Geralt only wanted Jaskier to get that look off his face until he started yammering, and then he wished for it back if only to have silence again. His eyes closed for a moment against the mercifully short onslaught that fell away as the man turned to activity instead of talk. Geralt breathed out slowly and tried to assess his body but with as weak as his body felt and as scattered as his mind was it was impossible.

The smell of the water when it was held near was sharp, even over the stink of the room that crowded Geralt's nose. There was no saliva to be had or his mouth would have watered at that clean, vaguely metallic smell that water takes on when it had been boiled in a cast iron pot. Yellow eyes opened and sharpened as well as they could; a hand made to raise and then settled back on the sheets. Fuck. There was no shame for his position, only frustration-- and half of that was for knowing his body well enough to know that holding that skin full of water would not only result in him spilling it, but triggering the cramps that threatened. His face contorted.

"You--" It did gall. "Please." It really couldn't be a surprise that Geralt neither looked nor sounded happy about asking for the help.