Geralt thought that if it hadn't already smelled so dire in the room, he might have been able to pick up the emotion that curled around Jaskier's thin explanation. It had been utterly stupid to pull a potion at random and give it to a sick man-- but it had also been, in this case, the right thing to do. Fortunately vaving to pat Jaskier on the head was waylaid by the more immediate pain of getting off the bed.

He couldn't manage it. Not alone, not in the slightest.

Only with Jaskier taking more than his fair share of his (diminished) weight was Geralt able to stand and he was so glad that the water he'd drank had managed to ease his chapped throat some because he growled almost continuously at the pain of pulling his wounds away from the linens they'd dried to. He was too broken down to be able to lock his reactions away; in fact it was only the outlet of complaint that let him get through the exercise at all. His fingers gripped Jaskier's shoulder as hard as he could and felt humiliated at how badly he was injured. His legs stumbled as they tried to support him. His arms shook from holding on. By the time he was lowered into the tub he was sweating again and wondering if any of this was worth it. There was no pride left to even stop him from putting his head down on his raised knees. He was quiet for a long set of moments but his back moved up and down so he wasn't dead.

"Jaskier." Geralt said it without raising his head. "If you'd given me the wrong elixir there was a good chance of it killing me, but..." But. He didn't remember much but the pain of the purgative was clear enough. It was a very distinct pain. "If you'd giving me nothing I certainly would have died. You made the right call."