The fingers reaching for his hair were felt only as a glance across his shoulder; firstly the pitcher met the floorboards with a crack and spray and even Witcher reflex could only move Geralt so fast. He was on his feet in a moment but it didn't save his ass from getting wet. The potions having been safely tucked away he was perfectly at liberty to swing around on the bard. "What the fuck--"

Something was wrong. Jaskier looked dazed, his eyes slightly unfocused, though the rest of him seemed normal enough. Skin color, heart rate. A poisoned man certainly couldn't have continued to sport such an erection. The medallion at Geralt's chest was ordinary, still, warm from body heat-- which narrowed the problem away from obvious magics-- but Geralt's eyes moved to the remnants of the pitcher on the floor. "Jaskier."

Usually it was Jaskier on the reaching side of any contact between them but Geralt didn't dislike touch, only the abundance of it for no reason. He reached out and grabbed the bard's chin in callused fingers, lifting his face in an attempt to lift his gaze, to focus him on something. "Jaskier. Did you drink anything before I got back?" Geralt's lips thinned and a glance was spared for the door. The barmaid didn't seem the type to drug someone but in his opinion, innocence rarely had anything to do with intent.