The leather cup smacked Jaskier soundly across the face. The bard, finally caught in tangle of sleep proper, didn't start awake so much as let out a plaintive groan and roll onto his back. But there was water on his face, and now his nose hurt, and the room didn't smell of that horrible head anymore--he smeared his hand across the dampness on his cheek and blinked, blearily, brows furrowed, into the morning light.

"What day is it?" he asked no one in particular and did not expect an answer. His brain caught up to his waking a split-second after he asked and he jolted upright. His head whipped back and--there was Geralt. Awake and deadpan and very much alive still--Jaskier was, quite abruptly, overjoyed.

"Geralt! Nice of you to join me!" Jaskier greeted and stood up, sleepy and unstable in a truly ungainly way. His hip was still asleep and that wasn't fair--he stumbled a bit but caught himself halfway to the bed.

"How are you feeling? Better? You look better--also smell better," Jaskier told him, rapid fire, as his energy returned. It was true, Geralt didn't look ready to die and that was nothing short of miraculous.