[ He tips his head up. An inexplicable irritation rises inside him, both from Jaskier talking around like he can't speak for himself, like he's already unconscious, and from the fact that he's aware Jaskier is not entirely wrong, that he's hanging on by a thread. His brows furrow. ]
I'm right here. [ There's really no good position for him to be in; everything rather hurts somewhere. He puts up with it, bracing against the couch's armrest and one good leg tucked under him so that he isn't entirely sprawled on his stomach, where one side of his ribs is a giant bruise, though at least it remains wrapped tight. They can cut his shirt off. He's given up on the concept of lifting his arms. ] Stitched it once already.
[ The old sutures need to come out first; they're still embedded in his skin in places where it's torn open again. Despite how rough he looks, there are signs he's been tended to with a certain care at one point—someone with a steady hand, who diligently cleaned and closed up every open wound. Some remain sewn shut, but the lesion down his spine has undeniably split once more under the stained bandages. It's hard to tell what he earned during the fight, during the chat with the queen, during both his trip through the mountains and his walk here—but his back is obvious.
Geralt does not explain or say anything of it. He takes a breath, one after another. His eyes fall shut for a second or two before he forces them back open again. A tension coils through all of him. He knows he's safe here, but he just. Prefers not to be dead to the world while people are prodding at him and sewing him up, no matter how much he trusts them. Shit. Where's his bag? Jaskier must've brought it in from the horse—or has he? He needs it, either way, but it doesn't quite cross his mind to actually ask for it. ]
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I'm right here. [ There's really no good position for him to be in; everything rather hurts somewhere. He puts up with it, bracing against the couch's armrest and one good leg tucked under him so that he isn't entirely sprawled on his stomach, where one side of his ribs is a giant bruise, though at least it remains wrapped tight. They can cut his shirt off. He's given up on the concept of lifting his arms. ] Stitched it once already.
[ The old sutures need to come out first; they're still embedded in his skin in places where it's torn open again. Despite how rough he looks, there are signs he's been tended to with a certain care at one point—someone with a steady hand, who diligently cleaned and closed up every open wound. Some remain sewn shut, but the lesion down his spine has undeniably split once more under the stained bandages. It's hard to tell what he earned during the fight, during the chat with the queen, during both his trip through the mountains and his walk here—but his back is obvious.
Geralt does not explain or say anything of it. He takes a breath, one after another. His eyes fall shut for a second or two before he forces them back open again. A tension coils through all of him. He knows he's safe here, but he just. Prefers not to be dead to the world while people are prodding at him and sewing him up, no matter how much he trusts them. Shit. Where's his bag? Jaskier must've brought it in from the horse—or has he? He needs it, either way, but it doesn't quite cross his mind to actually ask for it. ]