Jaskier was torn for a moment, between delight and the realization that his morning eagerness had decided to make a show. He glanced down and palmed himself, a bit firmly, to try and crush the thoughts of that from his mind--it was an indelicate procedure, this, but necessary. He moved to the side of the bed, looked for the pitcher of soup--but that had been...fuck, two days ago? If it was here, it was congealed terribly.

"Right, right," he muttered and was distracted by Geralt's question.

"About my singing?" Jaskier repeated and tried to recall--no, Geralt hadn't said much of note. Some passing comments, his usual fare, a hum here and there. The bard was tired, but not so tired that he'd have forgotten either insult or compliment about his singing. He hadn't even sung to him, had he? That, he couldn't remember--it was entirely possible he had.

Fuck and he was still standing here palming himself like a teenager. Unsexy thoughts--ah! Speaking of!

"No, not that I recall," he admitted in a slightly strained voice and withdrew his hands to settle them on his hips. "But I did have some news--the boy I sent to look for your blade came back with the head of that...thing."

And that was an image that could kill an erection so quickly it was staggering.