What? Geralt was still huffing from the sudden influx of heat and hadn't even seen the soap proffered him before it was being used against his back. This time around things weren't so awkward aside from the injuries; whatever tone had been between them before-- whatever the hell had been wrong with Jaskier-- seemed to have passed. It was fine. It had been tiring. He was tired. "Water's already working," he muttered as he leaned, his eyes drooping. He meant drinking it-- he felt much improved.

He didn't fall asleep but he drifted, grunted at whatever Jaskier was saying. The turn of the soap across him was too soothing to fight, the wash of the water every time it was scooped up and poured over him. Geralt hummed. He didn't mind this. He never truly minded when Jaskier made a fuss about grooming him, though he'd never say it. Maybe he mumbled something about it. Perhaps. At some point the someone was trying to lift him... and then he went, gamely, one foot in front of the other. The pain was there but far away.

Perhaps he was actually asleep.

There was the vague sense of being lowered into bed, of warm hands on him and a lilting voice. Geralt felt warm. He might have smiled even though his body felt like it weights were attached to his limbs. He tried to reach out and hold onto the voice but he couldn't, quite, it slipped through his fingers. It slipped and then he sank into darkness.

When Geralt woke he knew two things: one, that the light through the windows was late morning and two, that he was ravenous.

It was still hard to move, to try and push himself up as he looked for water, for Jaskier, for anything.