At moulting, the serene look brought upon by the delight of gas station quality cheese dip is wiped from his face. Geralt effectively kills the mood, and for a moment his expression flickers into something flat. Stoic, unhappy.

He'd say a few things were they not in mixed company, but they are, so he swallows them down like a bitter pill. If everybody could stop accusing him of moulting sooner rather than later, that'd be freaking fantastic, thanks.

Also, never, ever use the term queen pillow in that or any order at him, ever.

Instead of All That, he points his chip at Geralt's food and announces, "You're welcome."

He knows the face of joy when he sees it. Your blank Witcher face can't hide it from him, okay. Geralt is a man that has been moved by the spirit, and now all three of them (four, if we count the guy behind the register) are on the same cheesy page about it. Praise be.