[It is with an absolute exhaustion, and Sam's insistence, that Jaskier made it to a bed at all. He only barely manages to send Ciri a Geralt's at Sam's. He's alive. Goodnight. It's not so much a slipping into sleep as stepping straight off a cliff to dive into it. Every part of him is sore, but it's... in a way, perhaps a good sore.

He doesn't feel so charitable about it when he wakes some hours and hours later, with a groan. His whole arm is a big lump of scar and ache, and as he turns over to rub it, his knee kicks into. Something.

He opens his eyes to a sorry sight.]

Ugh. I hope this isn't some new habit of yours, watching me sleep. [He sits up with a wince, his voice quite rough in comparison to its usual melody.] Though I'm sure you ached terribly to see this face of mine, all these days past.