bakerstreet | ( nursed back to health shipping meme. )

It's her tone more than her words that reach him. She smiles, holds his hand, and talks softly to him. Her voice is melodious, reassuring, and lilts softly as her fingers press just barely against his, as she squeezes like he is made of glass. He might be--he feels like it, at the moment.

"Dear lady," he breathes, intent to say something else, but that is all the air he has within him. The next breath is shallow and his eyes flutter. They close, despite his urge to keep them up, and it isn't long before he passes clear out.

It's a long moment before she next shifts; it wouldn't do to abandon the gesture too soon. Closed eyes mean less than deep, slow breath, and for obviously reasons that was something not easily gauged at current. A deep breath for her, then. A slow count to forty. One last moment to marvel at, all things considered, his word choice in a time of crisis.

And then back to work.

The right boot is removed, and barring a grimace - why would one store glass there to begin with - the injured calf and ankle immediately set upon. Slow work, frustratingly pyrrhic considering how many small cuts she herself accumulated in the process. Glass is removed, herbs applied, and the leg wrapped.

The nose receives the same salve as the stomach wound, without a wrap. The ribs won't be entirely set to rights until he's awake and cooperating, but a head start comes in the form of a damp, evergreen-smelling sachet applied continuously, as if bruises could be sponged off. (They lighten noticeably. Perhaps they can.)

Much as she would like to have taken up another task by the time he comes to, she's likely still tending it.

It would be nice to dart up the path, see if these thieves were lingering in the area, but -- his health.

He's still handled as if he were glass.

He wakes sluggishly, like rising up through a bog to breathe air again. His eyes do not open at the same time--one is swollen with the injury on his nose, the other is slow to focus. He stares up at the canvas above him, at the failing light, and has no thoughts for some time. When they bubble up to meet him, they are gradual, simple things, and he manages to croak them out through a dry throat as they occur to him.

"I have no idea where this is," he says dazedly but with no panic.

"Why does everything hurt?" he asks and, as something brushes a tender part of his ribs, he hisses and recalls. "Ah--that's right. The mugging."

Everything smells of lavender and evergreen and it is wondrous. Oh--he can smell again? How delightful.

It actually merits a laugh, however brief. That was much more befitting a thoroughly beaten person. The distraction is appreciated. The company, really - gets dull, staring at a ribcage and listening to bird calls.

"The mugging," she echoes, on the off chance he needed his own returning memory corroborated. "But it ought to be hurting a lot less. You're talking, which is as relief. And nice. I doubt it'll be tempting, but try not to move around too much just yet--" Right, right, important question, "What do I call you?"

He gamely resists the urge to move and tries to spy her out of the corner of his downturned eyes. He can see a halo of golden hair and feel the press of her fingers and a cloth against his side, but little else. He lets his eyes close, even as he stays awake--it seems easier, just listening.

"Jaskier," he tells her and tries to take a deeper breath than he should. It stutters and he lets out a groaning chuckle. Neither sound helps the pain in any other part of him, but it's a dull throb now, in place of a heavy veil of agony.

"And I am always nice, my dear lady," Jaskier defends and tries to sound haughty. It is not particularly effective with his nose bashed in as it is. "What might I call you?"

"Jaskier," is repeated, slowly, as if she were weighing it against something. Appraising it. First Jaskier she's come across. Rolls off the tongue well. Hardly any idea where it might come from. She could get quite used to 'dear lady', at least. "I believe that completely, wouldn't think to question it. I would be Misty. Very pleased you're still here to introduce myself to, sorry circumstances aside."

Dreadful. Little infuriating, all things considered. He's hardly an imposing figure.

"You could keep water down if I offered it, right?"

"I have no idea," he tells her honestly, his brows lifting in a contemplative lilt despite how his eyes remain closed. His throat is raw and his head is muggy--water is something he wants so desperately, but he can feel, already, just how terrible the hurt of that first sip will be. His stomach is stuck to itself, dry with dehydration and bleeding.

It will not be pleasant and he is, frankly, at his limit for unpleasant things.

"Though I might beg for some anyway, were I a braver man."

Misty. That is a lovely name, he thinks distantly. Not entirely what he expects, but not out of line with what is possible. And she is pleased to meet him--despite his unfortunate state and the fact that he is, at current, bleeding all over everything she has. Dear, indeed.

"I am glad those argumentative men missed you, dear Misty, they are...a rowdy bunch. As you can see."

"We'll give it just a little longer then, a half hour tops and I'll be brave for you." Which would mean little more than gently insisting, in this context, but it sounds more impressive as said. With a slow start, it ought to be manageable.

"Funny, I keep hoping they'll pass by. I have words for them."

Which is to say the odds are slim they would escape unmaimed. Keeping the roads safe, avenging an innocent, so on, so forth.

"Did you have something impressive on you, or was this just thievery for thievery's sake?"

His eyes are closed and his brows are lifted but, at that, Jaskier seems to deflate. He shrinks a bit, and his head lolls back, and sadness takes him. He didn't care for the money, for the supplies, for the songbook--though the loss of that did sting. His lute, however, was a precious thing. It had been a gift--a memory of his first adventure, given by the very King of the Elves after the man had let him live. An apology for nearly slitting his throat.

He sighs heavily and grimaces as his ribs grind against themselves. Fuck.

"They took my lute," he says, laments really, like he has lost a dear relative. It is tragic, that, but he lacks the energy to truly grieve for it. He can only hope they sell it, rather than smash it, so that someone could make music upon it again.

"Oh, I shall miss that dearly."

But she had expressed a desire to talk with them--he is glad they have not wandered by. He could not have done for her what she is doing for him. He manages to lift a hand and grope blindly at his side--it lands on her kneed before long and he squeezes it weakly.

"They are well away, though. It is no loss worth a life, not even my own."

"You play?"

This slips out immediately. There's a transparent excitement to it, a momentary relinquishing of the the responsibility of the caretaker, mixed curiously with ever-increasing outrage on his behalf. To rob a musician, cowardly and unforgivable. One of few professions worth praising. Lacking in any musical talent, it's all she can do to appreciate and support.

Were he not so visibly and obviously worse off, were the instrument itself not the subject of discussion because of its absence, she might have veered into giddy. The energy transfers neatly enough into a hand over his, a careful press.

"Which way were they headed? For safety if that's how you'd like to think of it, but it wouldn't cost me mine to just - speak with them."

He opens his eyes to look at her, worried for her sake--she is not a large thing, nor particularly fearsome looking. Jaskier is silent as he presses a hand on his but...damn his desperate, cowardly heart, he misses that lute so dearly. Those brutes had been five strong, utter criminals, highwaymen and killers--they'd cut her apart as easily as they cut him.

He looks so sad as he peers up at her.

"Please, don't," he asks, entreats even.

The road was singular. The nearest crossroads was through the woods. There were no other routes to take, unless they cut their own path through the brush. They had not gone toward the plains--if she hadn't seen them, they had just missed her. He would have to follow their path if he wanted to leave this accursed forest. The idea of having to tread that path and find her body along it...that was far too much.

"It's fine--I...will be fine."

He's atypically soft, or she's greatly unused to being talked down. Effectiveness or lack thereof would be less about his skill at pleading and much more with her own stubbornness regarding things being...right. Fair. Culprits shouldn't get away with it.

But he's injured, and worrying him further does no one good. His hand receives a pat, and she forces a smile.

"We'll see if my chance doesn't come to me. Sometimes fate can be generous, clearly there's a wrong to make right. In the meantime, we focus on you. Anything I can do right now, besides waiting around?"

"Apart from saving my life?" Jaskier asks and chuckles and, ah, the pain in that almost knocks the wind out of him. He withdraws his hand and rests it, very gingerly, over his chest. He considers her and, if only to give them something to do, swallows his cowardice.

"Perhaps we can try water, then, if you please?"

"Of course." Yet another waterskin produced, placed in hand rather than also atop his chest. "Little sips. Going slow is fine so long as it's something. Easier to get through, and I'll be here for complaining afterward." And with this, a bracing little nudge to his shoulder.

"And I don't know that I'd say saving! I think you did a fine job of it yourself, I'd have been useless if you hadn't literally passed by."

Jaskier smiles wrly, or as wryly as he can, and lifts the waterskin to his mouth. It is a bit of a challenge, maneuvering it, but he manages. The first swallow is thick and his throat feels terribly tight. It twists in his stomach--enough that he has to actively resist curling forward around it.

The second sip is far easier, as are the third and fourth after it.

He finds himself drinking rather eagerly before nausea starts to creep up on him and he has to stop.

His sigh, then, is fully voiced. He no longer sounds like a croaking toad but like the bard he is.

"I'd have collapsed in short order," Jaskier admits and his voice is husky but his own again. His eyes close comfortably and he hums, just to enjoy the sound of it. "What did you--I...don't know anything about medicine, but I cannot think of anything else to ask. What did you do?"

Better for a first attempt than she'd imagined, and by far. No effort is taken to hide that this is a surprise and a pleasant one.

"But you managed, I think, a lot farther than most might have." It's an accomplishment he shouldn't undersell, lacking in flash as it may be. It speaks to a resilience she admires. "I did-- my best? I'd be specific if I knew the specifics, but a lot of it is instinct."

In case that's vague, and it likely is, "Magic."

"Magic?"

He starts a bit at that, suddenly more than a touch alarmed. His eyes crack open and he stares at her--his gaze is glassy but extremely wary, as if expecting her to suddenly pull a knife on him. It is...unfair of him, given that she's just spent a great deal of time saving his life...but the last mage who had helped him from the brink of death had also threatened to castrate him and had summarily tossed him out.

There are no burning candles here, she hasn't drawn an amphora on herself, there is no Djinn. This situation is entirely unlike the last time...but his racing heart has a great deal of trouble telling the two apart.

"I haven't anything else to trade--no wishes or enchantments or even fond reviews, really--"

Oh this much talking is very hard and while he wants to prop himself up on his elbows, to move away, he cannot manage it. His breathing is shallow and pained and he is quickly feeling faint. He is reduced to wheezing gasps before much longer.

Ah-- right.

It stings, and quite obviously, but not quite enough to shake composure. He's no threat to her, she reminds herself, so this can only be a personal blow. It's not...impossible to understand.

"I'm not asking for any trade, you're not being charged for this. It's just - just decency, when someone comes by in your condition. You don't leave them to it." To be uncharitable was to make the world at large that much worse. To be wary, however, was wise. She can't begrudge the fear. "This isn't about to backfire on you in some terrible way. I'd swear on that. Don't strain yourself too hard, please--"

To her credit, she seems very, very unlike Yennefer of Vengerberg. She's been sweet and kind and has not, to his knowledge, enslaved a township. He stares at her, wide eyed a moment longer, and finally gives in to his mounting exhaustion. He lets himself slump back against the bedroll and exhales a long, shaky breath.

That was...unworthy of him. She had not threatened him with payment. She had been only sweet and kind and Jaskier, more than most, was a soft touch. He saw the way her face fell as his fear drove him up--it takes several long minutes for him to regain himself, to draw breath, but he manages a thready apology.

He is still afraid but...he will try to hide it.

"Apologies," he offers. "I...am unaccustomed to sorceresses who don't want to cut bits off of me. You...don't want to, right?"

It's chalked up more to fatigue than acceptance or comfort, necessarily, but all said and done she's happier to see him still and healing regardless of motivation. Something of a shock to drop in someone's lap. Learning experience.

For whatever it's worth, her expression is pulled toward confusion that would be comedic were she not aware of the likelihood of the practice. "I--no? Why would I-- This would be a lot of time patching you up when I could have snipped something off already if I wanted to, wouldn't it?" He'd had a good kip, there. "I would say it's exactly the opposite of what I'm trying to do, here."

Between her tone and the lightness of her objection, of her confusion, he smiles. The laugh he barks out is sudden and wheezing and he groans with the pain of it, loud and pitiful, even as chuckling shakes his shoulders and his poor, abused stomach. It is a pragmatic objection and a clever one--he cannot fault her logic.

"Oh--" he says and it is torn between delight and mild reprimand. "So cruel--enchanting a dying man like this. Torture, I say."

Please don't make him laugh--no matter how much he wants you to, Misty. His smile persists even as he relaxes back.

Gods' he is still so very tired. It must have been the blood loss.

"Consider me reassured."

It's painful enough she nearly winces, but genuine enough, reassuring enough, she can settle for a mere politely concerned pinch in her brow.

She wouldn't call herself a particularly enchanting type in literal or figurative senses, but he's spared the humility so she can say, pointedly but gently, "Not dying, on the mend. Back on his feet and better than before before he knows it."

Smiling and laughing is much more preferable. Once it's processed, she can inch toward something as daring as relaxed.

"I hope so. I'll try and keep, ah, unenchanting, you just keep relaxed and have faith. Nothing'll be harming you here. Me included."

Her correction earns a sidelong glance and a huff of acknowledgement. She reassures him, yet again, and he can hardly conjure any words to reply with. He has felt far too much in the last few hours--pain, fear, resignation, death, delight, wonder--he is thoroughly exhausted and having water, having any kind of sustenance lining his belly, has made him more comfortable than he has any reason to be.

Jaskier's eyes drift closed and his breathing slows to a rattling wheeze. It's pained but not nearly half as much as it had been. His sleep is heavy and settles over him in a thick blanket. He would not be roused for gold or glory--he would sleep through a battle if one picked up outside. It would be long hours before he opened his eyes again.

Relieving, that. Would be cute, were it not due to horrid injury.

At any rate, it's only so much longer she can fuss about his ribs. There could be no leaving him unattended, which removed any serious attempts at walkabouts, with or without productivity in mind. It's some time spent scribbling into a journal, some hasty, shorthand sketches of vegetation in the immediate area, and seeing what blood might be worked on that hasn't already set. (The answer: hardly any that wouldn't wake him in the process.)

Night is excuse enough for a fire, and she's grateful for another vigil to keep. It's small, more for light than warmth, but crackling away merrily as she alternates between lounging, feeding it, and the occasional peek in the tent.

She whistles while she works, aimless, unrecognizable as any distinct song - whether it's what rouses him or not, it may be immediately noticed.

Won't be long before she checks in again, but she's kept to hearing distance lest he wake with any start.

Or, Gods forbid, a complication.

( nursed back to health shipping meme. )

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