bakerstreet | ( nursed back to health shipping meme. )

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( nursed back to health shipping meme. )

Nursed Back to Health

Comment with your character, preferences, preferred role, and any information you'd like to include.
Your character has either been injured/sick and had to be taken in (possibly against their will) or has been the one to help somebody like the former. Through the mending process, the two characters in a thread have fallen in love - or at least grown closer and more affectionate.
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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.

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( nursed back to health shipping meme. )

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