Geralt's face reflected nothing as Jaskier snapped the first three-word-answer out from between his teeth with a vehemence that was genuinely queer enough considering the source to raise eyebrows had he been in other company. As it was the Witcher merely watched the bard as he washed the sentiment back down with water and came at it from a different angle.

There was something low and warm that lodged oddly at the bottom of Geralt's windpipe as Jaskier went on, like heartburn. Too many fish, maybe. Geralt didn't say anything and all the words hung in the air between then for a moment. It wasn't wasted. They felt too big for the room, as if one of them should have opened a window to let the thing out instead of letting it hang around. Geralt's nearest hand twitched and fingertips slid across the back of Jakier's neck, just against the soft fringe at the nape.

Then he reached for another piece of bread.

"Are you done eating? Bring my bag over to the bed and I'll show you how to make a salve that works. I smell like a damn hothouse." It wasn't so bad, of course, but Geralt's nose worked better than most and the insult was something easy for equilibrium's sake.