would actually relieve his symptoms. He feared these pains wouldn’t go anywhere any time soon.

“Is that better?” Jaskier asked after they’d finished seeing to him.

“Hmm.” It could be interpreted as a yes or a no. He felt more stable now, but going so far as to call it better didn’t feel right.

Nothing felt right.

Chapter Text

Jaskier’s anxiety was eating him alive from the inside out.

They’d brought Geralt back only thirty minutes after Jaskier had been escorted out of the OR, and right from the start Jaskier could sense that something was wrong. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was, call it a true love’s intuition, but he could sense that this unconsciousness wasn’t quite natural.

Maybe his breathing was just a little too slow, his face a few shades too pale, with colorless lips, and dark circles too purple. Or maybe it was the unnatural stillness. He didn’t so much as twitch. His eyes didn’t move underneath his closed eyelids. Any one of these things would be concerning on its own, but all of them at once made Jaskier feel like he wasn't looking at his husband at all. He was hardly recognizable.

Jaskier made it all of ten minutes before he asked the nurse when Geralt would wake up. He of all people knew just how long it could take for a person to come out of anesthesia, but every minute he spent sleeping Jaskier’s anxiety doubled.

“It usually takes twenty to thirty minutes to wake up after general anesthesia, but it’s different for everyone.”

After twenty minutes he felt like crying, and by the time they got to thirty he couldn’t take it anymore. He thought that after all of the chaos the two of them had endured, Jaskier had seen it all. He should be desensitized. He should be able to handle anything, but this felt so different from anything they’d seen before.

Now they knew so little. How could he know there wasn’t another diagnosis lurking underneath Elaine’s hypothesis? How could he be certain that he wouldn’t take a nosedive? Tragedies like this happen every day. What were the odds that he never left this hospital? Low, surely, but not zero.

He scooted his chair as close to Geralt’s bed as he could, and then pulled out his phone. He was going to land himself in his own hospital bed if he let himself continue to spiral. He dialed one of the only people he thought might be able to make him feel better.

“Hey, kid. How are things at the hospital?”

“Something is wrong, Eskel.” The words sounded empty and hollow, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Geralt’s eerily still body. “He’s really sick.”

“What’s going on?” His tone changed abruptly to serious and concerned. “Did you get more test results back? Has he been diagnosed with something?”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier replied past the lump in his throat. “I don’t have any new information, but he’s just gotten his endoscopy and he’s still unconscious and I don’t know how to describe it, but he looks wrong. I can feel it, Eskel. Something is wrong.”

“Is he being monitored?”

“Yeah, we haven’t gone back to the ICU yet. We have to wait until he wakes up and gets his vitals checked,” he explained.

“Well, that’s the most you can do.”

“What do you mean?”

“If there is something wrong,” Eskel began. “Then the most you can do for the moment is sit with him, and make sure to let the nurse know if you have any concerns.”

That’s what he’d been doing, and it was driving him crazy.

“Have you told the nurse what you told me? About having a gut feeling that something is wrong?”

“I didn’t want to sound crazy,” he admitted.

“I promise, they won’t think you’re crazy. I’ve heard enough stories, and even seen a few myself, of spouses who got really strong feelings about what was wrong with their partner.”

“And how often were they right?”

Eskel didn’t answer.

“How often, Eskel?” If he didn’t get a straight answer he might just burst into tears.

“Don’t do any worrying yet,” he instructed. “You just keep your eyes on him, and keep open communication with his care team, and I promise you’ve got your bases covered.”

The next time the nurse came in, Jaskier sat up and pulled his eyes away from the hospital bed.

“Hey, um. I feel like there might be something wrong,” he stammered, not able to predict what her response might be.

“What do you mean? Is he exhibiting any symptoms?”

“I can’t really explain it.” His face went hot. “But he’s my husband, and I just have this feeling.”

He felt a little less embarrassed when she gave him a sympathetic smile. “I understand,” she assured him. “I promise I’ll keep an extra close eye on him. And if you have any other feelings, let me know.”

“Thank you.”

After she left, Jaskier laid his arm out on the mattress next to Geralt’s, taking his hand and laying his head down a few inches away from Geralt’s shoulder. He wondered if this was what Geralt had felt like when he’d had to get emergency brain surgery during their last year of university. If so, he wondered how he’d survived it.

Back then he’d viewed the horrible case of tonsillitis Geralt had gotten when Jaskier was transported to West Valley Hospital, to get his shunt placed, as an unfortunate coincidence. Now it made perfect sense that his body had stopped working right when Jaskier’s had. He was one more stressful night from coming down with his own case of tonsillitis, or flu, or god forbid another stomach bug. Things had to turn around soon.

“Shouldn’t he be waking up?” Jaskier asked the next time the nurse returned. “It’s been nearly forty-five minutes.”

“Sometimes it can take up to two hours for people to come around after being put under. I promise I’m keeping a close eye on him,” she said. “He could start waking up any minute.”

Except he didn’t. He stayed like that, terrifyingly still, for another hour before he even began to stir. And then there were a couple of false alarms. By the time he actually woke, Jaskier was about ready to have a panic attack.

“Good morning my sleepy boy.” He really did seem to be awake this time, his eyes not only open, but actually moving and focusing on things, if only briefly. “How are you feeling?”

Decidedly not good. That became more obvious with every second that passed. Jaskier knew that general anesthesia could be rough, but he should be feeling better the more he came out of it. Geralt looked like he was on a decidedly downward trajectory, and Jaskier had no idea how to help.

His body was starting to shake, as if making up for how long it had been so completely still, and the vomiting followed not long after. Jaskier should have seen it coming. Why had he been naive enough to think that Geralt might get to rest for a little while? It was good he’d already canceled everything else the doctor had wanted to do today. Geralt wouldn’t be going anywhere any time soon.

“You’re alright, love. Just breathe.”

He ought to be accustomed to the vomiting by now. He’d been puking for three days. Jaskier had seen him sitting on the toilet being violently ill, in an ambulance, even unconscious while having a seizure. He should be desensitized, but seeing Geralt throw up, so miserable, and in so much pain, never failed to break his heart just a little bit.

And the vomiting was only the start of it.

“I can’t. Don’t feel good.”

It would be easier if Geralt could better communicate what he needed, but based on how he looked, how unfocused and in pain he was, Jaskier should be grateful that he could speak at all. He worried it might not be the case for long.

“Don’t feel good, how? Can you give me any more details? Do you need to be sick again?”

“Cold.”

Jaskier could have guessed as much. He was as familiar as anyone with the chill that came with general anesthetic, but Geralt looked downright hypothermic, and those tremors were using more than their fair share of his energy. He wanted to climb into bed with him and hold him against his chest until he warmed up, but his condition was far too fragile to have anyone so close.

“Dizzy.”

Now Jaskier felt like he was the one who’d been dunked in an ice bath. The first time Geralt had said this he’d fainted. The second time he’d had a seizure. He couldn’t believe it would be anything kinder this time around.

Thankfully, Jaskier didn’t have to figure out how to handle this. The nurse had returned.

“Hey, um, he’s really not doing well.” She could see it too, right? It was obvious now. This wasn’t just a husband’s intuition anymore. “He says he’s feeling cold, as well as dizzy. And he’s still holding his stomach.” Jaskier was certain at this point that Geralt was about to either vomit again, or lose consciousness. “I’m worried he might not be done throwing up. It’s unusual that it only happens once.”

At first she gave him the same sympathetic look as he’d gotten from telling her he felt like something was wrong before. It changed rapidly after she looked at how his vitals had changed since waking up. In fact, everything happened rapidly after that.

Even her explanation about how his vitals showed warning signs for shock seemed like she was racing to get the words out.

In the short time they were alone while the nurse ran to get the doctor, Jaskier turned his attention back to Geralt. Before, even when he’d been puking, he’d seemed pretty out of it. His eyes were unfocused, and he looked exhausted, but there hadn’t been any emotion there. He’d been too tired. This news seemed to have shocked him as badly as it had Jaskier though. He looked afraid.

“Hey, it’s just preventative. They just need to make sure your vitals don’t drop any further.” He said it to comfort himself as much as he did to comfort Geralt. “It’s gonna be fine.”

He stroked Geralt’s lank, tangled hair, wanting to be as close to him as possible. He wasn’t the priority right now though. Geralt’s vitals were, and the nurse didn’t hesitate to move Jaskier away from the bed while she and the doctor rushed to accommodate these scary new symptoms.

He stood against the back wall of the room, hands behind his back, watching them give him medicine, and oxygen. They draped a thick blanket over him too, and soon Jaskier was allowed back at the bedside.

“Is that better?”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s eyes were half closed, and he still shivered despite what Jaskier could now see was a heated blanket. “Stay.”

They both knew that was the only thing he could do at this point. Staying by his side was all that Jaskier could offer.

So he kept on a good face, and he stuck to Geralt’s bedside like glue, ready to help as soon as there was something he could do.

“Feel sick.”

This was something he could do.

“Alright, let’s sit up. You’ve got it.”

Sitting up wasn’t easy. Geralt groaned, his jaw clenched. They weren’t all the way up when Geralt made a noise somewhere between a groan and a whimper.

Jaskier scrambled to grab the emesis basin while still holding Geralt steady with a hand on his back. He got it up under Geralt’s chin just in time for him to burp, and for a burble of vomit to spill out of his mouth.

Geralt doubled over for the first real heave, so Jaskier was able to rub his back and hold the emesis basin as Geralt continued to vomit, instead of supporting the weight of most of his upper body.

All the while, Jaskier was so tense that his muscles were starting to cramp. He kept trying to anticipate what horror might come on the tails of this misery. Would he faint, or have another seizure? Would his vitals drop? Would his nose start bleeding again, or would he start bleeding from his stomach or his throat?

He retched, letting his mouth just hover over the basin, body shaking and eyelids fluttering as he brought up another tablespoon of bile. There was nothing left. It wasn’t fair to make him go through this. The retch was followed by a few harsh coughs, one final gag, and one final mouthful of stomach contents, before it relented.

The second it was over, Geralt’s body went limp—well, as limp as someone shaking this badly could. He set the basin aside. There was barely anything in it anyway, just a small slimy puddle of pale yellow bile. Then he helped Geralt lay down again. Judging by how much weight Geralt allowed him to shoulder, he guessed if he wasn’t there, Geralt would have just collapsed flat on his back.

“There you go, love.” Jaskier put on the best reassuring face he could muster, and wiped the few stray drops of vomit off of Geralt’s mouth and cheeks with a tissue. Automatically he went for his standard comfort: I’m sure that feels better, but looking at him now, Jaskier was certain that the puking had done nothing but continue to damage his already wrecked body. “It’s over. You can rest.”

He hoped these sentiments were true, but it was hard to believe there was any rest in Geralt’s immediate future.

Jaskier tucked the heated blanket up around Geralt’s shoulders, surprised when Geralt wiggled one hand out from under the blanket and over to the edge of the bed. The signal was minuscule, and would probably only be obvious to Jaskier, the tiny wiggle of his fingers, but he could tell exactly what his husband wanted. He took Geralt’s hand. It was cold and limp in his, trembling along with the rest of his body, too weak to grasp Jaskier’s hand.

His eyes were trained on Jaskier sitting above him. His focus wasn’t exactly sustained, but it was clear he was looking up at his husband.

“What is it, love?”

Geralt was so silent and still for so long, that Jaskier assumed he wasn’t going to answer. Honestly, he assumed he hadn’t heard, but apparently it just took him a while to collect his thoughts.

“I’m scared.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier nearly burst into tears.

“I know, love,” he replied. “I am too, but you’ve got lots of people looking out for you: me, your team here, Elaine, Eskel. We’ll do the worrying. You just worry about feeling better.”

“Don’t feel good.” He let his eyes fall closed, teeth still chattering. Jaskier wondered how much more of this shivering his body could handle before he fell unconscious again. He couldn’t possibly have the energy to keep this up for much longer.

“Do you feel like you’re going to throw up again?” he asked, defeated. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Don’t know.”

“Do you want to try and sit up with the basin?”

“I want to go home.”

“Soon, love.”

“Don’t lie.” His voice cracked on the second word, barely a whisper. “Please.”

Jaskier considered this. He was ready to do anything to help Geralt feel better, but he wasn’t sure honesty would do anything but make him feel worse. He tried to think of what he’d wanted to hear during his last indefinite hospital stay—if there were any words that brought him comfort during the nine days he’d spent between two different hospitals.

“Okay, maybe it won’t be as soon as we’d like,” he admitted. “It might be another day. It might be another week. I wish I could tell you,” he began. “But I can tell you that you’re going to be so supported and taken care of while you’re here. I’ll be here every day. You’ll have visitors, and every test you do is just getting us one step closer to knowing exactly what’s going on and exactly how to fix it.”

“No more tests.” He didn’t sound annoyed or frustrated at the prospect of more testing. He sounded afraid.

“I know, love. You’re done for today.”

“No,” he said past chattering teeth. “ ‘m done.”

Jaskier couldn’t argue with this man—not the one laying on the bed, shaking, and terrified, and so so sick. Later he might be able to be reasoned with but now? Jaskier feared anything he said would just make Geralt feel worse.

“Okay,” he conceded, lightly running his fingers through Geralt’s hair. “No more tests.”

“Hmm.”

“How are we doing in here?”

Jaskier hadn’t even heard the nurse return. He turned so Geralt wouldn’t hear him. This was some honesty that he did not need.

“He is really not handling this general anesthesia well,” he admitted. “He’s never had problems before...”

“Has he woken up any more?”

Jaskier shook his head. “He’s barely lucid, he’s terrified, he’s still throwing up. Is there anything else you can do?”

She checked his vitals.

“So we gave him something to stabilize his blood pressure, and that seems to be working,” she began. “But his respiration still isn’t where it ought to be. And you’re sure he doesn’t have any history of asthma? Maybe as a child? No history of pneumonia or bronchitis? Anything that might explain this?”

“He’s a professional athlete,” Jaskier said, although it was hard to believe it now, seeing him so ill laying in bed. “He plays rugby.”

His cheeks were hollow, and the IV nutrition they were giving him clearly wasn’t enough for him to hold his weight. This was the body of a sad, sick boy, but a week ago he’d had the lungs of an athlete. That shouldn’t have changed. “I think it’s just exhaustion.” After three days horribly ill, he didn’t have the energy to do anything, even the most basic things.

“I’ll let the doctor know and she’ll decide on our next step.”

It turned out the next step was having Geralt vomit again, nearly faint, and lose what little lucidity he’d had to begin with. Only then did the doctor come to them with a list of adjustments for them to try. She explained that they were going to try switching Geralt’s painkillers, and adjusting the dose of his antiemetic, and the final thing she did was switch Geralt’s cannula for a mask to try and get his respiration to where it ought to be.

Jaskier didn’t get his hopes up. They’d been adjusting Geralt’s meds constantly since he’d gotten here, and most of the time the adjustments didn’t bring any real changes. So he was shocked, and relieved when, after another fifteen miserable minutes of nausea and tremors, Geralt drifted off to sleep.

With how fragile he’d been since the endoscopy, part of Jaskier had assumed he’d end up fainting, or worse. To see him fall asleep felt like a huge weight being lifted off his shoulders. He realized then just how tired he was, and he wished more than anything to climb into bed with his husband and sleep until morning.

In fact, he’d started to doze off in the hard back chair in their tiny post-op room when the nurse finally cleared Geralt to go back up to his room in the ICU. Jaskier followed sleepily, his feet scuffing the linoleum tiles during the trek back upstairs.

Geralt woke briefly during the transfer, but by the time Jaskier was able to collapse into the armchair he was out cold again.

And Jaskier was not far behind.

He slept much longer than he thought he’d be able to, and probably could have slept a little longer if not for his phone buzzing in his pocket. The room was dark, and he had to squint at the screen to get his brother in law’s name to come into focus past the sleep in his eyes.

Afraid he might wake Geralt, who still seemed to be sleeping soundly, Jaskier stumbled out into the hallway before picking up.

“Hey, Eskel. I’m sorry I didn’t call. I fell asleep.”

Without thinking he’d gone down the hall to the stairwell, and he tucked himself away to have this conversation.

“I can come home,” he offered. It was past Ciri’s bedtime, but he felt bad for abandoning them. He hadn’t even gotten to come see Geralt yet. Jaskier owed him a lot.

“Don’t worry about it, Jaskier. I’ve got everything handled over here. I just wanted to check in on you two.”

He was more responsible than he had any right to be, and it made Jaskier feel worse about being such a mess.

“Did Ciri go to bed okay?” After her reaction to leaving the hospital that afternoon, he worried another meltdown was inevitable.

“We had a great evening,” Eskel assured him. “I did have to promise you’d be here for breakfast in the morning to get her to go to bed though. Do you think you’ll be able to?”

“I’ll be there.” It was the least he could do after how he’d neglected them. “I was meaning to come back to make her dinner and get her to bed, but I fell asleep and ended up being out for like six hours.”

“So does that mean things are going smoothly over there?”

Jaskier sat down on the top step, resting his elbows on his knees and yawning. “They are now. Finally.”

“Eventful afternoon?”

“Yes, and no,” he replied. “The doctor wanted to do several tests, but Geralt had a meltdown, so we decided to just do the endoscopy. And it’s a good thing we did, because he could barely handle just doing that.” He very nearly hadn’t handled it at all.

“Oh no,” Eskel sympathized. “Did something go wrong during the procedure?”

“Nothing wrong with the procedure,” Jaskier answered, “but he had a hell of a time with the anesthesia. It took him ages to come out of it, and when he did he started throwing up, and his vitals dropped. They gave him something to raise his blood pressure, and they put him on oxygen, and after about an hour they were finally able to get him stable enough that he could sleep.”

“Is he still sleeping?”

“He was when I left.” Jaskier was getting antsy to get back. It had been five minutes, maybe, but so many things had gone wrong this week. He had to remind himself that Geralt would be taken care of even if he wasn’t there to oversee it, and in doing so realized he was becoming his mother. “I think he’ll be asleep for a while,” he continued, wanting to be optimistic. “I’m hoping until morning.”

“Well that’s good at least.”

They discussed in a bit more detail everything that had happened today, and figured out scheduling for the next day, so Eskel wouldn’t worry about missing his exam, but before long Jaskier was yawning, chin in his palm and eyelids heavy.

“Alright, I’ll let you go, Jaskier,” Eskel said after they’d wrapped things up. “I hope you have an uneventful night.”

Some god out there must have looked upon him and Geralt with favor. Because they did.

Chapter Text

Jaskier didn’t sleep nearly as soundly after that, and was awake for several hours during the night, but that was to be expected with the long nap he’d had in the afternoon.

He answered some work emails, sent an update to Elaine, and best of all watched Geralt sleep soundly, his vitals stable and his body relaxed throughout the entire night. The sun was up by the time he woke, and when he did open his eyes, they found Jaskier without trouble. The haze from yesterday was gone, along with a lot of the tension. Jaskier didn’t even want to think it, lest he jinx them, but Geralt looked better. He looked a lot better.

“Morning sleepy boy.”

Geralt replied with a squeak, his mouth forming the word but producing no sound.

“Aw, have you still got a sore throat?”

He cleared his throat, wincing and bringing his hand up to cover his adam’s apple. “It’s wrecked.”

He was reminded again of when he’d gotten tonsillitis after Jaskier’s brain surgery. Between the pain from the endoscopy tube, the pain from the anesthesia, and the repeated acid burns, this very well could be worse.

“You don’t need to push it,” Jaskier told him. “You don’t have to talk.”

Geralt gave him a thumbs up, and that gave Jaskier an idea.

“Are you feeling better?” He mirrored Geralt’s thumbs up with a hopeful expression.

Geralt tilted his head, squinted his eyes, and made a hesitant so-so sign.

“Better than yesterday, but still pretty shit?”

This earned him the most emphatic thumbs up he thought Geralt could manage right now. His eyes shut, and he relaxed into the pillow.

“Well it’s a step in the right direction.” He ran his fingers through his husband’s hair.

It sounded like Geralt tried to hum with contentment, but the noise came out sounding like he was going through puberty again at twenty-eight. Jaskier had to stifle a laugh. “Just relax, love. I’ve got you.”

He dozed on and off for the next little while, only waking when the nurse came in, or Jaskier removed his hand from the mattress. He spent most of his nap cradling it like a teddy bear. It fell asleep so thoroughly that by the time he woke up enough to roll over Jaskier had lost the ability to move his fingers. This wasn’t the important thing right now though.

The reason Geralt had decided to wake up and stay awake, was the doctor standing at the foot of his bed.

“Good morning, Mr. Bellegarde,” she greeted. “How are you feeling?”

“Rough.” His voice was strained trying to get the word out. “But not like I’m dying anymore.”

Jaskier hated that this was barely hyperbole.

“That’s very good to hear,” the doctor said. “Your vitals are definitely more stable than they were yesterday. You’re still running a fever, but everything else is back in a good range.”

“That’s so good to hear.”

“How are your symptoms?”

“Still pretty nauseous,” he began. “Feverish too, and everything hurts. Worst is the throat though.”

That was evident enough from the face he was making, and how few of his words came out without cracking, or dropping off halfway through.

“Managing that pain will be a big part of what we spend this morning on.”

“So will he just get to rest?” Jaskier asked. He was arguably better rested now than he had been in about four days, but he still looked desperate for some more sleep. Other tests still had to happen, but they could wait, couldn’t they?

“I’d like to do another clear liquid test this morning,” the doctor told them.

Jaskier had been afraid of that.

“We won’t make any more plans until after that’s finished.”

The nurse brought in the drink a few minutes after the doctor left. She put it on the little table on one side of the bed when she noticed how Geralt’s hands were shaking.

“No need to rush,” she reminded him. “Take your time. Sip slowly. I’ll be back in a bit to check up.”

“Thanks,” Geralt mumbled.

“Just do your best,” Jaskier echoed her sentiments. “If it doesn’t work out we can see about further accommodations to maybe make this a little easier.”

Geralt took a sip and then made a face. “Tastes awful.”

“I know, love. Try your best.” It felt not unlike trying to get Ciri to eat a new food.

“Hurts my throat.”

At this, Jaskier was ready to bring the doctor back in, and insist they find a less torturous way to do this, but Geralt soldiered on. The whining was a necessary part of this process; it didn’t mean he was going to give up. Another sip. Another grimace.

“Do you want me to turn on the TV or something?” Jaskier asked. “A little distraction.”

Geralt gave him a thumbs up and took another sip.

Jaskier found a channel playing Bob’s Burgers, and the two of them settled in to try and get through this test.

He did spend longer this time. By the time the first episode ended, he was halfway through the cup.

“How are you doing, love?”

Tired thumbs up.

“Are you feeling okay?”

Halfhearted so-so.

“You can stop, love. You don’t need to push it.”

Thumbs down. “I can do it.”

“Just remember, the point is to figure out whether or not you can keep it down. If it starts to feel like you won't, you can stop. That gives the doctor the exact same information as if you’d finished it and thrown up.”

He hated to think about Geralt being sick again. He’d thrown up too many times this week. His body couldn’t take it anymore, and with his throat already so wrecked it would be torturous. Geralt was stubborn though, and after the second episode finished, he drank the last inch or so of electrolyte drink in one swig, wincing and coughing. Jaskier took the cup, and replaced it with the basin, worried the coughing would be followed by vomit, like the belching had yesterday.

Geralt managed to collect himself, but when Jaskier moved to take the basin back, he grabbed it.

“Love,” Jaskier sighed.

“Don’t be mad,” Geralt whispered.

“I’m not mad, I just hate seeing you sick.”

And already he could see more signs of that sickness appearing. The way Geralt’s jaw was set, the hand hovering over his belly, the sweat forming on his brow.

“I just want it to be safe.” He held the basin protectively. “I don’t think I’m going to throw up.”

They both knew he was lying. Jaskier kept an eye on him for the entire third episode, watched as the nausea grew thicker and thicker, and Geralt tried harder and harder to fight it. Jaskier tried to be reassured by the fact that Geralt at least had the energy to pretend like he was okay. Unsurprisingly, this did little to make him feel better.

Geralt swallowed hard, and grimaced, pressing his lips together and taking deep breaths through his nose.

“I know it’s going to be rough, but you’ll be glad once you’ve gotten it over with.”

“Yeah.” Geralt nodded weakly and let his mouth fall open, his head hung over the basin. Jaskier rubbed his back, and the both of them waited in tense silence.

He gagged first, and then coughed. Jaskier thought he’d lose it then, but he managed to collect himself, for better or for worse.

“Ow,” Geralt rubbed his throat, frustrated and upset.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Geralt repeated. “I want to lay down,” he said. “Don’t think I’m going to be sick.”

“Okay, love.” He kept the basin in reaching distance, and laid down in the fetal position. Jaskier let himself believe in Geralt’s optimism—it would be a huge relief to have actually passed the clear liquids test, and he’d been able to gag and still collect himself afterward—but had he really made such big improvements overnight?

Jaskier almost believed it, but when Geralt gave up on sleep and brought the basin back to sit under his mouth, he knew that the nausea had never really faded. Geralt had been able to ignore it for a while longer, and who knew, it could have made him feel better to put things off, but the next time he gagged he wasn’t able to pull things back. The electrolyte drink came up in torrents. Geralt’s body had energy again after finally being able to sleep through the night, and it was using that energy now.

The vomit flooded from his mouth and nose, and Geralt was unable to do anything but hold himself up on one elbow and keep his mouth positioned safely over the basin. Puke ran from his nose, and tears formed in his eyes. His body seemed to fold in on itself. It was like someone had taken a plastic water bottle and crumpled it up until the cap burst. He just lay there tense and motionless, vomit gushing from his mouth until nothing remained and he was able to breathe again.

Geralt’s hand returned to his throat, but he didn’t even have the energy to wince anymore.

He didn’t move when Jaskier took the precariously full basin from his hands, or when he wiped his mouth with a tissue. “How can I help?”

“My throat,” Geralt rasped. “This’s torture.”

“I’ll see if there’s anything they can give you.”

Being restricted to just the electrolyte drink, which he couldn’t keep down, really limited his options. What he needed was some ice chips or a popsicle, maybe a slushee if he wasn’t too traumatized, but until he could pass the clear liquids test his hands were tied. He was starting to wheeze though, and obviously in a lot of pain. They had to do something.

The doctor agreed that as soon as Geralt could pass a clear liquids test they’d be able to give him popsicles, or other topical treatments, but for now all they said they could do was let him sit with a vaporizer for a while.

“It should ease some of that discomfort at least,” the doctor told him. “You were on oxygen for several hours yesterday, and that often dries out the throat. This should help with that.”

But would it help with the acid burns, and the aftermath of having a camera stuck down his throat? Jaskier could only hope.

They adjusted his bed so he was sitting up, and that helped ease the raspy breathing a bit, but it was after they set him up with the vaporizer over his mouth and nose that he visibly relaxed.

“Does that feel nice?”

Thumbs up.

They let him stay that way for a while, cradling the vaporizer and watching TV, until he started to drift off and they had to take it away. It didn’t matter by then though; he was out cold.

Good. Failing the clear liquids test had been a blow, but hopefully this success would make up for that. And hopefully Geralt would sleep for a while. He needed the rest, and Jaskier needed to get home. Breakfast with Ciri was drawing dangerously close to lunch with Ciri
.
Geralt didn’t stir when Jaskier kissed him on the cheek, right above the red indention from the plastic mask, or when he left the room. He told himself he wouldn’t be gone long. He needed to see Ciri, and either get her ready to come here, or see if Elaine and Susan could take her again. Maybe one of them would go visit Geralt so Jaskier could spend the whole day with her. She needed his attention.

Jaskier didn’t like leaving Geralt without anybody though. He could manage on his own, but Jaskier much preferred he had someone with him who was familiar with his autism who could be his advocate. Especially now, when he was really needing some accommodations, and barely able to speak for himself.

He was immensely thankful for Eskel, Susan, and Elaine for stepping up to take care of her, but he missed Ciri. They’d all three be together soon. Until then, they would just have to keep juggling babysitting duty for the both of them.

Chapter Text

Jaskier was gone the next time Geralt woke. This was obviously not ideal, and he would be upset if not for the person who’d come to take his place.

“Eskel.”

“Hey, kid.” He grinned.

“I was hoping you’d visit,” Geralt said, the words cracking painfully in his throat.

“I’ve been wanting to, but I’ve been at your house with Ciri. Jaskier’s there with her now.”

Good, if he wasn’t going to be here, Geralt was glad he was with Ciri.

“He said he’d probably come back with her this afternoon.”

“Oh, good,” Geralt replied. He missed her.

“You sound wrecked,” Eskel remarked. “How are you feeling?”

“Wrecked.” The word was barely intelligible, further proving this point.

“Better than yesterday though? Jaskier’s been keeping me updated on what’s happening. That endoscopy sounded rough.”

“It was.” Rough didn’t even come close to describing. Coming out of the anesthesia had him feeling like he was on his deathbed. Just thinking about it made him feel panicky. Eskel must have picked up on that because he rushed to reassure him.

“It sounds like you’re doing a lot better now though,” he told him. “I bet that was the worst of it.”

“Hope so,” Geralt replied. “I want to go home.”

“Have they told you anything about when you might get discharged?”

Geralt shook his head. “Haven’t passed the clear liquid test.”

Eskel winced.

“Failed it twice.”

“That doesn’t sound like fun,” he commiserated. “What are they giving you? Is it the yellow stuff?”

“Mhmm.”’

“Yeah that stuff is gross. They sent some home with me when I got noro a few years back, saying it was the absolute best thing for rehydrating after being sick like that, but I didn’t drink hardly any of it.”

Well that was reassuring. And it was coming from Eskel who was far less picky than he was.

“You should see if they’ll let you switch to Gatorade for the next test,” he suggested.

“You think they’d let me?”

Eskel shrugged. “Worth a shot.”

Geralt was sure if he had to drink that again he’d throw up, just from the trauma of throwing it up the first two times, but Gatorade? Eske could be on to something.

He stayed for another hour, catching Geralt up on everything he’d been doing at school, and the girl he’d hooked up with a couple of times. He could have happily listened to Eskel talk for hours—his voice was calming, and he had a way of giving every story an optimistic spin—but he had to go take his exam.

“You’d better take care of yourself while I’m gone,” he warned. “I’d like to come visit you, but I’d much rather do it at your house.”

“Agreed.”

Eskel tousled is already messy hair, as if Geralt was eight, not twenty-eight. “Alright, I hope you keep feeling better. And good luck with your test!” he said.

“You too.”

Eskel grinned. “I’ve got a good feeling we’re both going to pass.”

***

The next few hours were the longest stretch Geralt had been alone during his entire stay. It made him feel extra grateful that he’d had someone with him the entire rest of his time here. He was significantly less stressed when he had Jaskier, or Elaine, or Eskel at his bedside, ready to speak on his behalf if the need arose. At least nothing too terrible took place during his time by himself.

The doctor came in to discuss the results of the endoscopy: his throat and stomach lining were pretty inflamed, but there were no signs of internal bleeding or ulcers. Then he took another nap, before having another blood test and being told that his kidney function was continuing to improve. Jaskier called after that, and he had a lovely conversation with his husband and daughter.

“Sorry I haven’t kept in better touch,” Jaskier apologized. “Ciri has just been really needing my attention, but we were thinking we might come and visit,” he said. “Does that sound good?”

“I’d love to see you,” he replied. “I’ve got my next clear liquid test soon though.”

“Oh.” If it went anything like the last two, he didn’t want Ciri there, but he would like Jaskier with him.

“Eskel said to ask if I can drink Gatorade instead of the other drink,” Geralt said. He did have hope this would go better than the last two. “You and Ciri can always step out.”

“So you want us both there for it?” Jaskier asked, sounding hesitant.

“I’d really like to have someone here with me,” he admitted. It had taken him a long time to be able to be so vulnerable. He’d put in a lot of hard work, and he would prefer if it paid off by allowing him to have Jaskier ask about the Gatorade instead of him.

“Right, yeah,” Jaskier said. “Of course.”

“No rush.”

Knowing Jaskier, he probably did rush, but it was still a while before he and Ciri appeared in the doorway, hand in hand and looking very happy to see him. Everything took more time with a toddler. He was just glad they’d made it.

“Papa!” Ciri explained, running up to his bed. “Me and daddy went to the park!” She looked up at him, eyes gleaming, looking happier than she had in days. Seeing her like that made him too feel happier than he had in days.

“You did?” he asked. “What did you play?”

This sent her into a long, often gibberish filled chronicle of everything that she and Jaskier had done at the playground earlier.

Jaskier settled into the armchair, listening and occasionally chiming in while Ciri chattered, holding onto the rail of the bed and looking up at Geralt with so much love and excitement he worried he might start crying.

“She did make sure and remind me that I don’t know the right way to push her on the swings,” Jaskier told him. “Several times.”

“You have to duck under the swing,” Geralt advised. “And you can’t wait till the last second to let go, you need to go early so you’ve got room for one last big push. That’s how you get it as high as she likes.” These might be the most consecutive words he’d said all week. They hurt his throat, and left him out of breath, but didn’t discourage him.

“See, I just worry. I feel like she’s going to fall off the swing.”

“If she falls, she falls. It’ll teach her something. You’ve got to learn those things young.”

“You rugby players are crazy,” Jaskier scoffed. “Remind me next time you take her to a park to send you with a helmet.”

“Okay Jask,” he smiled. Even though he was technically being scolded, he didn’t care. This was the nicest time they’d had as a family since before he’d gotten sick. He’d take whatever he could get.

They got a whole, blissful hour of this before the doctor returned mid-afternoon to ask about the clear liquid test.

“I actually had a question about that,” Jaskier spoke up. “The drink he’s had the past two times has been really abrasive on his throat.”

Smart. That sounded much more official and reasonable than, “my husband has about the same palate as our toddler, and he doesn’t like the taste.” Although in his defense, the taste alone was enough to make him feel sick. He doubted he’d be able to keep that stuff down in perfect health.

“I know that his kidneys are obviously the biggest consideration, but is there any way he could have something that’s a little less salty?” he requested. “Last time was really painful for him. I’m not sure how much more his throat can take.”

“We do have to keep the electrolyte balance in mind, but as long as we keep a close eye on him, and keep checking his kidney function, I think we can get by with a Gatorade. I don’t think we can do anything with less electrolytes than that.”

“That’s perfect,” Geralt said, the state of his voice just further strengthening their argument. “Thank you.”

“Hey, it’s your favorite color.” Jaskier nudged him when the nurse brought in a cup of bright blue Gatorade.

“Very funny.” He tried to say it in a sarcastic monotone, but his voice cracked twice, sending Jaskier and Ciri into a fit of laughter.

Somewhere along the line, blue vomit had become the standard, but Geralt was determined not to throw this up. The last two tests, he’d assumed passing was almost completely out of the question. This time he felt better going in, and he got a familiar, not horrible tasting drink. He could do this.

Geralt took a hesitant sip.

“How is it?” Jaskier asked. “Is it better?”

Geralt took a second, longer drink and then let his head fall back onto his pillow. “This is the nicest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Chapter Text

This comment prompted a long exchange that began with Ciri wanting to have some—after all Gerealt had just called it the nicest thing he’d ever tasted—and ended, after a lot of very patiently explaining things and repeating themselves, with Jaskier taking her down to the cafeteria to get her a chocolate milk.

“I’m jealous,” Geralt said when they returned. “That looks delicious.”

“I thought the Gatorade was the best thing you’ve ever tasted?” Jaskier teased.

“True, but nothing hits quite like chocolate milk.”

Ciri must think the same, sitting there holding the carton up to her mouth with both of her tiny hands, and revealing a chocolate milk mustache when she brought it back down.

“Too bad it would completely wreck me.” He didn’t even want to think of the pain and misery that it would trigger. At the very least he’d puke it back up, and he likely wouldn’t get off that easy.

“How’s the Gatorade working out for you?” Jaskier asked. “Looks like you’re doing a pretty good job. How do you feel?”

“I’m starting to feel more nauseous,” he admitted. He was about a third of the way done with it, and the nausea which had been holding steady, was starting to creep up again. “Trying to keep from getting too anxious and making it worse.”

“Why don’t you take a break?” Jaskier actually took the cup out of his hand and set it aside. “You’re not on a time limit. There’s no need to rush.”

“You’re right.”

He let himself rest for a while, and listened to Jaskier and Ciri chatting about the different things in the hospital room, explaining what they’re for.

“What’s that?” She pointed at the monitor.

“That is showing information about Papa,” he said. “Like how fast his heart is beating.”

“Is it going fast?”

“Nope, he’s nice and calm.”

“He’s better?”

“Not yet, baby,” Geralt told her. “But I’m getting there.”

This was all the encouragement he needed to pick his cup back up. He wanted to go home. He wanted to be all better.

He spent about twice as long on each of the second two thirds as he had on the first, but managed to keep the nausea in check. It wasn’t until after he finished, and shifted in bed, feeling the liquid slosh in his stomach that it spiked.

“You okay?” Jaskier asked, wary. “You’re looking a little green.”

“Not sure,” he answered truthfully. “Definitely nauseous.”

Jaskier didn’t wait to hand him the basin, and while he wished he had a bit more faith in himself, he couldn’t refuse it.

“It’s okay, love. You can always try again.”

“Not sure.” Geralt took a deep breath in through his nose. “If I’m going to or not.”

Ciri, who had been quietly tapping something on Jaskier’s phone, looked up and pointed at the monitor.

“Papa, it’s faster.”

She was right, his heart rate was spiking, bringing the nausea with it.

“Hmm.” Geralt kept his lips pressed shut.

“Would you like me to take her down to the playground for a bit?”

“Mhmm.”

“Oh, I’m really sorry, love.” Jaskier kissed him on the cheek. “We’ll leave you be for a bit. Just call if you need anything.”

And then it was just him alone with his basin. He thought about just opening his mouth and letting it happen—the simple act of giving in would probably be enough to start him puking again. At this point looking at him wrong would probably be enough to make him throw up. But he couldn’t bring himself to.

He’d like to think it was some valiant perseverance, and while he was determined to get home, his main motivator now, in the face of still growing nausea, was his desire to avoid pain.

The last couple times it had felt like he’d been vomiting up molten glass, and each subsequent scorching only made the pain worse. He couldn’t take it. This was torture.

He took another deep breath in through his nose, mouth shut and eyes trained on the bottom of the basin. Then another one. And another one.

He slipped almost into a type of meditation, his focus split between his slow, even breaths, and the nausea. He held the basin steady with one hand and gripped his belly with the other. Another deep breath.

There were a few times where he was certain if he’d relaxed even the tiniest bit the whole cup of Gatorade would have come pouring out of him, but whenever this happened he’d just gritted his teeth and taken another breath. And slowly but surely, it started to work.

The nausea crested, and began to fade. He could hardly believe it, and refused to take the mercy for granted. He didn’t relax until the nausea had faded enough that he wouldn’t start puking as soon as he let his guard down, and waited another ten minutes at least before he set the basin aside and traded it for his phone.

“Love, I was wanting to check in, but I didn’t want to interrupt anything. It’s been nearly an hour. Is everything okay?” The anxiety was obvious in the way he’d begun to ramble. He’d assumed something had gone wrong. “How are you feeling? Do you want me to come back up? Should I bring Ciri, or—“

“I did it,” Geralt cut it, too eager to wait for Jaskier to pause. The joy was obvious in his voice, despite how wrecked it was.

“Huh?”

“I passed.”

“Oh my gods, love that’s great!” Jaskier celebrated. “Have you spoken with the doctor? I mean, is it officially on your record and everything?”

“I haven’t yet, but I’m sure I’ve got it,” he said. “I still feel nauseous, but the vomity feeling has completely passed.”

“Oh, Geralt you have no idea how happy I am for you,” Jaskier replied. “I am so proud of you. We’re one step closer to getting you home!”

“Can’t happen soon enough.”

“Do you want Ciri and me to come back upstairs?”

“Would you?” He was eager to have them back, and was glad to have Jaskier there when the doctor came in to go over the test with him.

She was just as thrilled as Geralt and Jaskier over how he was handling the Gatorade, and agreed that they were a step closer to discharge. This specific step was a move from the ICU down into a less serious ward.

They called Susan and Elaine once they had Geralt settled in the new room, so they could celebrate too.

Eskel returned not long after, bringing dinner for him, Jaskier, and Ciri from their favorite diner.

“Do you want us to go eat outside?” Jaskier offered. “I don’t mind staying here with you until Eskel and Ciri are done so you’re not by yourself. I don’t want the smell to make you feel sick.”

“I’m okay.” The smells weren’t appealing, and he still had absolutely no appetite, but they didn’t make him feel pukey either.

And a good thing too, because not long after they finished eating, the doctor came in, and let him know that she’d like him to try and drink some more Gatorade.

A part of him was glad. It meant he was getting better. It was good that she had confidence in him, and the Gatorade had been refreshing to drink before. But it had also made him feel ill.

What if keeping it down had been a fluke? What if there was some other factor now that might change the outcome: the exhaustion from changing rooms, the time of day, the fact that he’d already done this once today. What if his body had had enough?

“I’d like to do one last clear liquid test tonight, so tomorrow we can see about getting some imaging done with contrast.”

So it really was just another test. Another test so he could take yet another test. When would it end?

“If you’re able to keep this down, we’ll try the contrast solution tomorrow, and if those images come back clean, I think we’ll be able to get you out of here.”

“Alright,” Geralt agreed unenthusiastically, “thanks.”

Chapter Text

Geralt’s pouty mood must be obvious, because it became the center of attention the second the doctor stepped out.

“How can we make this easier?” Jaskier was eager to help.

Geralt set the cup aside. He didn’t want to take a single drink before he had everything figured out, and was calm and settled. Any other course of action was a meltdown waiting to happen.

“I think I’d like some privacy.” His eyes flicked awkwardly over to his brother and daughter. It wasn’t that he didn’t want them here, but he didn’t want to have to worry about putting on a good show and drinking the Gatorade. He wasn’t ready for that level of multitasking.

“That’s perfect.” Eskel stood up, immune to awkward situations as ever. “I’ve got to get home soon anyway—class in the morning.” A convenient excuse. It wasn’t even Ciri’s bedtime yet, let alone his. “Do you want me to take Ciri back to your house so you two can have some time?”

“You’ve done your share,” Geralt told him, feeling bad about all the inconvenience he’d already caused him. “I don’t want to put you out.”

“Hey, I’m a nursing student in a one bedroom apartment, with about four things in his fridge, and you’re a married couple with a house, and a stocked kitchen, and way more streaming services than I have,” he joked. “You’re not putting me out. Trust me.”

“What time is your class tomorrow morning?” Jaskier asked, way less wary about ‘putting Eskel out’ than Geralt was.

“Eight.”

“Alright, I’ll be home in time to get Ciri to bed then.”

That would give him and Geralt another hour or two together at least.

“I’ve got my stuff at your place already, and you actually live a little closer to campus than I do,” he pointed out. “It’s really no trouble.”

“Still, if she’s up tonight, you shouldn’t be the one to have to deal with it,” he pointed out.

“Whatever you need to do,” Eskel conceded. “But I’ll be there if you need me.”

After they finished their negotiations, it was time for goodbyes and goodnights. If everything went as he’d like it to, they’d be saying goodnight at home tomorrow.

“Do you sleep here?” Ciri asked after she’d hugged him goodbye. He got the feeling that despite his and Jaskier’s couple of conversations with her about it, she still didn’t really understand the concept of a hospital.

“I will tonight,” he replied.

“And you’ll come home at school?”

“Maybe I’ll come home while you’re at school,” he answered truthfully. “But I might still be here, and Daddy will bring you to come see me after school.”

“Promise?”

“If I’m still here tomorrow I promise you can come visit.”

This seemed to placate her, and Jaskier was able to successfully get her transferred into Eskel’s car without any tears.

“Alright.” Jaskier re-entered the hospital room, snapping his fingers and looking over to him. “Ready to totally crush this clear liquids test?”

Geralt looked at the still full cup thoughtfully, as if he had any choice.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you not feeling well?” Jaskier asked. Geralt just raised one eyebrow. “Okay, wrong question. Do you feel more unwell than you did when you passed earlier?”

“No,” Geralt admitted. “I’m just worried it was a fluke.”

“Only one way to find out, love,” he reminded him.

“I know.” Geralt took a reluctant drink. “But I’m tired of being sick.”

“Oh, baby. I know you are.” Jaskier sat down right next to the bed and started running his fingers through Geralt’s hair in the way that always helped to relax him. “Another passed test is another step closer to being home though.”

People did keep telling him that. He wasn’t sure if he quite believed it though.

“I thought passing the first test meant I got to go home,” he said. “But as soon as I passed they’re telling me that I actually get to go home once I pass the MRI, which is going to be a lot harder, I just know it.”

“You’re right,” Jaskier sighed. “She should have given you clearer goals. It did seem for a while that passing would mean getting to go home, and I’m sorry that it ended up not being the case. I understand that must be frustrating.”

“It is,” Geralt insisted.

“You’ve got to remember that she’s still figuring stuff out as we go though,” he continued. “Maybe when she first said it, she really did think she’d be able to let you go after you’d passed.”

“It’s still not fair,” he mumbled.

“I know.” Jaskier kissed his forehead. “But there’s nothing to be done but keep following instructions. It really sucks—trust me, I want you home as bad as anyone—we’ve just got to be patient.”

“How do I know there won’t be another test I have to pass after the MRI?” he asked. “And another after that?”

“We’ll ask the doctor,” Jaskier told him. “We’ll try and get a more concrete game plan.”

“Okay.” He feared that was the best he was going to get.

“So are you going to keep drinking the Gatorade?” Jaskier asked, hopeful.

He really didn’t want to.

“I suppose.”

Lacking any real conviction, he drank it very slowly. He spent over an hour slowly sipping his drink, and probably would’ve spent longer, but Jaskier needed to get home to get Ciri to bed, and if Geralt was going to throw up, he wanted to get it over with, and be settled by the time Jaskier needed to leave.

“Hey, good job,” Jaskier encouraged when Geralt set the empty cup down. “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty okay, actually.”

“Good.” Jaskier sounded genuinely relieved. “Maybe the worst part is finally behind us.”

It was further testament that the worst was over when Jaskier left for the night to take Ciri home and nobody came to take his place. This was his third night here, and finally he was stable enough that Jaskier felt fine leaving him.

He scolded himself for wishing this wasn’t the case.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be well—he wanted it desperately—but he was afraid of staying here alone. What if something happened and he couldn’t speak up for himself? What if he was forced to speak up for himself? He wasn’t sure which was scarier.

“Hey, I’ll come straight back here as soon as Ciri’s at school,” Jaskier offered. “If you need me you can call, and I promise I’ll pick up, okay?”

“Yeah okay.”

Jaskier kissed his forehead. “I love you. You can do this.”

He could, yes, but he didn’t want to.

Chapter Text

Geralt slept poorly that night. He thought about calling Jaskier during one of the long episodes of tossing and turning, but he doubted there was anything he could do over the phone to help.

He’d badly messed up his sleep schedule since coming here, and although it wasn’t his fault, Geralt kicked himself for sleeping so much during the day today. He didn’t fall into a deep sleep until the early hours of the morning. The only upside to this was that at least this way he slept late enough to not have to wait for Jaskier to arrive the next day.

He came straight from taking Ciri to preschool, and was filled with all of the positivity Geralt was lacking.

“Good morning!” He entered Geralt’s room with a coffee in hand, and judging by his enthusiasm, it was not his first. “Was last night okay? How are you feeling?”

“Couldn’t sleep very well, but other than that it was fine,” he replied. His throat was still sore and cracking, but Jaskier didn’t let this discourage him either.

“Good, I’m glad nothing happened while I was gone,” he said. “How are you feeling now?”

“Sore, tired, nauseous.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” Jaskier replied. “Do you at least feel a bit better than you did yesterday?”

“I guess.” He honestly couldn’t tell. “I don’t think I’ll feel good until they let me go home.”

“Well hopefully that’ll happen here before too long.”

Sure enough, the nurse came in less than an hour later, with instructions for his MRI.

“Since we had consistent success introducing clear liquids yesterday, the doctor feels good about trying the contrast solution.” Sure enough, she had a bottle of something in her hand. “But don’t worry. We’re going to make sure you’ve got plenty of antiemetics just to be safe.”

She handed him the bottle. It looked about as appealing as the electrolyte drink had, and it was hard to tell, but he thought this might be more volume than he’d been expected to get down before.

“The main thing is, you need to drink all of the solution within an hour, so we can make sure we get some really good pictures.”

Okay, he got a full hour. He’d spent about that much on the Gatorade and that had worked out for him.

He broke the seal on the bottle and took a drink, grimacing. The immediate image in his mind when he tasted the contrast liquid was highlighters. The electrolyte drink had tasted artificial and salty. This was downright chemical. He could already tell it was going to be tough to get all of it down.

“I know.” She acknowledged the face he was making. “It’s not the tastiest, but you’ve just got to get through it. I’ll be back in twenty minutes to check in and bring you the next bottle.”

“Huh?”

“You’ve got to drink a whole liter,” she clarified. “This is the first third.”

Geralt was horrified.

“We’ll do one bottle every twenty minutes, and then take you straight away to do the MRI.”

“What if I can’t finish it?” he asked. He felt like he’d be lucky to make it past the first bottle without losing it.

She gave him a sympathetic, but ultimately unhelpful smile. “Just do your best, okay.”

“Yeah.” Geralt didn’t make eye contact, looking defeated at the bottle in his hand. “Okay.”

“Hey, you’ve just got to try,” Jaskier reminded him after the nurse left. “If it doesn’t work out, then it doesn’t work out. Nobody is going to be angry with you.”

That was comforting to hear, but it didn’t change the fact that failing would mean being ill again, which he would really rather avoid.

Physically, he felt like he’d be able to handle it better now than he would’ve a day or two ago, but emotionally he knew it would wreck him—to get through all of yesterday just to be sick again today. He didn’t have time to worry though. He needed to get through this damned bottle.

“Is it easier on your throat at least?” Jaskier asked, when Geralt took another drink and failed to avoid making a face. “Or is it just as bad as the electrolytes?”

“It definitely doesn’t feel good.” Pretty much everything still felt like swallowing broken glass. “But it’s not making it worse like the salt.”

“Well that’s good at least.”

Jaskier kept up this relentless stream of optimism while Geralt continued to drink the contrast as quickly as he could without puking.

As it was, he still had about a quarter of the bottle left when the nurse returned. She stood there and watched while he drank the last of it in two painfully large swigs, before trading his empty bottle for a full one.

Despite his time limit, Geralt sat with the bottle open for a minute after the nurse left, taking deep breaths and looking at it, as if that might be enough to get the liquid to disappear. He was definitely feeling nauseous, and he didn’t want to think about how much more nauseous he’d be at the end of this bottle.

“Nearly halfway there,” his husband encouraged.

Geralt went to respond, but ended up stifling a belch and clapping a hand over his mouth. Jaskier didn’t hesitate to hand him the basin, asking if he needed it only after it was already securely in his lap.

“I’m okay,” Geralt said, taking his hand off his mouth, handing Jaskier back the basin, and returning his hand to his belly. “Feel a bit better now actually.”

“Good,” Jaskier replied, relieved.

“How much time do I have?”

Jaskier consulted his phone. “Seventeen minutes.”

Better get to it then.

He looked pitiful enough after the second bottle that the nurse gave him an extra two minutes to get through the end of it. Unfortunately, not pitiful enough to spare him the misery of the third bottle.

“How are you holding up, love?”

“Don’t think I’m about to puke, but don’t quote me on that,” he mumbled, breaking the seal on the last bottle. “Cheers.”

“You’re almost there,” Jaskier encouraged.

He was not almost there. He was barely over halfway there, and he felt much sicker now than he had when he’d started the first two bottles.

“This really does taste awful,” he complained.

At first there had been at least a little sweetness to counteract the harsh chemical taste. Two bottles in, his taste buds were either burned, or they’d learned to ignore everything but the bitter contrast. It felt a lot like taking that last shot of vodka at a party, after he’d already had too much to drink and started feeling nauseous. He wanted to gag on every swallow.

When he looked down to see that his first five minutes of diligent sipping had barely gotten him a quarter of the way through, he let his head fall back on the pillow, momentarily overwhelmed by his frustration.

“You’re doing great, Geralt,” Jaskier said. “You’re so close.”

“I don’t feel good.”

“I know, baby.” Jaskier brushed a hand over his forehead, and then let Geralt rest his cheek in his palm.

“This stuff is gonna suck to throw up,” he said, a very weak attempt at a joke.

“Do you really think you’re going to throw up again?” Jaskier turned, hand hovering over the basin.

“Not this second,” he replied, noncommittally. He did feel like it was coming though, and he worried this third bottle was going to be the nail in the coffin.

“Do you think you should call it?” he asked. “Or do you think you can finish?”

Geralt was surprised at how genuine he sounded. He must look as pitiful as he felt. “Would you really let me?”

“I mean, I’d like for you to take the test, but I’d hate to see you sick again.”

If he was sick again though, puking up three bottles wouldn’t be much different than puking up two, and if he could get the MRI done they might let him go home.

“I think I can manage it.”

His decision was reinforced by how relieved Jaskier looked to see him take a drink. He took the biggest swig he could manage, hoping that somehow the bottle would be half empty when he pulled back.

Not even close. And he’d wasted several of his minutes talking with Jaskier rather than sticking to his slow and steady pace. Now he had to rush. The horrible sloshy feeling was back, and a part of Geralt wondered if this was just how his body would be from now on—how his stomach would feel whenever he filled it.

The thought of it made his stomach turn with anxiety, and he nearly lost it right then. Thankfully, he was able to swallow hard and take a deep breath through his nose, because there was no way he’d have gotten to the basin in time. He would have absolutely flooded the bed, throwing up nearly a liter of liquid onto himself.

“You okay?” Jaskier asked.

“Mhmm.” He took another deep breath.

“Okay, the nurse is here, love.” He broke the news as gently as possible, but it still was an unpleasant surprise. He’d thought he had a little more time. He hadn’t even heard her enter.

“Can I just have another minute?” he asked, his voice weak and cracking.

“I’ve got one more patient I need to go check on,” she said, taking pity on him. “You can have until I get back. Won’t be long though, don’t get too comfortable.”

Geralt thought getting comfortable was a completely unrealistic goal at the moment, but he was very grateful not to have to chug the last half a bottle. As it was, he still had to rush, and barely got it down before she returned, ready to take him to the MRI.

“Do you know how long this will take?” he asked, trying not to sound too whiny or desperate, although he felt like he was both at the moment.

He’d gotten the contrast liquid down. By some miracle of the gods, yes. But he had no idea how long he would be able to keep it down, and that wasn’t the kind of thing he wanted to find out while inside a very expensive piece of medical equipment.

“These usually take about an hour,” she told him. “It doesn’t usually take much longer than that, but it depends. You’ve got complete control though. If you feel like you need to stop you just let them know, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Sometimes if it looks like it’s going to be on the longer side, the technician will let you take a break halfway through.”

Neither of those things did much for his confidence, but his confidence didn’t matter. Those accommodations would have to be enough. At least he’d have Jaskier back in his room to meet him afterward, whatever shape he was in.

Selfishly he regretted not seeing if Jaskier could come with him. He had to tell himself that this was good. Jaskier deserved to go get a coffee, or a pastry, or answer an email, or just scroll on his phone mindlessly for an hour.

He’d practically lived here the last three days, on top of taking care of Ciri. He hadn’t had a moment to himself in quite a while. This would be good for him, unfortunately it promised to be horrible for Geralt.

Chapter Text

The three steps to get from the wheelchair onto the MRI machine set his head spinning, and he missed the first couple of instructions from the technician, and it seemed like they were the first of many.

“I’m sorry.” Geralt had to look up at an awkward angle to see them, head still spinning. “What was that?”

They were kind, and patient enough to go through the list of instructions, which as Geralt feared, was pretty involved.

“If you start feeling sick or anything, please let me know,” they reminded him. Good to know they were also worried about him throwing up in their machine. And for good reason.

The MRI was a fucking battle.

It would be bad enough if he just had to deal with the claustrophobia, and the laying still on his back while an entire liter of contrast sloshed around in his still very sensitive belly, but that wasn’t the half of it. He was getting near constant instructions about when to breathe in, when to breathe out, when to do neither. They also had to remind him not to shiver, despite being freezing cold, and check in to make sure he wasn’t about to throw up or faint.

He felt ready to do both about six times each.

Unable to control his nausea through his breathing, he had to resort to clenching his teeth and praying to any god that was listening. He wished he could know how much time had passed. It felt like eight hours at least, but probably wasn’t more than a half hour knowing his luck.

Geralt kept reminding himself that he could call it off as soon as he needed to. He was in complete control.

Just one more breath and then I can ask to stop. He could see it in his mind, getting pulled out of the machine, doubling over, and spewing the entire liter in one go. Just one more breath and then I can ask to stop. Jaskier is waiting for me in my room. Just one more breath then I can ask to stop.

“Alright, can you lift your hands up above your head?” the technician asked.

When he did it, his stomach growled, and a shiver ran down his back. His whole body trembled violently for a half second, and he mumbled an apology before the tech could scold him again.

“Just two more sets,” they told him.

He had no idea what that meant, but it turned out to be another eternity of breathing, and then not breathing, horrifically nauseous the whole time and telling himself that after the next breath he could call it all off and get whatever he needed to do over with.

“And we’re done!”

Geralt could hardly believe it. He’d actually done it.

The entire time during the scan, he’d imagined himself getting out of the machine and immediately losing it, and he was pleasantly surprised, shocked even, when he made it from the scanner into the wheelchair without so much as gagging.

He actually felt better now that he wasn’t lying flat on his back. He was able to wrap an arm around his belly and take even, consistent breaths that made him feel less nauseous, rather than making him feel like he was drowning.

Jaskier sprung up as soon as they wheeled him back into his room, looking ready to do damage control.

“Hey, how did it go?” He walked next to Geralt’s wheelchair until they got to the bed, hovering over the transfer looking very antsy. “Are you feeling okay?”

He wasn’t able to answer right away, too focused on getting into the bed without having anything press against his belly. True he didn’t feel like puking anymore, but he didn’t want to push his luck.

“I got through it,” he said once he was back in the bed, curled up in the fetal position around his aching stomach. “Didn’t puke.”

Jaskier let out a big sigh of relief. “Oh, Geralt, I am so glad,” he said. “And how are you feeling now? Are you feeling okay? You look a little unsteady.”

“Don’t feel great,” he answered truthfully. “But I think I’m through the worst of it.”

“I am so happy to hear that, love.”

Judging by how relieved he sounded, Jaskier’s hour had been almost as tense as Geralt’s. He was upset Jask hadn’t been able to take the time for himself to relax. Maybe they could do that together now.

“What can I do for you?” he continued. “How do I help?”

“Can you find us something to watch on TV, and then just sit here with me?”

“I would love nothing more.”

The same channel as before was playing M*A*S*H again, and the two of them were able to enjoy what might be the most comfortable hour they’d had together since Geralt had first gotten sick.

“Do you think they’re going to let me go home soon?” Geralt asked it in a whisper, as if saying it too loud might jinx him somehow.

“I don’t know, baby,” Jaskier replied. “Hopefully after we get the MRI results.”

“Today?”

“Maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced. “I think you need to prepare yourself for both options.”

“I just want to be at home with you in our bed,” he said. “I want to be with my daughter.”

“I know you do, but these things take time. We’re making progress though.”

“I know.”

Not enough. And he feared what he’d be subjected to next. He kept hoping the next time someone came in it would be the doctor telling him that his MRI was clean, and after three passed clear liquids tests, he felt more than qualified to go home.

He didn’t think about all of the IV fluids that he was getting that he’d have to get orally after they discharged him, or about how the doctor might be interested in seeing whether or not he’d completely lost the ability to eat solid foods—something Geralt suspected, but didn’t really care much about at this present juncture.

When the nurse returned, not with MRI results, but instead with instructions to give him some jello and some crackers and see how he did with them, he was frustrated to say the least. Geralt had no desire to find out what his body would do with solid food.

“Do I have to?” He asked Jaskier once they were alone again. He thought he’d been through enough today.

“They’ll feel a lot better about sending you home if they know you can eat,” Jaskier reminded him. “But if you don’t think you can manage it we can see if we can push it back a bit further.”

Which of course would set his discharge back as well. He still didn’t feel recovered from the contrast fluid, and his first time eating in about two days would be stressful at the best of times, but he feared doing anything that might keep him here.

“I’ll try,” Geralt said, unenthusiastic. “Not sure how I’ll do though.”

“All you’ve got to do is your best.”

It was almost laughable how little food she brought him—a little plastic container of green jello, and four saltine crackers. It would have been if not for Geralt’s uncertainty that he could get even this down.

“What if I just never ate food again?” he asked Jaskier, doing a poor job of covering his very real anxiety with humor. “I think I’d be fine. I think I could do it.” He didn’t think he could do this.

“Okay,” Jaskier humored him. “You’ll have to get a feeding tube though, and you can’t really play rugby or train with one of those, so you’d either have to quit, or replace your ng tube any time you need to eat, which will be often if you’re playing rugby again,” he was picking up speed. “And those things are a bastard to place, let me tell you. It’s literally just swallowing a whole load of tubing and—”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Geralt cut him off, wanting to gag at the mental picture Jask was painting.

“You’re really nervous though, aren’t you, love?” His tone was genuine now, and full of sympathy.

“I am,” he whispered, ashamed. This was barely a step up from clear liquids. He ought to be able to do this.

“You’ve been doing really well,” Jaskier reminded him. “You got through both clear liquids tests, and the contrast, which I could tell was pretty brutal. This shouldn’t be too much harder than that.”

“You’re probably right.”

“If you really don’t think you’re ready, then we can wait,” he offered. “But I worry if you wait too long the anxiety is just going to get worse. It might be easier to just rip off the bandage now, so to speak.”

“Yeah, okay.” He wasn’t thrilled about this, but if it got him home.

He picked up the spoon and opened the jello. He felt like he was feeding Ciri baby food again, putting the smallest amount on the spoon that he could get away with, slowly working himself up to full bites, alternating with nibbles of cracker.

“Hey, you’re doing a really good job,” Jaskier remarked when he was about halfway through his little meal, a considerable while later. “How are you feeling?”

“Weird.”

“Weird like you haven’t eaten in four days weird, or weird like I should call in a nurse weird?”

“First one,” he replied. “I think.”

“Well if that changes please let me know.”

Chapter Text

It really was hard to pin down exactly why Geralt felt so strange. His stomach felt heavy and tight, as if he was eating a feast rather than something he wouldn’t have even considered an adequate snack before. He kept on with his mission to finish though, still hoping that if he succeeded he might get to go home.

The strange feeling in his belly was probably just his system waking up after being pretty much dormant for the better part of a week.

That was the reason it had started making those loud, angry noises again. Geralt tried to fool himself, but the weird feeling was quickly morphing into a bad feeling, and his body was starting to send out more signals to make sure he knew this.

He was breaking out in a cold sweat, and when his hands started to shake badly enough to make it difficult to get the jello from his spoon to his mouth, he decided to throw in the towel.

“I think I’m done.” The spoon clattered against the plastic tray when he went to put it down, his hands still shaking. “ ‘m sorry.”

“There’s no need to be sorry.” Jaskier moved the tray out of the way so Geralt could curl up in the fetal position. “You did a good job.”

“Hmm.” He didn’t feel like he’d done a good job. He felt like he’d made a mistake.

“How are you feeling now?”

“Nauseous.”

“I’m sorry, baby. Do you think if you lay here and rest for a bit it might pass?”

“Maybe.” It didn’t feel like it would, but he’d thought for certain he’d throw up the contrast liquid before, and he’d managed to avoid it. He was just delusional enough to hope he might avoid it again.

He shut his eyes, thinking maybe he’d be able to just sleep it off, but the bed started rocking like a boat in a storm.

“How about you sit with the basin?” Jaskier gently suggested. Good to know he looked as green as he felt.

Jaskier helped him arrange himself and the bed, so he could be half sitting up with his head still supported by the pillow as it hung over the basin.

He felt like if he let himself, he’d lose it within seconds, but he wasn’t quite ready to give in. Two crackers and a couple tablespoons of jello should not be enough to make him ill, especially after he proved himself able to keep the contrast down.

Unfortunately, they were.

He held out for a while—longer than he thought he would to be quite honest, and there were brief periods where the nausea would calm, and lull him into a false sense of security. Overall though, he could tell that whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not, he was getting worse. He hadn’t felt like this with either of the clear liquid tests, or even the contrast.

An ache had settled in his belly. It felt like someone had taken hold of his organs and was slowly squeezing them tighter and tighter. It pushed the nausea further up his throat, and he could tell that the squeezing would be turning to cramps soon.

He might be able to stay in denial for a little while longer, but that wasn’t going to do him any good. If this was going to happen, it would all be a lot easier if he accepted it and started making accommodations for it now.

“Hey, I’m really not feeling good.” At this point it felt like he was uttering a curse. Those words were never followed by anything good.

Jaskier sprung into action as if he’d been waiting for this. He probably had been. He’d been able to hear Geralt’s growling belly as clearly as he himself had, and he’d had the added bonus of watching him go greener and sweatier with every passing minute.

“Do you need to go sit in the bathroom?”

Geralt pushed himself up into a sitting position, the room spinning dangerously as he did. His stomach turned and let out a long, menacing growl, and he groaned, unable to stop himself.

“Okay, yup. We’re going to the bathroom,” Jaskier decided. “Can I help you into the wheelchair, or should I get the nurse?”

The nausea swelled rapidly, and Geralt fumbled for the basin just in time for him to produce a sickening lime jello flavored belch, which let him know that this was all happening a lot faster than he’d thought before sitting up.

“No time.” He swung his legs off the side of the bed, not even waiting for a hand from Jaskier to help him get the few steps from the bed to the wheelchair.

He was grateful for the hospital grippy socks in that moment, certain that without that little extra bit of stability he’d be flat on the linoleum right now. As it was, he still fell awkwardly into the chair, unable to regain his equilibrium before it was moving.

Geralt retched loudly into the basin, just barely able to keep his stomach contents where they belonged.

“Two more seconds, love.” Jaskier sounded frantic.

“Oh, fuck.”

The next cramp that gripped his insides was white hot, and warned of terrible things to come. He did his best to breathe through it, and by the time Jaskier had him safely parked by the toilet he no longer felt like he was about to explode, but he knew that feeling wasn’t going to get him very far. He feared the next time the nausea or pain swelled like that, it would all be over for him.

He was able to get himself onto the toilet despite the alarming speed at which the room was spinning around him, and once he was out of danger, he was able to calm down a bit, and think a little more clearly.

“What can I do?” Jaskier asked, already pulling back Geralt’s sweaty, greasy hair into a fresh ponytail. “How can I help?”

“I think I can manage this time,” he said. Having Jaskier here before, when he’d been half brain dead and barely able to hold his head up was one thing, but Geralt was more aware now, and with that awareness came shame, however unnecessary.

“Are you sure? I really don’t mind.”

“Uh huh.” His stomach made a loud unpleasant sound, and Geralt’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I’ll be okay.”

Jaskier didn’t look like he agreed with this statement, but he didn’t push it. “‘Alright, I’ll be just outside if you need anything. And don’t be afraid to press the call button if you feel like something’s wrong. The nurses want to help, okay?”

It was clear he too wanted to help, but Geralt could feel the inevitable getting closer, and he would prefer a bit of privacy. He nodded, shivering and gritting his teeth.

“Okay.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, love.” Jaskier came right up next to him while the doctor stood a few feet back. “How are you feeling?”

“Awful.” His voice was back to being as wrecked and unusable as it had been yesterday, and aching just as fiercely, although that was the least of his current concerns.

“Are you able to describe any of your symptoms?” the doctor asked.

“Hmm.” Geralt fought to keep his composure long enough to answer. “Lots of puking.”

He forced the words out past his gag reflex, which was already itching to activate again.

“Some dizziness.”

That might be putting it lightly, but they were the only words he could find. His stomach decided to chime in with a loud, twisting growl that bubbled up through his guts, moving things out of place, and pushing Geralt closer to the edge. “And bad cramps.” He winced.

The doctor probably had more questions to ask, but that was the best she was going to get from him. Again, he felt the pressure shift in his belly, mortified that everything was about to start up again, just as horrifically as before, only now with an audience.

He wondered if the fever was returning, or if the pricks of heat on his face and neck were from shame. There was silence then, a stalemate between the three of them, none of them knowing how to proceed.

Geralt of course was the one to break it. He let out an involuntary sound halfway between a groan and a gag, and then sat horrified as everything started up all over again.

It poured from him in unreasonably large quantities. He hoped at least that the puking was enough to distract from what else was going on, too embarrassed to care whether or not the doctor had an accurate picture of what he was experiencing.

Nobody said anything until the next respite, apart from Jaskier’s quiet encouragements. Once he was able to lift his head, he looked at the doctor, his whole body trembling violently, and the storm in his belly still churning away.

“Please,” he whispered, forcing himself through his shame to look up at the doctor. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I think it’s safe to say that you’re not quite ready to reintroduce solid foods,” she told him.

“Not the food.” He didn’t have the energy to do this, but he pressed on, afraid she might make incorrect assumptions about his readiness to go home. “Contrast.”

“The stuff they had him drink before the MRI,” Jaskier clarified. “I think the food might have been the last straw, but he was feeling pretty ill from the contrast drink this morning. I don’t think it ever agreed with him.”

It was the understatement of the century, and just thinking about the contrast liquid had him gagging and bringing up another heave’s worth of it. The vomit was hot, and stinging, and fiercely bitter, the taste of the contrast coming through strong. It didn’t help that a fair amount of it had come out his nose, only making the taste more impossible to escape.

“Okay.” The doctor nodded. “The contrast can cause nausea and vomiting, so this could be a reaction to the contrast, but it might just be your system not being quite ready yet.”

The puking had stopped again momentarily, and Geralt did his best to listen, but the whole time he was just willing the doctor to say whatever she needed to and leave, so he could endure this in private.

“We’ll want to keep an eye out for any symptoms of an allergic reaction: rash, tightness in the chest, any sort of swelling or itchiness in the mouth. If it’s just your body not being able to handle that much yet, there isn’t a whole lot we can do other than try antiemetics, keep on with the IV fluids, and wait it out.”

Waiting it out did not in any way sound conducive to getting to go home, and Geralt tried to hide how badly this news upset him. Jaskier had told him not to get his hopes up. He’d been a fool to think he was nearing the end—of his hospital stay, or this episode.

“Alright,” Jaskier agreed. “Thank you doctor.”

By the grace of all the gods, she took this as her cue to leave, and Geralt was able to let his weak facade fall.

Too tired, and upset, and exposed to try and regain any more of his privacy, Geralt took Jaskier’s shirt in one hand and guided him so he was standing in front of the toilet, in a position where Geralt could rest his head on his husband’s belly. Good thing he knew Jaskier had no qualms with this sort of vulnerability, no matter how gross.

“My poor sweet boy.” Jaskier rubbed his back while Geralt took shaky breaths into the half full basin. “How are you holding up? Do you think you’re through the worst of it?”

Geralt shrugged. He honestly had no idea. He made no assumptions anymore; it was clear he didn’t know what was going on, or how to handle it. Again, he felt trapped, a victim to his own body.

Things did seem to be slowing down though. Every minute or two he’d either sit through another stomach cramp, or gag on another mouthful of bile, but his body seemed to finally be running out of stuff to force out.

The next time his muscle seized up, he was met with an empty, unproductive retch for the first time since this started. Hopefully this meant they were nearing the end.

“You’re okay,” his husband encouraged. “Get it out; I promise it’s not going to last forever.”

Oh, but it felt that way.

When all was said and done, he’d spent at least a quarter of this episode trying to empty an already empty system, and he felt completely wiped out.

The stomach cramps and nausea weren’t gone, not by any means, but they were beginning to fade. When he was able to get through the swells without his muscles contracting against his will to force things along, he felt safe enough to leave the toilet.

And a good thing too, because it had become a sensory nightmare.

His sweat was the main culprit, covering his entire body, causing his hair and the gown to stick to his skin. The hard plastic of the toilet seat was starting to dig into his skin too, and his feet were completely asleep.

And all of this wasn’t even mentioning the not inconsiderable amount of puke he’d gotten on himself. He felt absolutely disgusting, and it was going to cause a meltdown if he didn’t do something about it. Before he’d had the violent horrors of his body to distract him. Now that those had faded, this was his top priority.

“Are you ready to get cleaned up and back in bed?” Jaskier asked him after several quiet minutes. “I can call in the nurse to get you a fresh gown.”

Geralt spat into the basin, trying in vain to get the bitter taste out of his mouth, and then cleared his throat. “I’d like to shower,” he said, as clear and insistent as he could.

“Are you sure that’s the best idea?” he replied, wary.

He had to take a deep breath and collect himself before speaking, so he didn’t end up coming across as harsh or angry. There was little he could do to hide how upset he sounded, but that could work to his advantage.

“Love,” he began slowly, choosing his words with care. “If I can’t have a shower, and wash my hair, I am going to have a meltdown.” And he might just be well enough to go the whole nine yards, sobbing, stimming, hitting things. Nobody needed that.

“Then we are going to get you that shower.” Jaskier accepted his claim without question, and pressed the call button for the nurse. “Just hang in there for a few more minutes.”

It ended up being nearly ten minutes that he had to ‘keep hanging in there,’ but it was worth it.

He’d assumed that his request for a shower would trigger some huge chain of events during which he’d eventually just end up with a sponge bath, but no. The nurse arrived, took care of the vomit in the basin, and best of all, brought along a shower chair. She said Jaskier would be able to shower with him, and made sure he had a clean gown for when he was done. She even got him fresh socks.

“Alright, are you ready to do this?” Jaskier asked Geralt, who was still sitting on the toilet.

“Definitely.”

The nurse had to help a bit with the maneuvering from the toilet to the shower chair, since this last episode had him so drained that he was in danger of fainting again if he wasn’t careful. She stepped out as soon as he was settled though, and left him in his husband’s gentle, caring, and capable hands.

Chapter Text

When Geralt first asked to take a shower Jaskier was wary. A few hours ago he would’ve been all for it, but after this latest bout he was looking very sick again—too sick for anything other than laying in bed. He couldn’t blame Geralt for wanting to be clean though, especially after he realized that Geralt had gotten vomit on his gown.

“Love, if I can’t have a shower, and wash my hair, I am going to have a meltdown.”

He didn’t need any more convincing. Geralt would never lie about his autism just to get something he wanted, but even if he would, the way he said it was enough. He was minutes from melting down, maybe less.

“Then we are going to get you that shower.”

And get him his shower they did. The nurse was an absolute godsend setting them up with shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and best of all, a shower chair. That made Jaskier feel a lot better. This way he didn’t have to worry about him fainting and hitting his head.

“Are you ready to do this?”

“Definitely.”

The nurse left to give them some privacy, but before she did, she made sure to let Jaskier know he was more than welcome to use the shower as well, and set out two towels for them.

Jaskier helped get Geralt out of his soiled gown and into the chair, and then took off his clothes as well. He’d taken a shower this morning, but the last time Geralt had showered he’d spent most of it puking. Ciri had washed his hair, but any benefit from that was long gone.

He stepped into the small shower and positioned himself next to Geralt, so he could help him wash without blocking the water.

“Can you get it any warmer?”

It felt plenty warm to Jaskier, but Geralt was shaking like he’d been dunked in a bucket of ice water. The poor boy’s teeth were chattering. He turned the water to hot.

“Better?”

“Mhmm.”

He didn’t look better. He looked miserable. Shutting his eyes and letting the hot water wash over him was the closest thing to contentment he was able to manage, so Jaskier let him stay like that for a few minutes. He didn’t ask anything of him, until Geralt spoke again.

“Wash my hair?” The mix of hope and misery in his voice broke Jaskier’s heart.

“I’d love nothing more.”

He didn’t notice just how tangled Geralt’s hair had gotten until he started working the shampoo through it. That was going to take some attention.

Jaskier worked about twice as much shampoo as he normally used into Geralt’s hair, making sure to massage his scalp as he went.

Usually a scalp massage like this would make Geralt melt in his hands, but today he was somehow incredibly tense, while also barely able to hold his head up. Jaskier wasn’t sure how he was able to exist in such a dichotomy. It looked exhausting.

“I’m going to just crack the shower door, okay?” Jaskier said. Geralt had started to pant. The hot water was lovely, the steam on the other hand.

Geralt didn’t protest, too apathetic, or tired, or ill to care about something so inconsequential. Jaskier felt a little better once they got some fresh air though, and he hoped it meant Geralt would be able to enjoy his shower for as long as he could.

After he finished rinsing the shampoo from his hair, Geralt let his head fall back to rest against Jaskier’s belly.

“How are you doing, love?”

Geralt’s eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t feel good.”

“Oh, baby. I’m sorry.”

Geralt looked on the verge of tears.

“How can I help? Do you feel like you’re going to be sick again?”

“Uh, huh,” he whimpered.

“Do you want to stay in the shower, or do you need to go sit on the toilet again.”

He grit his teeth, and judging by the expression on his face, he was working through a cramp. After a few short, sharp breaths he confirmed what Jaskier already suspected.

“Toilet.”

Getting from the shower to the toilet brought to mind images of both of them slipping and falling and breaking limbs, but somehow they made it. Jaskier wedged his shoulder under Geralt’s, and crossed the few feet awkwardly dragging and carrying his husband along with him until he was able to sit down again.

“Alright, you’re okay. You’re there.” Jaskier was panting now too, searching frantically for the basin, which the nurse had left out by the sink.

Thankfully, he got it into Geralt’s hands in time, although all he brought up was a long slimy strand of bile.

Jaskier draped one of the towels over Geralt’s shoulders, and one across his lap, afraid he might just shiver himself right off the toilet. His heart broke for him. He knew how embarrassed Geralt could get in times like these, and the added indignity of having to sit on the toilet, naked and soaking wet, was downright cruel.

“There you go.” Jaskier tried in vain to pat him dry while he continued to work through what little remained in his body.

Geralt gave him a groan in response. Jaskier wasn’t sure it was voluntary though, as it was followed with the worst retch yet. It was like his body was angry that there was nothing left to bring up. The heaves were getting more violent and less productive each time, escalating to a point where Jaskier feared he’d knock himself out with the force of it.

“It’s all up,” Jaskier told him. “You’ve got to relax, baby.”

“I can’t,” Geralt whimpered.

Up until now he’d had his head sunk into the basin. It wasn’t until he looked up at him, that Jaskier noticed the tears. He thought for a second that his cheeks were just wet from the shower, which they definitely still were, but the red ringing his eyes and the way his bottom lip trembled (in the exact same way Ciri’s did when she cried), made it clear that he’d started to cry. This wouldn’t do at all.

Geralt hiccuped and inhaled sharply, and then let his head fall back to the basin so quickly that Jaskier reflexively put a hand under his forehead to catch him, afraid he was going to injure his neck.

The next retch was even louder than the last, and just as unproductive, morphing into a sob at the very end. This sob was followed by another, which triggered his gag reflex and kept him from being able to get the puking under control.

“I know,” Jaskier comforted. “This really sucks. I can’t imagine how sick, and overstimulated, and tired you must be right now, and I know you don’t want to be crying either, but you’ve got to breathe, baby.”

Geralt’s stomach growled, angered by Jaskier’s statement, and Geralt kept his head down. He was breathing much too fast, drool and snot running from his mouth and nose into the near empty basin.

“I can’t,” he choked out.

Jaskier noticed then how Geralt was digging his nails into the bare skin on his thigh.

“Is this a meltdown?” It certainly was, but making sure to be on the same page would help them try to navigate it.

“Uh, huh.”

“Do you think you’re done enough to get off the toilet?” His current set up would be sensory hell for anyone, autistic or not.

“Mhmm.”

“Okay, shower or bed?”

“Shower.”

Good, this way he didn’t have to worry about getting him dry enough that his gown and hair wouldn’t end up plastered to his skin and create a new sensory hell.

This time when Jaskier helped him to the shower Geralt gripped him with both hands like a lifeline until he was safely back in the chair. They hadn’t turned the water off, and Geralt relaxed a little once he was under it again.

Before Jaskier stepped back into the shower, he cleared away the remaining evidence of this latest bout. There was hardly anything to rinse out of the basin, and nothing in the toilet. Poor boy. That contrast must have really irritated his system to set him back this far in his recovery. No time to dwell on it though. He needed to get back to Geralt.

When he re-entered the shower, he was momentarily relieved to see the sobbing was over until he saw Geralt’s expression. His face was slack, completely devoid of any emotion negative or otherwise. His head and shoulders rocked slightly as he breathed far too quickly.

But the scariest part was his eyes. They stared with an unnatural focus at the wall of the shower in front of him. The gaze was focused, yes, eerily so—he wasn’t even blinking—but there wasn’t a thing behind his eyes. No recognition, or emotion, or thought.

This couldn’t be further from relaxation. He was dissociating. A last ditch attempt to keep the meltdown at bay.

“I’m just going to wait until you let me know you’re ready, okay?”

Jaskier feared touching Geralt now might set him off. He didn’t expect an answer, or even an acknowledgment, but when he was ready, Geralt reached out and took Jaskier’s hand, bringing it across to rest on his shoulder. He didn’t say anything, and when he moved, his eyes stayed trained just as diligently on his hand as they had on the wall, returning to that place as soon as the movement ended.

Jaskier took this as his cue to start applying the conditioner. If he could let it set for just a minute, the future task of tackling this tangled mess wouldn’t be so daunting. Geralt stayed completely still apart from the heavy breathing and the slight shiver that hadn’t quite left yet despite the steady stream of hot water.

Once his hair was sufficiently slathered with conditioner, Jaskier moved to wash his body. He tried to be quick but thorough, wanting to make sure none of the sticky sweat feeling remained.

Since Geralt remained stock still the entire time, not reacting negatively or positively, Jaskier thought he was handling the washing okay. It wasn’t until he got down to Geralt’s thigh, and saw his nails digging so deep that blood was dripping all the way down his leg that he realized this was very much not the case.

Jaskier pulled back as if he’d been burned.

“I’m so sorry,” he stammered, unable to process what was happening. “I’m so sorry, Geralt, I didn't notice.” He had caused this. “I didn’t mean to.”

The acknowledgment was the last thing Geralt could handle. It was as if a switch flipped. He went from sitting up straight to doubling over, the sobs coming so quickly and so violently it sounded as if he’d been working up to them for a while, not just starting now.

Geralt didn’t melt down like this often. And when they did get this violent he often tried to shut himself away, so nobody would see. Jaskier had witnessed one meltdown this severe before. It had been during their first six months of having Ciri home, when she’d been colicky for weeks, and screaming for hours on end every day. Geralt looked just as overwhelmed and upset as he had been on that day, and Jaskier was just as terrified.

Chapter Text

Geralt lifted his right arm, bringing it down to hit his thigh so forcefully that Jaskier worried he was going to break his wrist.

“Fuck,” Geralt sobbed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He hit his thigh with each word, his anger and force increasing every time.

His other hand was tangled in his hair. It was the same hand which had been gripping his thigh before, and the blood from under his nails left little pink spots on his freshly clean hair.

He ran his fingers over his scalp, stimming. One hand was trying to comfort, while the other one brought pain, his brain going to both coping mechanisms at once, desperate to find something, anything, that might help get those feelings out of his body.

The sobs bordered on yelling, and Jaskier anticipated the switch turning off at any second as his body shut down completely. He almost hoped for it. The fainting was scary, of course, but he was in agony, and Jaskier couldn’t bear to watch.

“Help!”

The volume of Geralt’s crying, and maybe even the loud smacks when he lashed out at his leg again, would probably have been enough to summon a nurse, but Jaskier didn’t want to chance it.

“Help, someone, please!”

“Fuck. I can’t do this. Fuck, Jaskier I can’t handle this. I can’t do it.”

“I promise you won’t feel like this forever.” Last time this had been the only thing that had gotten Geralt any calmer. “This will end. I promise. I know we can get you through it.”

He put his own hands in Geralt’s hair, trying both to help him calm down and to get the conditioner rinsed out so they could get him out of the shower.

It must help at least a little bit, because this brought Geralt’s stimming to neutral ground, both of his hands alternating between shaking harshly at his sides, or pressing hard against his cheeks.

It was as if Jaskier could see the wheels spinning in Geralt’s brain, cycling through every stim it could think of (or the more extreme ones at least), to try and find one which could help him.

After he was satisfied most of the conditioner was out of his hair, Jaskier stepped out of the shower, passed the already damp towel over his own legs, and then pulled on his briefs just in time for two nurses to arrive.

“He’s having a meltdown,” Jaskier said, trying for Geralt’s sake not to sound as terrified as he felt.

That was all he had to say.

They worked quickly, and with a certainty that showed this was some sort of psychiatric protocol.

They got him covered right away, which made Jaskier feel a lot better about the proceedings once he wasn’t fully exposed, only because he knew Geralt would feel embarrassed about it after this was over, if he wasn’t already.

One of the nurses asked the other one if they should call a security guard. Geralt had stopped hitting himself, but he was still stimming fairly aggressively, and he was a pretty big guy. He was glad she said no.

Jaskier wasn’t sure how he’d react to being met with physical force like that. He knew Geralt would never hurt someone on purpose, but Jaskier wasn’t sure it couldn’t happen by accident.

He’d never seen Geralt in a state like this with anybody but himself. Eskel had probably witnessed a meltdown or two like this, and Vesemir, but Geralt worked hard to make sure nobody saw him like this—even the people he trusted most.

“Jask,” Geralt sobbed. “Please.”

“I’m right here, love.” He was standing a few feet back to make room for the nurses, who were currently turning off the shower, and hastily drying him off. “I’m right here. The nurses are here to help.” He scrambled to find words of comfort for him. “They’re happy to help. We all want you to feel better.”

“I don’t know,” he whimpered. “I don’t know if I can.”

“I know you can,” Jaskier assured him. “Little steps. Can you take a deep breath?”

Geralt took three sharp inhales through gritted teeth.

“Good job. See? You’ve got this.”

He did the same thing again, just a couple short catch breaths. This got him calm enough that the nurses were able to lift him out of the shower and guide him back to the wheelchair, shouldering most of his weight while Geralt gripped the towel around his waist.

The screen of dissociation passed over his eyes again once they had him safely in the wheelchair. He continued to sob, but his body went limp, apart from his hands which were white knuckling the towel, and there was no emotion behind his eyes.

No doubt wanting to take advantage of this moment of pseudo-calm, the nurses wasted no time pushing him back into the main room and over to the bed. The screen could fall at any second and he could switch back to stimming—which was fine if that was what he needed to do, but it would make moving him harder.

As Jaskier suspected, the second he was safely on the bed he dissolved back into the more violent state. The nurses had to work around shaking hands to get the gown on him, before stepping back to give him his space.

“Can you stay for a minute?” Jaskier rushed up to the edge of the bed, looking over his shoulder at the nurses. He’d like to think he could rescue Geralt from this meltdown, but he wasn’t sure if he was capable. He didn’t want to do this by himself.

“Of course.” The first nurse nodded, and the other stepped out, looking like she was on a mission to retrieve something. Hopefully something helpful.

Geralt’s whole body rocked with the force of his shouting, gasping sobs, and he was pressing the heels of his palms into his thighs and rubbing lines down to his knees with enough pressure to bruise. Already some bruises were appearing where he’d struck earlier.

“What do I need to do to help you through this?” Jaskier asked. “I will do whatever you need, Geralt. We’re going to get you through this.”

“It’s too much.” His sentence was fragmented with sharp catch breaths. “It feels too strong. I’m going to break something. I’m going to hurt myself, and I don’t think I can hold it back.” He looked as terrified as Jaskier felt.

“Do you think you need to be sedated?” Jaskier hated himself for it, but he hoped Geralt said yes. He didn’t know how else to get this to stop.

“Yeah,” Geralt whimpered, his face screwed up into an expression so filled with sorrow, and pain, and shame that he hardly looked like himself anymore.

“Push four cc’s ativan.”

Jaskier hadn’t even heard the doctor enter. The nurse rushed to get the medicine into his IV.

“It should kick in after just a minute or two,” the doctor said. “Three at the most.”

Jaskier thanked her, before putting all of his attention back on his husband. Already the stimming was beginning to slow, responding either to the medicine, or maybe just the knowledge that this would be over soon.

He prayed this would all be over soon.

Chapter Text

Finally, the exhaustion was beginning to outweigh his need to stim, his body too tired to keep expending so much energy. This process was being helped along by the drugs the nurse had just put into his IV.

Geralt was relieved the hardest part of the meltdown was passing, but that didn’t mean it was anywhere near over.

Before he had been too upset to put his emotions into any sort of categories. The feeling was simply Meltdown. The worst of them all.

It was like all of his anger, and frustration, and sorrow morphed into one big, tangible emotion.

It ran through his veins, most of it settling in his hands and his chest. He had to force it out. He had no other option. He could try and dissociate, and that would buy him some time, but it did nothing but delay the inevitable. It was like trying to put off throwing up; with enough will, and some luck, it could be done. The price though, was an even worse episode after.

Geralt couldn’t imagine an episode any worse than the one he was coming out of now. It was so much more than his usual meltdowns. Usually he could get the Bad Feeling out by using the same stims he did day to day. Not this time.

This time it took much greater force. Enough force to draw blood and leave bruises. And even that hadn’t been enough. He couldn’t bear to think what he might’ve done if not for the Ativan.

He saw himself breaking a bone in his arm hitting it against his thigh, gripping the plastic bed rail until it cracked in his hand, or pulling on his hospital gown until it tore.

Now that the drugs were starting to hit though, the Bad Feeling was separating back into its more specific individual components. He felt waves of shame, fear, sorrow, and frustration. Their impacts were different, and they didn’t trigger the same violence as the Bad Feeling, but that didn’t mean they hurt any less.

If not for his husband in the chair next to him, he didn’t know what he’d do—sob until his body gave out most likely. And even with Jaskier here, and the drugs calming him down, that was still probably the route he’d end up taking. This way he’d at least have Jaskier to help him along.

“There you go.” Jaskier ran the very tips of his fingernails across Geralt’s scalp, moving in vertical lines staring at his left ear and moving around to his right ear and back again row by row.

He was stimming for him.

Geralt was far too tired and numb to move now. All he could feel in his arms was the deep throb around his right wrist. All he could do was lay there and cry. It was gradually quieting and slowing, but it took time. Jaskier helped the process along with his stim. He did it exactly right. How did he know?

“How can I help?”

Jaskier was already being more attentive and thoughtful than Geralt deserved, but he wasn’t ready to stop being selfish yet. He patted the spot on the bed next to him, and then patted his chest.

“I’m not sure if I’m allowed in the bed,” he said, wary.

“Go ahead,” the nurse spoke up from behind him. “If it will help.”

It would. It would help immensely. If he could communicate correctly. Already he could feel the drug induced calm starting to grow, and as soon as it managed to tip the scales so his exhaustion outweighed his agitation, he knew he’d be out cold. Still, he wanted Jaskier for that time in between.

His husband climbed up onto the bed, very careful not to disturb his IV, or even touch him before Geralt guided him to where he should lay. Directly on top of him. He wanted as much weight as Jaskier could give him.

“Ohh.” Jaskier must realize what he was trying to do. “Are you trying to get deep pressure?”

The simple fact that he, again, knew exactly what Geralt needed was enough to bring another wave of emotion over him. He tried to reign it in, not wanting Jaskier to think this meant he’d guessed wrong. He didn’t deserve this man.

Instead of giving in to the crying, which still hadn’t totally stopped, he focused on guiding Jaskier into the position he needed from him. Jaskier draped the weight of his torso across Geralt’s chest with an arm on either side of his rib cage squeezing like he was giving him a hug, and simultaneously bracing with one knee to keep his full weight off Geralt’s still sensitive belly.

“Is this good?”

Geralt hummed weakly, his eyes fluttering shut, arms wrapped around his husband’s back.

“Good,” Jaskier sighed. “You can rest now.”

He did rest, and pretty soundly too, until the nurse had to come in for his vitals check and Jaskier had to climb off the bed. His respite was over.

Now he was in the next stage of the meltdown, or rather, the second half of the stage he’d aborted by going to sleep. This was when he had to think about what had just happened, process it, and figure out how to move forward. He didn’t want to. He didn’t have the energy.

It was tempting to just check out, dissociate for as long as he could to avoid facing those emotions, but that was just as likely to result in another meltdown as it was to help.

Anyway, it probably wouldn’t inspire confidence in the doctors who had the power to let him go home, and he knew Jaskier didn’t like it. He understood it, and why Geralt did it, but he’d admitted that it also frightened him, and Geralt had scared him plenty today already. Thankfully, he hadn’t scared him off.

“Hey, love,” Jaskier whispered after the nurse had left. “You were asleep for about an hour and a half. Your vitals look good, and there are no more tests planned for today,” he explained, making sure Geralt felt grounded so he could stay calm while he woke up and started to sort through the mess in his head.

He deserved to be acknowledged, but all Geralt came up with was a thumbs up. He feared if he spoke now he’d start to cry.

“Eskel stopped by while you were sleeping. I asked him to bring your weighted blanket. Do you want it?”

Another thumbs up.

Jaskier took his time carefully arranging the twenty-five pound blanket, laying it across Geralt’s body, making sure there was even pressure from his feet up to his shoulders. The weight relaxed him, and Geralt was able to think a little bit clearer.

“How are you feeling?”

Thumbs down. The bad meltdowns always left him with an almost flu-like hangover. His sinuses were congested and he couldn’t breathe through his nose. His throat hurt from both the crying, and the mouth breathing, and his head throbbed. Of course, his other symptoms hadn’t gone anywhere either, and he didn’t even want to think about the injuries he’d dealt himself during the meltdown. Right now he felt about half dead.

“Is there anything else I can do to help?”

Another thumbs down.

“I’d like to talk about what happened,” Jaskier said, cautious. “But we can wait as long as you need.”

Thumbs up. Jaskier deserved an explanation, and an apology (although he’d probably disagree). His main reason for the discussion though, Geralt knew, was to make sure he was okay. He would like to be a little more okay when they had the conversation, because at the moment he was still very much a stressed, overstimulated, overtired mess. Jaskier saw it too.

“Do you want to maybe try and sleep a little bit more?”

Thumbs up. He’d been known to pass out for three or more hours after meltdowns which weren’t nearly this athletic, when he wasn’t already ill. Jaskier was right, this nap had been cut way too short, and with the weighted blanket he still might be able to get back to sleep. He could put off the processing a little longer. He tried not to think about the other things which would take longer now too.

All he needed to do was sleep. He could deal with everything else later.

Chapter Text

Jaskier waited until he was certain Geralt was asleep to slip out of the room and go down to the stairwell. He hated leaving him, and worried what might happen if Geralt woke up and got anxious when he saw he was gone.

Usually it wouldn’t be such a big deal, but he was always so fragile after meltdowns. Jaskier was feeling fragile now too though, and he would be much better able to help Geralt work through his emotions when he woke up, if he worked through his own emotions now. The last thing Geralt needed was to see him cry, and feel like he’d hurt him, but Jaskier could use a good cry.

He’d been avoiding it for a long while—since the meltdown began honestly. He’d done a good job of holding himself together while Geralt still needed him, even during the ninety minutes spent silently laying in bed with him, but he needed to release some of this energy.

He dialed Vesemir.

“Hey, kid. It’s good to hear from you.”

“Hi Dad. I’m sorry I waited so long. I know I should have called earlier, but everything here has been so hectic.”

He’d never intended to keep Vesemir out of the loop, but somehow four days had passed in the hospital, and Jaskier still hadn’t had the courtesy to fill him in on what was going on with his son.

“Don’t worry about it, Jaskier. I know how busy and stressed you must be splitting your time between Ciri and Geralt. Eskel has been giving me updates.”

“What was the last thing he told you?”

“He texted me that Geralt had passed the clear liquids test and was getting a lot closer to being able to go home.”

This was all it took to push Jaskier over the edge. He began to cry, and put a hand over his mouth to keep from being too loud. Vesemir heard though, and he was concerned.

“What’s going on, Jaskier? Has something happened since then? Is Geralt okay?”

“I’m sorry, today has just been a really hard day.” It was all he could do not to sob.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

That had been the reason he called, but now that he was faced with the prospect of actually telling the story he wasn’t so sure. He’d have to tell it sometime though, and if anyone could help it was Vesemir.

“If you would.”

“Of course, Jaskier,” he assured him. “What’s been going on?”

He took a shaky breath before diving into the story, starting where Eskel had left off. He told Vesemir about how Geralt had passed two clear liquid tests, and then had to do the MRI.

He talked about how hard it had been for him to get through the contrast, and how proud and hopeful he’d felt when he managed it. And how hopeful the doctor had been about reintroducing solid foods.

“It was too much. He wasn’t ready to be eating again, but the doctor wanted him to, and I know he really wants to be home.” At this he let out a sob, overwhelmed by how badly he too wanted Geralt to be home.

“You’re alright,” Vesemir said. “Take your time.”

“It made him so sick,” Jaskier choked out before putting in a real effort to regulate his breath. “Like, as sick as when we first got to the hospital. It was like all the progress he made was erased, and he was so miserable and in so much pain.”

The image in his mind of Geralt sitting on the toilet, vomiting and twisted up in pain, hurt like a physical injury.

“And it was just too much for him.” Jaskier hiccuped and tried to rub some of the tears from his cheeks with his sleeve. “He had a meltdown.”

“Ohhh.” There was recognition in his voice. “Do you want to talk about how it went? I know how rough they can get.”

“This is the second one he’s had since he got admitted four days ago,” he explained. “We were able to get through the first one without too much pain, but this one.” He wasn’t even sure how to describe it.

“Take your time.”

“I’ve never seen one this bad, Vesemir,” Jaskier admitted. “Once maybe, but that was at home, and when he wasn’t already sick, but this?”

He had to collect himself before continuing on.

“I feel horrible for saying it, but I was terrified. Most of it was just fear on his behalf, wanting him to be okay, but part of it—” the crying dissolved into sobbing then, and Vesemir had to spend a full minute calming him down and coaxing him before he could get out the words which had been eating him alive since the meltdown had happened.

“I was scared of him.”
*******
The immediate shame he felt saying it sent him back into hysterics, and it took Vesemir much longer this time to get him back to a place where they might actually be able to have a conversation.

“Do you want to hear a story about when I first started fostering Geralt?” Vesemir asked once Jaskier was calm enough to listen, but not quite collected enough to talk.

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay.”

Jaskier settled in.

“So, you know I started fostering Geralt and his brothers about ten years before he got his autism diagnosis. Of course there were signs, but a lot of them were written off as just a by-product of being uprooted so frequently, and having trouble with the kids at school teasing him,” he began. “And of course it didn’t help that the mental health care available for foster kids, and what I was able to provide for him, were not nearly the caliber I can see in hindsight that he needed. Honestly, it hurts me to look back. He was such a well behaved kid; I think if he’d acted out more he would’ve been able to get diagnosed sooner and start working through things, but that isn’t really the point of this story,” he continued.

“What I want to tell you about is the first time I saw one of his meltdowns.”

When Geralt had first been diagnosed he started having more meltdowns, and a lot of hard memories came up from his childhood.

From the sound of it, this was one of them.

“It started out because I noticed the poor kid was ripping his hands to shreds, picking at his fingernails and scabs, and rubbing the skin on the backs of his hands and the calluses on his palms raw,” Vesemir continued. “Before I took him in, his social worker had let me know the last family had some trouble with him biting his nails. I had not been expecting something this extreme, and it was clearly causing him a lot of pain, so I decided to talk to him about it,” he said.

“Now, looking back, I can see that it was a coping mechanism, and probably the reason why he wasn’t having more meltdowns, but I didn’t know so much back then, and I foolishly approached it as if it were just a bad habit that needed breaking, not a coping mechanism that was serving a purpose, however harmfully.”

Geralt had mentioned that he’d bitten his nails as a kid. He’d never mentioned this.

“And as a result of that conversation, he had a meltdown. A bad one.”

Jaskier couldn’t imagine what that must have been like, both of them near strangers, neither of them knowing anything about autism or meltdowns going in. It must have been terrifying.

“I watched this sweet, gentle kid start crying and screaming at me, more angry than I’ve ever seen him, before or since. He yelled at me to get out of his and Eskel’s bedroom, and not knowing how else to help him, and afraid I’d make things worse, I did. I sat outside his door and listened to him have his meltdown. And I won’t lie, it was really scary.”

“What did you do?” Jaskier asked, enthralled enough by the story that he’d actually stopped crying.

“I waited until it sounded like things had calmed down, and then went back into his room,” he replied. “It looked like it had been hit by a tornado. He’d taken everything out of his dresser, even the drawers, and thrown them on the floor along with everything in his backpack. He’d also taken the glass of water off of his nightstand and thrown it at the far wall, shattering it and leaving a nice dent in the drywall.”

“Oh, no,” Jaskier breathed. “Was he okay?”

“I found him pressed into the little bit of space in between his bed and his dresser. It was barely big enough to fit him, and on top of that he’d wrapped his whole body, head and all, up as tight as he could in the quilt from his bed. All I could see were his feet peeking out, and the blanket moving as he cried.”

The picture he painted was as vivid as it was heartbreaking.

“It took another hour to coax him out, and at least twice that long to get the room put back together, and as soon as we were done he went to bed and slept for about fourteen hours.”

“What did you do?”

“I called his social worker,” Vesemir answered. “This was a while before I’d legally adopted him, so I was still meant to call and report any incidents.”

“And what did the social worker say?”

Vesemir didn’t answer right away.

“She asked me if I thought he needed to be removed from my home.”

Jaskier held his breath, heart pounding as if he didn’t already know how that story ended.

“I told her yes.”

Fuck. He didn’t know about that.

“I was fostering two other kids, one of which was only five. Geralt wasn’t small for his age, and he clearly had the capacity to cause a lot of damage. I didn’t know what had triggered such violence from him, and I was afraid of it happening again, and in that moment my fear and frustration outweighed my love for him. I told her I didn’t think he was a good fit.”

Jaskier was taken aback by his honesty, but he respected him for it.

“The next morning, after the adrenaline had worn off and I’d had a chance to think a little more rationally about the situation, I called her and said I wanted to take back what I’d said the night before. I loved him, and I wanted him, and I was ready to do what it took, but there were a few hours the night before, when I’d been up late trying to process everything, that I truly felt like I was not the right person to be parenting Geralt, and I still feel guilty about those hours to this day.”

“Oh, Vesemir. I’m so sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize, Jaskier. I’m not telling you this to gain sympathy. I’m telling you this because I don’t want you to feel that same guilt. You don’t need to,” he said. “These meltdowns are a lot to handle. Thankfully they don’t happen often, but when they do the adrenaline and the fear can make you think things that don’t reflect your true feelings. You’re allowed to be scared. I’m sure it was really scary, but that doesn’t mean you’re afraid of him, or you love him any less. Okay?”

“Yeah.” Jaskier took a calming breath. “Okay.”

“Did that help?”

“It did,” he replied. “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

“Is there anything else you want to talk about? How is he doing now?”

“He’s sleeping right now,” he said. “They had to give him medicine to help calm down, and that knocked him out pretty quickly. He came out of that a little while ago, but only stayed awake for a few minutes. I’m hoping he can rest for a few more hours.”

“For both of your sakes I hope so too,” Vesemir said. “Do you think this has pushed back his discharge?”

“I really don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t think we’ll be able to tell until he wakes up. He still wasn’t speaking when he woke up the first time, but I think after we’re able to have a conversation, and see how the meltdown and the bout of sickness that triggered it have affected his progress, we’ll know better.”

“That makes sense,” Vesemir said. “I love you, kiddo. I’m sorry you and Geralt are having such a rough time.”

“I’m just really ready to have him home and not be juggling being here with him and taking care of Ciri.” When he said her name a shock of panic ran down his spine. “Fuck.” He checked the time on his phone and relaxed slightly. He still had time.

“What? What’s wrong, Jaskier?”

“It’s fine,” he rushed to reassure him. “I just realized that I need to try and find someone to pick Ciri up from school.”

“I’ll let you go then,” Vesemir replied. “I love you. I hope things get easier for you soon.”

“Thanks Vesemir. Love you too.”

As soon as he hung up with Vesemir, he dialed Elaine. He told her he hated asking so last minute, but Geralt was still coming back from possibly his worst meltdown ever, and would she pick Ciri up from school and watch her until he was able to talk with Geralt. He didn’t want to leave before he knew Geralt wasn’t going to have another meltdown in his absence.

Elaine, of course, was as willing and helpful as always, and after just a few minutes Jaskier was rushing back to Geralt’s room, suddenly paranoid that he’d woken up while he’d been on the phone. The edge of panic had him realizing that this hospital stay was taking a toll on him mentally as well. Nothing to do about it now though.

He added “my own mental health” onto his long list of things he needed to be worrying about, and then shoved it out of his mind. Another thing to be dealt with later. Right now Geralt needed him.

***

There were a few blissful seconds when Geralt first woke that he didn’t remember the meltdown. Well, he didn’t remember anything. He’d slept deeply, and soundly, so of course he’d woken up confused, somehow expecting to be in his own bed and perfectly healthy, none of this having ever happened.

Jaskier, as always, was the one to bring him back to reality.

“Hey, love. You napped for another two hours. Your vitals are looking good, and all the doctor wants you to do this evening is rest.”

The news report helped to ground him, and brought back all of the memories he’d temporarily lost. He’d been ill again. He’d had a meltdown. He’d hurt himself, and had to be sedated. These facts were upsetting enough on their own, but they brought with them a wave of emotions so overwhelming that Geralt wished he could just be sedated again.

Shame at being unable to keep himself from losing control. Fear that this may happen again, since none of the emotions had actually been dealt with. What if he didn’t have the capacity to face them? They just kept on coming.

Regret that he’d allowed them to go ahead with reintroducing solid foods, and terror that they’d ask him to do it again.

Injustice that Jaskier had spent the last week having to deal with all of his shit, just to have it culminate with handling the worst meltdown of Geralt’s adult life.

And embarrassment. So much embarrassment.

“How are you feeling, Geralt?” Jaskier asked. “Are you ready to talk about what happened?”

Geralt pressed his eyes shut, eyebrows furrowed, and shook his head.

“Do you want to sleep a little more?”

He shook his head again.

“Do you want more time to wake up?

He shouldn’t need more time. He’d put this off twice now; he needed to face this. Why couldn’t he?

“Do you think we should try and get a hold of your therapist?”

Another no. He didn’t need another person knowing, and anyway, he just wanted to be with Jaskier.

“Well what do you want to do?” He was more patient than he had any right to be.

“Nothing,” Geralt whispered, throat sore and tight.

“If that’s what you need, baby.” He didn’t sound convinced. “But do you think you can move on from this without talking about it?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt whimpered. “I just feel so awful.”

“Why do you feel awful?” Jaskier latched onto his first real bit of information. “How about we start there?”

“Because I had a meltdown,” he admitted. “I shouldn’t have. I should have been able to handle myself, and work through it.”

“That’s not fair, Geralt. You can’t hold that against yourself.”

“I should be in control,” he insisted.

“I know you want to be in control,” Jaskier replied. “But sometimes that’s just not how it goes.

“I should have stopped it.”

“Love, I wish you didn’t have to go through that. I hate seeing you in pain, but it happened for a reason,” he said as gently as he could. “It happened because you were in pain, right?”

Geralt nodded, wiping the few stray tears from his cheeks with a shaking hand.

“And because you were tired and overwhelmed. Those are all valid reasons to have a meltdown, love, and all of those things were out of your control,” he explained slowly, the way he might try to explain something to Ciri.

It was working, and he wasn’t finished yet. “So if all of the causes are out of your control, then why would the result be in your control?”

Geralt didn’t reply, reluctant to admit he was wrong, still wanting to be angry with himself. He’d prefer that to admitting his meltdowns were out of his control, but he could see now that attitude wasn’t going to be conducive for the rest of this conversation. He supposed he could work under the presumption that the meltdown was inevitable if it would help him work through all of his other feelings.

“It isn’t in your control,” Jaskier answered for him. “You’re allowed to feel upset, but please don’t be angry with yourself. This isn’t going to help anything.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed halfheartedly, staring at the foot of his bed rather than at his husband. “Okay.”

“Was that the only thing you were feeling upset about?”

“No.”

They both knew there was a lot more going on. The question was whether or not Geralt would be able to put it into words.

“Can you tell me what else has got you upset? I’d like to help.”

“Mhmm.”

He wanted Jaskier’s help, but it still took him nearly a full minute of sitting in silence before he could figure out how he should proceed. Thankfully Jaskier was patient.

“I feel bad for the people who saw,” he admitted.

“What do you mean? You’re upset that people saw, or you’re upset on their behalf for having to see?”

“Both.”

“Well the only people who saw were me, your doctor, and the two nurses,” Jaskier pointed out. “I don’t want you to ever feel ashamed to have a meltdown in front of me, and as for the other three, this is their job, love. Nobody is upset with you. Nobody is disappointed in you. They want to help. That’s their job.”

“It’s still embarrassing,” Geralt mumbled.

“You’re struggling with that a lot, aren’t you?” Jaskier offered his hand and Geralt took it.

“Yeah.” He looked intently at their intertwined fingers, tears welling in his eyes again. “I really am.”

“I’m sorry, love. I understand how that would be upsetting. Although I stand by the fact that you’ve got no reason to be embarrassed in front of me or anyone taking care of you here,” he said. “I get that this part isn’t under your control either.”

“I can’t believe they saw me in that state,” he continued, hoping if he put these feelings into words and got them out they might not bother him so much. “So totally lost. They must think I’m crazy.”

“Nobody thinks you’re crazy.”

“They saw me completely naked and hitting myself,” he pointed out, two hot tears running down his cheek and onto his pillow. “I’m surprised they didn’t lock me in the psych ward.”

Geralt pulled his arm out from under the covers to examine the mess of purple and blue on the inside of his right forearm.

“And now I’m stuck with this, reminding me and everyone else of what happened. And other people are going to see and ask me how I got hurt and—“ He burst into tears. Honestly, he was surprised it had taken this long.

“Nobody is judging you for this,” Jaskier said. “As for the other stuff, yes, they did see you naked, but again, this is their job. They’re medical professionals. They aren’t going to be fazed by a little nudity, and they certainly aren’t judging you for it. And as far as the hitting part is concerned, I was the only person who saw, love.”

“Really?” This was the first thing that made him stop short in his shame.

“Really. By the time the nurses got in here you’d switched to the other stims. Nobody saw but me, and I would never judge you for that, Geralt. You have to know that.”

“I know.” This last piece of information had gotten him to rein in the tears, and he’d managed to get himself from sobbing to just regular crying, and looking at his husband waiting for him to say more things that would make him feel better.

“Does any of that help, love?”

“A bit.” He hiccuped. “Yeah.”

“But it’s still hard, isn’t it.”

Geralt nodded, face twisted up with emotions.

“I feel better after talking.” The amount of trouble he had getting the sentence out contradicted his point, but he still stood by it.

“Do you still feel like you need to have a cry about it though?”

At this a sob broke in Geralt’s chest, and he started to feel overwhelmed again. “Yeah.”

“I get that,” Jaskier reassured him. “How can I help this keep from becoming another meltdown?”

Unable to speak, Geralt took their linked hands and brought them up to his head. Thankfully, Jaskier understood immediately. He let go of Geralt’s hand and resumed the stimming he’d done earlier.

They stayed like that for a while. Jaskier didn’t stop until Geralt had gotten himself together enough to stop crying, and even then he still waited for Geralt to say it was alright.

“Do you feel any better now, love?” He didn’t look hopeful. “Do you feel like you’ve worked through things?”

“Yeah.” Geralt took a deep, shaky breath. “I do.”

“Good,” Jaskier sighed. “I’m really proud of you.”

Chapter Text

He was able to stay for a little while longer, but sooner than Geralt would have liked, his husband was breaking the news that they were going to have to part for the night. He needed to get home to be with Ciri. She’d been a real trooper putting up with the constant babysitting, but she needed her dad.

Anyway, Jaskier deserved to get out of the hospital for a while. One of them at least should get to be at home.

“I’ll be back first thing after I get Ciri to school tomorrow,” Jaskier promised. “And if you need anything, please call. Even if you’re just feeling lonely, or you can’t sleep, okay? I’m still here for you.”

“I know you are.” Geralt could tell he felt guilty about leaving.

“Okay.” He kissed Geralt on the cheek. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Jask.”

Geralt expected to spend the next twelve hours alone trying to endure his discomfort, and hopefully get more sleep. He was pleasantly surprised, shocked even, when another visitor appeared at his door not long after Jaskier left.

“Vesemir.”

He hadn’t realized how much he’d been needing his own dad until he was standing right there in the doorway, and Geralt felt so relieved he thought he might start crying again.

“Hi, Wolf.” Vesemir smiled, taking Jaskier’s seat at the bedside.

“Nobody told me you were coming.”

Vesemir chuckled. “I didn’t tell anyone I was coming,” he said. “Jaskier called earlier, and I packed a bag as soon as the call ended. Didn’t even take the time to text him my plans.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” he apologized. “I should’ve come earlier, but I didn’t know how difficult things had gotten. I should’ve made sure to be more in the loop.”

“It was never supposed to get this bad,” Geralt mumbled.

“I know, kiddo. You’re getting through it though, and I’m really proud of you.”

Everyone seemed to be proud of him today. They had no good reason to be—the bar was so low right now.

“So Jaskier called?” It made sense, but he hadn’t mentioned anything about it.

“He did. It was while you were asleep earlier this afternoon.”

In the wake of the meltdown then.

“He told you.”

Vesemir nodded. “And I’m glad he did. You’ve got a smart husband, Wolf. He knows when to ask for help.”

Geralt couldn’t help but feel like this was a jab at him, but he also realized that his ego was a lot more fragile at the moment. Vesemir wouldn’t ever say something to upset him on purpose.

“What did he ask for help with?” He thought he knew, but he asked anyway.

“He needed some help processing the meltdown you had earlier,” Vesemir replied, completely candid. “So when you woke up he’d be able to help you with your processing.”

“Oh.”

“He did the right thing, Wolf.”

“No I know,” Geralt said, pulling his hurt arm under the weighted blanket. “I’m glad he did.”

“Was he able to help you work through what happened?”

“Yeah.” He was looking intently at the foot of his bed again.

“But you’re still feeling bad about it, huh?” He knew him too well.

“It’s just so hard not to.” And it was hard to talk about it with people who weren’t familiar with the acute embarrassment that came with losing control like that, no matter how well meaning they were. “What did you tell him?”

“I told the story about the first time you had a meltdown after you moved in with me,” Vesemir replied. “I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s fine.” Geralt still didn’t make eye contact. “It helped, so…” he trailed off.

“Geralt, you don’t need to feel embarrassed.”

“Everyone keeps telling me that, even though I’ve done nothing but embarrass myself since this all started.”

He’d thrown up in front of practically every family member he had, was violently ill from both ends multiple times in front of his husband, several nurses, and his doctor. He’d been crying constantly, and now he’d had not one, but two bad meltdowns. He wasn’t sure how much more vulnerability he could be expected to show.

“I remember how embarrassed you were back then too,” Vesemir observed. “For a month after that meltdown you wouldn’t speak unless you were spoken to, and I could hardly ever get you to look me in the eye.”

“I’d put a hole in your wall,” Geralt reminded him.

“You put a dent in my wall,” Vesemir corrected. “But then a month later, I remember you came home from school one Friday and you were so excited because you’d gone on a field trip to the planetarium, and got to see the show about the planets.”

Geralt had almost forgotten that his last special interest before rugby had been space. He hadn’t thought of that planetarium in years.

“I sat there and you talked to me about it for an hour, and I remember just wanting to cry because I was so happy. That was the first time you’d looked at me without any shame since before you’d had the meltdown.”

“And then the next day you took me back to the planetarium so we could watch the show together, and Lambert kept trying to climb over the barrier to the rocket ship display. That security guard watched him like a hawk the entire time we were there.”

“Yes, and it was still a lovely time.”

“It was,” Geralt agreed.

“So wouldn’t you like to skip ahead to that lovely time?” Vesemir asked. “Do you really feel like you have to go through the month of shame first?”

“I want to skip ahead to the time when I get to go home,” he said, unable to stop himself from sounding pouty.

“I know you do, Wolf. We’re all really hoping you get to go home soon. But do you want to spend however much time you still have to stay here being even more miserable? Do you want to keep punishing yourself, or do you think you might be able to show yourself some kindness, and make this hospital stay as easy on yourself as possible?”

“I don’t even know where I would start.” This stay had been nothing but difficult since the very beginning.

“How about you start with telling me honestly how you’re feeling, so we can work out if there’s anything we can do to help with your symptoms.”

“Mental or physical?”

“We can start with whichever one is easiest.”

Physical then.

“I just feel so sick, dad. My stomach aches and I’m so nauseous all the time. I can’t seem to stop throwing up, and it’s left me so weak that I can’t hardly keep myself upright,” he said, deciding not to hold back. Vesemir had asked for honesty and he was going to get it.

“My throat is absolutely raw from all the puking, and the crying—which has left me so congested that I sound like I have the flu, and has given me a really fucking awful headache.”

“I am so sorry Wolf,” Vesemir commiserated. “That’s more than anyone should have to deal with.”

Geralt agreed.

“Can you think of anything that might help with those symptoms?” Vesemir continued.

He just shrugged. “They’ve got me on morphine and antiemetics pretty much constantly, I think,” he said. “Not sure much else can be done.”

“Have they tried anything else since you’ve been here?”

He tried to think back, and was surprised when he actually remembered something. “Yeah, they gave me something to help my throat the other day. It was really nice.” If he could remember what it was called. “A vaporizer, I think.”

Vesemir nodded knowingly, and before Geralt knew it he was being set up with the same vaporizer he’d had before. The steam felt lovely on his sore throat, and it started to clear his sinuses as well.

“See?” Vesemir said. “It feels good to be kind to yourself.”

“Hmm.” He used having the vaporizer over his mouth as an excuse not to answer.

The conversation was pretty one sided after that, but Vesemir didn’t mind. He told Geralt about everything going on back home—about his students, about Lambert, about the renovations he was doing to the house.

Geralt would have been happy to keep listening to him all night, but much sooner than he’d like, visiting hours were ending, and Vesemir was leaving to go back to the house. It wasn’t fair. He, Jaskier, and Ciri would all get to spend the night together, and have breakfast together in the morning while he stayed here alone.

It didn’t help that he’d slept most of the afternoon. He was exhausted—he couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t been exhausted—but unfortunately he was not sleepy.

He was still way too overstimulated to just try and lay still, so he spent a few restless hours flipping channels.

After the day he’d had, he was honestly surprised at how long he made it before he started to get upset, but after midnight came and went without even a yawn, he decided to do something about it. Vesemir had said he should be kind to himself. This felt like the kindest thing he could do.

He waited for the nurse to come take his vitals, practicing what he was going to say in the meantime. He didn’t love the idea, but he knew it would help, and he liked to think about how proud Jaskier would be when he told him in the morning. He swallowed his pride.

“Hey,” he asked after the nurse finished taking his vitals. “Is there any way I could get a sleeping pill?”

“Yeah, do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“I’m absolutely exhausted, but since I napped all afternoon I just can’t fall asleep.”

“I don’t think you’re cleared for oral medication, but I’ll go see about something to put in your IV.”

“Thank you.” Just the thought of that drug induced sleepiness made him feel more relaxed.

She was only gone for a minute, and she returned with good news.

“I’ve got permission to give you the good stuff.” She smiled.

“Thank you so much.”

“Of course, Geralt. You’ve had a rough day. You deserve some sleep.”

“Hey, I don’t know your name.” He looked up at her while she injected something into his IV port. “You know mine.” And she’d seen him puking, and naked, and sobbing.

“Louisa,” she replied, smiling. “I have to admit. My son is a big fan of yours. He’s eight”

Geralt chuckled. Poor kid. “I’m sorry. He’s probably not going to see me play any time soon.”

“I’m sure he’ll be bummed, but he’ll understand,” she told him. “You know, he’s got autism. One of his favorite things to do when he’s feeling overstimulated is to watch old rugby games with his noise canceling headphones. You’ve been his favorite player ever since you did that interview during autism acceptance month.”

He was shocked at how emotional this made him feel.

“He sounds like a neat kid,” Geralt said. He wasn’t sure if it was the conversation, or the drugs, but he actually felt content for perhaps the first time since getting sick.

“He definitely is.”

“I’d be happy to sign something for him,” he offered. “If he doesn’t mind crowds, I’m sure I could get you two some tickets.”

“That’s very generous of you,” she said. “And I’ll probably take you up on that once you’re feeling a little better, but for now I bet you’re already starting to feel sleepy.”

Well now that she mentioned it. He yawned.

“I’ll let you get some rest,” Louisa told him. “You’ve had a long day.”

He had indeed. And he was already drifting off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Having Vesemir staying with them was a blessing from the gods themselves. Both he and Jaskier agreed that they should have done this sooner—Vesemir apologizing for not taking the initiative earlier, and Jaskier apologizing for not making sure he was better in the loop.

They both agreed that since he was here now though, they should take advantage of it.

Ciri was thrilled to get to see her grandpa, and that excitement helped to offset her growing sadness that Geralt still hadn’t come home.

And a good thing too. Because of the rather unfortunate effects of trying solid food again, she hadn’t been able to visit yesterday. If not for Vesemir, Jaskier worried he’d have had to keep her home from school so she could go visit.

The excitement of her grandpa, along with promises that she would definitely get to see Papa after school (which Jaskier prayed he could keep), got her into the classroom, and then Jaskier and his father in law were free to return to the hospital.

Jaskier had no idea what he should expect. Geralt might be just as upset as he’d been yesterday, although Vesemir thought they’d made good progress.

He might be miserable and throwing up, or facing another test. Jaskier didn’t even stop to consider that he might be peacefully sleeping. Nothing was this easy anymore, but Jaskier took the respite without question. They’d earned it.

“Aw, bless him.” Vesemir and Jaskier stood near the doorway and took in the scene, afraid of disturbing him. “He looks so much younger when he sleeps peacefully like this. Reminds me of the kid we were talking about yesterday.”

Just a baby.

Jaskier had always maintained that there was something especially divine about Geralt when he slept.

Usually Jaskier compared him to a god, but today the image brought to mind was of an angel. Geralt’s cheeks were pink, not flushed with fever, but rosy. His hair was in a messy halo framing his face, and with the combination of stark white with the mid-morning light coming through the window, it truly looked like he was glowing a radiant gold. He looked better than he had in days.

“We should let him rest as long as possible.” Vesemir put a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “Why don’t you and I go get some coffee?”

“Yeah, okay.” Jaskier hadn’t slept well last night. Drinking a coffee before he talked with Geralt would probably be good for both of them.

They had a lovely time, coffees, and pastries, and chatting. It reminded Jaskier of the similar chat he’d had with Elaine, and perhaps for that reason, that was the direction that his and Vesemir’s conversation skewed as well.

“So what are they thinking is wrong?” Vesemir asked. “Has he gotten any sort of diagnosis? Is this just a fluke thing, or is something more going on?”

“Right now the working theory is a chronic illness. Something he’s probably had for years, but is just now getting noticed, or maybe getting worse.”

“Does the doctor have a specific one in mind?”

“His trainer, and our close family friend, Elaine actually said she thought it could be something called cyclic vomiting syndrome,” Jaskier explained. “The doctor agrees that it could be that, but it’s a diagnosis of exclusion. Since we have to rule out any other likely possibilities, he’s needed to do a lot of tests, and with the severity of some of his symptoms, getting those tests done has been really difficult. That’s why he’s been here for so long.”

The better part of a week now. Jaskier could hardly believe it.

“I’m not familiar with that disorder,” Vesemir said. “What would that mean for Geralt?”

“It basically just causes him to have prolonged episodes of repeated vomiting, which are really hard on his body to get through, and really difficult to stop,” Jaskier explained. “The episodes can be triggered by a lot of things; this one would have been triggered by the stomach bug we all caught last week.”

“When he came down with the flu at Christmas that one year?”

“Yep. We always just thought he had a sensitive stomach because of his autism. This diagnosis would fit, and a good thing too because I worry that it’s getting worse,” he admitted. “This bug we got, I threw up three times, Ciri maybe four or five, but Geralt still can’t hardly keep down Gatorade. It started affecting his kidneys and now,” Jaskier trailed off. “I just hope we can get this diagnosis, so we’ll know how to get the episodes under control in the future. If we could go through the rest of our lives together without having to worry about ending up hospitalized over every stomach bug, I would be beyond thrilled.”

“So they just have to rule some other things out and then he’s got his diagnosis?”

“That and they look at his medical history, and episodes he’s had in the past,” Jaskier said. “Do you remember anything from his childhood that might help his case?”

“He and his brothers got sick a lot as kids,” Vesemir began. “Lambert probably more than anyone since he was the youngest, but they all had their fair share.”

“That makes sense.”

“Now that we’re talking about it though, I do remember he threw up more often,” he said. “All three kids would come down with something, but he’d be the only one who ended up throwing up. I never gave it much thought. I assumed he just had a sensitive stomach.”

“Yeah, we all did,” Jaskier agreed. “It’s some pretty cruel irony that he hates puking more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“I remember that too,” Vesemir said. “He used to do just about anything to avoid it.”

“Fatherhood has not broken him of that,” Jaskier chuckled. “He won’t go so far as to not help out when Ciri’s sick, but anything short of his own child needing him and he’s out.”

“I think we might’ve connected the dots earlier if he wasn’t always going out of his way to avoid the risk of being sick,” Vesemir hypothesized. “Might have been more obvious.”

“I just hope we can get the diagnosis and figure out a way to keep this from ever happening again,” Jaskier sighed. “We can’t keep doing this.”

Before Vesemir could respond, Jaskier’s phone buzzed.

“He’s awake.”

“Well, then we don’t need to waste any more time.”

Jaskier felt like a kid on Christmas. He’d been given hope by how peaceful Geralt looked while he was asleep, and now he was more excited than he should be to see how Geralt was feeling now that he was awake.

Unfortunately, the angelic tranquility was gone now that Geralt was conscious, but that didn’t dampen Jaskier’s mood. Geralt’s face lit up when Jaskier and Vesemir entered, and he actually smiled. He still looked ill, but compared to yesterday, he looked absolutely fantastic.

“Good morning, love. Did you have an okay night?”

“I couldn’t sleep for a while, but then I asked the nurse, and she got me some sleeping medicine and that worked really well,” Geralt said.

His voice was still painfully raspy, but there was a bit more energy behind it now. Jaskier was aware how low he’d set the bar, but he was just so happy Geralt was feeling better.

“You asked the nurse?”

Geralt grinned. “I did.”

“Oh, love. I’m so proud of you.” Jaskier kissed him on the forehead, please to find it cool and dry.

“How was your morning?” He looked between Jaskier and Vesemir. “How’s Ciri? I miss her.”

“She misses you too, Wolf,” Vesemir replied. “Was asking for you all morning.”

“I hate that I didn’t get to see her yesterday.”

“I promise you’ll see her today. If it doesn’t look like you’re getting discharged, I’ll bring her over for a long visit after school.”

“You think I might be getting discharged?” Geralt’s face lit up again.

“I don’t know, baby. Maybe.” He didn’t want to do too much to get his hopes up, but for the first time, Jaskier actually believed this might be his last day.

“I hope so.”

“We all hope so,” Vesemir agreed. “Just a little bit more patience.”

It really did seem like patience was all they needed now. The doctor said nothing about more tests. She had Geralt drink some more Gatorade later that morning and he kept it down no problem. Same when they did it again that afternoon.

Jaskier hoped this would be the end of it, and two clear liquid tests would be enough, but the doctor felt like she still needed a little more encouragement before sending Geralt home.

She brought up reintroducing solid foods again later that day, and Jaskier held his breath, praying they didn’t have a repeat of yesterday’s reaction to the food.

“So we haven’t found anything in the endoscopy, biopsy, or MRI results, and your kidneys are still responding well to the electrolytes,” she began. “For the moment, I think this means we can move forward with the cyclic vomiting diagnosis.”

“Does that mean he’ll be getting discharged soon?” Jaskier asked, hopeful.

“I want to make sure he can manage solid food, so you don’t have a repeat of yesterday when you get home, and I’d like to keep an eye on him overnight after this attempt, but if all goes well.”

“No more tests?” Geralt asked, looking even more hopeful than Jaskier.

“For the moment, no,” she answered. Geralt visibly relaxed. “I’d still like to do a gastric emptying test, and some fluoroscopic imaging, but since those require either food with a radioactive tracer, or contrast, I think we’ll do better waiting until later in the month.”

“Perfect timing,” Jaskier sighed after the doctor left. “They want to try solid food again right as I need to go pick up Ciri,” he said. “Sorry, not about me, I know. I was just hoping to be here in case—”

Jaskier trailed off, and Vesemir spoke up. “I can go get Ciri,” he offered. “That way you two can have some alone time, and hopefully get through this meal without any difficulty.”

“Would you?” Geralt asked. “That would be just lovely.”

“Of course.” Vesemir stood up. “As long as Jaskier doesn’t mind being here without his car. We drove together.”

“It’s all yours,” Jaskier replied, relieved that Vesemir had offered before he asked. He’d been asking a lot of people lately, and even though it was necessary, it was hard to feel like he wasn’t putting them out.

Vesemir seemed more than happy to go pick up Ciri and babysit her at the house until Geralt got through the solid foods tests (Jaskier prayed to all the gods that he would get through it without incident), and he was more than happy to let him.

“You just let me know how things are going here, and I can bring her over for a visit when you’re ready.”

They both thanked him profusely, and not two minutes after he left the nurse returned with Geralt’s meal.

It would be different this time. It had to.

Chapter Text

Today instead of jello and crackers, it was clear broth and a piece of dry toast.

At first, Geralt just stared at it.

“What are you thinking, love?”

Geralt didn’t look up. “I’m thinking about how badly I want to see my daughter, and how that’s not going to happen if I fuck this up.”

“Well first of all, if this goes poorly, it’s not because you fucked anything up,” Jaskier said. “And secondly, this isn’t going to go poorly.”

“You don’t know that,” Geralt insisted.

“Maybe not, but I know that worrying about it is just going to make you feel sicker,” he pointed out. “And I know that eating this food is going to get you one step closer to being home, and right now you don’t have too many steps left.”

In the end that was what got Geralt to bite the bullet and eat the toast and the broth. Jaskier was right, the doctor was thrilled when he kept it down, and she too let him know he was getting ever closer to being discharged.

They kept him one last night. He’d hoped the broth and toast would be enough to get him home, but the next day they gave him similar fare, and it wasn’t until he’d eaten and kept down both breakfast and lunch that his discharge was finally set in motion.

And then—quicker than he thought was possible after nearly a week in the hospital—he was home.

Ciri ran the second she heard the door open. Vesemir had stayed at the house to watch her while Jaskier oversaw the discharge and drove Geralt home, and while usually playing with her grandpa was a rare treat, he had been gone for days, and as soon as he was in the house she was on him.

“Papa!” She nearly tripped over her feet in her hurry, and Geralt scooped her up as soon as she was in arm’s reach. She threw her arms around his neck and planted a wet kiss on his cheek. “You’re at home!”

“I’m home!” he agreed, matching every bit of her enthusiasm.

“Yes, home and resting.” Jaskier ushered him towards the couch.

Too tired to protest, Geralt carried Ciri over to the armchair and settled in with her. Jaskier was right about the resting.

The doctors had made sure to impress upon him and Jaskier that they’d have to put the effort in to make sure he was making up for losing the bedrest and IV fluids he’d gotten at the hospital.

As much as Geralt wanted to forget about this all until he had to go back in for more testing, he got the distinct impression that it would be easier to accidentally end up back in the hospital than it would be to have a seamless recovery.

Right now he felt good though. He’d kept down three meals at the hospital before his discharge, and between the calories and the excitement of being home he actually felt like he had energy for the first time in ages. It was fading fast, unfortunately. He was determined to make the most of it while he was able to, before he’d have to hand his daughter back to his husband and father so he could go take a nap.

He spent every minute of that time with Ciri. It didn’t take long for her to convince him to get down on the floor and play with her. Jaskier and Vesemir hovered protectively, but Geralt was fine. He was sore, certainly, and tiring quickly, but he was thrilled to be here with her. She hadn’t gotten to see him nearly often enough during his hospital stay, and it was clear they both were feeling it.

Jaskier tried to get Ciri to go nap in her bed, and Geralt in his, but neither of them were having that either. Geralt brought her to bed with him, and they napped together for the next couple of hours until she woke up full of energy and he woke up about half dead.

He was sticky with sweat where she’d been laying, his mouth was dry with a horrible taste in it, and his head throbbed. Of course the nausea was back again too, and it took some coaxing from Jaskier to get him to have a Gatorade, but as always he was right.

Ciri went back to playing with Vesemir, and Geralt passed another hour sipping on the drink and slowly coming back to life. Still not back to his pre-nap energy levels, but not dying either.

The rest of the afternoon was spent dutifully staying hydrated and laying on the couch. He wanted to complain about how often he was getting up to pee, but it was vastly preferable to puking, and the Gatorade was currently the only thing standing between him and another hospital bed. He should be thrilled that he was getting up to pee every half hour.

Jaskier certainly was.

His progress had his husband not only overjoyed, but also confident. More confident than Geralt. Confident enough to request that he join the rest of the family in eating dinner. Well, join the best he could.

Pizza at the table was out of the question, but Jaskier argued that eating broth and crackers at the same time as everyone else ate pizza counted as sharing a meal. Vesemir came and sat in the living room with him while Jaskier oversaw Ciri at the table.

He couldn’t help but feel like Vesemir was performing the same task as Jaskier. Sit and watch, and make sure he ate, and get him anything he might need.

Jaskier had it easy. Ciri finished her meal like a champ while he deliberately ate his broth and crackers as slowly as he thought he could get away with, hoping that eventually they’d let him give up.

At the hospital, he’d eaten several times without incident, but it still took more effort to eat, physically and mentally, than he’d like to expend at the moment. The hunger cue had yet to return, and he got the feeling that until it did, he was going to have a lot of trouble motivating himself to actually eat. Jaskier was motivational enough for the both of them though, and after Ciri was finished eating and cleaned up, he came to check on his husband’s progress.

“What’s up? What do you need?” he asked when he saw how little Geralt had eaten. “Do you want me to nuke this? Does something else sound better?”

Yes. Something else did sound better. “I’d take another Gatorade.”

“Great,” Jaskier replied. “I can warm up your broth while I’m in the kitchen.”

So much for that tactic. “Yeah, thanks love.”

The broth was nicer once it was warm again, and after he finished it, Jaskier let him off the hook for the rest of the crackers. Good, he was feeling nauseous.

With his last few meals at the hospital, he managed to get through them without enduring the long period of pukiness that came with his earlier passed clear liquids tests, but he feared that it might return tonight. He didn’t dare consider that the pukey feeling might lead to actually puking (something he had been able to avoid since his meltdown a couple of days ago). He wouldn’t be able to handle that.

Chapter Text

After dinner Geralt tried to go back to relaxing and watching the others go about their evenings, but the nausea continued to nag at him. He was able to ignore it until Vesemir left to give Ciri her bath and Jaskier put his full attention back on Geralt.

“What’s up, love?” he asked. “You’re looking a little queasy. Is everything sitting okay?”

The acknowledgement that his sickness was real enough to show kicked everything up a notch. Sweat broke out on his forehead and his mouth was suddenly very dry. He took a sip of gatorade, as if that might magically fix everything, and then answered.

“I feel nauseous.”

“I was worried that might happen, but it’s been a little bit since dinner. Usually when you were sick it happened pretty quick after though. Do you think it’s just the food, or is something else maybe going on?”

“I don’t know.” It came out whinier than he intended. “But I don’t feel good.”

“Okay.” Jaskier sat down on the arm of his chair. “Well there’s no need to panic.”

Geralt had thought he’d been hiding the panic better. Apparently not.

“We anticipated this, remember?”

He did not, but he let Jaskier explain.

“They had you on IV antiemetics at the hospital. We had that chat with your doctor about different strategies yesterday, remember?”

Vaguely. After his meltdown, he had a lot more trouble not spacing out during the longer medical discussions. That was one of Jaskier’s jobs as his advocate though. Just like Geralt had done for him during the worst of his medical troubles at university, Jaskier paid attention, and took notes, and asked questions, so he could make sure everything was sorted out after the fact.

“You’ve got those prescription antiemetics, remember? You’ve got the Scopolamine patch on. You have the Zofran you can have every eight hours, and the Dramamine you can do every four, but those ones knock you out. I’m not sure if you want to go to sleep just yet.”

He didn’t. If he fell asleep now, he’d be up before six AM and while that wasn’t terribly early for Normal Geralt, for Sick Geralt, that might as well be the middle of the night.

“We could try some ginger tea, but judging by the way you’re looking at me, you don’t have the stomach for tea,” he said, changing his mind mid sentence when Geralt shook his head in response to his tea suggestion.

The only thing that sounded good at the moment was his Gatorade. Anything else would set him over the edge.

“She also said you could use cannabis since that’s helped in the past, but just to be careful about eating if you choose to eat high.”

He did not trust himself to eat high, but he thought it might get rid of the nausea and it wouldn’t require swallowing any pills.

“I’ll try my pen,” he decided. “And if that doesn’t work, then the Zofran.”

“That sounds like a good plan.”

Usually Jaskier didn’t come outside with him when he smoked. He didn’t have anything against weed, and he’d stated on multiple occasions how happy he was that it helped Geralt, but he didn’t smoke.

Tonight though, since Ciri was being taken care of, he followed Geralt out to the porch and sat with him while he got high.

“Does this really work better than the medication?”

The two of them didn’t have any lawn furniture, but there were two camp chairs, and Jaskier sat cross legged in one of them, looking at Geralt.

Geralt shrugged. “It works faster,” he replied. “Maybe not better, but it helps me not care so much about whatever’s bothering me.”

He took another deep inhale of smoke and held it in his lungs while Jaskier contemplated his response.

“Do you think some of this nausea is anxiety then?”

“Yeah.” He exhaled, turning his head and blowing over his shoulder to keep the smoke out of Jaskier’s face. Already his head was starting to buzz. “It definitely started with the food, but the anxiety wasn’t helping.”

“I’m sorry you’re feeling anxious, baby.”

“This should fix it.” He tried to brush it off. “If it doesn’t then we’ll know it really was just the food, and I can take the Zofran.”

“That sounds like a really good plan.”

By the time he was sufficiently stoned, Geralt was no longer worried about throwing up, but still the meal cast a shadow over the rest of the evening.

It was probably mostly due to the weed, but he was sleepy, and sluggish the rest of the night. So much so that when Ciri went to bed at her usual time, Geralt opted to do the same. It was much earlier than usual, but the weed was just making him sleepier and sleepier, and he’d expended a lot of energy in coming home.

If he could sleep for ten or twelve hours, uninterrupted by vomiting episodes, or nurses coming in to take his vitals, he was sure he would feel much better in the morning.

***

Geralt didn’t feel better in the morning.

His entire body ached, head, stomach, back, throat. He was nauseous, and there was a horrible taste in his very dry mouth.

Geralt rolled over, already in a bad mood which got worse as soon as he saw his husband had already woken up and left the bedroom.

He thought about calling him and asking him to ‘please come back to bed and snuggle me because I don’t feel good,’ but judging by the time, he was probably getting Ciri ready for school.

His mind was officially made up when he heard Jaskier and Vesemir laughing from the kitchen. He worried they were talking about him, or might start if he didn’t get up.

His suspicions were confirmed when he entered the kitchen and both of them turned to look at him, shuffling into the room in his pajamas and sock feet, a blanket draped around his shoulders.

“Morning, Wolf. We were hoping you’d join us for breakfast.”

“Hmm.” Being upright was making Geralt realize that he was not nearly as awake as he’d thought before getting out of bed. He sat down next to Jaskier and slouched over to lay his head on his husband’s shoulder.

He kissed his forehead, before laying a hand on it. “How are you doing, love? You don’t feel feverish.”

“Sleepy, sore, stomachache.”

“Well it’s still pretty early. Why don’t I send you to bed with a gatorade and you try again in a little bit?” Jaskier suggested.

“Noooo,” Geralt groaned. “I’m tired of being in bed. I’ve been in bed for a week. Can’t I at least go with you to take Ciri to school?”

“Are you sure you feel up to leaving the house?”

Honestly? No. He wasn’t sure he felt well enough, but he knew that he wanted to feel well enough, and after a week of being sick he really should feel well enough. He was going to do this.

“I’m alright.”

“Vesemir is going to drop Ciri off before he heads out of town,” Jaskier said, exasperated but not saying no.

“I’ll still need to come back here to leave the car seat,” Vesemir offered. “He’s welcome to ride along.”

Jaskier didn’t argue, and Geralt was thrilled to get out of the house. Thrilled enough to ignore the way the short drive from their house to Ciri’s preschool made him feel carsick, and how tired he already was, despite only being awake for a short while.

Vesemir noticed the rough shape he was in, and allowed them to sit in the car in the parking lot for a bit before getting back on the road.

“Sorry, I thought I felt up for it. We can go. I don’t want to hold you up.”

“It’s worth spending a few extra minutes if it means you’re more comfortable.”

Yeah, and if it meant he didn’t have to worry about Geralt puking in his car.

“I keep thinking I’m doing better than I am.” Geralt sat back, one arm wrapped around his middle. “I ought to be doing better than I am.”

“Now that attitude isn’t going to get you anywhere,” Vesemir chided. “You need to be patient with yourself. You just got discharged from the hospital yesterday.”

“Yeah, but I was there for ages.”

“You need to be kind to yourself,” he pressed. “These things take time.”

“Do you know how long Jaskier was sick?” he asked, a frustrated, bitter edge creeping into his tone.

“Everyone heals at their own speeds.”

“Four hours,” Geralt answered his own question. “He threw up at seven-thirty, and by midnight he was in bed asleep. He threw up three times, dad. I’ve puked dozens of times by now. I’m ready for it to end.”

“Jaskier’s had his fair share of illness too,” Vesemir replied. “Things hit people differently. This just so happens to be your weak point, like how Jaskier’s migraines are his. You’ve got to learn to accept these things.”

“How am I meant to accept something I have no control of?”

“Accepting is the only thing you can do with things you aren’t in control of,” his father corrected him. “And you’ll learn how to find the ways you can control it. You’ve got your medicines, and you’re figuring out which of them do the most for you, but you’re having to figure out other things too.”

Geralt didn’t reply, not quite prepared to stop being pouty.

“You’ve got to figure out what kinds of foods make you feel the best, and how to keep your electrolytes balanced. More than anything though, you’re having to figure out how much you need to rest.”

“Hmm.”

He wished people would stop talking to him about rest. It was all he was allowed to do. It was all he physically could do, yet still everyone wanted to insist he do it even more.

“I think you’re finding that the answer to that is more than you want it to be,” Vesemir guessed. “You like how things were going before, and you don’t want to slow down.”

He was twenty-eight. It wasn’t fair that he was having to slow down at all.

“Trying to withhold it from yourself is just going to make you need it more, Wolf. You know this.”

He didn’t want to acknowledge it though.

“The more rest you get now, the sooner you’re going to be back on the pitch.”

“I know,” Geralt admitted.

“So can I get you back to the house, and let you take the nap you so clearly need?”

“I guess.” Geralt surrendered.

“Good lad.”

Chapter Text

He let his father drive him back home, where he deposited the car seat and said his goodbyes before leaving Jaskier and Geralt at the house by themselves for the first time since the day he’d gone to the hospital.

“What can I get you for breakfast?” Jaskier asked as soon as they were alone. “We’ve got cereal. I could make oatmeal.”

Geralt’s stomach turned, the thought of eating physically repellant.

“Vesemir and I drove through the coffee shop on the way home.” He felt bad about lying, but Vesemir had just been getting on him about how important rest was, and he knew he’d rest easier without that pit of nausea in his stomach. “I had a pastry.”

“Oh?” Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “How was that?”

“Not too bad.” Geralt put a hand on his stomach, surprised that he was getting away with this. “I’m pretty tired now though. I think I might take a nap.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” he agreed. “I was just doing some composing, but if you want to watch a movie or something and snuggle in bed for a while.”

That sounded lovely, but Geralt had been keeping him from his work pretty much constantly for a week now. He deserved some time dedicated to his own stuff.

“Can I just nap in your office while you work?”

“The bed is still made up from when Eskel was staying over. As long as you don’t mind sleeping in his sheets.”

“I don’t mind at all.”

Pleased with his success, Geralt followed his husband into his office and got comfortable on the futon while Jaskier resumed his position in front of his composing set up: keyboard with a laptop balancing precariously on one side, a notepad on the other, and a pencil behind his ear.

Geralt loved watching him work. He always had. The way Jaskier concentrated on music was unlike anything else he did. It was a thing of beauty.

He played thunking melodies on his keyboard, the sounds always musical even though the notes only played into his headphones.

He would shut his eyes sometimes while he played. Geralt wondered how he didn’t lose his place on the keys. Apparently vision was not a necessary sense for his piano playing, not after being second nature for so many years.

Every now and then he’d scratch something down into his notebook, and most infrequently of all, he would actually input a line into the software on his laptop.

Somewhere between writing, and playing, and typing, and playing again, Geralt drifted off to sleep, and when he woke, his husband was no longer focused on his work. He’d turned his focus right back on Geralt, and he didn’t think he was going to be able to escape so easily this time.

“I was just about to go fix myself some lunch. Can I bring you something?”

“I want to go with you,” Geralt mumbled, still half asleep.

He offered a hand to Jaskier and his husband helped him up and led him to the kitchen. It was partly an attempt to avoid the question of lunch for a minute longer, and partly because Geralt was feeling very clingy. He always got this way when he was ill. He wanted to be joined to his husband at the hip.

“Okay, what can I fix you?” Jaskier asked again after he’d deposited Geralt in the chair at the counter.

“I’m not hungry,” he replied truthfully. “Still full from breakfast.” Okay, less truthful, but he wanted to wait a little while longer. He still felt kind of okay, and he didn’t have it in him to risk that.

“Look, I’m glad you had breakfast, but a pastry really isn’t going to get you to your sodium requirement for today,” he pointed out. “Remember, they’ve been giving you all of this stuff in your IV. We need to make sure and keep up with it. Can I get you some broth, maybe? Some crackers?”

“Can I have a Gatorade?”

“Of course, and what do you want with it?”

He really wasn’t going to back down.

“Didn’t they give me some salt tablets to take home?” Geralt asked. “Can’t I just take one of those?”

“A salt tablet wouldn’t be a bad idea, actually,” Jaskier conceded. “But you really shouldn’t be taking them on an empty stomach.” He opened a Gatorade and slid it across the counter to Geralt. “How about some broth?”

“I’m tired of broth.”

“How about rice, then?” he suggested. “I can cook it in chicken stock to give it a little extra protein and sodium.”

“That sounds good.” Better than plain broth at least.

Jaskier fixed and ate a sandwich for himself while the rice cooked, and while Geralt could truthfully say that he didn’t want to eat the sandwich, seeing how much Jaskier was enjoying it did make him jealous. He missed enjoying food, but not enough to risk making himself sick in an attempt to regain his former eating abilities.

Geralt accepted the rice though, eating it plain with salt. He had to admit, it wasn’t horrible. It was nicer than most of the meals he’d had since falling ill, but that didn’t mean it would sit in his stomach any easier. And it was rapidly becoming apparent that this meal didn’t have much interest sitting well at all.

“I think I’m finished.” Geralt pushed the bowl away with probably only two thirds of it eaten.

“Okay, love.” Jaskier took the bowl without question, all of his earlier pushiness gone. “Are you full?”

“Yeah.” He put a hand on his belly, not looking at Jaskier. He didn’t think he could eat another bite.

“What’s your plan now? Bed? Couch?”

Bathroom floor?

“I don’t know.” He made a conscious effort not to sound panicked.

“How about we go lay in bed for a bit? You’re looking a little shaky.”

Shaky was putting it kindly, and bed sounded good. If he could get back to sleep maybe he’d be able to ride out this nausea. He’d done it before.

“Do you want to try some of the Zofran?”

Geralt didn’t hesitate. “Uh-huh.”

Jaskier retrieved the pill, and Geralt promptly gagged on it, causing Jaskier to leave the bedroom once more, this time for a bucket.

“Thanks,” Geralt mumbled when Jaskier set it on his bedside table.

“Do you really think you might throw up?” He didn’t even have to say anything. Jaskier could tell.

“Dunno.” He adjusted his breathing so as to best manage his nausea, slow inhales through his nose, and even slower exhales out his mouth, lips pressed close together. “Haven’t felt this nauseous in a while though.”

The visions were starting to play in his head, the most unwanted movie imaginable, showing him getting up to speed walk into the bathroom, or reaching over and grabbing the bucket in time to projectile vomit into it. His fate was feeling more and more sealed by the second.

“Give the Zofran a couple of minutes,” Jaskier encouraged. They both realized it was his last hope. “It might surprise you.”

He didn’t get a couple minutes though.

Resigned to his fate, and unwilling to create even more trouble for Jaskier, Geralt begrudgingly got out of bed and headed, in no small hurry, to the bathroom.

“The Zofran still might kick in,” Jaskier said when Geralt got down on the floor in front of the toilet. They both knew the Zofran wasn’t going to kick in. “I’m sorry, love.”

“It’s fine,” Geralt mumbled. The nausea was reaching farther and farther up his throat. He’d gag if he let himself, but he still tried to repress it on the off chance the Zofran would achieve anything, and because he wanted to avoid all of the buildup.

During his time in the hospital, Geralt had noticed how much more difficult the vomiting became. Part of this was due to the exhaustion, and the sheer amount of vomiting he was doing, but his body had seemed to lose the ability to do it efficiently.

He wanted badly to avoid the useless gagging and heaving that happened at the beginning of each bout now. Well, he wanted to avoid all of it, but that wasn’t an option.

Geralt was able to hold out a little longer than he probably should have, and succeeded in his goal of avoiding the useless preamble of gagging and choking before the real puking began. The first heave came with a vengeance, ready to make him regret trying to have any control over what was happening to him.

The vomit erupted from his mouth with enough force to splash back up onto his cheeks. He felt disgusting, and horribly nauseous, and he didn’t even have time to wipe the puke from his face before the second heave brought up another flood of half digested rice. It was all he could do to keep himself positioned over the toilet and let it happen while Jaskier held his hair and rubbed his back.

He wasn’t sure if it was his attempt at avoiding it, or if his higher energy levels were to blame for the extra-athletic vomiting, but either way, by the end of it he was out of breath and sweating as hard as if he’d just done a sprint.

One last bubble snaked up his throat, and Geralt kept his mouth open over the toilet, unsure if it really was just air. He flexed his abs just enough to push it the rest of the way up his throat, and sure enough, another mouthful of bile splashed into the toilet bowl already clouded with his puke.

“That’s it.” Jaskier continued to rub circles on his back. “Get all of it out. You’re alright.”

Geralt wiped his face clean with toilet paper before flushing and sitting back against the tub, a bit too shaky to stand.

“Do you think it’s over?” Jaskier asked.

“For now at least,” Geralt replied.

“Do you feel better now that it’s done?”

“Hmm.” Geralt let his eyes drift shut, and put a hand on his belly.

“I’m sorry, love. I thought we were past this.”

How many days had it been since he’d puked? The last time was during that horrific meltdown, two days ago? Three?

“I’m never gonna get past this,” he decided, unable to stop shaking. “It’s going to feel like this forever.” He knew he was being dramatic, but pouting was the only thing carrying him through this. Pouting and Jaskier, of course.

“I’m really sorry, baby. I thought the rice would be easier on your stomach,” he apologized. “If I’d thought it would make you sick, I never would have made you eat it. You know that, right?”

“This isn’t your fault.” He tugged on Jaskier’s pant leg until he took the hint and sat next to him. “I think this was going to happen regardless.” He lay his head down in Jaskier’s lap.

“What do you mean?” Jaskier started playing with his hair, just as he’d hoped he would.

“I dunno,” Geralt sighed. “I’ve just had this feeling since leaving the hospital that it’s not quite over,” he admitted. “I think this was building for a while.” His nausea certainly had been growing ever since his discharge.

“Do you think it’s because you don’t have the IV anymore?”

Geralt thought it was because he was somehow just a bad person who deserved to feel ill for the rest of his life, but Jaskier’s explanation made sense too. “Yeah probably.”

He should have seen the next line of thought coming.

“Do you think this means you ought to go back to the hospital and get another one?”

Geralt tensed up. “No,” he responded, “I don’t need to go back to the hospital.”

“I know you don’t want to go, but are you sure you don’t need to go?”

He buried his head even further into Jaskier’s lap. He didn’t like these questions, and he didn’t want to think about this.

“I just got home,” he whined.

“If you go in now they’re probably not going to admit you again,” Jaskier pointed out. “Most likely they’ll give you a fluid infusion and some more antiemetics and send you home.”

“We have fluids and antiemetics here,” Geralt reminded him. “I can manage. Please don’t make me go back.”

“Will you actually take the antiemetics and drink the fluids though?” Jaskier seemed unsure.

“I will.” He would do anything to stay home.

“Okay, if you can keep them down, then we can stay here, but if you keep puking I’m taking you in. I don’t want to wait this time.”

“Fine,” Geralt grumbled. He was sleepy, and he didn’t feel good, and he didn’t want to be having this conversation right now. He didn’t trust that he’d be able to keep the gatorade and Zofran down, and even if he could, he didn’t trust that this wouldn’t happen all over again the next time he tried to eat.

Just thinking about it made him anxious.

Chapter Text

“I’ll go get the medicine. Then we can see about getting you off the bathroom floor.” Jaskier gave him a sympathetic smile and then left to go retrieve the pills.

“Hmm.”

What would happen the next time he tried to eat? Would he just be sick again? How was he supposed to get better if he couldn’t tell when something would make him ill? How much longer was he going to be ill?

The questions came fast, and made his head spin, not helping the nausea in the slightest. He gritted his teeth, unwilling to even let himself gag. Whether or not there was anything left in his body, if it even looked like he was puking Jaskier was going to bring him back to the hospital. But could Geralt really blame him?

Was this going to be his life now? What if he didn’t recover from this? It had been over a week already, and he still felt a long ways from the end of it. Was he going to spend the rest of his life getting hospitalized every time he got a stomach bug? How was he going to keep playing rugby if—

“Are you feeling okay? You’re looking a little green.” Jaskier stood in the doorway, pill bottle in one hand, and Gatorade in the other. He still wasn’t allowed plain water, another reminder of how far he was from being past this.

“ ‘m okay.”

“Are you sure?” Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Because if you think you’re going to be sick again, we should hold off on the Zofran. No point wasting one.”

“I’m not going to be sick again.” Geralt held his hand out for the medicine.

Jaskier shook a pill out into his palm and then handed him the Gatorade.

He swallowed the pill, fighting against his gag reflex.

“You ready to go lay in bed for a bit?”

No, but he’d decided he wasn’t going to throw up again, so there was no reason why he shouldn’t be able to go get comfortable in bed.

“Lay with me?”

“Yeah, I can lay with you for a little bit.” Jaskier stood and offered Geralt a hand up. He waited for the few seconds it took for the dizziness to pass, and then led Geralt, like a sad lost puppy, back into their bedroom.

Geralt wasted no time curling up on the bed, and then waited patiently for his husband to join him.

“I’m going to snuggle with you in a minute. Be patient,” Jaskier said in response to the sad eyes Geralt was making at him. “Before I lay down, is there anything else I can get you? You’re still shivering. Are you cold? Do you want me to grab your heating pad?”

“Can you get the weighted blanket?” He was cold, but he was also feeling pretty dysregulated, and the sweat he’d generate under the heating pad was not a sensory experience he needed. The weighted blanket would keep him from getting overstimulated, rather than encourage it.

“Of course, baby. Is there anything else?”

“Just you.”

“You’ll have me. Be patient.”

And he did get Jaskier. And it was lovely.

He still felt pretty nauseous, and shaky, and generally miserable, but being in bed with Jaskier made him care a little bit less about all those things. They turned on the TV, and Jaskier let Geralt lay across his lap again, playing with his hair while he obediently drank his gatorade.

Geralt was honestly kind of surprised when he got through the whole drink without tapping out. Jaskier had prepared for the worst, and brought the bucket to his bedside. He wasn’t totally sure he wouldn’t need it yet, but getting through the whole bottle was a good first step. If he did get sick, at least it would be nicer than puking up all that rice.

“How are you feeling?” Jaskier took the empty bottle and set it on his nightstand. “Is the Zofran helping?”

“Think so.” Geralt tried to keep a grimace off of his face. Jaskier wasn’t buying it.

“Do you think you’re going to be able to keep the gatorade down?”

“Mhmm.”

“But you’re probably going to feel pretty ill for a while until it digests a bit more?”

“Read my mind,” Geralt mumbled.

“My poor sick boy.” Jaskier switched from playing with his hair to rubbing his belly. “Do you want to try doubling up with the dramamine?”

“Any chance that backfires and makes me puke?” He’d learned better than to trust all the medications. It seemed like nowadays they made things worse just as often as they made things better. Although it mostly still felt like they weren’t doing anything at all.

“It shouldn’t,” Jaskier answered. “It’ll make you sleepy though. Might knock you out for a few hours.”

“Maybe I’ll just wait then,” Geralt said noncommittally.

“Why?” Jaskier looked puzzled. “It’s still early. If you nap now you should still sleep fine tonight.”

“I just feel like I’m wasting time. I’ve already taken one nap today. Once I wake up, the day will be gone, and all I’ve done is ride passenger to take my kid to school, sleep, and puke.”

“Sleeping isn’t a waste of time,” Jaskier chided. “Your job is to rest, and sleeping is part of it. I know it’s frustrating, believe me.”

“I know.” He didn’t sound convinced though.

“Do you remember when you spent that Christmas break at my house after my surgery?” Jaskier changed the subject. “I seem to remember us having this exact same conversation only the other way round.”

“That’s not a fair comparison,” Geralt complained. “You’d just had brain surgery. I just got a stupid stomach virus.”

“So that’s how it’s going to be?” Jaskier asked, resigned. “Are you going to insist on making yourself suffer just because you think other people have suffered more?”

Yeah, kind of. Didn’t sound as nice when he said it like that though.

“If one of your teammates got noro, would he need to rush his recovery, and make himself miserable just because he didn’t end up in the ICU like you did?” he huffed.

“Jask, that’s not what I meant.”

“Well what did you mean then?” He seemed genuinely upset. “Why can’t you let yourself rest? Why can’t you just let things be as easy as possible. I don’t understand.”

“Because I should be better!” Geralt sat up and scooted over to his side of the bed, knees pulled up against his chest, and hands clenched. “Because you were sick for four hours,” he said, unable to contain the anger anymore. “And I’ve been sick for a week. I must be doing something wrong. I need to do better, or try harder or something.”

“I suppose you intend to do that by ignoring your illness entirely, and sulking?” Jaskier bit back. “Because there’s no way that being kind to yourself is going to help anything.” His voice was thick with sarcasm, and Geralt didn’t like it in the slightest.

“Well what I’m doing right now doesn’t seem to be fucking working,” he replied. “I’m moving backwards. I’m doing something wrong.” Geralt buried his head in his hands. He had more to say, but he was afraid he’d have a meltdown if he let this go on much longer.

“Can I touch you?” Jaskier must also see that this argument was going to end in disaster if it went on.

“Mhmm.”

Jaskier pulled Geralt over into his lap, and went back to playing with his hair. “Can I tell you a story?”

He also must see that he had a captive audience. Geralt wasn’t nonverbal, but speaking was going to take a lot more energy now, and he was short on that at the moment.

Jaskier had the opportunity to make things a lot better, or a lot worse. It all depended on what story he told. Geralt had no interest in hearing another story about himself, throwing his own words back at him, but when Jaskier began to speak, it wasn’t about Geralt at all.

“You know when I was in the hospital as a kid, when I fell out the window, right?”

“Mhmm.”

“Well, I did pretty well learning how to walk again. They had me in physical therapy at the hospital as soon as I could, and I bounced back pretty quickly. By the time they sent me home, I was able to walk, no crutches or anything.”

Geralt wondered where he was going with this. It sounded an awful lot like gloating.

“And then I got home, walked across the threshold by myself and everything.” He paused, no doubt for extra dramatic effect. “And I woke up the next morning, and I couldn’t do it.”

“Huh?” He was genuinely confused.

“Not even two steps,” Jaskier continued. “It took me three more months of physical therapy before I was able to get around on my own one-hundred percent of the time.”

“Did they say why?”

“Of course they did. You know my mom about flipped her lid when she brought me back in, but the nurse explained it to her like this. When I was in the hospital I was under some of the most ideal conditions, at least as far as walking was concerned. I did it at certain times, I was being given medication, and monitored constantly. But that’s not real life.”

Oh. That’s where he was going with this.

“Yeah, you got the vomiting under control while you were there. You went two days, and I am so so happy for you, but now you’re home. You’re not on IV fluids, you’re not on bedrest, you’re not being monitored. It really sucks that you got sick again, love I know, but right now you need to be patient and kind to yourself. Being angry and mean is just going to make it worse.”

“I’m just so tired of this,” Geralt replied, surprised by the lump that had formed in his eternally sore throat.

“I know you are, baby. It’s not going to last forever, I promise, but it’s going to last a lot longer if you start withholding treatment from yourself.”

“Yeah.” Geralt took a shaky breath. “Okay. I’ll take the Dramamine.”

Chapter Text

This bout of vomiting stuck with Geralt a lot longer than just the time for the worst of the nausea to fade.

As he’d feared, he didn’t wake up until the evening, after Ciri was already home and Jaskier was making dinner.

He padded out to the kitchen and sat down at the counter. Ciri got up from her spot on the floor playing with her blocks and ran over to him, arms spread wide, and he scooped her up and set her on his lap.

“Hey, bug. How was your day at school?”

She babbled for a while about all the things she’d done at preschool, and by the time she was finished, Jaskier was dishing up dinner.

“Can I interest you in some dinner?” he asked, hopeful. “Doesn’t have to be this. I can fix you something else.”

“I’m scared I’ll be sick,” he admitted. “I can’t, Jask. Not again.” He tried to temper his tone since Ciri was on his lap, but it was hard not to sound upset.

“Are you still feeling nauseous?”

Geralt nodded.

“More nauseous than the normal amount of nauseous?”

He nodded again, hating that he was now operating under a ‘normal amount of nausea’ at all.

“Do you feel like you might be sick again even if you don’t eat?”

“Don’t think so.”

“I worry about you not eating enough,” Jaskier said. “I’m pretty sure they were giving you nutrition through your IV at the hospital, and I’m worried we’re not keeping up here. I really don’t want you losing any more weight, Geralt. It’s going to be tough enough when you go back to work as is, and that’s without trying to pack on muscle while you do it.”

He pulled Ciri closer to his torso, unhappy that they were talking about his body. He’d already been thinking a lot about this, and he knew how fucked he was when it came to getting back into rugby playing shape. Stressing about it wasn’t helping.

“The food isn’t going to do anything for me if I can’t keep it down though,” he argued. “Please, love. I feel so shaken up, and exhausted. I do not have it in me to throw up again. I just can’t do it.”

“Okay,” Jaskier sighed. “Yeah, but I want you to have a Gatorade glued to your hand for the rest of the evening.” He got one out of the fridge and slid it across the counter. “You can stop when we go to bed.”

He obeyed orders, and because of it he ended up having to wake up to pee about half a dozen times that night. It was certainly not as bad as waking up to puke, but it did interrupt his sleep and leave him tired and grumpy in the morning. Well, even more tired and grumpy than he usually was nowadays.

He didn’t get out of bed until late morning, and when he did he learned that Ciri had gone for a playdate with a friend, one of Jaskier’s colleagues’ kids. This didn’t help his mood in the slightest, and his grumpiness made itself known when Jaskier asked what he’d like to eat for breakfast.

He didn’t want anything. He didn’t feel good. His stomach was sore, and he felt unsteady and very afraid of being sick again. He was certain he felt worse now than he had before he’d eaten the rice that had done him in yesterday, but since he’d skipped dinner the night before, Jaskier put his foot down when he tried to skip breakfast.

“I really don’t feel good,” he replied when Jaskier first asked. “I’ll make myself something in a little bit. You don’t have to make me anything.”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to. And it’s a good thing I want to, because you really do need to eat, my love.”

He resisted the urge to whine like a little kid.

“What’ll it be, toast? Dry cereal? Oatmeal?”

Geralt ended up reluctantly deciding on top ramen. At least it would get a lot of salt in him. That ought to help something, right?

Jaskier cooked the ramen, while fixing himself a snack and getting meat from the freezer to thaw for his and Ciri’s dinner that night. It made Geralt feel shitty about how little he was contributing. Jaskier was taking care of the whole family practically single handedly, and Geralt couldn’t do anything but throw up and nap. He wanted to do things. He wanted to help.

“Do you want to come eat in my office? I have a zoom meeting, but if you’re on the couch you won’t be in view,” he said. “But I won’t be offended if you’d rather stay out here or go back to bed.”

“I’ll come with you.” He wanted to be close to Jaskier. Always.

Geralt took his ramen along with what was probably his millionth gatorade into Jaskier’s office and settled with a blanket on the couch. Jaskier told him a little about the possible commission he could be doing for this client, and ate his snack until the meeting began.

He didn’t understand most of what they were talking about, but judging by Jaskier’s tone, he was really excited about doing this project.

Both him and the person on his screen seemed thrilled when they decided on the terms for the contract, and Geralt was thrilled when he heard how much Jaskier was charging for it.

Good, one of them should be making money. Of course, Geralt still got paid even when he was out ill, but it was reduced when he wasn’t actually playing, so they were currently working on less than what they’d budgeted for, not counting the hospital bills. Gerlat forced himself to stop thinking about it.

Once Jaskier had ended the call and written down all the necessary notes he turned back to Geralt.

“Sorry, that was probably really boring,” he said. “How’d you do with your ramen? Can I take your bowl back to the kitchen?”

“Thanks, love.” Geralt handed him his bowl of cold ramen noodles. In his defense, he’d drunk nearly all the broth, which was plenty salty, and probably had at least a little protein, but had hardly touched the noodles. Jaskier noticed this right away, and didn’t hesitate to comment.

“Did you eat any of the noodles, love?”

He’d tried but given up fairly quickly, and the few he had eaten earlier were not sitting very well. In fact, nothing seemed to be going very well. He felt just as shaky, and tired, and nauseous as he had for days now.

“I ate some of them,” he mumbled.

“And how are you feeling now?”

“Nauseous.”

This got him back on his strict Zofran and Gatorade diet. He did as he was told, and he thought his cooperation might grant him some leeway come lunch time, but a few hours later Jaskier was asking him what he’d like to eat, and they were starting the argument all over again.

“I’m scared I’ll throw up again,” he said for what felt like the millionth time.

“I know you are, but this is how you make progress, Geralt. You need the nutrients and sodium from the food. Gatorade is not going to give your body the energy it needs to heal. And anyway, the doctor said if your electrolytes drop too low you risk irritating your kidneys again, and that’s not something I want to risk,” Jaskier told him. “Not to mention it’d land you right back in the hospital.”

“Yeah, but if I eat this and throw it up then you’re going to make me go back to the hospital anyway.” Geralt pointed out, getting frustrated.

“Because if you can’t keep down food then you need to be in a hospital. I know you hate it, love, but I don’t make the rules. I’m not trying to be mean, but there’s no option where you don’t eat and you stay out of the hospital. It just doesn’t work that way. Yes, if you eat and you’re sick then you’ll probably have to go get checked out, but if you let your electrolytes get too depleted then you’ll definitely have to go. At least if you eat you’ve got a fighting chance.”

Geralt didn’t like how Jaskier was dangling the hospital over his head as a punishment. Rationally he knew Jaskier only wanted what was best for him, but he felt hurt, and his brain was trying to protect itself by telling him that his husband was just being mean.

“I can keep going on broth and gatorade,” he insisted. “Didn’t they send me home with salt tablets? My electrolytes will be fine.”

“You can’t get by with just salt tabs, love. It won’t be enough. You need to eat.”

“I know, but can’t I wait a little longer? Until I’m not so nauseous all the fucking time?” He tried not to sound bitter. Couldn’t Jaskier see he was doing his best? Did he not see how close Geralt was getting to shutting down completely?

“You’re never going to stop feeling so nauseous until you eat,” he insisted. “We have this argument every time you’re sick. How many times have I told you that going too long without eating will make you feel ill?”

A lot of times. Geralt didn’t reply.

“I’m sorry, Geralt, but I have to put my foot down. I’d be doing you a disservice if I let you stop eating. This is how you get better.”

“Fine.” Geralt laid his head down on the counter and covered it with his arms, shutting down, just like he’d feared he would.

“Love, please don’t be angry with me. I just want you to feel better.”

“Not angry.” His reply was muffled by his arms.

“What can I get you to eat?” Jaskier tried.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to sit up and figure it out with me, or do you want me to choose for you?”

It was the exact same way he’d talk to Ciri, and it sparked a flare of anger in Geralt’s chest. It was still more at his situation than it was at Jaskier—he was hardly ever really angry with Jaskier—but he wished his husband could understand just how horrible this was, and just how scared he was of being sick again. He wanted more time.

“You choose.”

“Okay.” Jaskier sighed, and a minute later, set down a plate in front of his husband. It was a banana with peanut butter. True, this was one of Geralt’s go to snacks, and Jaskier definitely could’ve chosen something less tasty, but he couldn’t ignore the presentation.

Jaskier had sliced the banana up, applied a dollop of peanut butter to each piece, and just in case that part went over his head, he’d arranged them on one of Ciri’s plates, a little green one in the shape of a frog.

He was being childish, and Jaskier wanted to make sure he knew.

“Thanks,” Geralt said, eyes still on his plate.

“You’re welcome,” Jaskier replied, an uncomfortable stiffness between them.

It remained there while Geralt ate his food, Jaskier watching over him from the other side of the counter, making sure he didn’t try to pull anything. He took Geralt’s plate wordlessly after he’d finished and put it in the sink.

“I need to go pick up Ciri from Rowan’s.” Jaskier broke the silence.

“Okay.”

“I need to go to the grocery store too. We’re low on everything.”

No doubt nobody had been to the grocery store since before he got sick.

“Okay.”

Jaskier took the grocery list off the fridge, and then walked around the counter to put his shoes on and grab his keys and wallet.

“Text me if you think of anything you want me to pick up at the store.”

“Okay.”

“Love you. I’ll be home in a bit.”

Geralt looked over his shoulder to where Jaskier stood by the door. A part of him didn’t want him to go—wanted him to stay so they could work everything out—but a part of him didn’t want to see him at all. He wanted to be alone.

“Bye, love.”

Chapter Text

Geralt wanted to leave. He wanted to run away and hide.

He was in no shape to go anywhere though, and even if he could, where would he? The only place he could think of was Eskel’s apartment, and he doubted going to hide at his brother’s would make Jaskier think he was being any less childish.

Instead he went outside.

Not exactly a hiding place, but less obvious than the bedroom or the couch, which were his other two options currently.

He brought a blanket out with him, and even though it was blustery outside, he was warm and dry with his blanket wrapped around him under the porch, sitting on one of the camp chairs. He considered going in to get his pen, but he was exhausted, and worried that smoking would just make him feel worse. So instead he just sat there, watching the storm brew out in his yard, and feeling a similar one in his stomach.

Thankfully, the increase in nausea didn’t hit him like a brick wall this time. He weathered it with some difficulty, but never got so close to vomiting that he had to give up his spot on the porch. He managed to calm down quite a bit, watching the rain and feeling his nausea actually diminishing for once.

He should have known better than to let his guard down. His stomach took the food well, yes, but very little solid food had actually made it past his stomach lately, and the rest of his digestive system made sure he hadn’t forgotten about them when the food finally hit.

The cramping came first.

The first one was so slight that Geralt could almost pretend he didn’t know what was happening. Ready once again to punish him for getting too confident, his belly then proved that it was not only angry, but unwilling to let Geralt enjoy even a little predictability.

He expected the next cramp to be a bit stronger, and the next one a bit stronger than that, giving him plenty of time to hem and haw and drag himself inside and to the toilet. But the next cramp gripped him with a strong hand, and came with a loud grumble, and a renewed wave of nausea.

He clutched his belly involuntarily, shocked and offended by the sudden jump in intensity. He swallowed thickly, and remembered fondly the time two minutes ago when he’d thought himself safe from vomiting. His belly growled again, as if laughing at him.

Geralt stared out at the rain, enduring the next cramp and fighting back his own tears. The pain, the injustice, the frustration. It was all too much. He couldn’t be expected to keep on like this.

Still, he procrastinated.

The cramps came regularly, but with varying intensity. Some of them were painful enough to make him consider puking, but the urgency still built at its usual pace. He went through his usual five stages of grief that surrounded getting up and surrendering to the bathroom, but after ten or fifteen uncomfortable, sweaty minutes, Geralt got up and went inside.

Compared to some of the bouts he’d experienced in the hospital, this was almost pleasant. It was clear Geralt’s body wanted to be empty, despite Jaskier’s endless argument against it, but this time the cramps actually lessened the more he was able to relieve himself.

He managed to finish without throwing up, and although there was still a hollow ache in his belly as he walked unsteadily back to his blanket and chair on the porch, he no longer felt like he was about to burst.

Geralt sat clumsily back down in the chair, wincing and wrapping the blanket around his shoulders again. He was sore, from this most recent bout, as well as the countless others he’d experienced this week. Had a single day gone by without Geralt violently emptying his digestive system in one way or another? If it had, he didn’t remember it. He wondered if a day like that would ever come again. He doubted it.

He’d settled back down pretty well by the time Jaskier returned home with Ciri and the groceries. Residual grumbles twisted through his belly, but he wasn’t sure if it was the start of a second round, or if this was his body adjusting and then regulating again. Only time would tell, and the time he had to spend checked out on the porch by himself was over.

“Love?”

Geralt could barely hear his husband’s quiet call through the house. From where he sat, he could see Jaskier through the sliding glass door, but it was clear that Jaskier didn’t see him. He stood in the entryway, Ciri on one hip, out cold, and several bags of groceries weighing down his other arm.

He deposited the groceries first, before taking Ciri down the hall, either to her bed, or to theirs. Either way, he returned a moment later without her, and then went back out to carry in another load of groceries.

Geralt felt guilty, like he ought to be helping, but right now he wasn’t sure Jaskier would even want his help, and anyway, the cramps were getting worse again. So instead he sat, growing steadily more miserable, physically and emotionally, while he watched his husband finish bringing in and putting away a full load of groceries.

After they were put away, Geralt expected Jaskier to start cooking dinner, or maybe go to his office, but instead he went back down the hall. Was Ciri crying? No. Jaskier returned a moment later, standing in the living room and scanning the whole main part of the house. He was looking for him.

“Geralt?” He called through the empty room.

Geralt almost got up and went inside, but after calling quietly for him one more time, Jaskier walked toward the back porch.

“Hey, I didn’t see you out here,” he opened the door, cautious. “This weather is sure something.”

Indeed. The storm hadn’t relented, and judging by his wet hair and shirt, Jaskier had been caught out in it. The fact that they were talking about the weather at all though showed that there was still some awkwardness between them from earlier.

“Mhmm.”

“Are you having a smoke?” Jaskier took the other camp chair and dragged it right next to Geralt’s before sitting down.

“Just sitting.”

“Okay.”

They just sat for a while. The only sounds were the rain, the baby monitor sitting in the cup holder of Jaskier’s chair, and the occasional growl from Geralt’s belly, although he wasn’t sure Jask could hear those.

“Were you hiding?” Jaskier finally broke the silence, and Geralt turned to look at him, not quite meeting his eye.

“Mhmm.”

“From me?”

Instead of answering, Geralt leaned over and laid his head on his husband’s shoulder, one arm still wrapped protectively around his belly. He didn’t have to confirm it. They both knew.

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier put his arm around Geralt and held him close.

Geralt settled into the embrace. He was still upset with him, but not so upset that he’d reject his affection.

“I just get so frustrated,” Jaskier continued. “Because it seems to me like the solution is obvious, and it’s hard to watch you argue against what feels like the only option,” he admitted. “But that isn’t fair of me. I know you’re working with considerations that I can’t see, or understand, and being short with you won’t help.”

“I’m sorry I’m so high maintenance,” Geralt said into his husband’s shoulder.

“Hey, you’d better not be co-opting my apology,” Jaskier joked. “But really, love, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’ve been stubborn.”

“We’ve both been stubborn.”

“I’ve been refusing to see things how they are,” Geralt said.

“I won’t argue with that one,” Jaskier replied. “But you’re not doing it to be difficult.”

“Still doing it though, and you’ve got enough other shit on your plate.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Huh?” Geralt pulled back.

“You’re not letting me take care of you because of something I can’t see or understand. I don’t know why it’s so difficult for you to just let me tend to you.”

“Because you shouldn’t have to. You have been for a week already.”

“And now you’re doing that again.”

Geralt sighed, and resigned himself to burying his face in Jaskier’s damp shirt sleeve.

“Is this too much?” Jaskier asked. “Do we need to save this for later?”

Geralt shook his head, still not looking up. “Tell me.”

“You keep insisting you should be better,” Jaskier said. “I love you, but my darling, who is that helping? Does it make you feel better?”

No, it made him feel worse, but so did letting himself be a burden.

“Is that the kind of encouragement you need?” Jaskier pressed. “Because if it is, I'll do it. I can be the meanest coach you’ve ever had if you think it will help.”

So he was calling his bluff.

“Will that help, love?”

“No,” Geralt conceded.

“Are you going to be nicer to yourself then?” Jaskier asked. “Because it’ll probably make you feel a lot better than you think.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Okay.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier felt a lot better after their conversation. He hoped Geralt did too.

After they finished talking, Jaskier went inside to fix dinner, and Geralt decided to stay outside a little longer and wait until the food was ready.

He didn’t say he didn’t want to eat, but it was clear that he wasn’t excited. Jaskier suggested getting a little high to see if that helped, but Geralt was still traumatized from the couple of episodes he’d had while high on the day he went to the hospital, and for good reason.

What he wanted now was space, Jaskier could tell, so he decided to let him have it for a bit.

Jaskier went back inside, and was met immediately with a call from the bedroom.

“Papa?”

Ciri must have woken up in the past minute or so. Jaskier hadn’t heard anything on the monitor.

“No, it’s Daddy.” He walked into Ciri’s room to find her sleepy eyed and stretching.

“Where’s Papa?” Her tiny eyebrows furrowed.

“He’s just out on the back porch,” Jaskier replied. “Do you want to help make dinner?”

“For Papa?” Jaskier was obsessed with how much she adored Geralt. Finally someone on his own level. “For all three of us. Do you want to help?”

“Uh-huh.”

The main part of the meal was already finished, thankfully. Jaskier had gotten a rotisserie chicken at the grocery store, so all he and Ciri had to do was make the sides.

Ciri helped by assisting Jaskier with mashing the potatoes, while some veggies steamed on the stove. All in all not a bad meal considering. He hoped Geralt would eat some of the mashed potatoes.

Every meal he missed made Jaskier more and more stressed. He was wasting away, and mashed potatoes weren’t going to fix that, but they could very well be a good first step.

He made sure to have Ciri on his hip when he went out to get Geralt for dinner, not unwilling to use his daughter to pull at his husband’s heart strings.

“Dinner time Papa!” Ciri yelled as soon as the door opened. “I helped!”

Geralt stood up and accepted Ciri when she leaned over to him. He swayed for a moment during the transfer and Jaskier held his breath, but then he steadied and all three of them walked inside.

“Wow.” He took in the rather impressive spread. Jaskier had put out dinner rolls as well, hoping they might entice Geralt if the potatoes didn’t. Anyway, Ciri was a fiend for carbs; she’d be thrilled.

“Do you want me to help you dish up?” Geralt deposited Ciri in her seat.

“Uh-huh.”

Watching Geralt go through the table and fill up a plate with a little from every dish, cutting the meat into pieces, buttering a roll, felt incredible. Jaskier was shocked at how moved he was by the simple act of watching Geralt interacting with the meal. He was dishing up for Ciri, yes, but for a second there Jaskier could pretend.

“Your turn,” he encouraged, trading Ciri’s full plate for Geralt’s empty one. “Here you go.”

“I helped,” Ciri let him know as soon as he went in for the mashed potatoes.

“Oh did you?”

“I helped to smash.”

“The potatoes?” Geralt clarified.

“Yeah.” She beamed.

“Well they look delicious. Thanks, Bug.”

Jaskier was overjoyed when Geralt put a decent sized scoop on his plate, along with two rather small pieces of roast carrot. He hadn’t seen that one coming. He’d been thrilled he was eating at all. He wondered what had changed.

Geralt took his spot next to Ciri with his meager dinner, but he didn’t pick up his fork, choosing to watch Ciri eat instead. Jaskier put his own plate down, and walked around the table to Geralt. His own meal could wait.

“Are you going to eat?” Jaskier came up behind Geralt’s chair and put his hands on his husband’s shoulders. “Don’t want it to get cold.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Geralt replied, absentmindedly. “I will.”

Jaskier pulled up a chair next to Geralt.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, concerned. “I didn’t ask you earlier how you were feeling after lunch. Did it go okay?”

Geralt didn’t meet his eye.

“Were you ill again?” Jaskier continued, suddenly terrified that Geralt had thrown up again, and not told him after how petty he’d been at lunch. His own stomach turned, and he willed Geralt to answer faster.

“No.”

Jaskier relaxed.

“Well.”

And then tensed right back up again.

“I didn’t throw up,” Geralt clarified. “I had some pretty bad cramps though.”

After everything, he was still embarrassed. Bless him.

“But you got through it okay?” He felt awful that he hadn’t been here to help, or offer emotional support or something. This was better than vomiting, but Jaskier knew how unpleasant the other end of things had gotten for Geralt during the course of this illness.

Geralt opened his mouth to speak, but Jaskier didn’t let him.

“Be honest,” he interjected, able to tell Geralt was wanting to play it off. “Please.”

“I got through it,” he answered. “But it was pretty painful there for a while. The nausea passed, and I thought I was out of the woods, but as soon as it got past my stomach my body decided it didn’t want the food anymore.”

“Oh, love.” Jaskier’s chest ached. Geralt deserved to be able to eat. This torture wasn’t fair.

“The cramps were pretty bad for a bit there. The pain was bad enough to bring the nausea back, and for a while I thought I might throw up again, but then I went to the bathroom, and well…” He let Jaskier put those pieces together.

“Did it help though?” he said. “I mean, are you feeling okay now?”

Geralt put a hand on his belly. “It got rid of the worst of the cramping, but not all of it. Still growls at me every once in a while, but the worst is over I think.”

Until he ate again.

“I’m so sorry, love. I hate seeing you in pain like this.” Jaskier offered the best condolences he could knowing how his next words were likely to be received. “But I still think you ought to eat.”

Stomach cramps or no, this was better than puking. And unlike the puking, this was probably just a sign of his system starting up again after a week of torture and neglect, not a sign of further illness. To his great surprise, Geralt agreed with him.

“Yeah, I know.” He picked up a spoonful of mashed potatoes and then let them fall off the utensil back onto his plate. The way he looked at his plate made it seem like Jaskier was asking him to eat mud, rather than delicious mashed potatoes.

“Will you at least try?”

“On one condition,” Geralt replied, the tiniest hint of a smile appearing in the corners of his mouth.

“What’s that?”

“After I finish we can go snuggle in bed, and you have to rub my belly.”

“Deal.”

“For as long as I want?”

“Deal. Anything you want, love.”

Anything that might make him feel better. They were getting desperate.

Chapter Text

This marked the beginning of a very long, very uphill battle of getting Geralt eating again.

Some days went better than others. Some days he ate without complaining, but other days the food upset his stomach, or left him sore and aching for hours after.

During those times he liked to revert back into the safety of his gatorade and salt tabs, but slowly and surely Jaskier nourished him back to health.

Even more slowly than that, after he’d proved himself able to eat enough calories per day to be expending any extra, Elaine got him back into the gym.

Again, he was reminded of the first time they met, and how long she’d spent easing him back into things after the heat exhaustion incident. And then he’d only thrown up twice. He needed to get back into the gym though, if he was going to get into playing shape before the season ended.

Each day he was allowed to do a little bit more, working his way up from just leaving the house and standing around the gym while everyone else worked out, to lifting lighter weights, doing less reps, and just enough cardio to get his heart and lungs back into playing shape.

Today they were about halfway into the process. It was a Friday, and all week he’d been working up to do this specific workout. It was shorter and easier than what anybody else was doing, but it was a workout, and Geralt wanted so badly to get through it. He wanted the worst of this to be behind him. Maybe that was why he let himself ignore the warning signs.

Geralt ignored how disproportionately out of breath he was getting, how much sweatier he was than everyone else despite them working much harder. The pit in his stomach returned, but that wasn’t too out of the ordinary, and if he paid it too much attention it might really become a problem. He was almost done with the workout. If he could just get through this last lift.

“Need a spot?” It was Luke.

“Yeah, thanks.”

It was a bench press. All he needed to do was one set. Eight lifts. He could do this. He got the weight onto the bar and then laid down on the bench, Luke taking his place above him, hands hovering over the bar while Geralt lifted it up off the rack.

Geralt had to focus on his breathing as he went through the motions of slowly lowering the bar to his chest and then pressing it back up.

“One.” Luke counted from above. Usually his breathing was second nature, timing it so he was inhaling and exhaling at the right parts during the lift, but today he felt off. He couldn’t get it quite right.

“Two.” He felt the pressure building in his head. Lower the bar. Inhale. Raise the bar. Exhale. He still felt short of breath.

“Three.” Laying on his back wasn’t doing anything good for his stomach. It pushed the nausea farther up his throat, his abdominal muscles not helping matters as they flexed to help get the bar up.

“Four.” Halfway there. This bar was fucking heavy. Had he put the right weights on? Had he fucked up the math? He usually lifted much more than this. It shouldn’t be this hard.

“Five.” Luke was sounding quieter and quieter with each number. Farther away. Geralt saw stars with the next press up, but he told himself it was just because he hadn’t timed his breaths right. He was over halfway there. This was his last lift, before he was done. He could finish it.

“Six.” He wanted to shut his eyes and focus, but he was afraid it would set the room spinning. Already it was starting to drift, imparting a floating, seasick feeling. His muscles were turning to jelly.

“Seven.” Geralt grunted, pushing hard to get the bar back up all the way. “You good?” Luke asked. “You’re looking kind of shaky.” “I’m fine,” Geralt growled. He was so close. On the way back down the bar fought harder than ever to end up crushing Geralt’s ribcage, and there was a moment in the middle of the lift that he stalled, fearing he wasn’t going to make it all the way back up before his arms gave out, but he summoned his last bit of energy to get it up the rest of the way.

“Eight.” The bar clattered onto the bar and Geralt sat back, breathing heavy and watching the little black dots in his vision slowly fade. “You good?” Luke repeated, looking down at him with an expression full of concern.

Geralt didn’t want to think about what he probably looked like right now.

“Yeah,” he replied, panting. As he said it though, he felt a stabbing pain in his gut which set the nausea off again, the room still drifting lazily around the two of them. Maybe not so lazily now. “Just out of shape.” He tried to make it sound like a joke, but the words were barely intelligible.

“Need a hand up? Maybe you should go talk to Elaine.”

So he really did look unwell. He was fine. As soon as he caught his breath he’d be fine. He accepted Luke’s hand up though, and as soon as he was upright he doubled over another white hot pain ripping through his abdomen.

The floor tilted under his feet, and before he even realized what was going on he was kneeling on the ground with an arm around his belly, Luke keeping him upright from above.

“Fuck,” he whimpered, black quickly encroaching on the edges of his vision. He no longer felt out of breath. It was far beyond that. He couldn’t breathe. He felt like he’d just sprinted to make a hundred meter try and he was about ready to puke.

An invisible force squeezed his chest, seeming to drag him down to the floor by his internal organs.

“Someone go get Elaine!” Luke shouted from what sounded like a great distance. Elaine was not going to get here in time, and even if she did it wouldn’t matter.

Geralt was going to faint, and there was nothing anybody could do to stop it. The entire gym fell silent when Luke yelled, and to his horror, the last image Geralt saw was everyone staring at him as he collapsed into a heap on the floor. He welcomed the unconsciousness. It would spare him from this embarrassment, so Geralt surrendered, and let the blackness swallow him whole.

Chapter Text

“Clear the gym.”

The first thing Geralt heard when he came to was Elaine yelling. He groaned, and let his eyes fall shut again, going in and out for another few seconds before Elaine turned her whole attention to him.

“Geralt?” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

His unfocused eyes searched for her above where he still lay in his heap, his body limp, dead weight on the gym floor. He was drenched in sweat and unable to move, and worst of all the room still spun, making him feel like he might be sick.

“What happened, Geralt?” Elaine asked. “Talk to me, kiddo, or I’m gonna need to call for an ambulance.”

“No ambulance.” As soon as he opened his mouth he went from feeling like he might be sick, to being certain he was going to. “Your office,” he breathed. The gym was mostly empty, but a few people remained, and he didn’t want them to see this.

“Can you stand?”

There wasn’t time for questions. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, swallowing a gag, and fighting the urge to shut his eyes to ward off the dizzying sight of the room blurring around him.

“I can make it.”

Geralt had absolutely no business making that claim, and he nearly collapsed again as soon as Elaine got him on his feet, but he had a mission which he was determined not to fail.

She had to carry more than her share of his weight down the hall to her office, and if she were any less strong, and he were any less stubborn, they wouldn’t have had a chance.

By some miracle of the gods, they were able to get him all the way to her office, where he promptly collapsed onto the couch, doubled over, retched loudly, and clapped a hand over his mouth. Hot acid stung the back of his throat before he swallowed convulsively, delaying the inevitable, but only momentarily.

“Oh, just a second, Geralt. Not the floor,” Elaine fretted, rushing to get the trash can under his mouth before he gagged again.

This time, knowing the garbage can was safely beneath him, Geralt couldn’t keep himself together. His stomach muscles contracted, and Elaine had just enough time to swoop in and pull his hair out of the way before he was emptying his stomach into the trash bag.

Half digested bits of his breakfast and lunch came up, but most of what he brought up was water and gatorade, the liquid spewing from his mouth and nose in torrents.

The puking was as quick as it was violent though, and after one more thick, bilious heave, he was able to pull himself together enough to take a breath. Elaine offered him a tissue and he wiped his mouth before throwing it into the trash can, right into the puddle of what less than a minute ago had been in his stomach.

“Finished?”

Geralt nodded, swallowing and wincing when he noticed the return of the acid scorched feeling he’d been so happy to finally get rid of.

“Do you feel better now?”

“Hmm.” No. He didn’t. He felt out of breath, and woozy, and nauseous.

“Can I take this out?”

He nodded again, laying back on the couch and trying to stop shaking while she took his bag of puke out to the trash. He didn’t open his eyes until she returned.

“Alright, Geralt.” She brought him back the trash can before wheeling her chair over and sitting in front of him, assessing his condition. “Talk to me. What happened?”

He didn’t want to talk to her. He didn’t want to talk at all. In all honesty, he already felt like puking again, but if he couldn’t explain himself here, he’d have to do his explaining at the hospital, which he'd really like to avoid.

“Stood up too fast.” Geralt cracked his eyes just enough to look at her. “After the bench press.”

“And how did you feel before the bench press.”

She wasn’t going to fall for his excuses. He hadn’t expected her too, but it was worth a shot.

“Okay,” he hedged. “It was hard to get through the last set.”

“So you were feeling sick before you started doing the chest presses?”

“A little, but that made it worse,” he admitted.

“What kind of symptoms were you having?”

Geralt took a deep breath, which did nothing to mitigate the nausea, before he continued.

“Tired, sweaty, nauseous.”

“Do you think you’re ill, or do you think this is maybe from working a little bit too hard?”

“Second one,” he mumbled, forlorn and ashamed that he was still carrying that damned stomach bug with him all these weeks later.

“Okay.” She patted his leg, able to tell he wasn’t going to be good for much more conversation.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re alright kiddo,” she assured him. “I just want you to be okay.”

“Hmm.” He was never going to be okay. The universe would never be so kind.

“It’s okay. We’re going to get you feeling better,” she continued. “Just gotta figure out how.”

The eternal question.

“I think you could really benefit from a hospital visit.”

And there it was.

“Plea—”

“I know you don’t want to, Geralt. I really don’t want you to have to either, but I also don’t want to set your recovery back any further.”

“I can’t,” he whimpered. “Not again.”

“I think I’d like to call Jaskier,” she decided. “Is he home? Do you know if he can come down?”

“He can.” Geralt let his eyes flutter shut again, content with this current stay of execution, even though there was a good chance Jaskier would agree with her.

“Alright.” She patted his leg again and then stood up to get her phone. “We’re going to get you feeling better, kiddo. Just hang in there.”

Geralt did his best.

The couch in Elaine’s office was a ship in a storm. He curled up in the fetal position with his head propped up against the arm of the couch, the immaculately clean trash bag just below him, taunting him. The puking wasn’t over, he knew that much, but he wasn’t ready to accept it.

Instead he tried to sleep.

Geralt had really only fainted a few times in his life, but each time he woke up feeling like he’d been hit by a truck. He remembered the stabbing pains he’d experienced right before passing out—one of the only concrete details he could pick out of that messy blur—and he could feel them returning.

The couch seemed to rock with his heartbeat, and he started getting sea sick, groaning against his will and calling Elaine’s attention back to him.

“You alright?”

“Don’t feel good.”

“Do you want me to wait to call Jaskier?”

Until he threw up again? “No.” He wanted his husband here now.

“Alright.” Elaine dialed. “Hey, Jaskier, are you at home? You’re on speaker with Elaine and Geralt.”

“Oh, hi.” He sounded instantly concerned. “Yeah, I’m home. What’s up?”

“So everything is under control,” she prefaced. “But Geralt fainted during training today. We’re not quite sure why, but I think we just might have been moving a bit too fast. Either way, he did faint in the weight room, and he started throwing up not long after he came around.”

“Oh.” The worry in his voice was clear as day. “I can be there in ten minutes. Should I come?”

“Is there someone who can watch Ciri?”

“I’ll call Eskel,” he said. “How worried do I need to be?”

He sounded frantic, and Geralt hated that.

“I’m not worried,” Elaine assured them both. “But I’d like to get this dealt with as quickly as we can. I don’t think waiting is going to do anyone much good.”

Chapter Text

The scene Jaskier was met with triggered flashbacks to when this all began. Geralt laid on Elaine’s couch, eyes half shut, pale as a ghost, absolutely drenched in sweat, and panting into a trash can. He went straight for the couch.

“Hey, love.” Jaskier half sat on the arm of the couch, brushing the few strands which had escaped from what appeared to be a very hasty bun off of Geralt’s face. He went to ask Geralt how he was feeling, but it only took a few seconds of looking at him to see he was in no shape for conversation. Instead, Jaskier looked up to Elaine. “How is he doing?”

“He’s only thrown up once so far, but he appears to be working up towards a second round. I tried to get him to drink some gatorade, but he wasn’t interested.”

Either Geralt had an incredible natural gift for timing, or the mere mention of vomiting was enough to push him over the edge, because as soon as Elaine finished her sentence, he propped himself up on one elbow, leaned over the trash can, and vomited spectacularly.

Jaskier wouldn’t have guessed he’d already thrown up once, judging by how much he was bringing up now. It came in waves, and he watched helpless as his husband gagged, and heaved until he was finally able to collapse back onto the couch.

“That’s it, love.” Once again, Jaskier brushed away the flyaway hairs, which were now stuck to his face with sweat. “You’re okay.”

Geralt groaned, wiped his face with a tissue from the box on the floor next to the garbage can, and then snuggled up closer to Jaskier.

He hoped that since Geralt had successfully brought up quite a bit of his stomach contents, he might feel a little bit better now. Looking at him as he lay on the couch, breathing shallowly with his eyes pressed shut, it was hard to believe he didn’t feel worse.

“What do we do now?” Jaskier addressed the question to Elaine, but to his great surprise, Geralt was the one who answered. He didn’t think he had speaking capabilities at the moment, but Geralt proved to be stubborn as ever.

“Home.”

“What did the doctor tell you after you got the official diagnosis?”

In his panic, Jaskier had to think hard to remember, even though the news had only come last week. Just in time.

Geralt had finally gotten the fluoroscopic imaging, and gastric emptying test done, the doctor had finished ruling things out, and she’d laid out a plan for when this happened next. Jaskier had written it down somewhere. He didn’t think it would be so soon. He should’ve known better.

“Um, he’s got Zofran,” he began, racking his brain. “And the doctor said to take Prilosec with it, give fluids, and strict bed rest.” He didn’t think he was forgetting anything. “She mostly wanted to focus on stopping the episodes before they start. She put him on antidepressants which are supposed to help with prevention, but they haven’t had time to kick in.”

“And when did she say to bring him in for fluids?”

“No hospital,” Geralt mumbled. Jaskier put a hand on his shoulder, but otherwise ignored his protestations.

“She didn’t give specifics, but she said as soon as we’re worried about dehydration, or if the interventions don’t seem to be slowing things down.”

“We can probably hold off on the hospital then,” Elaine decided. “For now. Do you think you can get him home alright?”

“I can walk,” Geralt insisted. “I’m okay.”

He wasn’t okay, but he could walk.

With an arm around him, and a supportive Elaine following behind, Jaskier was able to get Geralt out to his car without anybody throwing up. And by some miracle of all the gods, he didn’t puke in Jaskier’s car either. Unfortunately, their luck seemed to end there.

“What’s the plan, love?” Jaskier asked. “Bed? Couch?”

He half expected Geralt to respond, ‘bathroom,’ but to his great surprise, he said he wanted to sit on the back porch.

“Did you want to try smoking?” Jaskier was confused why he’d want to be outside. “I’m going to go get your meds now, but if you think it will help.”

Geralt shook his head. “Fresh air.”

“Okay.” Jaskier helped him out to his camp chair before going back in to retrieve the Zofran and Prilosec. He didn’t have high hopes for them.

When the doctor had initially gone over the diagnosis with them, she’d impressed upon them how the best thing they could do—pretty much the only thing they could do—was focus on prevention.

The antidepressant they put him on was supposed to act as a preventative medicine, biggest part of the plan was avoiding triggers.

They were supposed to make sure Geralt ate well, got plenty of sleep, and didn’t let himself get too stressed. Just like he’d been doing his whole life, Geralt was supposed to be avoiding vomiting at all cost, being careful with travel and motion sickness, drinking and hangovers, and yes, faints.

Geralt had only fainted a few times in his life, but each time it had resulted in vomiting, and this time it seemed to have propelled Geralt past all of their preventative measures, and right into another cyclic vomiting episode.

The two rescue medications were their only hope of getting this under control, but usually once they got to this point he was too far gone. This was not good at all.
***
Geralt sat in his camp chair outside, shivering and gritting his teeth in a last ditch attempt to get the nausea under control while he waited for Jaskier to bring him his rescue medicine.

He wasn’t sure what he should expect from them. Even the doctor hadn’t seemed to have high hopes, and had impressed upon him how he should direct most of his efforts at keeping the puking from starting in the first place, as if that wasn’t what he’d been doing his entire life. Geralt wasn’t even sure if he could get pills down right now, let alone keep them there.

He doubled over and wrapped an arm around his belly just as it grumbled at him, displeased. Geralt groaned. This wasn’t fair. He was supposed to be getting better, not going back to square one.

“Okay, I’ve got the meds.” Jaskier slid open the back door and stepped out. “How are you hanging in there?”

Poorly. Very poorly. His stomach gurgled again, and he swallowed back bile.

“I don’t feel good,” he whimpered.

Jaskier walked around so he could get a better look at him. Geralt tried to keep eye contact, but it was difficult. The nausea was getting worse by the second.

“Do you think you’re going to be sick again?”

“Mhmm.”

Geralt took deep breaths in through his nose to try and mitigate the nausea. Jaskier went inside to get a bucket without asking any more questions.

All he had to do was hold out until Jaskier brought him the bucket, Geralt told himself. As much as he didn’t want to accept it, he was going to be sick again, but after he finished he could take his meds and hopefully stop this cyclic vomiting episode before it got any worse. If he could just wait until Jaskier brought him the bucket.

They’d waited too long though. Geralt had tried too hard to hold out for the meds, and now he was going to pay the price. What was that he’d kept saying during the last cycle? Trying to put off throwing up only made it worse? Intellectually, he’d learned that by now ten times over, but he just couldn’t seem to do it in practice. His hatred for puking ran too deep. It would be his undoing.

He couldn’t wait for Jaskier any longer.

His husband had been in the house for less than a minute. He would be back any second with the bucket, but again, Geralt had waited too long and fucked himself over. He didn’t have many more seconds to spare.

Geralt pushed himself up out of the chair, his brain still trying to find some way where this happened on his terms, but no good options presented themselves.

He stood doubled over with his hands on his knees, keeping on with the deep breaths, and wondering if this was really about to happen. He’d never get to the bathroom in time. He could get to the edge of the patio and puke into the grass, maybe, but that would just as likely end with him puking on both the cement and his feet.

“Here, sit down. I’ve got the bucket.” Jaskier reappeared on the porch only a few seconds too late. All he was able to do was scamper back up onto the step to avoid being hit by the flood of vomit Geralt sent splattering onto the cement. “Oh, love.”

Geralt was unable to acknowledge the sentiment though, because his abs were clenching again, and he sent another wave of puke onto the ground for both of them to see. Somehow after all of the puking there was still food in his stomach, because he could identify bits of his lunch on the ground in front of him. Seeing it, and recognizing the taste of what he’d enjoyed a few hours ago, now ruined with the acrid, bitter bile just made him feel sicker.

One hand on his knee and the other around his middle, he coughed and let out one last spectacular retch and one last torrent of vomit. Then he just stood there, panting, shaking, and staring blank faced at the puddle of puke below him.

When Jaskier came up behind him and put a cautious hand on his back he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“It’s okay,” Jaskier assured him. “Are you finished?”

Geralt wiped his mouth with the back of one shaking hand. “Mhmm.”

Jaskier put his hands on Geralt’s shoulders and guided him toward the door to the house, handing him the bucket and then opening the door for him and pushing him gently like one might a lost puppy.

“Go lay on the couch with the bucket,” he instructed. “I’ll clean up and then I’ll come back inside and we can figure out our next move.”

Chapter Text

“I can clean,” Geralt offered weakly. Everyone else seemed to be cleaning up all his messes nowadays. He didn’t deserve to be waited on like this. “It’s fine. I’ve got it.”

“Don’t be silly.” Jaskier herded him into the house, positioning himself in between Geralt and the mess on the porch, reminding him how silly it would be for anyone to expect him to take care of himself. “I’m just going to take the garden hose to it. It’ll only take a minute. You go lay down.”

Geralt didn’t argue. He didn’t have it in him.

Instead he shuffled over to the couch, sat slumped against the arm with the bucket cradled in his lap, and listened as his husband rinsed the vomit off of their back porch. Part of him wanted Jaskier to hurry and get to him faster, but another part willed him to take his time.

He wanted love, and attention, and belly rubs from Jaskier, yes, but once he came back inside the two of them were going to have to figure out what their plan was going to be going forward, and Geralt didn’t want to face that.

There were no good options.

Either he stayed here, kept puking, worried about landing himself back into the ICU, puked more because of how worried he was about landing himself back in intensive care, and then ended up in the hospital. Or, he gave in, went to the hospital now, accepted the fact that this probably meant every time he puked from now on it might warrant a hospital visit, and worry so much about that during his day to day life that he ended up landing himself back in intensive care.

If he could just figure out how to handle these episodes at home before they got so out of hand. Hopefully once the preventative medicine got some more time they’d be rarer, but the stomach bugs, and flus, and motion sickness would still happen. Was this going to be what the rest of his life looked like? Was this going to be his driving force from now on?

The thought was not only terrifying, it was utterly depressing.

“Okay, love.” Jaskier re-entered the house. “What’s our game plan? Did you still want to try the pills?”

“Yeah.”

He doubted they’d help. He doubted anything would help. But he had to do something.

Jaskier brought him the two pills with a glass of water, and Geralt took them before laying down on the couch, cradling his bucket, and waiting for them to kick in.

It didn’t take much coercing to get Jaskier to sit with him, and put his head in his lap. He turned on Lord of the Rings, and settled in.

Geralt spent as much of his time watching the clock as he did watching the movie. The Zofran would take about a half hour to kick in, but unfortunately with the way the vomiting cycles usually went, that was right around the same time he was due to start puking again.

He thought he’d have most of that half hour to decide, but he made it through less than ten minutes before he found himself needing to make decisions.

Stay here with the bucket. Go into the bathroom. Go to the hospital.

He didn’t think he was going to throw up immediately, but the medicine hadn’t made a dent, and the nausea was still growing. It would need to perform a real miracle to get him feeling well enough to keep him from puking in the next fifteen or twenty minutes. Of course, he could wait until those fifteen or twenty minutes passed to make sure. He could hold out hope. But what would that get him?

Geralt shifted, curling tighter around his upset stomach while he tried to figure out what to do.

“How are you feeling love?”

Bad. He was feeling bad. And how long would he keep feeling bad if he didn’t do something?

“Hmm.”

“Is the medicine helping at all?”

“Not really,” he replied, trying not to sound as forlorn as he felt.

“Do you think some weed might help?” he offered. “Do you feel like you should go sit in the bathroom?”

Geralt took a deep breath to mitigate the next wave of nausea, but it crested anyway, causing the blood to drain from his face. He was acutely aware of the way his sweat soaked t-shirt was stuck to his chest, and that specific type of tension in his muscles that let him know the tremors would start soon. He worried a lot might start soon if he didn’t do something. Unfortunately, the further he progressed into this cycle, the more obvious it became that there was only one option.

“I think I should go to the hospital.”

“Oh.” Jaskier sat up straighter, a look of genuine surprise on his face. “Right. We can do that.”

Geralt sat up now too. He’d made his decision, and he was feeling very ill. This was in Jask’s hands now.

“How much of a hurry do we need to be in, love?” he asked, trying to better understand the situation, unaware of how ready Geralt was to check out completely.

“Hmm.” No point hurrying just so they could wait. Making the initial decision was all Geralt had it in him to do.

“Can you wait long enough to change into some pajamas?” he asked.

Only then did he notice he was still in his workout clothes. Of course he was. When would he have changed?

“I just think you’ll be more comfy. Anyway, you’re shivering.”

Was he? So the tremors had begun. Maybe they ought to hurry after all.

He waited on the couch, bucket in hand, while Jaskier went to retrieve a fresh t-shirt, sweat pants, and socks. He undressed in a daze, and then after what felt like only a few seconds, Jaskier was leading him out to the car.

The car.

The hospital would make him feel better. He told himself this on repeat as he buckled in and Jaskier put the key in the ignition. The hospital would make him feel better, but the car promised to make him feel much worse.

His head started to spin as soon as Jaskier backed out of their driveway, and it only spun faster when he put the car in drive and pulled up to the first stop sign.

To his credit, Jaskier drove as carefully as he could, but it wasn’t enough. The car was too much. He tried to hold out as long as possible, but a part of him knew that he’d never make it all the way across town to the hospital without losing it completely.

Of course, it happened at the worst possible moment.

“Can you pull over?”

As soon as Jaskier pulled out of their neighborhood and sped up on the main road into town, Geralt’s stomach leapt into his throat.

“I feel sick.”

“Can you hold on for just another minute?”

There was nowhere to pull over for another two blocks. It probably wouldn’t even take a full minute, but that didn’t matter. It was already too late.

“Oh, love. It’s okay.”

Jaskier accepted what was happening before Geralt did, rolling down the windows so they were all the way down and bringing in fresh air by the time Geralt started to puke.

He doubled over as best he could in the cramped front seat, holding the bucket between his knees. He looked down with unfocused eyes at the flood of vomit he’d just brought up. It sloshed in the bucket, making him feel even more seasick somehow.

“Just a second. We’re nearly there.”

Geralt responded with another retch, muffled by the sound of the engine. Along with the fact that he was scared of getting puke in the car, and therefore had his head sunk into the bucket so far it threatened to drown him.

Jaskier was finally able to pull over to the side of the road, and he unbuckled so he could turn and rub Geralt’s back while he finished throwing up.

“That’s it. You’re okay.”

“Fuck,” he growled, gagging and then sitting up, mostly sure it was over.

“Can I take this?”

Geralt didn’t protest when Jaskier took the bucket of puke, emptied it into the gutter and then rinsed it out with one of the water bottles they kept in the back seat. While he did it, Geralt sat trying to catch his breath and figure out what he’d done to deserve such acute, ongoing misery.

“I want to go home,” he said when Jaskier sat back down in the driver’s seat and handed him the bucket back. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“Why don’t you just catch your breath for a minute before we drive anywhere?” Jaskier suggested.

He probably just didn’t want Geralt to puke in the car again, but Jaskier offered his shoulder when Geralt slouched over, and he sat patiently while Geralt leaned on him and tried to get himself together.

They stayed like that for a while. Geralt’s neck was stiff by the time he lifted his head again, although that was probably exacerbated by the abuse this afternoon had brought his neck muscles.

“What are you thinking, love?” Jaskier asked when he sat back up.

“My belly hurts.” Geralt put a hand on his middle. He still hadn’t managed to shake the cramps that had set in before he’d fainted. If anything they were getting worse, and he worried they might be a harbinger for something worse.

He didn’t want that happening in the hospital waiting room, but if that did begin, he probably ought to get checked out by a doctor. How had this day spiraled so completely? “I don’t feel well.”

“Do you still want to go home?”

Yes. Undoubtedly yes. But he wasn’t sure if that was the right choice, and he hated himself for it.

“I don’t know.” He definitely didn’t want to drive anywhere, but unfortunately they’d have to no matter what he chose. Unless he could convince Jaskier to stay parked here for the rest of the day. “Fuck,” he whimpered. “Ow.”

“What is it?”

“My stomach really hurts.”

“I’m going to be honest, Geralt. That worries me.”

“Does that mean I have to go to the hospital?” Geralt asked. He was still undecided, but the pain concerned him too, and the promise of painkillers and antiemetics was incredibly appealing.

“They can help you, love,” Jaskier reminded him.

“Right,” he agreed. “Yeah. Okay, we can go.”

Jaskier looked relieved.

“Can we stay here for another minute first though?” Geralt asked, sheepish as another cramp seized his belly. He was worried he might start puking again if they got back on the road while he was still in so much pain.

“Of course.”

Jaskier kept the windows down, and let Geralt take his time. He didn’t rush, but when Geralt said he was ready, he wasted no time pulling away from the curb.

He got the feeling that Jaskier really wanted him to be at the hospital, and he appreciated that he wasn’t forcing anything. He’d had to do that a time or two during Geralt’s recovery, and it always left both of them feeling upset. It was better to stay on the same team.

Chapter Text

Jaskier was incredibly relieved that Geralt decided to go to the hospital after all. He wanted to respect his autonomy, and he really didn’t want to set the precedent that every time Geralt had an episode it was going to mean discord between the two of them, but Geralt needed to go to the hospital. He was in rough shape, and it looked like he was still getting rougher.

“Nearly there.”

Geralt sat in the passenger seat, in what had become his default position during these cycles, one hand clutching his belly, and the other clutching his bucket. It had only been a few minutes, but Jaskier worried he was going to be sick again before they got to the hospital. He certainly looked unsteady enough.

His stomach let out a long growl, and Jaskier’s confidence dipped even further. He kept one eye on the road, watching Geralt’s face go green in his periphery. His expression was twisted up in pain, and it hurt Jaskier to know there was nothing he could do to ease it.

Thankfully, they made it to the hospital without any more unpleasantness, but of course it could never end there.

Jaskier was overwhelmed from the second he stepped into the emergency room. It was full of hectic doctors, nurses, and patients alike. He resisted the urge to swear, not wanting Geralt to see how much he dreaded having to deal with this. It would be worse for him.

Considering how everyone in their little family had been medically fragile at some point or another, they’d spent more than their fair share of time in hospital waiting rooms, but only once had Jaskier seen a hospital this frantic.

Then he’d already been admitted, in the back nursing a bad head injury and a very angry appendix, and his care had still been severely delayed. He had a bad feeling they were going to be in this waiting room for a while. The thought of it made him want to puke. He couldn’t imagine how Geralt was feeling.

Well, however he was feeling, he didn’t look good. Jaskier managed to get them two chairs next to each other in the corner of the waiting room, made sure he had an emesis bag, and then went to get him checked in.

By the time he made it back, Geralt’s condition had devolved even further. It was clear the volume, and sheer quantity of activity happening in the emergency department was getting to him.

He was clutching the emesis bag with white knuckles, his eyes were pressed shut, and he was taking quick, shallow breaths. Jaskier kicked himself for not bringing his noise canceling headphones.

Hopefully they’d be able to be seen before too long. He wasn’t sure how long Geralt could last out here before having a meltdown, especially if he continued to puke, which judging by his face, was not only inevitable, but also would probably be happening again soon.

The triage nurse called Geralt back a few minutes later to get vitals, and Jaskier hoped they’d be able to just stay in the exam room where it was quiet, but all too soon it was needed for another patient, and they were exiled back out to the waiting room.

There was only one free chair now, which Geralt took, and Jaskier was forced to remain standing at his side. He’d be annoyed if he wasn’t so worried about his husband. Geralt was looking worse by the minute.

“I don’t feel good,” Geralt told him under his breath. His voice was thick, and his eyes were unfocused. He wasn’t going to be able to keep going for much longer.

Other people in the waiting room were taking notice of his condition now too. Jaskier watched the disgusted looks people gave in the corner of their eyes, dreading having to share a waiting room with someone who was vomiting.

It made Jaskier angry to think Geralt was being judged, but he couldn’t really blame them. The last thing he wanted in a crowded waiting room was somebody puking their guts up, but it wasn’t like Geralt had much of a choice.

“It’s okay,” Jaskier lied. “I’m sure it won’t be too much longer.”

“I’d like to go to the bathroom.”

There was one right off the waiting room, and Jaskier helped Geralt out of his chair and into the little single restroom in time for him to kneel in front of the toilet and bring up another rush of vomit. It made Jaskier’s chest ache to see him in such visceral misery. It wasn’t fair.

Geralt heaved again. They were at the point now that nothing much was coming up, and he knew that was more painful than the regular puking. And that was painful enough.

He groaned and gave one last useless retch before sitting back against the wall and looking up at his husband. Jaskier took a piece of toilet paper and wiped away the little bit of clearish yellow bile from his lips.

After another minute of catching his breath and making sure the puking was really over, Jaskier offered Geralt a hand up and led him on unsteady legs back into the crowded waiting room.

There were no open seats this time, but a young person in the corner was kind enough to stand up and gesture for Geralt to take their seat when they saw how forlorn he looked taking in the full waiting room from his vantage point outside the bathroom where everyone had certainly just heard him throwing up. And Geralt was sick enough to accept it.

Jaskier stood next to him and let Geralt rest his head against his hip. He looked exhausted. No doubt between the fainting and the puking he was tired enough to sleep for about eighteen hours, if only his body would let him.

It looked for a minute like he might’ve dozed off, but then his torso twisted around another cramp, and his eyes opened just a crack. Not long after someone came to get another round of vitals from him.

They weren’t anything to be too worried about, but it was clear his body was in distress. His heart rate was elevated, and although his temperature wasn’t a fever, it was higher than it should be.

If there was any justice in the world, Geralt would have been allowed to fall back to sleep for a bit in the uncomfortable waiting room chair, but after the nurse left he woke up a bit more, and the reason why was obvious.

“You okay, love?”

“Hmm.” He was absolutely green at the gills. “I don’t feel good.”

“Do you want to go back into the bathroom?” Jaskier asked.

“Mhmm.”

“Okay.” He’d probably lose his seat, and Jaskier could feel multiple sets of eyes watching them make their way over to the bathroom. He was relieved to shut the door behind him, but that brief respite was quickly erased when he saw what rough shape Geralt was in.

Once again, he sank to his knees in front of the toilet. He was shaking horribly, and kept both hands on his knees to keep himself steady and upright. Jaskier locked the door and went to stand behind him.

“It’ll be over soon.”

This was the only comfort Jaskier could offer. He wouldn’t feel better once it was over. It wouldn’t help to get it out. There probably wasn’t even anything to bring up. All Jaskier could promise was that this discomfort wouldn’t go on forever.

Geralt sat up a little straighter and held his head above the toilet bowl, sending a mouthful of bile splashing into the water with a loud, croaking retch.

“That’s it.” Jaskier rubbed his back. “You’re okay.”

Just as he’d feared, Geralt wasn’t able to bring up much of anything. He had to be getting dehydrated, but he didn’t want to push him to drink water when he was no doubt just going to throw it up as soon as he got it down.

The only thing Geralt hated more than throwing up, was throwing up with an audience. He didn’t want to do anything to make that worse.

Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do to make it better either. They had to see him soon, didn’t they? They didn’t though, and they both knew that. All they could do was wait for an open bed, and hope nobody needed it more than Geralt.

Chapter Text

He couldn’t imagine anybody would. Jaskier didn’t want to pass judgment against other people who were also in pain, and he knew he was victim to a husband’s sympathy, but nobody out there looked more miserable than Geralt.

To prove his point, Geralt coughed harshly a few times, brought up another croaky air bubble, and then a splash of bile. His face was turning red with the effort of it.

“Breathe love, it’s nearly over.”

Another couple of coughs, which looked like they threatened to burst a blood vessel, and then a final retch before he was finally able to take a gasping breath.

“You did it,” Jaskier encouraged. Geralt leaned back against his shins, still shaking. “It’s over. You can rest.”

All Geralt gave in response was a groan. He really didn’t look good. Jaskier would probably be freaking out if not for the fact that they were already at the hospital, no matter how little good it had done them so far.

“How much longer?” Geralt asked, mirroring Jaskier’s own train of thought.

Geralt couldn’t manage like this much longer, but considering how busy the waiting room was, he might have to hang in there for a few more hours.

“I’m not sure, love.”

“I want to go home.”

“I know you do,” Jaskier replied. “But we’d just have to come right back,” he reminded him.

“I don’t want to be here,” Geralt whimpered, too ill to want to see reason.

“How about I ask the triage nurse when we go back out to the waiting room,” he offered. “If it’s looking like it’ll be another few hours, maybe we can go one town over.”

He didn’t like the idea of putting Geralt back into a car, but he liked the idea of sitting through another four hours of puking every thirty minutes in the hospital waiting room even less.

“Okay.”

Geralt accepted both this plan, and the hand up Jaskier offered. Instead of walking right back out into the waiting room, he let himself collapse into Jaskier’s embrace, leaning into his husband’s arms, unsteady on his feet, wanting comfort more than anything, and knowing he wouldn’t get it once they were back in the crowded waiting room.

“I can’t do this,” Geralt whispered into his neck, as the two of them slowly rocked back and forth in each other’s arms, in this disgusting, hospital bathroom.

“You just do whatever you can,” Jaskier replied. “I’ll do the rest.”

“I can’t go back out there.” He buried his face even further into Jaskier’s shoulder.

“You’ve got to, because they’re going to call you back soon.” Jaskier pulled back and gave him a reassuring smile, and then a kiss on his pale, sweaty cheek.

“Right.” Geralt nodded, stepped out of the embrace, and rubbed his eyes before stuffing his hands back into his pockets, looking dejected and sad. “Of course.”

And just like that they were pulled from their brief moment of respite.

Jaskier took him by the hand and led him back out into the waiting room. His chair was open. Nobody had claimed it in his absence. In fact, the chair next to it had been vacated as well. Now Geralt could rest his head on Jaskier’s shoulder while they waited, and Jaskier thanked the gods he was off his feet.

He didn’t want to complain while Geralt was so utterly miserable, but he’d had more than enough standing for the day. His feet ached and so did his back. He couldn’t imagine how much more uncomfortable his husband must be.

He was able to rest like that for a while though, head laying on Jaskier’s shoulder, sometimes snoring lightly for a minute or two, other times just staring at the far wall. He was probably dissociating.

Jaskier couldn’t blame him, but it did make him a little bit sad. He felt lonelier somehow, but again, who was he to complain about what he and Geralt had to do to get him through this? Sacrifices had to be made.

Like the time before, Geralt had just managed to doze off when they came back to get another round of vitals. Again, they were worse than they’d been before, and again, Geralt didn’t look like he’d be able to get back to sleep. Jaskier wondered if this would be their routine now. Get vitals checked, throw up, doze off, repeat.

But no, even that would be too easy.

“Do you want me to go see how long the wait is going to be?”

Jaskier had forgotten by the time they’d gotten back out to the waiting room, and after he remembered Geralt looked too sleepy to disturb, but maybe the triage nurse would have good news for them.

Geralt contemplated for a moment before nodding.

Jaskier returned a minute later without any good news.

“So the triage nurse says there aren’t any beds at the moment. They’re trying to get two different people into surgery, and once they’ve done that, the beds will be open, but there’s no guarantee how long that will take, and there’s no guarantee you’re one of the first two people in triage.”

Looking around, it was hard to believe anyone here was worse off than Geralt at the moment, but Jaskier didn’t have all the information, and new emergencies could happen at any time.

“What do we do then?” Geralt asked, his speech slurred from his exhaustion and illness alike.

“It’s up to you, love. We might have better luck a half hour away, but we might end up waiting longer over there.” And Geralt would no doubt be sick on the drive over.

“I don’t feel good.”

The poor baby. It was the only information he could offer at this point. It was the only thing he knew.

Jaskier was about to offer to help him back into the bathroom, but when he looked over his shoulder to make sure the sign above the handle was green for vacant, he was horrified to see it flipped to the red occupied sign. He turned back to Geralt to find him as green as the sign ought to be, and began to rack his brain for the least horrible way to do this.

“Do you think you’re gonna be sick?” Jaskier whispered. He tried to make it just loud enough for Geralt to hear, but it turned a few neighboring heads as well.

“Mhmm,” Geralt hummed, jaw set.

“Okay, it looks like the bathroom is occupied,” Jaskier fought to keep his tone calm. “It’s okay though. It’s gonna be alright.”

He stood in front of Geralt to block him from the rest of the waiting room, and give him what little privacy he could. Geralt brought the emesis bag up to his mouth. Jaskier prayed for Geralt’s sake that it would be over quickly. He knew how mortified he must be feeling at the prospect of vomiting in front of such a large audience.

No amount of embarrassment or willpower could keep it from happening though.

Jaskier held his hair back with one hand and kept his shoulder steady with the other as Geralt curled farther in on himself, and began to vomit for what, the sixth time today? It wasn’t fair.

The person sitting closest to them got up and walked over to the other side of the waiting room, when Geralt heaved again, a loud retching sound accompanied by the crinkling of the plastic bag as he filled it with what little remained in his stomach.

He was given a brief respite to catch his breath just as the bathroom door opened, and Jaskier jumped on the opportunity.

“Here, let’s go sit in the bathroom.” He helped Geralt up and kept a hand on his back to steady him. He started to gently try and lead him across the waiting room, unsure of how present he was at the moment, but Geralt didn’t budge.

Jaskier was confused. Was he going to start puking again? They were only a few seconds from the privacy of the bathroom, but Geralt wouldn’t move.

“Love?”

His eyes had been trained on their destination. When he looked back to his husband he realized exactly why he wasn’t walking. His face was pale as a sheet and his eyes were unfocused, looking at something a million miles away.

“Fuck.”

Jaskier got his arms around Geralt’s chest just in time for him to drop to the floor, dead weight.

Chapter Text

Geralt woke to a small crowd of people around him, unsure of what was going on.

He’d fainted. He could recall that much. Yes, he’d fainted at training, he could remember now. He’d been lifting weights with Luke. He was satisfied enough with this answer, and let his eyes drift shut again.

“Hey, stay awake, love. They’re gonna get you in a bed in just a minute, but you need to stay awake, okay?”

Jaskier? He wasn’t supposed to be here. Had they called him? How long had he been out then, if Jaskier had the time to drive all the way to the gym.

The room came into better focus when he opened his eyes for the second time, and his world made another sickening shift. This wasn’t the gym.

Jaskier was at his side, but the other people weren’t Elaine and his teammates as he’d thought. The crowd around him consisted of several nurses, and a whole lot of strangers.

“That’s it, love. Can you look up at me?”

Geralt started to search for his husband’s eyes in the blurry mess above him, but was distracted by someone at his side taking his vitals. His arm was constricted in a blood pressure cuff, and he saw stars for a few more moments.

“Eighty-four over fifty-eight. Pulse is one-thirty-three.”

The numbers went in one ear and out the other, meaningless while he was too out of it to decipher them. Judging by the look on the nurse’s face though, they weren’t good.

“Keep his feet up,” one of the other people at his side instructed. “I’ll go see about that bed.”

“I don’t feel good,” Geralt groaned. More of his memories were coming back to him now. He had fainted at training, but that was hours ago. He’d only gotten more ill since then, and now they were waiting for a hospital bed.

It was never supposed to get this bad.

“Do you think you need to throw up?” his husband asked.

He could remember that too. Last time he’d fainted, he’d vomited right after, and this time he’d been vomiting right beforehand too. What was about to happen was inevitable.

Geralt couldn’t find the words to tell Jaskier this, but he didn’t need to. They’d done this so many times by now. He knew what to do.

A helpful waiting room patron tossed him an emesis bag from the dispenser on the wall. If he had the capacity to feel anything other than the weight of his physical misery, he’d be embarrassed.

Jaskier helped turn him, lifting his head and shoulders slightly so he didn’t choke when he started to vomit again. Jask had this down to a science. All Geralt was missing was something to throw up. He dry heaved for a minute or so. The only thing he got out of it was a return of the lightheadedness, and a horrible, stale, bitter taste in his mouth.

“That’s it. Just hang in there for another minute. They’re gonna get you up off the floor, and they’re gonna get you some fluids and some medicine and you’re going to feel so much better.”

“I feel dizzy,” he said, unable to keep the fear out of his head, knowing how horribly this could end—all the terrible ways it had ended in the past. “Jask.” He struggled to reach out for his husband’s hand.

“It’s okay.” Jaskier took his hand and squeezed it. “They’re wheeling out a bed. You’ve just got to breathe,” he encouraged. “Can you look at me, Geralt?”

Geralt’s eyes rolled, looking for Jaskier in the blur above him. Between the room spinning, and the black spots dancing in his vision, he’d lost him. Only Jaskier’s hand in his kept him grounded.

Still, when they lifted him, he cried out, not in pain (although it was painful), but from fright, because he hadn’t anticipated the move.

They must have told him. He should have seen. Everything was a blur.

“I need oxygen,” someone commanded from far away.

Jaskier’s hand slipped from his, and he was lost in the throng. Then he was moving.

He groaned, and curled up in a ball. He tried to tuck his chin down, but someone had a hand on his face, and then a mask was being strapped over his mouth and nose. He gagged on the cool, antiseptic air, but there was nothing to bring up. He wasn’t sure if it was a true gag, or a sob, but he didn’t have the energy to follow through on either action.

“Just relax, sir,” someone instructed. “We’re going to get you into a bed as soon as we can.”

He noticed then that he wasn’t in a bed; he was on a stretcher. All this and he still wasn’t going to be seen.

“Jask,” he mumbled.

“What was that?”

“Hmm.” He couldn’t gather his thoughts any better than that.

Geralt looked over at whoever was at his side, to see if there was any way he could indicate that he would very much like his husband here with him, but there was nobody there.

Had they left him? Or had he started to hallucinate? He didn’t like either option, but they seemed equally likely.

The next person to visit him in his hallway hospital room was unfortunately, also not his husband. It was a nurse who took his vitals and started an IV while Geralt stared blankly at the wall, zoning out as best as he could. If anyone else came to see him, they didn’t touch him, so he didn’t notice.

He didn’t pull himself out of this dissociated apathy until he heard a familiar set of footsteps coming down the hall. He turned his head in their direction, and the steps sped up.

“Jask,” he breathed, overcome with relief that his advocate, his caretaker, was back at his side.

“I’m sorry, love,” he apologized. “I got pulled aside to speak with a doctor, and then nobody could tell me where you were.”

Geralt wasn’t sure how long he’d been alone, if it had been ten minutes or an hour, but it had been far too long. He could feel his mental state continuing to deteriorate, and he worried he was going to lose his ability to speak. Gods forbid he had a meltdown. His body couldn’t handle that right now.

They’re going to get you in a bed as soon as they’ve got one open.”

So they kept telling him. He felt like he was in some twisted nightmare, pressing ever forward but never actually getting closer to his goal of escaping the hell his body seemed so bent on putting him through.

“I can’t,” he mumbled.

“You can’t what, love?” Jaskier looked concerned.

Geralt curled around his aching belly. When he’d fainted earlier he’d been gifted a lovely set of stomach cramps. This faint had cemented them in place, a sharp constant ache in his belly he feared would never go away.

“Do this,” he answered, pushing through the haze in his mind to put two words together. “Every time I’m ill.”

“It’s not going to be like this every time,” Jaskier assured him, taking his hand and holding it tight.

“How do you know?”

How could they tell if this was something that would get worse with age? What if it was being compounded by some condition he still wasn’t aware of? What if this was just the start of a miserable, torturous path he’d have to spend the rest of his life walking down?

“Because we’re in the scary stage right now,” he answered. “But that stage doesn’t last forever.”

Geralt had expected empty platitudes—not because he didn’t think Jaskier could do better, but because he thought that was all there was to offer him. Of course Jaskier would find a way to go above and beyond.

“I don’t follow,” he croaked.

“The time right after diagnosis is always the scariest,” Jaskier explained. “Because the diagnosis usually comes when the problem is getting worse, so it feels like it’s just going to keep getting worse, when in reality, I really don’t think that’s going to be the case for you.”

“What’s my case then?” He was desperate for a different story from the one his anxiety was trying to tell him.

“I think we’re definitely in a period of adjustment,” Jaskier told him. “And I won’t lie, that’s fucking difficult. We did it after I had brain surgery seven years ago, and we’re doing it again now. It’s uncomfortable, and scary, but as we go through it, we learn better how to deal with it.”

“Hmm.”

“I know.” Jaskier ran a hand over his too warm forehead before running his thumb across Geralt’s cheekbone and then cradling his face in one hand. “But there will come a day that we know how to deal with this. And when that day comes, things will be so much easier. I promise.”

“Mr. Bellegarde?” A nurse poked her head in the door of his hallway. “We’ve got a bed ready for you.”

Chapter Text

After they got Geralt into a bed back in the emergency department, things finally started moving in the right direction. Already the fluids were helping. Jaskier wished they would have just hooked him up to the IV fluids straight off. Next time, gods forbid this happen again any time soon, Jaskier would ask. They probably could have avoided a lot of the unpleasantness in the waiting room that way.

It was just like he said. They were learning.

They took some blood from him before the doctor came around to make sure he wasn’t fighting an infection or anything, and got another set of vitals. The real work came when the doctor arrived though.

“Mr. Bellegarde, I understand you’re here because you’ve been experiencing, fainting, vomiting, and abdominal pain?”

“Yes,” Geralt rasped, his pain more than evident in his voice.

“I’m sorry you’re having such a rough go of it.” The doctor smiled, and something in her expression reminded him of Clara. “We’re going to get you feeling better though.”

She let Jaskier sit with Geralt’s hand in his, and explain to her everything about the cyclic vomiting syndrome. He told her about his stay in the ICU, and all the testing the doctor had done, and finally, most importantly, the plan they were supposed to stick to during his flares.

“He’s taking Elavil as a preventative medicine, but he only started those a week or two ago,” Jaskier told her. “Today I’ve given him Zofran, and Prilosec, but he didn’t keep either of them down.”

At the mention of vomiting Geralt’s stomach turned, and he curled up into the fetal position. It eased his discomfort slightly, so of course it couldn’t last.

“It definitely sounds like this is just a flare up of your cyclic vomiting syndrome,” the doctor confirmed. “I’m going to keep you on fluids, and give you some IV Zofran as well.”

“Can you do anything about the pain?” he asked, voice cracking, one arm curled protectively across his belly.

He’d hoped she’d give him some painkillers, or a heating pad, and leave him here to wait for the drugs and fluids to do their jobs, but the mention of pain concerned her, and she wanted to know more.

Geralt told her about the stabbing pains in his stomach he’d felt right before his faint, and how they hadn’t really gone away since.

“It’s probably just a side effect of the fainting, and the cyclic vomiting syndrome,” the doctor said, “but just to be safe, I’d like to do a quick abdominal examination.”

Fuck. He shouldn’t have said anything.

“Can you lay on your back for me? Knees bent. Yep, just like that.”

Geralt knew the drill. He’d had his fair share of these, and they never seemed to go without a fair amount of discomfort on his part. Today was no exception.

She began listening to his belly, which as always was loud and gurgly, and cramped up defensively when she put her hands on him.

“Relax your abdominal muscles,” she instructed, and Geralt had to release the last bit of tension that was the only thing keeping the pain at bay.

Every gentle palpation sent ripples of pain out, and he told her this.

“You feel a bit distended,” she observed.

Yes, he already knew that. He could feel how bloated and tight his belly was, and her cold hands pressing on it were not helping.

“No guarding though, or masses, and everything seems to be moving well.”

Moving right out of his stomach and into an emesis bag maybe. The agitation from the exam had him considering throwing up again—something he would really rather avoid.

“Like I said,” she repeated, “it’s probably just a side effect of the vomiting cycle. We’ll do some imaging if it doesn’t go away as the nausea does. I suspect it will.”

As the nausea does.

For a long while it seemed like the nausea wouldn’t.

After the exam, the doctor left him to his infusion of medicine and fluids, saying he could be discharged once it finished, so long as the vomiting had ended.

For a while it almost seemed like it hadn’t.

The exam left him feeling ill and on edge, and he was afraid it was going to set him off again, but the infusion had enough of a head start, it was able to mitigate the nausea before he started to vomit again.

Jaskier waited at his side throughout the entire process, until finally the IV bag was empty, and Geralt felt well enough to be sent home.

“Hey, you did it,” Jaskier said as they unhooked him from his IV. “You got through the cycle.”

“Wish it hadn’t landed me in the hospital,” Geralt pointed out, using energy he really couldn’t spare.

“I know.”

A nurse helped him out of the bed and guided him into the wheelchair that would deliver him to Jaskier’s car.

“But it’s all part of the process,” Jaskier continued. “We’re learning. It won’t be so bad next time.”

“There shouldn’t have to be a next time,” he grumbled as he changed out of his gown and back into the PJs he’d arrived in.

“Well, maybe there won’t be.” Jask at least was optimistic.

Geralt couldn’t imagine never having to endure this again. It had been a looming presence in his life for too long, and ending up I. The ICU had shaken him deeply.

If it was just one percent easier next time, he thought. And one percent the time after that. If he knew he was on an upward trajectory—then maybe he would finally stop being so afraid.

***
Epilogue: 1 year later (give or take)

Geralt had a feeling it was going to happen. This trip to an away game had been a nightmare. They’d been on a long stretch of away games, and travel was always hard on him, but this trip took the cake.

The game itself had been miserable—a loss in freezing cold rain—they’d nearly missed their flight home, and worst of all, he’d been sick on the plane.

Thankfully the vomiting didn’t continue for the entire flight, and he was able to fall asleep, he knew that wasn’t the end of it. He recognized the all too familiar nausea it left brewing in his stomach, and he knew how that always seemed to end.

So he wasn’t surprised when he got home, near midnight, and fell into bed next to Jaskier only to wake up again a few hours later, stumble to the bathroom, and vomit.

“Oh, love. I was worried this would happen.”

Jaskier found him there, panting and sweating.

“Do you think there’s any avoiding it?”

Geralt shook his head. Puking twice was enough proof for him. He’d fallen into a cycle.

“Alright. Well, let’s try to get through it as best we can.”

First step was his rescue meds while they waited for the clinic to open up. He dutifully took his Prilosec, and his Zofran, and he dutifully threw them back up a half hour later, as he always did. No matter, their plan accommodated this.

Unfortunately, there was nothing else he could do but sip Gatorade and try to stay comfortable until the clinic opened.

It wasn’t ideal, but he got through the few hours of puking without disaster, and bright and early the next morning they loaded a sleeping Ciri into the car; unwilling to wait for a babysitter to arrive before they delivered Geralt to his salvation.

They’d spent much of the last year working to figure out how to combat the vomiting cycles, which had been happening more often than ever, and this was the best thing they’d found.

It was a little infusion clinic. It mostly catered to pregnant people, and cancer patients, but his doctor recommended it to him, and Geralt quickly became a loyal visitor due to their policy allowing walk-in patients.

As soon as they could after a cycle began, Jaskier would bring him here. They’d hook him up to IV fluids and antiemetics, and a nurse would look after him while they waited for it to work.

And it worked.

It worked better than anything they’d found so far, and it was an incredible relief to know he had an option other than the misery and trauma of the hospital. He didn’t have to worry that every illness might land him back in the ICU. He didn’t have to let this fear run his life anymore.

They were learning.