[Pushing the dead with of Geralt is enough. Enough. And then it's too much, holding him up so he doesn't slide to the floor. Ribs. How many ribs? He tries to think back to his anatomy lessons, but his head is clouded and, in frustration, he can't find the memory.

It's not Sam's fault.]

I know what he took it as! [Jaskier snaps, his brows hard, and he loosk away from Sam as his teeth grit. He knows exactly how fucking stupid Geralt is, how literal he can be, how he weighs and balances his wounds as if not every single one of them matters.

He would wilt under hearing his own tone turn so bitter in this moment if it wasn't possibly the only thing keeping him conscious right now. He glances back to Sam, hearing what he's saying. It's. Important. He pushes the search for the memory back and simply listens. As if the professor has started speaking, and it's time to take notes.

He looks back to Geralt.]

Sorry. [He moves his hand to the side of Geralt's body Sam indicated, running it gently over his skin to feel for... something. An angle that is incorrect, a pooling of blood. Blood. There's so much of it, stinking up his nostrils. Sour and cold. (Geralt isn't cold. He's still warm. Still here.)

He finds a place near his waist. There.] I'll try to fix them. Just... please, keep talking. If you can. It sounds like you know what you're talking about.

[For once, Jaskier is the one who needs to listen. To be distracted.

No. No. He's far from good right now, but he's here regardless.]