[ Most of the vials in Nadine's bag will be empty—he burned through them getting himself across the desert; none of them had anticipated he would have landed entire days outside the city gates—but there's one left, alongside the rest of his own supplies on Roach. He lifts up on one arm with Jaskier's help, tries not to hiss, and tips the entire contents of a vial down his throat. What's left in the bag are oils and ointments, ones he's either bought from the apothecary or made from Jaskier's plants.
His fingers dig into a cushion as Sam starts to pull the sutures free. They might not have torn all the way down—he can't quite tell—but they do all need to come out, broken or not, for Sam to sew the gash back up. Jaskier leaving to retrieve his things gives him a little room, to not be so boxed in between two people reaching for him. It's taking real effort not to push either Sam or Jaskier away. He knows they're only doing what needs to be done, he's just—there's been a lot. Happening. A lot he's shoved beneath the surface. And he's almost never tended to by more than one healer at a time. The extra set of hands on him reminds him of something else, of mages holding him down in dark locked rooms. Jaskier's magic is warm, heated against his skin like the tendrils that once curled around him.
His chest tightens. He inhales, Jaskier's familiar scent grounding him some, and he manages not to shove his friend off. Sam's question goes unheard, unnoticed, but he does feel Sam's hand on his back. The tension that releases inside him is subtle, quiet. He doesn't fight it, just works on remembering how to breathe steady, on trying not to tip off the couch. When he closes his eyes, to take a minute to gather himself, they don't open again. ]
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His fingers dig into a cushion as Sam starts to pull the sutures free. They might not have torn all the way down—he can't quite tell—but they do all need to come out, broken or not, for Sam to sew the gash back up. Jaskier leaving to retrieve his things gives him a little room, to not be so boxed in between two people reaching for him. It's taking real effort not to push either Sam or Jaskier away. He knows they're only doing what needs to be done, he's just—there's been a lot. Happening. A lot he's shoved beneath the surface. And he's almost never tended to by more than one healer at a time. The extra set of hands on him reminds him of something else, of mages holding him down in dark locked rooms. Jaskier's magic is warm, heated against his skin like the tendrils that once curled around him.
His chest tightens. He inhales, Jaskier's familiar scent grounding him some, and he manages not to shove his friend off. Sam's question goes unheard, unnoticed, but he does feel Sam's hand on his back. The tension that releases inside him is subtle, quiet. He doesn't fight it, just works on remembering how to breathe steady, on trying not to tip off the couch. When he closes his eyes, to take a minute to gather himself, they don't open again. ]