[He looks up at Sam in confusion more than surprise. Help? No. It doesn't matter. He nods after only a moment of pause. Help is the one thing he is more than willing to take without further explanation. ] All right.
[He turns back to Geralt and rolls his sleeves up, getting them out of the way. The flash of his scar is a hot, curling ping of guilt he cannot afford -- the reminder that, if he had not been so particularly insistent he help Ciri, that there would be a potion for. This. All of this.
A knee is neither a fatal wound nor near as bad as his back, from what Jaskier can see, but he needn't argue. It's not a hard guess why a Witcher would favor it over scars across his back.]
Right. One second. [Supplies is all he needs. This song and dance is ingrained in him now. He leaves to recover the bag from Roach, his heart somehow turning steadier in his chest. Work. Work, that's real and physical and Geralt is here, that's fucking enough. Ciri is going to kill him later for doing this without her, but he will simply bear it.
There's a variety of medicines, bottles he can only assume are some sort of potions. Nadine and Julie had set him up for success, by the looks of things. (Nadine and Julie may very well end up killing he and Geralt both. Lovely.) And the bottles Geralt had bought for himself, when it was only just a hunt.
He uncorks a bottle.] Here then, tip your head up. For the pain, I assume.
[He doesn't have time for a declination. He only helps prop Geralt up enough to have him swallow the potion, then ease him back down.
Knee. Right. Jaskier kneels beside him, licking his lips. His magic is a great deal different than it'd been months ago, healing Geralt's leg. Perhaps it would be better now. Or worse.
A knee. He can fix that. He wraps both hands around said knee, both round the front and back, feeling it out. Swollen, for sure. He pulls his magic, staring hard at the body before him.
Hah. Now he's the only focusing on staying conscious. Great.]
no subject
[He turns back to Geralt and rolls his sleeves up, getting them out of the way. The flash of his scar is a hot, curling ping of guilt he cannot afford -- the reminder that, if he had not been so particularly insistent he help Ciri, that there would be a potion for. This. All of this.
A knee is neither a fatal wound nor near as bad as his back, from what Jaskier can see, but he needn't argue. It's not a hard guess why a Witcher would favor it over scars across his back.]
Right. One second. [Supplies is all he needs. This song and dance is ingrained in him now. He leaves to recover the bag from Roach, his heart somehow turning steadier in his chest. Work. Work, that's real and physical and Geralt is here, that's fucking enough. Ciri is going to kill him later for doing this without her, but he will simply bear it.
There's a variety of medicines, bottles he can only assume are some sort of potions. Nadine and Julie had set him up for success, by the looks of things. (Nadine and Julie may very well end up killing he and Geralt both. Lovely.) And the bottles Geralt had bought for himself, when it was only just a hunt.
He uncorks a bottle.] Here then, tip your head up. For the pain, I assume.
[He doesn't have time for a declination. He only helps prop Geralt up enough to have him swallow the potion, then ease him back down.
Knee. Right. Jaskier kneels beside him, licking his lips. His magic is a great deal different than it'd been months ago, healing Geralt's leg. Perhaps it would be better now. Or worse.
A knee. He can fix that. He wraps both hands around said knee, both round the front and back, feeling it out. Swollen, for sure. He pulls his magic, staring hard at the body before him.
Hah. Now he's the only focusing on staying conscious. Great.]