Oh, Jaskier had known there would be soap at Kaer Morhen - but he also had known it would be the same kind of soap Geralt uses it, aka a bland, basic bar. And this bard needs more than simple soap made from fat, thank you very much. Maybe if they took better care of their skin they wouldn't be blaming good looks on silkie blood, tsk.

It's not for Cirilla, Geralt says, and that's... confusing to hear. On one hand, it's relieving to know she isn't scared of Geralt's mutations, that she won't put her "father" in an awkward situation. He's proud of her for being so accepting, really, and happy for Geralt to have another person that accepts him for who he is.

On the other hand though... if it isn't for Cirilla, then what the fuck is he doing this for? It makes no sense. The question is on the tip of his tongue when he resurfaces after rinsing his hair, only to find Geralt rummaging through the toiletries bag.

"By the gods! Geralt, what has gotten into you?" Jaskier comes closer and grabs Geralt's wrist, stopping him from taking out even more bottles of oil and bars of soap. It's not like he minds Geralt touching all this stuff (it is theirs, after all) but there obviously is something going on. Blue eyes search for gold filled with concern. "You know I don't mind your fangs, and you said Cirilla doesn't mind either. I'm going to assume your brothers are out of the question as well, because you've told me you only do this for humans and from what I've seen so far, I have trouble imagining them caring about such a thing anyway. You've confessed to me that the process isn't exactly painless, and it isn't like you to be vain about your looks..."

His hands squeeze the wrists in them, wet yet encouraging. "Then what is it? Talk to me, love."