Jaskier hadn't realized how still he'd gone, how perfectly statuesque he'd become while Geralt shivered and spasmed. He hadn't held his breath (and thank the gods for that) but he'd definitely waited, primed and and eager and perfectly static. Eventually, Geralt calmed, his whole body devoted itself to just breathing, and eventually that, too, slowed. The bard listened as he passed out again but now? Now Jaskier actually recognized the sounds he made.
Geralt had finally fallen back into the realm of Jaskier's memory.
"Oh...thank you," he said, breathless, and finally released the tension holding him up. He swayed a bit, considered just letting his weak legs drop him to the floor in relief--but that would probably be a hideous noise and--oh, fuck, he'd dropped the soup and bread.
There was nothing for the soup, the pitcher had overturned and spilled it everywhere, but the bread was fine. He set that aside, at least, and carefully left to get a mop and bucket. And more soup.
Jaskier's mind was calmer as the next few hours passed which was, actually, on whole, rather inconvenient for him. He didn't have adrenaline to keep himself upright and working and that had been the lynchpin of his efforts so far. Still, he cleaned the soup, gathered new linens and new bandages, mixed some more of that half-assed salve (Though after making so much, he felt he was getting pretty good at it. He had definitely grown rather skilled at crushing and combining everything into homogeneity.), and fretted over whether it was wise to maneuver a slumbering Geralt (not passed out) to remove and change those bandages.
He'd split stitches--Jaskier had heard them pop. He wouldn't be bleeding like this if it hadn't been a goodly number of them.
Jaskier put it off, fetched water, supplies, niceties, and even attempted a short nap--but it kept him up. It was just after dawn (again, was this the fifth day? Sixth? He'd lost count) when he finally gave in to the nagging in his skull and tried to tend to the Witcher once more.
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Geralt had finally fallen back into the realm of Jaskier's memory.
"Oh...thank you," he said, breathless, and finally released the tension holding him up. He swayed a bit, considered just letting his weak legs drop him to the floor in relief--but that would probably be a hideous noise and--oh, fuck, he'd dropped the soup and bread.
There was nothing for the soup, the pitcher had overturned and spilled it everywhere, but the bread was fine. He set that aside, at least, and carefully left to get a mop and bucket. And more soup.
Jaskier's mind was calmer as the next few hours passed which was, actually, on whole, rather inconvenient for him. He didn't have adrenaline to keep himself upright and working and that had been the lynchpin of his efforts so far. Still, he cleaned the soup, gathered new linens and new bandages, mixed some more of that half-assed salve (Though after making so much, he felt he was getting pretty good at it. He had definitely grown rather skilled at crushing and combining everything into homogeneity.), and fretted over whether it was wise to maneuver a slumbering Geralt (not passed out) to remove and change those bandages.
He'd split stitches--Jaskier had heard them pop. He wouldn't be bleeding like this if it hadn't been a goodly number of them.
Jaskier put it off, fetched water, supplies, niceties, and even attempted a short nap--but it kept him up. It was just after dawn (again, was this the fifth day? Sixth? He'd lost count) when he finally gave in to the nagging in his skull and tried to tend to the Witcher once more.