[Jaskier starts a bit at the touch of Sam's hand; not because it's him or because it's a touch, but because there is the slightest reaction -- a bit like a snap of air when he touches the wrong sort of cloth, the way things can make that slight bite. And as he lets his magic wrap around Geralt's knee, sinking into his skin, guided only be intent, he feels it. This must be Sam's influence. His magic is a trickle from a faucet, then a blurble; then there is a small pop and it's as if the magic runs thicker, easier. It flows.

His head snaps up.] A broken what? Geralt --

[He catches Geralt's weight as it sags, pushing him back deeper on the couch. Jaskier curses under his breath, the words sharp.] Does he not know what the fuck internal means? [He's still muttering as he jerks the bag towards him, going through the bottles. Uncorking, sniffing. He picks one out of the rest and offers it to Sam, wiping his brow with a wrist.]

Here. This one is for pain, I think. Though he's left us now. [It's rare that he sees the Witcher unconscious, but. There's nothing that can stop their work now, the tension that'd left his shoulders like knots now gone.] You said a rib? Which rib?