Jaskier, once again, seemed startled by the reality of things. It was foolish, he'd been helping Geralt for nearly a week and the man had hardly eaten, had hardly drank--why he'd thought Geralt could take the skin and toss it back, himself, he had no idea. (He knew. He'd never seen the Witcher endure an injury this severe, had never been around to help him--he still had a notion that Geralt would wake up and shake it right off.)

"Right, of course," Jaskier agreed quickly and knelt by the side of the bed with the skin. He fluttered a bit, debated lifting up the man's head, maybe trying to prop him higher--but Geralt was awake and, frankly, Jaskier wasn't sure he'd tolerate that much henning while conscious.

The bard lifted the opening of the skin to his mouth and then lifted the skin itself, tilting and pouring the water at a bare trickle. He felt a vague flicker of worry--he'd only just donned clean clothing. He didn't have another set, not until his ruined clothes dried. (Ah, but that was a selfish thought. Geralt didn't want to vomit it up any more than Jaskier wanted to be soaked in it.) He tilted the bag a bit higher and let the stream intensify to a reasonable amount--come whatever may.

"Drink what you can, I can fetch more," Jaskier tells him.