Waver is not in the mood for jokes. Assuming it's a joke. It'd better be a joke.

He's still struggling to swallow away the taste, breathing shallow and quick as he catches his breath and tries to pay attention to how he's feeling while also not gagging at the same time. It's a lot, and he doesn't need Berserker's shit.

Waver shoves him -- not hard, not in this state, but absolutely pointedly. Please shut up.

At least Geralt has some confidence in him. Not that Waver can do much to show his appreciation either.

The potion seems to work quickly. It's like the feeling of sensation coming back to frozen limbs, a prickling discomfort at first that cuts through the numbness and spreads, not exactly pleasantly but in a way that's reassuring all the same. It starts to burn away the fog, letting him breathe easier.

Waver wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and seems to wilt, equal parts relief and exhaustion, shoulders slumping and elbows on his knees.

"I- I think it's working," he manages, casting a tired glance up at Geralt through the mess of his hair hanging halfway over his face.

"...thanks."