The next time Geralt swam to the surface of consciousness, he wasn't sure what had brought him up. He was very thirsty, yes. And still in a good amount of pain, true. But there was nothing acute... except for the weight across his hip that was slowly causing the entire area to throb. He rolled his head to the side and found Jaskier sprawled half-across him, lips parted and hair having dried, apparently, in a very interesting position. There was a blush to his cheeks that spoke to deep sleep. For a long moment, Geralt just looked at him. Watched the way his back moved with the sure rise-and-drop of the exhausted and how the sun crawled across the soft lines of his face.
Idiot bard, running himself ragged.
Geralt sighed and blamed his current lack of motion to impact the current scene on physical weakness; it was obvious to him, after all, just how bad it was. And then, ironically, wondered if the actual reasons for him not immediately poking the other man awake were simply a different sort of weakness entirely. He closed his eyes, uninterested in having a scathing moral debate with himself if he could instead just go back to sleep. But thirst was drawing his stomach into empty cramps and his tired muscles didn't seem far from seizing-- something that the pressure of Jaskier's head and arm was only drawing to the forefront of his mind with each long second that ticked by. Finally, teeth clenched, Geralt slid his arm across the mattress in order to poke Jaskier in the side. It was not meant to be a gentle poke but it lacked any real strength behind it. The motion was accompanied by a grunt because there was no trusting his throat anymore; it felt like a rust-filled desert. Geralt did it again when Jaskier didn't immediately stir but didn't know how many times he could repeat the motion and the next way the bard would be waking would be to the dulcet sounds of Geralt's broken yells as his arm and chest muscles bound up. Dehydration was a bitch, after all. He sighed.
"Wake up, Jaskier." The devastated croak of the words made Geralt grimace at himself.
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Idiot bard, running himself ragged.
Geralt sighed and blamed his current lack of motion to impact the current scene on physical weakness; it was obvious to him, after all, just how bad it was. And then, ironically, wondered if the actual reasons for him not immediately poking the other man awake were simply a different sort of weakness entirely. He closed his eyes, uninterested in having a scathing moral debate with himself if he could instead just go back to sleep. But thirst was drawing his stomach into empty cramps and his tired muscles didn't seem far from seizing-- something that the pressure of Jaskier's head and arm was only drawing to the forefront of his mind with each long second that ticked by. Finally, teeth clenched, Geralt slid his arm across the mattress in order to poke Jaskier in the side. It was not meant to be a gentle poke but it lacked any real strength behind it. The motion was accompanied by a grunt because there was no trusting his throat anymore; it felt like a rust-filled desert. Geralt did it again when Jaskier didn't immediately stir but didn't know how many times he could repeat the motion and the next way the bard would be waking would be to the dulcet sounds of Geralt's broken yells as his arm and chest muscles bound up. Dehydration was a bitch, after all. He sighed.
"Wake up, Jaskier." The devastated croak of the words made Geralt grimace at himself.