I’m not over this actually— I love N!Eskel so here’s a story. spoilers below for The Witcher Season 2 except this is MY sandbox
“I’ve got sawdust in places I didn’t know I had, Geralt,” Eskel groans, plucking a chip of wood out from his mouth.
“Just be grateful you’re alive.” Geralt grumbles.
“Why is it,” Eskel starts, scratching at the bandage over his arm where he can feel the phantom ache of the needle that Geralt jabbed into him. “That whenever you get into trouble, Vesemir’s always jumping to fix it, but when we get into trouble, he makes you clean up the mess?”
“I was there. I acted on instinct. I didn’t know for sure if it would work.”
“I know what it is,” Eskel snorted. “The youngest is always the favorite.” If his body didn’t feel like he was still being burned to ash, he’d ruffle Geralt’s hair. Geralt must know this, because he ducks his head instinctively, then scoffs.
“You should have said something sooner, Eskel. I did ask if you were okay.”
“I told you I thought I could fight it,” Eskel replies bitterly. “And I still don’t know what it is about that Princess that thing wanted.” Eskel closes his eyes, focusing on the distant feeling of dust in his lungs. His body would purge it eventually, but for now, he’d suffer with it. He was, after all, grateful he was alive. Visions of the what-might-have-beans float through his mind. If Geralt had been any slower to react Vesemir would have come in, and Vesemir wouldn’t have waited before Igni-ing him through the chest. Might have hurt less than what Geralt did instead, but then, if it had gone Vesemir’s way, he’d be wolf food by now.
“We’ll figure it out,” Geralt says. “For now you should rest. That Leshy did a number on you.”
“The Leshy did something, that’s for sure. You’re the one that pumped me full of liquid fucking flame.”
“Quit complaining,” Geralt sighed. “You’re worse than Lambert.”
“Now that’s just rude. I’ve been an absolute pleasure of a patient. You are merely a terrible medic. Don’t think I didn’t notice you hadn’t changed that bandage on that ghoul bite until you got home. You’re lucky all you lost were your trousers.”
Geralt glared at him, and Eskel smiled back. “Vesemir already told me off for that. I don’t need it from you as well.”
“You think that Princess of yours will tell me any good blackmail stories once I’m well enough to see the others?”
“I don’t tell her stories.”
“Geralt of Rivia, you’re worse at lying than Coën is at Gwent. I’ll bet the first night you were with her you told her of the rock troll that was getting after the chort lure in your pack.”
Geralt looked down, frowning. “I told her it was a nightmare.”
Eskel burst into laughter, followed by a painful coughing fit, and then more hacking to get out the ash that came up. He waved off Geralt’s concerned hand and spit to the side of his bed. “Fuck,” he said when his head hit the pillow again. “Are you positive you can’t just stab me to death now?”
“Who else will suffer Lambert’s bad jokes with me?”
“Urgh,” Eskel groaned. “If I have to listen to him tell that shit joke one more time I might stab him to death.”
Geralt chuckled and reached a hand to Eskel’s face, plucking off a piece of wood from his cheek. Eskel winced at the sensation, rubbing the sore spot it left behind.
“It would have been easier to end it, you know. Between Vesemir watching me like a Hawk and the recovery time, I doubt I’ll be able to walk the path again next season.”
“I know,” Geralt said. “Vesemir said the same thing.” Geralt brushed his fingers through the patchy hair on Eskel’s head, careful to leave the bark there intact. “But I’d rather have you alive, ashy, bitter, and complaining than not at all.”
Geralt was quiet. And continued to be quiet.
“Let’s play cards, Eskel,” He said at last, his voice soft. A lump formed in Eskel’s throat, making more words stick. He wanted to tell Geralt about the fight with the Leshy when things first went sideways— about how he lost his tawny owl and burnt himself out of Igni, how he’d had to be nimble as a fucking cat to stay out of the way of the damn roots, how painful it was to feel himself being slowly taken over and resigned to his death, how he’d been ready for it to end until Geralt stared him down and reminded him he was a Witcher with a fucking job to do.
“It’s really Gonna be never, huh?” Eskel asked.
“Skellige or Scoia’tel?” Geralt replied.
Eskel reached out a hand and sighed. “You’re an ass.”
Geralt handed him his Monster deck anyway.
