Geralt just shook his head, took another fish, and listened to Jaskier's excuses. The man had a funny way of sidestepping anything put forward that might sound in the slightest bit detrimental to Geralt's nature, even if that anything only happened to make statement to what he actually was. Semantics were one thing but base fact was that he was not natural and truly, to deny that part of himself would be to say the pain of his childhood was for nothing and Geralt could not do that. So he let Jaskier do his dances and said nothing about it; the argument that would come of it would have seen no winners.

The proof would be when the lady of the House ushered them out the door as soon as Geralt showed signs of taking his convalescence out of the bedroom-- and even then it would stay a known quantity to Geralt and a mystery to Jaskier. No. Despite the fact of her having a son not too old to have been a target for the thing he had dispatched, her debt had been paid with room and board and blood on the alter of her kitchen. She would be giddy to see the back of them now.

He paused in licking a finger and raised an eyebrow as Jaskier turned. Teeth scraped the pad of his thumb and he gave the flesh on last suck to divest it of salt. "All that good silk wasted on my flesh. I suppose I owe you a doublet, at least, in some awful color."