Jaskier was not an anxious or light sleeper, not usually. He could slumber through all manner of loud, sudden sound or even most nearby or casual movements. This last week, however, had him so very, very on edge that the sound of his name had him starting awake with a terrified, sharp gasp.

Jaskier's eyes danced, shot around the room in a panic as he sat up, very abruptly. They fell back on Geralt before long and, upon seeing his eyes open, the bard's sudden panic calmed. He stared a second, expression soft and unbearably fond, and when he realized neither of them was asleep, he jumped with surprise.

"Oh, Fuck, right--" he said and the cold, soaking wet rag in his hands fell onto the bed. "--you threw all that back up. Are you thirstier? Hungrier? Let me--"

He stood from where he'd lighted on the bed and swayed a bit as his legs woke back up. He was going to have a terrible series of cricks tomorrow. Idiot. The waterskin was near the tray with the pitcher and cup. He snatched it up and darted back, holding it out for Geralt's approval and use. He looked ready to run across the room or downstairs the very instant the Witcher grunted and gave a one word demand for something else.