Any other time, she would shrug Geralt off—not just him, but anyone who tried in a very obvious way to make it seem like she was infirm. (The only other time here is when she let Sam help her after Dean attacked her.) She hates it. But trying to fight him off the choice and maintain her balance, feet, and head means that she aborts barely a second into the reaction.

Pride dying—with acridly bitter annoyance—on the pyre next, Jo sagged more than half into him and let him all but carry her into the cabin and thrust her onto a dust-coated chair. Dust that traded places with the blood on her pants and hands. (Oh fuck, where was her sword? Ciri and Altair would never let her hear the end of that.) Her thoughts swam above her ears and vision, as Jo did her best not to curl forward and put her head between her knees.

She took the canteen and carefully swallowed from it, not wanting to drink too deep, too fast, and end up causing her already overwhelmed body to consider retching, in front of Geralt of all people, too. She couldn't take back what had already happened, but fuck she wanted to already. Great job at not looking like a wreck of a helpless girl.

Her knuckles whitened on the canteen as she held it tight. "Thanks."