Jaskier was luckier than he was dim, then-- had he poured the wrong potion down the throat of a witcher who was suffering from an overdose, it would have almost surely killed the man on the spot in a most painful and gruesome manner. As it stood, however, that would not be the case today. After the contents of the bottle were swallowed (aside from the first choke of a dried throat that sent just a little dribble from the side of his mouth), Geralt's body stiffened and his eyes opened, those yellow orbs directly on Jaskier before they rolled back onto his head.
Then he was groaning, a base, terrible sound and pulling himself into something more like a ball despite the fact that the position was threatening to rip skin from stitches. He slid to the pillows and one of his hand fists into sheets with enough force to rip them. The honey was doing it's job as a purgative; if he had been able to have a sense of anything other the new, intense discomfort compounding his already destroyed body, perhaps he would have been thankful. Or at least relieved.
As it stood, however, he was back to wishing for death.
Unlucky for Geralt the pain was not enough to hand him back to unconsciousness. He tried not to move as much as possible but his body shook as the honey worked and his veins crawled, dark and strangely large. His skin glistened with fresh sweat and the red of his scars stood out in stark contrast to how pale and wan he had suddenly become; a man accustomed to pain and yet Geralt was hard-pressed to manage this in any way. There was simply too much for him to do anything but gasp as he rode the waves of cramps and nausea and the low, sickly burn of the antidote trying to scour his blood clean while muscles tensed and stitches popped. The wound at his side where he'd been thrown onto a wide, jagged piece of broken tree, seeped through the bandages. He knew it had to end soon, this, and yet he found that logic was a scant comfort in the moment.
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Then he was groaning, a base, terrible sound and pulling himself into something more like a ball despite the fact that the position was threatening to rip skin from stitches. He slid to the pillows and one of his hand fists into sheets with enough force to rip them. The honey was doing it's job as a purgative; if he had been able to have a sense of anything other the new, intense discomfort compounding his already destroyed body, perhaps he would have been thankful. Or at least relieved.
As it stood, however, he was back to wishing for death.
Unlucky for Geralt the pain was not enough to hand him back to unconsciousness. He tried not to move as much as possible but his body shook as the honey worked and his veins crawled, dark and strangely large. His skin glistened with fresh sweat and the red of his scars stood out in stark contrast to how pale and wan he had suddenly become; a man accustomed to pain and yet Geralt was hard-pressed to manage this in any way. There was simply too much for him to do anything but gasp as he rode the waves of cramps and nausea and the low, sickly burn of the antidote trying to scour his blood clean while muscles tensed and stitches popped. The wound at his side where he'd been thrown onto a wide, jagged piece of broken tree, seeped through the bandages. He knew it had to end soon, this, and yet he found that logic was a scant comfort in the moment.