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“Shit,” Jaskier swore, knowing what was going to happen even before he saw it: with all his weight back on them, Geralt’s legs buckled, folded. There was no grace to it, only hard impact against the wooden floorboards, and Jaskier winced. But Geralt didn’t stop there, didn’t simply sit and rest; no, his torso pitched forward, elbows bracing before his head could hit the floor, at least.
“Geralt!” Jaskier was by his side again in an instant, kneeling next to him, hands fluttering helplessly. He didn’t know where to touch, where it was safe. It was dark, the room’s lamps not yet lit and only faint moonlight coming through the window. “Shit. This is bad. Real bad.” It took a lot to best a Witcher. Even more so the White Wolf. Venom, usually, if Geralt’s halting recounts of past fights were any believable source.
“What do I do?”
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Jaskier takes care of Geralt, and then 'takes care' of him some more -
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