Jaskier decides to take up Geralt's entire lap, just dramatically draping himself over the witcher's thick thighs as though they were his personal property. Geralt expression immediately twists into annoyance, and though he seriously considers the ramifications of shoving the idiot bard right onto the floor, he decides against it-- but only because they're in a very small cabin with no escape from his complaining.

The bard natters on about how he's going to write them all a hundred songs that will bring them eternal fame and glory or whatever rot he's got going on in his head this time, and Geralt shoots Eskel a long-suffering look. See what he has to deal with, Eskel? Do you see his suffering? The endless chatter, the ceaseless histrionics, the incessant attention-whoring. Somehow, Geralt of Rivia had managed to pick up the biggest romantic on the entire Continent in a shitty tavern in Posada, and the bastard had the nerve to grow on him. Like fungus.

Then he mentions the Many Fuck-Ups of Geralt of Rivia, and it's Eskel's turn to light up.

"Oh, what did Geralt do this time?" he asks, and by his face, it's like his birthday and every holiday just came early.

Geralt grabs one of the pillows from the bed and puts it over Jaskier's entire head.

"Shut up, Jaskier."

It's not held firmly enough over his face to cut off oxygen, he wants the little shit to still be alive by the time they get to Kaer Morhen, but it's enough to muffle anything he could say.

"He means nothing by it, he's just talking. He seldom does anything else."