Geralt tried to push back against the pillows in order to raise himself up and failed, managed not to gasp, and then lifted his hand off his chest just enough to see the seeping, wet, ruined bandages. Also the back of his thighs were angry. Felt like popped stitches... it was only a shame that he knew the feeling so precisely. He closed his eyes for a moment. Getting even that much water into him had his brain finally clicking over and his body feeling immediately better-- and though he knew it for the ultimate ruse that it was, he let himself wallow in it just a little. Just for a moment or two. Finally he blew out a breath and opened his eyes on Jaskier. Actually, watching the man there he wished he felt just a little worse, actually, so that he could not read the awkward worry of someone both out of his depth and sick with relief.
"I'll live," he said, quiet. Probably thanks to the mother hen currently swaying slightly as his bedside. Geralt wanted to tell him to lay down, for fuck'sake, and sleep-- if only because looking at Jaskier made him feel tired-- but he didn't. Instead he let his hand fall back to the bed. Neither of them would be getting rest for the next little bit. "These bandages. Need to be cleaned." And his thighs at least looked at. He wished that he could risk an elixir but only six days, considering what he'd taken in the marshes--
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Geralt tried to push back against the pillows in order to raise himself up and failed, managed not to gasp, and then lifted his hand off his chest just enough to see the seeping, wet, ruined bandages. Also the back of his thighs were angry. Felt like popped stitches... it was only a shame that he knew the feeling so precisely. He closed his eyes for a moment. Getting even that much water into him had his brain finally clicking over and his body feeling immediately better-- and though he knew it for the ultimate ruse that it was, he let himself wallow in it just a little. Just for a moment or two. Finally he blew out a breath and opened his eyes on Jaskier. Actually, watching the man there he wished he felt just a little worse, actually, so that he could not read the awkward worry of someone both out of his depth and sick with relief.
"I'll live," he said, quiet. Probably thanks to the mother hen currently swaying slightly as his bedside. Geralt wanted to tell him to lay down, for fuck'sake, and sleep-- if only because looking at Jaskier made him feel tired-- but he didn't. Instead he let his hand fall back to the bed. Neither of them would be getting rest for the next little bit. "These bandages. Need to be cleaned." And his thighs at least looked at. He wished that he could risk an elixir but only six days, considering what he'd taken in the marshes--
"Did you give me white honey?"