His heart does a little leap at her scolding, at the small stifled laugh that bubbles below her expression regardless--when she urges him up, agrees to his request, his heart clenches hard in his chest. Truly? She had not even hesitated, hadn't given him a look, or seemed put upon by the very nature of it. He is dumbstruck for a moment.

"Yes, but I would trade it for nothing," Jaskier assures her, just this side of breathless and then rises onto his knees. It requires him to pick his head up off the side of the tub, to idly brace with his arms, but he does it without objection. It is midsummer and while it is cool, dripping dry above the tub, it is not biting or cold.

The bending does, however, remind him of the soreness more keenly. He is a bit ginger in his movements as he rests his weight on his arms.

"If the worst downside is that it does not rinse off easily in water," Jaskier ruminates, aloud, "oh--what a dreadful shame. Positively unfortunate." His drawl is flat and unconvincing. He would keep a corked flask of that on hand if he had his choice.

"Wherever did you find it?"

He's asking, for reasons.