Jaskier had been, in a sense, right to wait. In a way, too, he'd been wrong. Honestly-- there was no best answer, no lesser evil. Geralt had healed better with sleep but his body had weakened without food or water and the wounds had leaked, unchecked, against the linens. But it didn't take long for Geralt's eyes to open from what had been a real-- if particularly deep-- slumber as hands pried here and there and the sheets that were now sticking, dried, to myriad wounds. Instinct tried, and failed, to bring a curse to his lips for the sharp, bright, waking pain as his throat refused his call. Instead there was a nasty, wary grumble that was the best he could manage.

He felt disgusting.

Pain, dirt, seepage-- every bit of it was present and accounted for and the worst was for as fucking awful as he felt, Geralt could smell the wreckage of his body. He didn't know how long it had been but he could guess by the smell. He groped across the sheets for any bit of Jaskier that he could find because--

Jaskier. He'd dreamed of Jaskier. Of Jaskier, being close. The bright patterns of his silks, the tenor of his voice-- though in the dream he'd been singing The Ballad of Two Tits, which he'd never written in real life but threatened Yennefer with when they'd met the golden dragon Villentretenmerth years ago.

But Jaskier was here, now. Geralt grabbed what he could, his fingers sliding over silk. "That... fucking... hurts," he croaked. He didn't want fabric torn from his wounds, thank you, he'd rather just keep sleeping. Or maybe he wanted a beer. He tried to wet his lips but there was no saliva in his mouth to work with. In the last twelve or so hours since the soup had been spilt his veins and scars had lightened, at least. There was that.