Oh, thank the fucking gods. [Jaskier's voice is immediately relief and exhaustion knotted together, and he could kiss Sam for appearing (just as quickly, when he's so terribly needed, as before) but they have other things to take care of now.] I'm fine, I'll help. Come, let's go. He's moments from passing out.
[It's a guess, but a fairly good one; he hasn't missed that any brush against Jaskier's chest has left smears of blood across his front and left Geralt twitching. Together with Sam they slide the Witcher's weight off -- though it's more of a collapse than anything -- And Jaskier hooks himself under one of Geralt's arms when he's on the ground, groaning with the effort to keep him standing.
There will be time later, where he can apologize to Sam. For dumping another dying member of the Continent on him. (He's not dying, he reminds himself, only hurt.
Though to Jaskier's credit, he had warned Sam. He'd warned him he wouldn't want to get involved in all their shit.
But in the end, no matter what happened between Geralt and Sam, he can trust Sam to not leave him. And so does Geralt, apparently.
They make it to the couch, where Jaskier nearly collapses beside it as the weight moves off his shoulders. His arm is in searing pain, his shoulders pulsing like a bruise, every movement sore.
Keep going. He stumbles to his feet, moving automatically. Twenty-two years, and it's far from the first time he's seen Geralt in this condition. Not the first time he's been there to offer (force) his help.] Help me turn him over. It's his back. I think it's torn up.
[His body is shaking from still going, but he won't stop now. He can't.] I need -- we need thread. Needle. Both. That much blood, he's going to need stitches.
[Because as his back is revealed, so is a hint towards the vile things that have been done to him. Sliced open, raw as meat. And absolutely the work of men.]
no subject
[It's a guess, but a fairly good one; he hasn't missed that any brush against Jaskier's chest has left smears of blood across his front and left Geralt twitching. Together with Sam they slide the Witcher's weight off -- though it's more of a collapse than anything -- And Jaskier hooks himself under one of Geralt's arms when he's on the ground, groaning with the effort to keep him standing.
There will be time later, where he can apologize to Sam. For dumping another dying member of the Continent on him. (He's not dying, he reminds himself, only hurt.
Though to Jaskier's credit, he had warned Sam. He'd warned him he wouldn't want to get involved in all their shit.
But in the end, no matter what happened between Geralt and Sam, he can trust Sam to not leave him. And so does Geralt, apparently.
They make it to the couch, where Jaskier nearly collapses beside it as the weight moves off his shoulders. His arm is in searing pain, his shoulders pulsing like a bruise, every movement sore.
Keep going. He stumbles to his feet, moving automatically. Twenty-two years, and it's far from the first time he's seen Geralt in this condition. Not the first time he's been there to offer (force) his help.] Help me turn him over. It's his back. I think it's torn up.
[His body is shaking from still going, but he won't stop now. He can't.] I need -- we need thread. Needle. Both. That much blood, he's going to need stitches.
[Because as his back is revealed, so is a hint towards the vile things that have been done to him. Sliced open, raw as meat. And absolutely the work of men.]