The water was found and (while his arm was shaking badly, it was managed) finished in its entirety. There was no dealing with the pitcher to get a refill and anyway, the first had winded him. So Geralt just lay back, panting quietly and happy that his stomach was not trying to rebel for being full while looking out the window onto a view that was not whatever this awful fucking life boasted for an afterlife. Seemed that destiny was not done with him yet.

After a moment, his gaze shifted to Jaskier. The man was hardly a pretty sleeper. Lips parted, limbs akimbo, hair askew. And yet... the soft curve of his cheek, the way his fingers curled loosely under his chin. It wasn't as if Geralt hadn't had more than enough opportunities to see Jaskier sleep over the years, he just never bothered. Sometimes the bard talked in his sleep (the lack of surprise when he'd discovered that had been astounding) and there was the one night that Geralt had literally dragged him into a lake to make it stop, but...

He'd never just. Watched him. There was always something to do. Always some pressing matter-- camp to wrap up, a monster to waylay, a road to get on. Now he couldn't get himself up if he'd wanted to, he ached from head to toe and had nothing better to do than to lay here and watch the crawl of the sun across the prone form of the bard, still in yesterday's clothes.

And then Geralt's stomach apparently finished parsing the water and gave a mighty lurch and yowl to remind him that it had been days since he'd eaten.

Ah, well.

Geralt threw the empty leather cup in his hand at Jaskier.