Jaskier could have talked books off shelves. It was a trait that Geralt admired-- from a distance, and especially when it managed to get them something they needed when they were skint. But Geralt hadn't asked Jaskier to talk books off shelves, or to talk himself wrist-deep into a barmaid-- he'd asked for a bath. Which seemed, at the moment, in short supply.

The maid rushed by him (or tried to; Geralt didn't move, which meant she stuttered to an awkward halt, dripping bedsheets, and then had flatten herself sideways with one hand compressing her aforementioned pillows as small as they would go in order to sidle between a broad, dirty shoulder and the doorframe) before spilling into the hallway. He didn't watch her go. Geralt took in the ungainly sight of Jaskier, prick-heavy, on the floorboards and his mouth flattened into a line.

Or perhaps it had already been there, along with the displeasure. It was hard to untangle the dislike of the sordid hunt with the dislike of the sordid use of the bed that he was supposed to sleep in by the man who had promised only an empty-headed sonnet and a full bath.

"Jaskier," he growled.