Jaskier stared on in abject horror as Geralt's eyes snapped open, as he twisted and curled and shivered. The bard could see how his skin crawled, watches as redness and gooseflesh spread and faded in patches. He had no idea if he had given him the right potion--that could have been sugar water just as easily as cyanide and Jaskier wouldn't have had the faintest which was which.

Unfortunately, there was naught to be done about it now. All he could do was watch as Geralt suffered, as he tore his stitches and the smell of blood seeped into the air. Jaskier reached out as the Witcher curled tighter but froze before he touched him again.

What could he do, now? Tell him it would be fine? Offer him a jaunty tune or some mediocre salve? He didnt even have any strong liquor left, he'd dumped the whole of what he had on Geralt's open wounds already.

So, anxious and terrified, Jaskier watched and waited. He was antsy and his focus was locked on the Witcher...but still he waited. If Geralt passed out, he could bandage that wound again. If he didn't, he might've needed something else and, by the gods, Jaskier hadn't spent days in a frantic tizzy just to fuck off before the end.

He knew he would definitely need water, between the blood lost, the sweat that streamed off him, and a few days of deep unconsciousness, Geralt would need a pitcher or two to feel human again.

He would wait. At least until the pain passed...if it did. Gods he hoped it would.