The war between the ignominy of letting Jaskier haul him into the bathtub and the smell of himself was a quick but ruthless mental battle. "Give me a little more water," he said-- but he was going to get into the tub. He knew he was. The level of the water would have to be kept under the largest wound where the tree had more or less skewered him, but it would be worth it to sit there with his cock hanging out if it meant he could even have water squeezed over him. Geralt was sure at this point that his body might even try to draw the liquid in through his pores were it possible. Perhaps even if it weren't.

As Jaskier got the bath ready, Geralt sat with the water skin and sipped. He wasn't dead and he owed that to the bard for sure. He couldn't remember leaving the marshes, nor anything really between taking the Skin-Eater's head off his shoulders and the last time he'd woken up. And for as much as he loved Roach and trusted her instincts about certain things, he was sure that the mare would not have been able to drag him back to the inn alone. Did this ass end bog town even have a healer? Geralt couldn't remember one. "How did you know it was the right elixir?" he asked as Jaskier moved around the room. How he labeled the bottles was by not doing it, in most cases. He knew his bottles and he knew what each concoction looked, smelled, and moved like.

A small, tired voice at the back of his head asked himself if it was time to start teaching Jaskier some things. He shoved it away; there were other things to deal with.