Jaskier was so happy, so delighted that the Witcher was aware, was awake--he sounded dreadful, parched and dried, his gravelly voice changed to a husky rasp. Jaskier was suddenly full of energy, he wanted to fetch water--fuck he'd dropped the soup. Geralt was surely hungry, it had been days--he didn't rise to the bait, to the taunt about his lack of medical skill--his voice would have broken if he tried and, frankly, thinking on it still made Jaskier a bit ill.
He didn't dash away, couldn't once Geralt grabbed him by the open breast of his doublet. He hauled him down, more with the weight of his limb than any muscles, and Jaskier went willingly, almost eagerly, eyes wide and attentive. Geralt was breathing hard and looked ready to faint again--
"White honey."
Jaskier stared and, as his hand fell away, the bard's hands hovered another moment. Geralt passed into sleep, lighter and less unnerving than before, and the sight of his head shifting, as if he were merely feverish, was enough to snap Jaskier from his stillness.
"Right! White honey," he repeated and stood back up, he turned and...at once, realized he had no idea what Geralt was demanding. He froze and his eyes darted to the door--he couldn't mean actual honey, could he? No, he'd have just said honey. Was there a special kind of honey? Some magical sort of nonsense that was white?
Jaskier paled and combed his memory. Had Geralt ever mentioned honey?
If there was a thing called white honey, if it could be found anywhere, surely it was something Geralt had gathered before. The Witcher was nothing if not well prepared--Geralt stopped and picked every herb and flower that struck his alchemical fancy. Jaskier scrambled to his bag, to the ingredients and potions he kept aside--he threw it open and was greeted by a myriad of bottles.
"White...honey?" Jaskier repeated and felt his stomach drop.
To his eyes, they all looked the same. Dark liquid in dark glass, bottles of varied size and shape, corked or sealed with wax. He plucked them up, shuffled through them, and felt his panic mount the more of them he drew out. Eventually, however, his hand found a light, cloudy bottle with a cork and a green mark upon it.
Somehow, impossibly, that bottle was familiar. The contents were white and translucent, though they didn't look like honey to him. Maybe it was a nickname--he had seen Geralt take it once, after a fight where he'd been come back abyssal eyed and shaking. He'd nearly crushed it in his hurry to drink it, had seized and groaned, and had seemed terribly sick.
The next day he'd been right as rain.
This was the one he wanted, Jaskier knew it had to be--he clutched the tiny bottle and returned to Geralt's side. It took him a moment of clumsy fumbling to get it open and then a considerably greater amount of fumbling to get the Witcher propped up, to rest his upper body against Jaskier's chest and tilt his head back over his shoulder. He was careful as he poured the vial into the Witcher's mouth and held it aloft to make sure every single drop emptied down his throat.
no subject
He didn't dash away, couldn't once Geralt grabbed him by the open breast of his doublet. He hauled him down, more with the weight of his limb than any muscles, and Jaskier went willingly, almost eagerly, eyes wide and attentive. Geralt was breathing hard and looked ready to faint again--
"White honey."
Jaskier stared and, as his hand fell away, the bard's hands hovered another moment. Geralt passed into sleep, lighter and less unnerving than before, and the sight of his head shifting, as if he were merely feverish, was enough to snap Jaskier from his stillness.
"Right! White honey," he repeated and stood back up, he turned and...at once, realized he had no idea what Geralt was demanding. He froze and his eyes darted to the door--he couldn't mean actual honey, could he? No, he'd have just said honey. Was there a special kind of honey? Some magical sort of nonsense that was white?
Jaskier paled and combed his memory. Had Geralt ever mentioned honey?
If there was a thing called white honey, if it could be found anywhere, surely it was something Geralt had gathered before. The Witcher was nothing if not well prepared--Geralt stopped and picked every herb and flower that struck his alchemical fancy. Jaskier scrambled to his bag, to the ingredients and potions he kept aside--he threw it open and was greeted by a myriad of bottles.
"White...honey?" Jaskier repeated and felt his stomach drop.
To his eyes, they all looked the same. Dark liquid in dark glass, bottles of varied size and shape, corked or sealed with wax. He plucked them up, shuffled through them, and felt his panic mount the more of them he drew out. Eventually, however, his hand found a light, cloudy bottle with a cork and a green mark upon it.
Somehow, impossibly, that bottle was familiar. The contents were white and translucent, though they didn't look like honey to him. Maybe it was a nickname--he had seen Geralt take it once, after a fight where he'd been come back abyssal eyed and shaking. He'd nearly crushed it in his hurry to drink it, had seized and groaned, and had seemed terribly sick.
The next day he'd been right as rain.
This was the one he wanted, Jaskier knew it had to be--he clutched the tiny bottle and returned to Geralt's side. It took him a moment of clumsy fumbling to get it open and then a considerably greater amount of fumbling to get the Witcher propped up, to rest his upper body against Jaskier's chest and tilt his head back over his shoulder. He was careful as he poured the vial into the Witcher's mouth and held it aloft to make sure every single drop emptied down his throat.