He wanted, very much, to say something about how Geralt had ruined his last doublet, about how he used the thread for any number of repairs on the rags Geralt called clothing, but the moment Jaskier opened his mouth he said something else entirely. His jokes were gone, dried up, and the words that chased out of his mouth had a mind of their own. It came out with more vehemence than he intended, sounded more raw than he'd have wanted--

"Don't say wasted," Jaskier demanded--the fury in his voice was low and bitter and so unlike him that he actually choked on it a bit. He coughed and took up the pitcher of water and took a drink, swallowed around the tightness in his chest and coughed again as he set it aside.

He didn't want to scold Geralt, didn't want to make this strange while he was bedridden, but while he could withstand the Witcher's melancholia and his pessimism about the locals, he could not, would not, let him turn his casual dismissal on himself. Jaskier had spent too much time, too many sleepless horrible hours waiting to see if he died, to let him belittle this all.

"Don't you dare," he added, though the fury was more distant, more his regular flavor of irritation. He set the pitcher down a bit hard and leaned back against the bed more firmly.

"It took me twelve hours and three bottles of strong liquor, I almost ran out. I'm almost out now. It--"

He sighs.

"It wasn't wasted."