A special spark in the window? And Chireadan is looking straight at Jaskier when he says it, like this is something that the bard would know about and be able to answer for him. Jaskier, for all that he had managed to keep his composure when discussing Yen, completely loses it right now, choking on his ale so badly that Geralt thinks he might have to thump him on the back to clear his lungs. The hand flapping returns with a vengeance, and the bard's usually clever tongue trips over itself to come up with an excuse to leave.

Geralt watches him, head tilted slightly and brow furrowed. Chireadan points him to the guest room and Jaskier bolts for it like he's got a cuckolded husband on his heels.

"Hm." The witcher looks back to Chireadan, who both looks and smells immensely confused. That made two of them. "...Good night, I suppose."

That's one way to end the evening early. Geralt would've probably chosen something a little less ridiculous, but it's Jaskier, so maybe he can't expect anything less than dramatic.

He stands and follows after Jaskier, closing the door to the guest room behind him. Geralt breathes deeply, ignoring the clamoring herbal scents in the air and focusing on Jaskier's; he smells mostly of... embarrassment? Panic?

Geralt is too tired to try to parse through what the hell is going on in Jaskier's head by scent alone.

"What the fuck was that, Jaskier."